MY MEMOIRS
ALEXANDRE DUMAS
TRANSLATED BY
E. M. WALLER
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
ANDREW LANG.
VOL. II
1822 TO 1825
WITH A FRONTISPIECE
METHUEN & CO.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
CONTENTS
BOOK I
CHAPTER I
An unpublished chapter from the _Diable boiteux_--History
of Samud and the beautiful Doña Lorenza
CHAPTER II
The good my flouting at the hands of the two Parisians
had done me--The young girls of Villers-Cotterets--My
three friends-- First love affairs
CHAPTER III
Adolphe de Leuven--His family--Unpublished details
concerning the death of Gustavus III.--The Count de
Ribbing--The shoemakers of the château de Villers-Hellon
CHAPTER IV
Adolphe's quatrain--The water-hen and King William--Lunch
in the wood--The irritant powder, the frogs and the
cock--The doctor's spectre--De Leuven, Hippolyte Leroy
and I are exiled from the drawing-room--Unfortunate
result of a geographical error--M. Paroisse
CHAPTER V
Amédée de la Ponce--He teaches me what work is--M.
Arnault and his two sons--A journey by diligence--A
gentleman fights me with cough lozenges and I fight him
with my fists--I learn the danger from which I escaped
CHAPTER VI
First dramatic impressions--The _Hamlet of Ducis_--_The
Bourbons en 1815_--Quotations from it
CHAPTER VII
The events of 1814 again--Marmont, Duc de Raguse,
Maubreuil and Roux-Laborie at M. de Talleyrand's--The
_Journal des Débats_ and the _Journal de Paris_--Lyrics
of the Bonapartists and enthusiasm of the Bourbons--End
of the Maubreuil affair--Plot against the life of the
Emperor--The Queen of Westphalia is robbed of her money
and jewels 63
CHAPTER VIII
Account of the proceedings relative to the abstraction
of the jewels of the Queen of Westphalia by the Sieur de
Maubreuil--Chamber of the Court of Appeal--The sitting of
17 April, 1817
BOOK II
CHAPTER I
The last shot of Waterloo--Temper of the provinces in
1817, 1818 and 1819--The _Messéniennes_--The _Vêpres
siciliennes--Louis IX._--Appreciation of these two
tragedies--A phrase of Terence--My claim to a similar
sentiment--Three o'clock in the morning--The course of
love-making--_Valeat res ludrica_
CHAPTER II
Return of Adolphe de Leuven--He shows me a corner of the
artistic and literary world--The death of Holbein and the
death of Orcagna--Entrance into the green-rooms--Bürger's
_Lénore_ --First thoughts of my vocation
CHAPTER III
The Cerberus of the rue de Largny--I tame it--The
ambush-- Madame Lebègue--A confession
CHAPTER IV
De Leuven makes me his collaborator--The _Major de
Strasbourg_-- My first _couplet-Chauvin_--The _Dîner
d'amis_--The _Abencérages_
CHAPTER V
Unrecorded stories concerning the assassination of the
Duc de Berry.
CHAPTER VI
Carbonarism 132
CHAPTER VII
My hopes--Disappointment--M. Deviolaine is appointed
forest-ranger to the Duc d'Orléans--His coldness
towards me--Half promises--First cloud on my
love-affairs--I go to spend three months with my
brother-in-law at Dreux--The news waiting for
me on my return--Muphti--Walls and hedges--The
summer-house--Tennis--Why I gave up playing it--The
wedding party in the wood
CHAPTER VIII
I leave Villers-Cotterets to be second or third
clerk at Crespy--M. Lefèvre--His character--My
journeys to Villers-Cotterets-- The _Pélerinage
d'Ermenonville_--Athénaïs--New matter sent to Adolphe--An
uncontrollable desire to pay a visit to Paris-- How
this desire was accomplished--The journey--Hôtel des
Vieux-Augustins--Adolphe--_Sylla_--Talma
CHAPTER IX
The theatre ticket--The _Café du Roi_--Auguste
Lafarge--Théaulon--Rochefort--Ferdinand Langlé--People
who dine and people who don't--Canaris--First sight of
Talma--Appreciation of Mars and Rachel--Why Talma has no
successor_--Sylla_ and the Censorship--Talma's box--A
cab-drive after midnight-- The return to Crespy--M.
Lefèvre explains that a machine, in order to work well,
needs all its wheels--I hand in my resignation as his
third clerk
BOOK III
CHAPTER I
I return to my mother's--The excuse I give concerning my
return-- The calfs lights--Pyramus and Cartouche--The
intelligence of the fox more developed than that of the
dog--Death of Cartouche--Pyramus's various gluttonous
habits
CHAPTER II
Hope in Laffitte--A false hope--New projects--M.
Lecomier--How and on what conditions I clothe myself
anew--Bamps, tailor, 12 rue du Helder--Bamps at
Villers-Cotterets--I visit our estate along with
him--Pyramus follows a butcher lad--An Englishman who
loved gluttonous dogs--I sell Pyramus--My first hundred
francs--The use to which they are put--Bamps departs for
Paris--Open credit
CHAPTER III
My mother is obliged to sell her land and her house--The
residu-- The Piranèses--An architect at twelve hundred
francs salary--I discount my first bill--Gondon--How
I was nearly killed at his house--The fifty
francs--Cartier--The game of billiards--How six hundred
small glasses of absinthe equalled twelve journeys to
Paris
CHAPTER IV
How I obtain a recommendation to General Foy--M. Danré
of Vouty advises my mother to let me go to Paris--My
good-byes--Laffitte and Perregaux--The three things
which Maître Mennesson asks me not to forget--The Abbé
Grégoire's advice and the discussion with him--I leave
Villers-Cotterets
CHAPTER V
I find Adolphe again--The pastoral drama--First
steps--The Duc de Bellune--General Sébastiani--His
secretaries and his snuff-boxes--The fourth floor, small
door to the left--The general who painted battles
CHAPTER VI
_Régulus_--Talma and the play--General Foy--The letter of
recommendation and the interview--The Duc de Bellune's
reply--I obtain a place as temporary clerk with M. le Duc
d'Orléans--Journey to Villers-Cotterets to tell my mother
the good news--No. 9--I gain a prize in a lottery
CHAPTER VII
I find lodgings--Hiraux's son--Journals and journalists
in 1823--By being saved the expense of a dinner I am
enabled to go to the play at the Porte-Saint-Martin--My
entry into the pit--Sensation caused by my hair--I am
turned out--How I am obliged to pay for three places in
order to have one--A polite gentleman who reads Elzevirs
CHAPTER VIII
My neighbour--His portrait--The _Pastissier françois_--A
course in bibliomania--Madame Méchin and the governor of
Soissons--Cannons and Elzevirs
CHAPTER IX
Prologue of the _Vampire_--The style offends my
neighbour's ear-- First act--Idealogy--The rotifer--What
the animal is--Its conformation, its life, its death and
its resurrection
CHAPTER X
Second act of the _Vampire_--Analysis--My neighbour
again objects--He has seen a vampire--Where and
how--A statement which records the existence of
vampires--Nero--Why he established the race of hired
applauders--My neighbour leaves the orchestra
CHAPTER XI
A parenthesis_--Hariadan Barberousse_ at
Villers-Cotterets--I play the rôle of Don Ramire as an
amateur--My costume--The third act of the _Vampire_--My
friend the bibliomaniac whistles at the most critical
moment--He is expelled from the theatre--Madame
Allan-Dorval--Her family and her childhood--Philippe--His
death and his funeral
BOOK IV
CHAPTER I
My beginning at the office--Ernest Basset--Lassagne--M.
Oudard--I see M. Deviolaine--M. le Chevalier de
Broval--His portrait--Folded letters and oblong
letters--How I acquire a splendid reputation for sealing
letters--I learn who was my neighbour the bibliomaniac
and whistler
CHAPTER II
Illustrious contemporaries--The sentence written on my
foundation stone--My reply--I settle down in the place
des Italiens-- M. de Leuven's table--M. Louis-Bonaparte's
witty saying--Lassagne gives me my first lesson in
literature and history
CHAPTER III
Adolphe reads a play at the Gymnase--M.
Dormeuil--_Kenilworth Castle_--M. Warez and
Soulié--Mademoiselle Lévesque--The Arnault family--The
_Feuille--Marius à Minturnes_--Danton's epigram--The
reversed passport--Three fables--_Germanicus_
--Inscriptions and epigrams--Ramponneau--The young
man and the tilbury_--Extra ecclesiam nulla est
salus_--Madame Arnault
CHAPTER IV
Frédéric Soulié, his character, his talent--Choruses
of the various plays, sung as prologues and
epilogues--Transformation of the vaudeville--The Gymnase
and M. Scribe--The _Folie de Waterloo_
CHAPTER V
The Duc d'Orléans--My first interview with
him--Maria-Stella-Chiappini--Her attempts to
gain rank--Her history--The statement of the Duc
d'Orléans--Judgment of the Ecclesiastical Court of
Faenza--Rectification of Maria-Stella's certificate of
birth
CHAPTER VI
The "year of trials"--The case of Potier and the
director of the theatre of the Porte-Saint-Martin--Trial
and condemnation of Magallon--The anonymous
journalist--Beaumarchais sent to Saint-Lazare--A few
words on censorships in general--Trial of Benjamin
Constant--Trial of M. de Jouy--A few words concerning
the author of _Sylla_--Three letters extracted from the
_Ermite de la Chaussée-d'Antin_--Louis XVIII. as author
CHAPTER VII
The house in the rue Chaillot--Four poets and a
doctor--Corneille and the Censorship--Things M. Faucher
does not know--Things the President of the Republic ought
to know
BOOK V
CHAPTER I
Chronology of the drama--Mademoiselle Georges
Weymer--Mademoiselle Raucourt--Legouvé and his
works--Marie-Joseph Chénier--His letter to the
company of the Comédie-Française--Young boys
_perfectionnés_--Ducis--His work
CHAPTER II
Bonaparte's attempts at discovering poets--Luce de
Lancival--Baour-Lormian--_Lebrun-Pindare_--Lucien
Bonaparte, the author--Début of Mademoiselle Georges--The
Abbé Geoffroy's critique--Prince Zappia--Hermione at
Saint-Cloud
CHAPTER III
Imperial literature--The _Jeunesse de Henri IV_--Mercier
and Alexandre Duval--The _Templiers_ and their
author--César Delrieu--Perpignan--Mademoiselle Georges'
rupture with the Théâtre-Français--Her flight to
Russia--The galaxy of kings--The tragédienne acts as
ambassador
CHAPTER IV
The Comédie-Française at Dresden--Georges returns
to the Théâtre-Français--The _Deux Gendres--Mahomet
II._--_Tippo-Saëb_-- 1814--Fontainebleau--The allied
armies enter Paris--Lilies--Return from the isle of
Elba--Violets--Asparagus stalks--Georges returns to Paris
CHAPTER V
The drawbacks to theatres which have the monopoly of
a great actor--Lafond takes the rôle of Pierre de
Portugal upon Talma declining it--Lafond--His school--His
sayings--Mademoiselle Duchesnois--Her failings and her
abilities-_Pierre de Portugal_ succeeds
CHAPTER VI
General Riégo--His attempted insurrection--His escape
and flight--He is betrayed by the brothers Lara--His
trial--His execution
CHAPTER VII
The inn of the _Tête-Noire_--Auguste
Ballet--Castaing--His trial--His attitude towards the
audience and his words to the jury--His execution
CHAPTER VIII
Casimir Delavigne--An appreciation of the man and of the
poet-- The origin of the hatred of the old school of
literature for the new--Some reflections upon _Marino
Faliero_ and the _Enfants d'Édouard_--Why Casimir
Delavigne was more a comedy writer than a tragic
poet--Where he found the ideas for his chief plays
CHAPTER IX
Talma in the _École des Vieillards_--One of his
letters--Origin of his name and of his family--_Tamerlan_
at the pension Verdier--Talma's début--Dugazon's
advice--More advice from Shakespeare--Opinions of the
critics of the day upon the débutant--Talma's passion for
his art
THE MEMOIRS OF ALEXANDRE DUMAS
BOOK I
CHAPTER I
An unpublished chapter from the _Diable boiteux_--History of Samud and
the beautiful Doña Lorenza
About a fortnight after that wonderful night, during which I had
experienced such new and unknown emotions, I was busy in Maître
Mennesson's office,--as Niguet was absent seeing after a marriage
settlement at Pisseleu, and Ronsin had gone to collect debts at
Haramont,--sadly engrossing a copy of a deed of sale, when M. Lebègue,
a colleague of my patron, entered the office and, after gazing at
me with an amused expression on his face, went into the next room,
which was the private office, and took a seat by the side of Maître
Mennesson. The cause of my sadness shall be discovered presently.
Maître Mennesson's door, which separated the two offices, I was
generally left open, so that he could answer our questions, save when
a client closed it to discuss private matters with him; and when this
door was left open, we could hear in our office everything that was
said in M. Mennesson's room, as he could hear in his office all that
went on in ours.
This M. Lebègue, some months before, had married one of M. Deviolaine's
daughters by his first marriage: her name was Éléonore. The eldest
daughter, Léontine, had been married to a tax collector named Cornu
some time before her sister's wedding. The singularity of the name
had not prevented the marriage from coming off. The sharp-tongued
young girl feared to be jeered at in her turn, and the wittier she
became, the more she dreaded even the appearance of being ridiculous.
But Cornu was such a good-natured, honest-hearted fellow, everybody
was so used to the name, which had been borne by several families
in Villers-Cotterets, he was so used to it himself, he responded so
naïvely and triumphantly to the remarks of his _fiancée,_ that the
matter was settled.
When she was married to him she made up her mind to raise the
unfortunate name which fate had given her above even the suspicion of
any banter naturally connected with it: she was the most chaste of
wives, the tenderest of mothers I have ever known, and her husband, a
happy man himself, made her happy too.
But it was not so with her sister, Madame Lebègue, who was three
or four years younger, prettier, and far more of a flirt than she
was. Her flirtations were innocent enough, I have no doubt, but they
were as a rule looked upon maliciously by the gossips of the little
town--a matter to which Madame Lebègue in her innocence paid little
heed; concerning which, in her indifference to such calumnies, she
simply teased her husband. He was a stout, rotund fellow, pockmarked,
rather ugly, with a somewhat common-looking face, but a good fellow at
heart--although I have been told since that he ruined himself, not from
having lent at too low interest, but from an entirely opposite reason.
I am wholly ignorant as to the truth of this accusation: I take it to
be a calumny similar to the more pleasing and certainly more human
accusation levelled against the wife.
It was this man who had just come in, who sat down by M. Mennesson
and who was at that moment holding a whispered conversation with him,
interspersed with guffaws of laughter. Thanks to the extremely delicate
hearing with which I was gifted by nature, and which I had cultivated
during hunting, I thought I could distinguish my own name; but I
supposed I had not heard correctly, not flattering myself that two
such grave personages could be doing me the honour of talking about
me. Unluckily for my pride,--and I have indicated to what a pitch this
feeling was developed in me, a height that would have been absurd if
it had not been painful,--unluckily for my pride, then, I was not kept
long in doubt that the discussion was about me.
I have said that M. Mennesson was very fond of a joke and very witty;
wherever he could find a joke he would fasten upon it, no matter
whether it happened to concern a woman's virtue or a man's reputation.
When the frenzy of joking seized him he gave himself up to it
unreservedly, heart and soul. Finding nothing, probably, on this day,
better to chew, he set upon me; the pasture was poor, but it was far
better to crack my sorry bones than to chew at nothing or gulp only
the air. After several of those whispered remarks, then, and bursts
of stifled laughter, which had disturbed my equanimity, M. Mennesson
raised his voice.
"My dear friend," he said, "it is a chapter out of the _Diable boiteux_
re-discovered and still unpublished, which I mean to have printed the
next time I go to Paris, to complete Lesage's work."
"Ah! tell it me," Lebègue replied; "I will tell it to my wife, who will
pass it on to her sisters, who will tell it to everybody; then our
publication will be disposed of in advance."
M. Mennesson began:--
"There was once upon a time at Salamanca a scholar who was descended
from a race of Arabs and who was called Samud.[1] He was still so young
that if anyone had pulled his nose, milk would most certainly have come
out: this did not prevent him from being absurd enough to fancy himself
a man; perhaps also--for, to be fair, we must say all there is to
say--this ridiculous fancy would not have entered his head had not that
happened which we are about to relate."
It may be imagined that I was listening attentively. I had recognised
from the very first words that I was undoubtedly the person in
question, and I wondered uneasily where the story was going to lead
after this beginning--a beginning which, so far as I was concerned, I
found more impertinent than graphic.
M. Mennesson went on, and I listened with my ears open, my pen idle in
my hand.
"On the day of the feast of Whitsuntide in the year ... I cannot
say the exact date of the year, but, any way, it was on the day of
the feast of Whitsuntide, which is also the town's feast-time, two
beautiful senoras arrived from Madrid and put up at the house of a
worthy canon who was the uncle of one of these ladies. It chanced that
this canon was the same with whom Samud had learnt the bit of Latin he
knew, and as the two lovely Madrid ladies wanted a cavalier who would
not put their virtue to the blush, the canon cast his eyes on his
pupil, and requested him to place both his arms at the disposal of the
new arrivals, to show them the park of Salamanca, which is very wide,
very beautiful, and belongs to the Duke of Rodelnas.[2] I will not
dwell on the adventures of the first day, beyond just briefly touching
upon two events: the first was the meeting between our scholar and
an elegant senor from Madrid, who was noticed at once by the Sefiora
Lorenza, with whom our scholar was walking arm in arm, dressed, as
people of the provinces often are, about a decade behind the fashions
of the capital. This young gallant was called Audim. The second was a
most serious accident, which happened to the scholar's breeches, just
when, in order to give the fair Lorenza a proof of his agility, he had
leaped across a ditch fourteen feet wide."
It can be imagined what I suffered as I listened to this secondhand
recital of my lovelorn tribulations, which, according to his method of
procedure, would not stop short at the two misadventures of the first
day. M. Mennesson continued:--
"The beautiful Lorenza was specially impressed by the young gallant's
get-up. In complete contrast to the scholar, who was muffled up in a
Gothic costume borrowed from the wardrobe of his ancestors, Señor Audim
was dressed in the latest fashion, in tight-fitting breeches, ending
in charming little heart-shaped shoes, and a dark-coloured doublet
turned out by one of the best tailors in Madrid. The scholar had not
been unconscious of the particular notice his companion had paid to the
handsome Audim's attire, and as it began to dawn on him what influence
a coat of a certain cut or trousers of a special shade of colour might
have upon a woman, he decided during the night following the fête
to please Lorenza no matter at what price, and to have a suit made
exactly like the one worn by the young man who seemed destined by fate
to become his rival. The most vital part of the costume, and moreover
the most expensive, was in the matter of the boots. So he turned his
attention to them first of all. On the opposite side of the square
where Samud's mother lived, a square called the place de la Fontaine,
was the best boot-maker in the town: he had always shod the scholar,
but hitherto he had only made shoes for him, the lad's tender years not
having put the idea into anyone's head, not even into his own, that
he could wear any other covering for his feet than shoes or sandals
without risking a too close resemblance to Perrault's venerable Puss in
Boots. Great therefore was M. Landereau's[3] surprise when his customer
came and boldly asked the price of a pair of boots. He stared at Samud.
'A pair of boots?' he asked. 'For whom?'
'Why, for myself,' the scholar proudly replied.
'Has your mother given you leave to order boots?' 'Yes.'
"The bootmaker shook his head dubiously: he knew Samud's mother was not
well off and that it would be foolish of her to allow such extravagance
in her son.
'Boots are dear,' he said.
'That does not matter. How much are they?'
'They would cost you exactly four dollars.'
'Good.... Take my measure.'
'I have told you I can do nothing without leave from your mother.'
'I will see you have it.'
"Returning home, the scholar ventured to ask for a pair of boots.
The request struck Samud's mother as so extraordinary that she made
him repeat his inquiry twice. It was all the more strange as it was
the first time the scholar had troubled about his dress. When he was
ten they had the greatest difficulty in the world to get him to give
up a long pinafore of figured cotton, which he considered far more
comfortable than all the breeches and all the doublets on earth;
then, from the age of ten to the age of fifteen, he had worn with
indifference any garments his mother had thought good to put him in,
always preferring dirty and old ones to clean and new, because in them
he was allowed to go out in all weathers and to roll about in all kinds
of places. So the demand for a pair of boots seemed to his poor mother
altogether most unprecedented, and she was alarmed for her son's reason.
'A pair of boots!' she repeated. 'What will you wear them with?'
'A pair of tight-fitting breeches, mother.'
'A pair of tight-fitting breeches! But you must know your legs are as
spindle-shaped as a cock's.'
"'Excuse me, mother,' the schoolboy replied, with some show of logic;
'if I have good enough calves to wear short breeches, they are good
enough to wear tight-fitting breeches.'
"The mother admired her son's wit, and, half conquered by the repartee,
she said,'We might perhaps manage to find the tight-fitting trousers in
the clothes-press; but the boots ... where will you find the boots?'
'Why, at Landereau's!'
'But boots would be expensive, my child,' said the poor lady,
sighing,'and you know we are not rich.'
'Bah! mamma, Landereau will allow you credit.'
'It is all very fine taking credit, my boy; you know one has to pay
some day, and that the longer one puts off paying the more it costs.'
'Oh, mother, please do let me!'
'How much will the boots cost?'
'Four dollars, mother.'
'That is six months' school-money at the rate good Canon Gregorio
charges me.'
'You can pay for it in four months' time, mother,' the schoolboy
pleaded.
'Still ... tell me what advantage you think this pair of boots and the
tight-fitting trousers will bring you?'
'I shall be able to please Doña Lorenza, the canon's niece.' 'How is
that?'
'She raves over boots and tight-fitting trousers ... it seems they are
the very latest thing in Madrid.'
'But what does it matter to you what the niece of Don Gregorio raves or
does not rave over, I want to know?'
'It matters a great deal to me, mother.'
'Why?'
"The schoolboy looked supremely foolish.
'Because I am paying her attentions,' he said."
This dialogue was word for word what had passed between my mother and
myself after I returned from Landereau's shop, so I grew hot with anger.
"At the words _Because I am paying her attentions_," continued the
narrator, "Samud's mother was overcome with intense astonishment: her
son, whom she still pictured as running about the streets in his long
print pinafore, or renewing his baptismal vows taper in hand; her son
paying attentions to the beautiful Doña Lorenza!--why, it was one of
those absurd things she had never even imagined. And her son, seeing
she was unconvinced, drew his hand out of his breast pocket and showed
her a bracelet of hair with a mosaic clasp. But he took care to keep it
to himself that he had taken this bracelet from Doña Lorenza; she had
not given it him, and she was very much distressed at not knowing what
had become of it."
Although this account was not very creditable to my honesty, it was
dreadfully accurate. I had had that bracelet in my possession for three
days; during those three days I had, if not exactly shown it, at least
let it be seen by several people, and, among others, by my mother and
my cousins the Deviolaines, before whom I posed as a gallant youth; but
at length I had been moved by Laure's distress, as she had thought it
lost. I gave it back to her, humbly confessing my fault; she forgave
me, in consideration, no doubt, of her delight in recovering her
trinket, but she would not have let me off so easily had she known my
indiscretions.
So the perspiration which had beaded my brow at the beginning of the
story, ran down over my face in big drops; yet wishing to learn how
far M. Mennesson had been coached in the matter of my sentimental
escapades, I had the courage to stay where I was--or rather, I had not
the strength to fly. M. Mennesson went on:--
"At this juncture Samud's mother raised her hands and eyes to heaven,
and as the poor woman never could refuse her son, she said to him, with
a sigh--
'Very well, be it so; if a pair of boots will make you happy, go and
order the boots.'
"The schoolboy leapt at one bound from his house to the bootmaker's;
he arranged the price at three and a half dollars, to be paid for in
four months' time. Next they paid a visit to the clothes-press: they
extracted a pair of bright blue trousers striped with gold; they sold
the gold lace to a goldsmith for a dollar and a half, which dollar and
a half were given to the scholar for pocket-money, his mother guessing
that his budding love affairs would naturally bring extra expenses
in their train. They decided that the suit he had worn at his first
communion should be altered to a more up-to-date cut, on fashionable
lines.
"While all these preparations for courtship were going on, the
schoolboy continued, in the phrase he had used to his mother, to pay
attentions to the beautiful Doña Lorenza; but although he was brave
in words and very clever in theory behind her back, he was extremely
timid in practice and very awkward when actually before her face. While
apparently filled with impatience to be near her, he dreaded nothing
so much as being left alone with her; at such times he would lose his
wits completely, become dumb instead of talkative, and be still when
he should have been active: the most favourable opportunities were
given him, and he let them escape. In vain did the impatient lady from
Madrid give him to understand that he was wasting time, and that time
wasted is never regained; he agreed with her from the very depths of
his soul; he was furious with himself every night when he returned
home, and in going over the opportunities of the day he vowed not to
let these opportunities slip by on the morrow if they occurred again.
Then he would read a chapter of _Faublas_ to warm his blood: he would
sleep on it, and dream dreams in which he would be astonishingly bold.
When day broke, he would vow to himself to carry out his dreams of
the previous night. Then, while he was waiting for the boots and the
tight-fitting suit, which were being fashioned with a truly provincial
slowness, he returned to his short breeches, his bombazin vest, his
bottle-blue coat, and resumed his fruitless walk in the forest. He
looked with a melancholy eye on the mossy carpet under their feet, not
even venturing to suggest to his companion that they should sit down
upon it; he gazed sadly on the beautiful green heights above them,
under which she delighted to hide herself with him. He would get as far
as trembling and sighing, even to pressing her hand, but these were the
extreme limits of his boldness. Once only did he kiss the hand of Doña
Lorenza,--on the night before he was to introduce himself to her in his
suit of conquest,--but it cost him such a tremendous effort to perform
this bold act that he felt quite ill after its accomplishment.
"It was on this day that the lovely Doña Lorenza arrived at the
conclusion that she must give up all hope of seeing the boy develop
into a man, and without saying a word to her clumsy admirer, she took
a decisive step. They parted as usual after having spent the evening
playing at those innocent games which Madame de Longueville detested
so greatly. The next day, as we have said, was to be the vital one.
The tailor and the bootmaker kept their word. The young people usually
met between noon and one o'clock, and then went for a walk: Senora
Vittoria with a young bachelor, from whom I have gathered most of my
information; and the schoolboy with Senora Lorenza. Unluckily, the
tight-fitting trousers were so tight that they had to have a piece put
in at the calf of the leg: this addition took time, and Samud was not
quite ready before one o'clock. He knew he was late; he flew hurriedly
along to Canon Gregorio's house, where the daily rendezvous took place.
His new toilette produced an excellent effect as he passed through the
streets: people ran to their doors; they leant out of their windows,
and he bowed to them, saying to himself--
'Yes, it is all right, it is I! What is there wonderful in this, pray?
Did you think no one else could have boots, tight-fitting trousers and
a fashionably collared coat like M. Audim? You are much deceived if you
thought anything of the kind!'
"And he went on his way, holding his head higher and higher, persuaded
he was nearing a sensational triumph. But, as we have said, the unlucky
alteration at the calves had made him nearly an hour late, and when the
scholar reached the canon's house both the senoras had gone out! This
was but a slight misfortune: the schoolboy had been brought up in the
forest of Salamanca, as Osmin in the seraglio of Bajazet, and he knew
its every turn and twist. He was therefore just going to rush out in
pursuit of the lady of his thoughts, when the canon's sister handed him
a letter which Doña Lorenza had left for him when she went out. Samud
never doubted that this letter would enjoin upon him to hurry on with
all diligence. And it was the first he had received: he felt the honour
most keenly; he kissed the letter tenderly, broke the seal, and with
panting breath and bounding heart he read the following:--
'MY DEAR BOY,--I have been blaming myself during the past
fortnight for imposing upon your good-nature by letting
you fulfil the obligation you had most injudiciously
promised my uncle in undertaking to be my cavalier.
In spite of your efforts to hide the boredom that an
occupation beyond your years caused you, I have seen
that I have much interfered with your usual habits, and
I blame myself for it. Go back to your young playmates,
who are waiting for you to play at prisoners' base and
quoits. Let your mind be quite at ease on my account;
for I have accepted M. Audim's services for the short
time longer I remain with my uncle. Please accept my best
thanks, my dear child, for your kindness, and believe me,
yours very gratefully, LORENZA.'
"If a thunderbolt had fallen at our schoolboy's feet he could not have
been more crushed than he was on receiving this letter. On the first
reading he realised nothing beyond the shock; he re-read it two or
three times, and felt the smart. Then it dawned on him that, since he
had taken no pains to prove to the lovely Lorenza that he was not a
child, it now remained to him to prove that he was a man, by provoking
Audim to fight a Dud with him; and forthwith, upon my word, our
outraged schoolboy sent this letter to his rival:--
"'SIR,--I need not tell you upon what provocation I wish
to meet you in any of the forest avenues, accompanied by
two seconds: you know as well as I do. As you may pretend
that you have not insulted me and that it is I who have
provoked you, I leave the choice of weapons to you.--I
have the honour to remain,' etc.
"'_P.S._---As you will probably not return home till
late to-night, I will not demand my answer this evening,
but I wish to receive it as early as possible to-morrow
morning.'
"Next morning, on waking, he received a birch rod with Don Audim's
card. That was the weapon selected by his rival."
The reader can judge the effect the conclusion of this story had upon
me. Alas! it was an exact account of all that had happened to me. Thus
had terminated my first love affair, and so had ended my first duel! I
uttered a shriek of rage, and dashing out of the office, I ran home to
my mother, who cried out aloud when she saw the state I was in.
Ten minutes later I was lying in a well-warmed bed and Doctor Lécosse
had been sent for: he pronounced that I was in for brain fever, but
as it was taken in time it would not have any serious consequences. I
purposely prolonged my convalescence, be it known, so as not to go out
until the two Parisians had left Villers-Cotterets. I have never seen
either of them since.
[1] hardly need point out that "Samud" is the anagram of "Dumas."
[2] "Rodelnas" is the anagram of "d'Orléans," as "Samud" is the anagram
of "Dumas," and as "Audim," to be used shortly, is that of "Miaud."
[3] The narrator did not trouble to give an anagram for the name this
time.
CHAPTER II
The good my flouting at the hands of the two Parisians had done me--The
young girls of Villers-Cotterets--My three friends--First love affairs
Still, like François I. after the battle of Pavia, I had not lost
everything by my defeat. First there remained to me my boots and my
tight-fitting trousers, those two dearly coveted articles, which
became the envy and admiration of those young companions upon whom
the lovely Laure had so cruelly thrown me. Besides, in the fortnight
spent in the company of those two smart girls, I had learnt the first
lesson that only the society of women can give. This lesson had taught
me to realise the need for that care of my personal appearance which
had hitherto never presented itself to my mind as a thing to be daily
attended to. Beneath the ridiculous if vanity in changing my mode of
dress, underneath the unlucky attempt that I, a poor country lad, had
made to attain to the elegant style of a Parisian, there appeared the
first dawnings of true elegance--that is to say, of neatness.
I had rather good hands, my nails were well shaped, my teeth were large
but white, and my feet were singularly small considering my size. I had
been ignorant of all these possessions until they had been pointed out
to me by the two Parisian girls, who gave me advice as to how I could
enhance the value of my natural gifts. And I continued to follow their
advice for my own personal satisfaction, after at first following it to
please them, to such purpose that by the time they left I had really
stepped across the boundary which separated childhood from youth. The
crossing had certainly been a rough one, and I had accomplished it
with tears in my eyes, coquetry holding one of my hands and chagrin
the other. Then--as jaded travellers, when they enter a fresh country,
suck bitter fruits, which, however much they set the teeth on edge,
leave behind them an irresistible desire to suck other fruits,--when
my lips had touched the apple of Eve that men call love, I yearned to
make another attempt, even though it should be more painful than the
first, and so far as its young girls were concerned, few towns could
boast themselves as well favoured as Villers-Cotterets. Never was
there such a large park as ours, not even at Versailles; no lawns were
greener, not even those at Brighton; nor were any studded with more
exquisite flowers than the park of Villers-Cotterets, with its lawns
and flower-beds. Three very distinct classes disputed among themselves
for the crown of beauty--the aristocracy, the middle classes, and a
third class for which I cannot find a name, a pleasant intermediary
between the middle class and the people, which belongs to neither, and
to which class the dressmakers, seamstresses, and women-shopkeepers of
a town belong.
The first class was represented by the Collard family, to whom I have
already alluded in connection with my childhood. Of the three madcap
young girls who roamed the forest of Villers-Cotterets as free as the
butterflies and swallows, two had become wives: one, Caroline, had
married the Baron Capelle; the other, Hermine, had married the Baron
de Martens; Louise, the third, who was but fifteen, was the most
captivating little maiden imaginable. Their mother--whose birth and
history as the daughter of Madame de Genlis and the Duc d'Orléans I
have related--and her three children were the aristocratic centre round
which the young men and maidens of the neighbouring castles revolved;
and among the former of these were some of the best blood in the
country--the Montbretons, the Courvals, and the Mornays. None of these
families lived in Villers-Cotterets itself: they lived in the castles
around. Only on great occasions did the hives swarm and then we saw
these golden-winged bees flying about the streets of the town and down
the avenues of the park.
The second class was represented by the Deviolaine family. Two out
of the five daughters of M. Deviolaine were married, as I have
said--namely, Léontine and Éléonore; three remained, Cécile, Augustine
and Louise. Cécile was twenty years of age, Augustine sixteen; Louise
was still a mere child. Cécile had preserved her whimsical and
capricious spirits, the same mocking and animated features; her actions
were more masculine than feminine; her complexion was tanned by the
sun, as she never took the trouble to protect herself from its rays.
Augustine, on the contrary, had a skin as white as milk, large tranquil
blue eyes, dark chestnut hair, forming an admirable framework round
her face, sloping shoulders charmingly moulded, and a figure that was
not too slender; unlike her sister Cécile, she was gracefully feminine
in all her ways. Raphael would have been puzzled to choose between her
and Louise Collard for a model for his Madonna, and like the Greek
sculptor, he would have selected beautiful points from them both to
reach that perfect standard to which Art everywhere attains when it
surpasses Nature.
The other young girls of the middle class grouped themselves round the
Deviolaine family. The two Troisvallet girls, Henriette and Clementine:
Clementine, dark with beautiful black hair, strangely attractive eyes,
a Roman complexion, of the type of Velletri or Subiaco, and a head like
one of Augustine Carrachi's. Henriette was tall, fair, rosy, slender,
gracious, and as pliant in her gentle youthfulness as a rose, as a
blade of corn, as a willow tree: she had that type of face which is
half sad, half merry; the transition between angel and woman, showing
all the common needs of earth, yet full of heavenly aspirations too.
Then the two charming girls Sophie and Pélagie Perrot; Louise Moreau,
a sweet young girl, who has since become the admirable mother of a
family; Éléonore Picot, of whom I have spoken--an excellent woman,
saddened by the death of her brother Stanislas, and the shameful charge
that had weighed for a short time upon her brother Auguste. Then there
were others, too, whose names I have forgotten, but whose fresh faces
still appear in my mind's eye like the phantoms of a dream or like the
apparitions which glide out of German streams or are reflected in the
lochs of Scotland as they pursue their nocturnal rounds.
Lastly, after the middle classes, came, as I have said, the group of
young girls which I cannot class in the social hierarchy, but which
held the same place in that small world of ours shut in by the green
girdle of its beautiful forest, that lilies of the valley, Easter
daisies, cornflowers, hyacinths and pompon roses hold among flowers.
Oh! but it was a pretty sight to see them on Sunday, in their summer
dresses, with pink and blue sashes, their tiny bonnets trimmed by their
own hands and put on in a hundred varieties of coquettish ways--for
in those days not one of them dare wear a hat; it was a delight to
see them free of all constraint, ignorant of any etiquette, playing,
racing, lacing and interlacing their charming round bare arms in long
chains. What exquisite creatures they were! What delightful young
things! It is of little interest to my readers, I am well aware, to
know their names; but I knew them, I loved them, I spent my earliest
years among them, those gentle opening days in the morning of life; I
wish to tell their names, I wish to paint their portraits, I wish to
describe their different charms, and then I hope they will pardon my
indiscretions for my very indiscretions' sake.
I must mention first and foremost two charmingly romantic and
coquettish damsels--Joséphine and Manette Thierry: Joséphine dark,
rosy, with an ample figure and regular features, a perfect creature,
whose beautiful teeth completed a ravishing whole. Manette, a dessert
apple, a girl who was always singing to make herself heard, always
laughing to show off her teeth, ever running to let her feet, her
ankles, even the calves of her legs, be seen; Virgil's Galatea, whose
very name she was ignorant of, flying to be pursued, hiding so as to be
seen before she hid.
What has become of them? I have seen them since, looking very
miserable: one was at Versailles, the other in Paris--the fallen, faded
fruits of that rosary on which I spelled out the first phrases of
love. They were the daughters of an old tailor, and lived close to the
church, which was only separated from them by the town hall. Louise
Brézette lived nearly opposite them; I have already mentioned her.
She was the niece of my dancing-master; a sturdy flower of fifteen,
whom I had in my mind while I wrote my fictitious history of that
_Tulipe noire_, the masterpiece of horticulture vainly sought after,
vainly pursued, vainly expected by Dutch amateur gardeners. The hair
of beautiful Madame Ronconi, which inspired one of Théophile Gautier's
most wonderful articles, and which made coal look grey and the wings
of a crow pale, when placed side by side with it, was not more black,
more blue, more shiny than Louise Brézette's hair when it reflected
the sun's rays from its dark and sombre depths as from the heart of
polished metal. Oh! what a lovely blooming brunette she was, with her
flesh as firm and bright as a nectarine's; her pearly teeth lighting
up her face from under the faint ebony down on her coral lips! One
could feel life and love bubbling up beneath, needing only the first
passion to make everything burst forth into flame! This luxuriant young
girl was religious, and, as such an organisation as hers must love
something, she loved God.
If you took a few steps towards the square, a little farther up the
rue de Soissons, bearing to the left, there was a door and a window,
comprising the whole frontage of a tiny house. In the window hung hats,
collars, bonnets, lace, gloves, mittens, ribbons--the whole arsenal,
in short, of womanly vanity; behind the door floated certain curtains,
intended to prevent inquisitive glances from looking into the shop, but
which, whether by some strange mischance, or from the obstinacy of the
rod upon which they slid, or from the caprices of the wind, always left
on one side or the other some impertinent aperture through which the
passer-by could see into the shop and at the same time allowed those
inside the shop to see out into the street. Above this door and this
window the following inscription was painted in large letters:--
_Mesdemoiselles Rigolot, Milliners_
Truly those who stopped in front of the opening which I have indicated,
and who managed to cast a glance inside the shop, did not lose their
time nor regret their pains. What we mean by this has no sort of
connection with the two proprietors of the establishment, who were
both old maids, having long since passed their fortieth year, and, I
presume, having lost all pretension to inspire any other sentiment than
respect.
No, what we have in view concerns two of the most adorable faces you
can imagine, placed side by side as though to set one another off: one
was a blonde, and the other a brunette. The brunette was Albine Hardi;
the blonde was Adèle Dalvin. The brown head,--do you know the lovely
Marie Duplessis, that charming courtesan full of queenly grace, upon
whom my son wrote his romance _la Dame aux camélias_?--well, she was
Albine. If you do not know her, I will describe Albine to you. She was
a young girl of seventeen, with a dead brown complexion, large brown
velvety eyes, and eyebrows so black that they seemed as though they
had been drawn with a pencil, the curve was so firm and so regular.
She was a duchess, she was a queen; better still than either, if you
will, she was after the fashion of a nymph of Diana's train: slight,
slender, straight and finely built, a huntress whom it would have
been a splendid sight to see with a plumed helmet on her head, an
Amazon flying before the wind, leading a troop of clamorous pikemen,
guiding a baying hound. Upon the stage her appearance would have
been magnificent, almost supernatural. In ordinary life, people were
tempted to think her too beautiful, and for some time nobody dared to
make love to her, it seemed so likely that their love would be wasted
and that she would not make any response to it. The other, Adèle, was
fair and pink-complexioned. I have never seen prettier golden hair,
sweeter eyes, a more winning smile; she was more inclined to be gay
than melancholy, short rather than tall, plump rather than thin: she
was something like one of Murillo's cherubs who kiss the feet of his
Virgins--half veiled in clouds; she was neither a Watteau shepherdess,
nor one of Greuze's peasant girls, but something between the two. One
felt it would be a sweet and easy thing to love her, although it might
not be so easy to be loved by her. Her father and her mother were
worthy old farmer folk, thoroughly honest but vulgar, and it was all
the more surprising that so fresh and sweet-scented a flower should
have sprung from such a stock. But this is always the case when folks
are young: it is youth that lends distinction, as it is spring which
lends freshness to the rose.
Round these young people whom I have just described, smiled and pouted
a bevy of young girls, the smallest being mere infants, whom I have
since seen succeed the youthful generation in which I lived. I have
sought in vain to find in these later children the virtues I found in
those who preceded them.
Until the arrival of the two strangers in Villers-Cotterets I had not
even noticed the springtide crown of stars and flowers to which all
ranks of society contribute. When the two strangers had left, the
bandage that had sealed my eyes fell off, and I could say not merely "I
see" but "I live." I found myself placed by my years exactly between
the children who still played at prisoners' base and at quoits--as
the abba's niece had aptly put it--and youths beginning to turn into
men. Instead of returning to the former, as my beautiful Parisian had
advised me, I attached myself to the latter, and drew myself up to my
full height to prove my sixteen years. And when anyone asked my age, I
told them I was seventeen.
The three youths with whom I was most intimate were, first, Fourcade,
director of the school of self-improvement, sent from Paris to
Villers-Cotterets; he was my _vis-à-vis_ in my début as a dancing man.
He was a thoroughly well-bred, well-educated young fellow, son of a man
very honourably known in foreign affairs; his father had lived in the
East for many years and had been Consul at Salonica. His affections
were fixed upon Joséphine Thierry, and he spent with her all the time
he could spare from his teaching. My second companion was Saunier;
he had been a fellow-pupil with me under the Abbé Grégoire; he was
second clerk of M. Perrot the lawyer; his father and grandfather were
blacksmiths, and in the idle period of my early youth I spent a large
portion of my time in their forge, notching their files and making
fireworks out of iron filings. Saunier divided his leisure-time between
two passions--one, which I verily believe came before the other, was
for the clarionette; the other was for Manette Thierry. The third of
my intimate friends was called Chollet; he served as a link, in the
matter of age, between Fourcade and Saunier. He lived with one of my
cousins, called Roussy, the father of the child of whom I had been
godfather, when nine months old, along with Augustine Deviolaine. He
was studying the cultivation of forest-land. I know nothing about his
relations; they were probably wealthy, for whenever I called on him
there were five-franc pieces scattered about on the mantelpiece and
two or three gold pieces always shone out ostentatiously from the
midst of them, dazzling my eyes and impressing me profoundly with his
riches. But my admiration was entirely devoid of envy--I have never
envied either a man's money or his possessions. I know not whether this
arose from pride or from simpleness of mind. I might have taken for my
motto _Video nec invideo._ Chollet had had no education at all, but
he was not wanting in a certain natural quick-wittedness, and he was
a fine-looking young fellow, his magnificent eyes and splendid teeth
redeeming an otherwise common-looking face, pitted with smallpox. He
did his best to make Louise Brézette change her love for the Creator
into love for the creature.
These were my three most intimate friends. The upshot was, that when
it became necessary for me in my turn to make a choice, although I
had been brought up half with M. Deviolaine's family and half with M.
Collard's, it was neither in aristocratic society nor in middle-class
circles, which would have made fun of me, that I sought my initiation
in the delightful mystery of life we call falling in love, but in
that society to which my three friends almost exclusively addressed
themselves. And I had no difficulty in understanding their preference.
I do not hesitate to state fully and freely that they were very wise in
their choice. There was but one step to take to follow in their path. I
needed only someone upon whom to fasten my affections: the wish to love
was not wanting. Every one of the young girls I have mentioned had
some love affair on hand of a more or less serious character. They all
enjoyed most delightful liberty, the result no doubt of the confidence
their parents placed in their good sense; but for some reason or other
we had quite an English custom in Villers-Cotterets--a free and easy
association between young people of both sexes, which I have never seen
in any other French town; a liberty all the more surprising, since
all the parents of these maidens were perfectly respectable people
and had a profound conviction in the depths of their hearts that all
the barques launched upon the flood of the Tender Passion were decked
with white sails and crowned with orange blossoms. And what was more
singular still, it was true in the case of the majority of the ten or
twelve couples of lovers which formed our circle.
I waited patiently for one of these knots to be untied or severed.
While I waited, I went to every party and took part in all the
walks and all the dances; it was an excellent apprenticeship, which
familiarised me beforehand with that monster whom Psyche touched
without seeing and whom I, on the contrary, had seen but not touched.
Chance favoured me, after six weeks or two months of playing second
fiddle. One of these engagements was hardly made before it was broken:
a farmer's son, named Richou, wished to marry his neighbour, Adèle
Dalvin. The parents of the young man, who were better off than those
of the young girl, opposed these budding loves, and the fair one was
released.
I had learnt much during those six weeks by watching others; besides,
this time, I was not entangled with a sarcastic and exacting Parisian
girl, who knew the world so much better than I did. No, my love affair
was with a young girl more shy than myself, who mistook my pretended
courage for genuine, and who, like the frog in the fable that jumped
in the pond when a frightened hare passed by it, was good enough to
fear me and to prove to me that it was possible to come across someone
even more timid than myself. It can be seen how such a change in the
position of things gave me assurance. The rôles were now completely
reversed. This time I was the attacking party and someone else was on
the defensive, and this someone was making such an obstinate resistance
that I soon realised my attack was useless and that I should only
succeed in breaking down the serious resistance offered me after,
maybe, a long and patient wooing: the citadel was not to be stormed.
Then began for me those first days, the reflection of which has lasted
throughout the whole of my life: that delicious struggle of love, which
asks unceasingly and is not discouraged by an eternity of refusal; the
obtaining of favour after favour, each of which, when gained, fills the
soul with ecstasy; the early fleeting dawn of life which hovers above
the earth, shaking down handfuls of flowers upon the heads of mortals,
and then, under the influence of the rising sun, adds consciousness to
its joy and is soon enveloped in the ardent heat of passion.
Indeed, it was a happy time for me. In the morning, when I awoke, my
mother's smile greeted me and her lingering kisses hung on my lips;
from nine to four o'clock came my work--work, it is true, which would
have been tiresome if I had been obliged to understand what I wrote,
but which was easy and welcome, for while my hands and eyes were
copying, my mind was free to commune with my own happy thoughts; then,
from four till eight o'clock, I was with my mother; and after eight,
joy, love, life, hope, happiness!
At eight in summer evenings, at six in winter, our young friends, also
free when I was, came to join us at some convenient meeting-place;
held out their faces or their cheeks to be kissed, pressed our hands,
without taking pains, out of mistaken coquetry or hypocritical
make-belief, to conceal their delight at meeting us once more; then,
if it were summertime, and fine weather, the park invited us with its
mossy sward, its dusky avenues, the breeze trembling among the leaves,
and on moonlight nights there were wide spaces of alternate light
and darkness; at these times a solitary passer-by could have seen
five or six couples walking, at duly specified distances, to ensure
isolation without loneliness, heads inclined towards one another, hands
clasped in hands, talking in low tones, modulating their words to
sweet intonations, or preserving a dangerous silence; for during such
silences the eyes often spoke what the lips did not dare to utter. If
it were winter or bad weather, we all met at Louise Brézette's: her
mother and her aunt nearly always withdrew to the back room, giving up
to us the two front ones, which we seized upon for ourselves; then,
lit by a single lamp in the third room, near which Louise's mother
would sew while her aunt read the _Imitation of Christ_ or _The Perfect
Christian_ we chatted, squeezed against one another, generally two on
one chair, repeating the same story we had said the night before, but
finding what we had to say ever new.
At ten o'clock our _soirées_ broke up. Each boy took his particular
girl home. When they reached the house door, she granted her cavalier
another half-hour, sometimes an hour, as sweet to her as to him, as
they sat together on the bench outside the door, or stood in the garden
path which led to the maternal parlour, from the interior of which from
time to time a grumbling voice might be heard calling--a voice that
was answered ten times before being obeyed, "I am coming, mamma." On
Sundays we met at three o'clock, after vespers; and we walked, danced,
waltzed, not going home until midnight.
Then there were fêtes in the neighbouring villages, less grand,
less aristocratic, less fashionable, certainly, than those of
Villers-Cotterets, to which we went in happy bands, and from which we
returned in silent separate pairs.
It was at one of these fêtes that I met a young man a year younger than
myself. I must ask permission to speak of him fully, for he had an
immense influence over my life.
CHAPTER III
Adolphe de Leuven--His family--Unpublished details concerning the death
of Gustavus III.--The Count de Ribbing--The shoemakers of the château
de Villers-Hellon
I first met Leuven at a fête in the beautiful village of Corey, a
league's distance from Villers-Cotterets--a village buried in the
centre of great woods, like a nest among high branches. I had left my
companions for an instant in the course of the dance, and I had gone to
some distance to pay a visit to an old friend of my father, a farmer,
whose farm was nearly a quarter of a league from the village. I took a
pretty path at the foot of a hill to get there, hedged on both sides
by hawthorn in full blossom, and studded with daisies, their golden
centres fringed by pink-tipped petals.
Suddenly, at a bend in the path, I saw three people coming towards me,
in a ray of sunlight which bathed them in light; two were well known to
me, but the third was a complete stranger. The two I knew were Caroline
Collard, who, as previously related, had become Baroness Capelle. The
other was her daughter, Marie Capelle, then only three years old, who
to her misfortune was to become Madame Lafarge. The third person, the
stranger, looked at first sight like a German student; he was a youth
of between sixteen and seventeen, and was dressed in a grey jacket, an
oilskin cap, a waistcoat of chamois leather and bright blue trousers,
almost as tight-fitting as mine, but with this difference, that while
my topboots covered up my breeches, his, on the contrary, were covered
up by his trousers. This young man was tall, dark and gaunt, his black
hair cut as short as bristles; he had good eyes and a strikingly
defined nose; his teeth were as white as pearls, and he had a
carelessly aristocratic bearing; he was the Viscount Adolphe Ribbing de
Leuven, future author of _Vert-Vert_ and of _Postilion de Long-jumeau_
son of Count Adolphe-Louis Ribbing de Leuven, one of the three Swedish
noblemen who were inculpated in the murder of Gustavus III., King of
Sweden.
These Counts Ribbing de Leuven were of an old and noble family, used
to carrying on royal intrigues and to treat on equal terms with the
powerful ones of earth. It was a Ribbing who rose in 1520 against the
tyrant Christiern who had caused his two children to be murdered.
There was a sad and melancholy legend in the family, connected with
the beheading of these two children, the one aged twelve and the other
only three. The executioner had cut off the head of the eldest and had
seized hold of the second to execute him too, when the poor mite said
in childish accents, "Oh, please do not soil my collar as you have
soiled my brother Axel's, for mamma would scold me." The executioner
had two children of his own just the same ages as these. Moved by the
words, he flung down his sword and ran off, overwhelmed with remorse.
Christiern sent soldiers after him and he was killed.
Adolphe's father, with whom I have since become very friendly and
who loves me like a father, was then a man of fifty; extremely
distinguished in appearance, with a charming nature, although
perhaps a little too sarcastic, and of indomitable courage. He had
been educated at the Military School in Berlin, and had come to
France when quite young as a captain in one of Louis XVI.'s foreign
mercenary regiments--those regiments which did him far more harm than
any good their loyal services rendered him. He had been presented
to Marie-Antoinette by the Count de Fersen and, under the patronage
of that illustrious favourite, the queen gave him a most favourable
reception. He remembered poor. Marie-Antoinette with most respectful
veneration, and thirty years after her death I often heard him speak of
her with a voice full of tears. He was recalled to Sweden towards the
close of the year 1791. He was betrothed to one of his cousins, whom
he worshipped, and, intending to marry her on his return, he learnt on
his arrival at Stockholm that, by the order of King Gustave III., her
hand had been disposed of and she was the wife of the Count d'Essen.
In his first transport of despair, Count Ribbing provoked a quarrel
with her husband. A duel ensued, and the Count d'Essen fell with a
sword-wound through his chest which kept him chained for six months to
his bed.
Sweden was greatly disturbed at this period: the king insisted upon
enforcing his Diet to accept the deed of union and of security, and at
Geft the _coup d'état_ took place which invested the king with sole
power in the making of peace and war. A tremendous strife had been
waged for a long period between the regal power and the nobility.
Though the king was married in 1766 to Sophie-Madeleine of Denmark,
he had no heir to his crown even in 1776. And the Swedish nobility
attributed the queen's sterility to the same cause as that of Louise de
Vaudemont, Henri III.'s wife. As in the case of the last of the house
of Valois, Gustavus had his favourites, and their familiarity with him
led to their making the most extraordinary suggestions to their prince.
After a time, the courtiers made up their minds to remonstrate with the
king about the queen's barrenness and to tell him he ought to try to
remedy this deficiency by every means in his power. Gustavus promised
to see what could be done in the matter. Then, so folks said, a curious
thing happened. The evening of the day on which he had pledged his word
to the Swedish lords, he took his equerry Monck to the queen's chamber
and, in the presence of the confused and blushing queen, he explained
to the equerry the service he required of him; then he withdrew and
shut the door of the royal chamber upon the pair. Some time later the
queen's pregnancy was proclaimed, and she gave birth to a prince, who
after his father's death reigned under the title of Gustavus IV., until
the Swedish Parliament proclaimed his deposition in 1809. I knew his
son very well in Italy, where he travelled under the name of the Count
de Wasa.
In 1770, Gustavus III., then twenty-four years of age, came to France
as the Count de Haga. He had an interview with a kind of sorceress
who predicted future events in her hypnotic trances; she had scarcely
touched his hand before she told him to beware of the year 1792, as
he would incur danger of death from firearms during the course of it.
Gustavus was a brave man; he had often exposed himself to danger. He
several times repeated the prediction laughingly, but it never troubled
him.
Inconsequence of the Diet of 1792, by which the nobles had lost the
rest of their privileges, there arose a conspiracy. The principal
ringleaders were Ankarström, Count de Ribbing, Count de Horn, Baron
d'Erenswaerd and Colonel Lilienhorn. Ankarström and Ribbing had private
reasons for hatred against the king, besides the general grievances
which embittered the aristocracy against the sovereign. Through the
king's intervention Ankarström had lost a lawsuit which had deprived
him of half his fortune. Count de Ribbing, as we have seen, owed a
grudge against the king for a far more grievous loss than that of a
lawsuit, namely, the loss of his lady-love. In the case of the other
nobles the projected murder of Gustavus was simply an incident in the
life of a clan. They decided to perpetrate the murder at a masked ball,
which was to take place in the Opera House, on the night of 15 and 16
March 1792. On the night before, the king received an anonymous letter,
warning him of the plot and telling him that he was to be assassinated
on the following night.
"Ah yes," said Gustavus, "the very same thing was predicted twenty-two
years ago to the Count de Haga; but he put no more faith in the
prophecy than the King of Sweden does to-day;" and, shrugging his
shoulders, he crumpled the note between his hands and threw it into the
fireplace. Nevertheless, people averred that Gustavus went disguised
on the night of the 14-15 to consult the famous sibyl Arfredson,
who confirmed the French somnambulist's prediction and the warning
contained in the anonymous letter, telling him he would be murdered
before three days had gone by. Whether from actual courage or from
incredulity, Gustavus would not change any of his previously arranged
plans nor take any precaution: at eleven o'clock that night he went to
the masked ball. Lots had been drawn the night before to settle which
of the conspirators should kill the king, and Gustavus was so greatly
detested by his nobles that each one was eager to have the dangerous
honour of firing the fatal shot. The lot was drawn by Ankarström.
It is said that one of the conspirators offered to give him all the
wealth he then possessed, as well as all that which he was to inherit
at a future date, if he would change places with him; but Ankarström
refused. When the time came, Ankarström suddenly bethought him that he
might mistake one of the nobles for the king, as several of them were
dressed in similar costumes. But the Count de Horn reassured him. "Fire
boldly," said he, "at the one to whom I shall say, '_Good-day, handsome
masquerader_.' He will be the king."
At two in the morning Gustavus was strolling about, leaning on the arm
of the Count d'Essen, whom he had married to de Ribbing's _fiancée_,
when the Count de Horn approached him and said, "_Good-day, handsome
masquerader_."
The next moment a dull report was heard, and Gustavus tottered, crying
out--
"I am killed!"
Except those who were round about the king no one had perceived what
had happened. The pistol was concealed in a muff; the report had
been drowned amidst the buzz of conversation and the strains of the
orchestra, and the smoke remained buried in the muff. But at the king's
exclamation, and on seeing him fall back fainting in the arms of
d'Essen, everyone ran up; in the commotion that followed it was quite
easy for Ankarström to put himself at a distance from the king and even
to leave the hall; but in his flight he dropped one of his pistols. The
pistol was picked up, hot and still smoking. Next day every gun-seller
in Stockholm was questioned, and one of them recognised the pistol as
one he had sold to Ankarström. An hour later, Ankarström was arrested
at his own house, and a special commission was appointed to try him.
He confessed to, but gloried in, his crime. As to his accomplices, he
declined under any conditions whatever to reveal their names. The trial
dragged on slowly; it was hoped against hope that Ankarström would give
away the conspirators; finally, on 29 April 1792, forty-four days after
the murder, he was condemned. The sentence was that he was to be beaten
with rods for three days, then beheaded. In spite of the length and
the ignominy of the punishment, Ankarström remained firm to the very
end. While being taken in the cart to his execution, he looked with
perfect equanimity upon the thousands of spectators who thronged round
the scaffold. When he mounted the scaffold he asked for a few minutes
in which to make his peace with God. It was granted him. He knelt down,
prayed and then gave himself up to the executioners. He was not quite
thirty-three years of age.
Ribbing, who had been arrested at the same time as Ankarström, was but
twenty-one: it was intended to condemn him to death like Ankarström,
and the Duke of Sudermania, regent over the kingdom during the minority
of Gustavus IV., was urging forward the trial, when a mystic, a
disciple of Swedenborg, sought him out and told him that the _master_
had appeared to him, and had declared that not only was Ribbing
innocent, but that every hair which fell from his head would cost a
day of the life of the Duke of Sudermania. The duke, a Swedenborgian
himself, was terrified at this warning, and Ribbing, instead of sharing
Ankarström's fate, was condemned to perpetual exile. And as less
could not be done for the Count de Horn and for Lilienhorn than was
done in the case of Ribbing, they both obtained the same favour. The
confiscation of their property followed upon the sentence of exile.
Fortunately, in the case of the Count de Ribbing, the confiscation of
property could not be put into execution until after the death of his
mother: she enjoyed the property in her own right, during her lifetime,
and she was still quite young.
The count left for France, where the Revolution was then at its height,
and he arrived in time to witness the events of 2 and 3 September
and 21 January. His adoration for the queen made him loud in his
denunciation of the events of those dreadful days. He was arrested and,
although already a regicide, was on the point of being delivered up to
the revolutionary tribunal as too sympathetic with royal misfortunes,
when Chaumette set him free, gave him a passport and helped him to
escape from Paris. The count then went to Switzerland; he was so
young and so good-looking that he went by the name of "the beautiful
regicide." He was introduced to Madame de Staël, who took him much into
her confidence. The letters (some two or three hundred) which the Count
de Ribbing received from Madame de Staël during the lifetime of the
illustrious authoress of _Corinne_, proved that this friendship was not
of a temporary nature. Madame de Staël was surrounded by a circle of
friends, several of whom already knew the Count de Ribbing. This little
court was half political and half literary; its chief purpose at that
time was to rescue, hide and protect emigrants against the persecutions
of the magistrates in the Swiss cantons whose hands were continually
being forced by the demands of the Revolutionary Government of Paris.
After 9 thermidor, the Count de Ribbing could return to France, where
he bought three or four châteaux and two or three abbeys at a very low
price. Among these châteaux were Villers-Hellon, Brunoy and Quincy. The
count had acquired all these properties simply on the recommendations
either of friends or of his solicitor. Villers-Hellon was, among
others, quite unknown to him. One day he made up his mind to pay a
visit to the lovely estate people had praised so much. Unluckily, the
time was ill-chosen for seeing all its charms: the communal authorities
of Villers-Hellon had handed over the château to an association of
shoemakers who made shoes for the army, consequently the worthy
disciples of St. Crépin had taken possession of the domain, had set
up their workrooms in the salons and in the bedrooms and, the better
to communicate with one another, they had made openings through the
ceilings. When they had any oral communication to make, they made it
by means of these peep-holes without having to leave their seats; if
they had to come up or downstairs to see one another, they put ladders
through these holes and so saved the turns and twists of the proper
staircase. One can imagine how greatly such tenants would detract from
the appearance of the château the count had just bought. The sights,
and above all the smells, about the place so disgusted him that he
fled precipitately back to Paris. Some days later he recounted his
misadventure in his own witty way to M. Collard, then connected with
the commissariat department of the army. M. Collard was more accustomed
to the value of material goods than the noble exile, and he then and
there offered to take over his purchase. M. de Ribbing consented, and
Villers-Hellon became from that moment the property of M. Collard.
Happily, the Count de Ribbing had still two or three other châteaux
where he could reside instead of in the one he had just sold. He
chose Brunoy, which later he gave up to his friend Talma, as he had
Villers-Hellon to his friend Collard, and then he established himself
in the château of Quincy.
During the whole of Napoleon's reign the Count de Ribbing lived very
quietly, spending his winters in Paris and his summers in the country,
devoting himself to agriculture and to fishing in his ponds, in
which, once, he caught such an enormous pike that when it was put in
the scales with Adolphe at the other end, the pike was actually the
heavier. Napoleon offered M. de Ribbing military positions more than
once--offers which he I declined, on account of the Conqueror's love of
invasion, fearing he might one day be compelled to carry arms against
Sweden.
On the second return of the Bourbons to power, their revenge for past
political events pursued M. de Ribbing to his private retreat. He
was obliged to exile himself again, crossed the frontier, and under
an assumed name went to live in Brussels with his wife and son. But
the incognito of the Count de Ribbing was soon to betray him under
circumstances that will give some idea of his character. In Brussels,
the count found himself at the same table with some foreign officers
who, inflated with pride at the victory of Waterloo, abused France
and Frenchmen right and left. One colonel, who was covered with
decorations, especially distinguished himself by his exaggerated
attacks. The conversation was carried on in German, but as the Count
de Ribbing had been brought up in Berlin, German was almost like
his mother tongue; he did not therefore lose a single word of the
conversation, although he pretended he was not taking any notice.
Suddenly he rose, and, advancing with his usual coolness to the
colonel, he slapped him right and left across the face, accompanying
the blows with a statement of his name and titles, and then he quietly
returned to his seat. Cauchois-Lemaire, then only a young man, was at
the same table, so was the poet Arnault, who was already an old man;
both, at great risk to themselves, offered their services to the Count
de Ribbing as seconds. Happily these services were not required: the
colonel would not fight.
The roll of _the Thirty Eight_ enriched Brussels at the expense
of France,--Arnault, Excelmans, Regnault de Saint-Jean d'Angély,
Cambacérès, Harel, Cauchois-Lemaire were all exiled. M. de Ribbing
attached himself to them, and, with them, founded _le Nain Jaune_--a
journal that soon earned itself a European reputation.
Following upon an article published by the count in this journal, the
Prussian Government demanded that the author of it should be handed
over to them. This meant nothing less than imprisonment for life in a
castle--Prussia is still, as one knows, the land of castles, and it
has long been the land of imprisonments. However, King William left
the Count de Ribbing the choice of being delivered over to Prussia or
to France--somewhat after the fashion of the cook who gives a fowl its
choice between being boiled or roasted. M. de Ribbing chose France. He
was taken prisoner, flung into a post-chaise with his son, and driven
to the borders of Condé. There he looked about him, to discover from
which of his old friends he could ask hospitality. The nearest happened
to be M. Collard, so he took his way towards Villers-Hellon.
It need hardly be said that he was received with open arms. He had been
living but three days in that lovely place--changed so greatly since
the days of the bootmakers that it was almost beyond recognition--when
I met his son, Adolphe de Leuven, with Madame Capelle on his arm, and
holding little Marie by the hand.
CHAPTER IV
Adolphe's quatrain--The water-hen and King William--Lunch in the
wood--The irritant powder, the frogs and the cock--The doctor's
spectre--De Leuven, Hippolyte Leroy and I are exiled from the
drawing-room--Unfortunate result of a geographical error--M. Paroisse
I had not come across any members of the Collard family for a long
time. Madame Capelle I adored, as she took pity on my youthfulness
when people made fun of my peculiarities--peculiarities which I will
not hide from myself I possessed to a certain extent. She introduced
me to de Leuven as a young friend of hers and asked me to lunch with
them next day in the forest to improve our acquaintance; it was also
arranged that, following upon the lunch, I should spend two or three
days at the château of Villers-Hellon. Of course I accepted the
invitation. The fête of Corey was on the way, with its delightful
entertainments of dancing and merriment. I can think of nothing more
delightful than returning home, at ten or eleven o'clock at night,
under the dense moving vault of the tall trees: in the solemn stillness
of the night it seemed like some ancient Elysium, with mute shades
walking under in the darkness; for the shades that pace our terrestrial
Elysiums speak so low, so very low, that we swear they are dumb. I had
been obliged to return to Villers-Cotterets to take back Ad&le, and to
make her understand, without hurting her feelings, how important it was
that I should maintain friendly intercourse with the Collard family.
She was such an excellent, good-hearted, straightforward girl, that she
soon understood, and although feeling a little jealous at lending me
to that group of aristocratic and beautiful young girls, who were fine
enough to inspire jealousy in the heart of a princess, she gave me up
for three days.
I set off at nine next morning to reach the arranged meeting-place by
ten o'clock. Everybody had spent the night at Corey, at M. Leroy's
house, and I also should have done the same had I not been urgently
recalled to Villers-Cotterets by the necessity above stated. But what
was a distance like that? I had strong legs and boots which could defy
those of Tom Thumb's giant himself. In less than three-quarters of an
hour, I caught sight of the first houses in the village, and the pond
as it lay quiet and shining like a mirror at the foot of the valley.
Adolphe de Leuven was walking on its banks. I did not expect that
anyone would be up at the farm so early, and I joined Adolphe. He had
a pencil and tablets in his hand, and he who was usually so phlegmatic
was gesticulating in such a fashion that I should have trembled for his
reason, had I not imagined he was practising a fencing exercise. When
he saw me he stopped and blushed slightly.
"What are you doing there?" I asked.
"Why, I am composing poetry," he said, with some confusion. I looked
him in the face as though I could hardly believe my ears.
"Poetry!... do you really write poetry?"
"Why, yes, sometimes," he answered, laughing.
"To whom are you writing verses?"
"To Louise."
"What! Louise Collard?"
"Yes."
"Well, I never!"
The notion of composing poetry to Louise Collard, charming though she
was, had never come into my head. Louise seemed to me still the same
pretty child in short frocks with lace-trimmed drawers--nothing more.
"Ah! so you are making verses to Louise, are you: what for?" I went on.
"You know she is going to be married."
"Louise? No, I did not know that. To whom?"
"To a Russian. Therefore the marriage must be prevented." "Prevented?"
"Yes; such a delightful girl must not be allowed to leave France."
"True, true; I shall be very sorry if she leaves France. I am very fond
of her; aren't you?"
"I? I have only known her three days."
"It would be a good thing to hinder her from leaving France; but how
shall we do it?"
"I have written my verses; you write some too."
"I!"
"Yes, you. You have been brought up with her, and it will please her."
"But I do not know how to write poetry. I have never done anything but
crambo with the Abbé Grégoire and he always told me I did badly."
"Oh, nonsense! when you are in love it comes of itself."
"But I am in love and it hasn't come; so let me see your verses."
"Oh, it is just a quatrain."
"Well, let me see it."
Adolphe drew his tablets forth and read me these four lines:--
"Pourquoi dans _la froide Ibérie_,
Louise, ensevelir de si charmants attraits?
Les Russes, en quittant notre belle patrie,
Nous juraient cependant une éternelle paix!"
I stood astounded. This was real poetry--poetry after the style of
Demoustier. So a poet stood before me: I felt as though I ought to bow
down before him.
"How do you like my quatrain?" asked de Leuven.
"Heavens! it is beautiful."
"Good!"
"And you are going to give it to Louise?"
"Oh no; I dare not do that. I shall write it in her album without
saying anything to her, and when she turns over the leaves she will
come across my lines."
"Bravo!"
"Now what shall you do?"
"What about?"
"About this marriage."
"Oh, well, as I am quite unable to make a quatrain as good as yours,
I shall say to her, 'Are you really going to marry a Russian, my poor
Louise? I tell you, you are making a great mistake.'"
"I do not fancy that will have so much effect as my quatrain," said
Adolphe.
"Neither do I; but what else can I do? One can only use one's own
weapons. Now, if the Russian would meet me in a pistol Dud, I am quite
sure he would never marry Louise!"
"You are a sportsman, then?"
"Rather. How could you imagine one would not be, surrounded by such a
forest? Oh, stop! there is a water-hen!"
I pointed it out to him with my finger, flushing it with my stick as it
swam among the reeds of the pond.
"Shoo!"
"Is that a water-hen?"
"Of course it is. Where do you come from not to know a water-hen?"
"I come from Brussels."
"I thought you were a Parisian."
"I was indeed born in Paris; but in 1815 we left Paris, and we lived in
Brussels until three years ago, when my father and I were compelled to
leave."
"Who compelled you to go?"
"Why, William!"
"Who is William?"
"William? He is King of the Netherlands. Didn't you know that the King
of the Netherlands was called William?"
"Not I."
"Well, then, it oughtn't to seem so odd to you now that I do not know a
water-hen."
Indeed, as it appeared, we were both ignorant on some points; and my
ignorance was more culpable than de Leuven's.
He grew another cubit taller in my estimation. Not only was he a poet,
but he was of sufficient importance in the world for this King William
to be uneasy about him and his father, to the extent of banishing them
both from his realms.
"And now you are living at Villers-Hellon?" said I.
"Yes. M. Collard is an old friend of my father."
"How long shall you live here?"
"As long as the Bourbons will allow us to remain in France."
"Ah! then you have fallen out with the Bourbons too?"
"We have quarrelled with most kings," said Adolphe, with a laugh.
This phrase, uttered with magnificent indifference, quite finished
me off. Luckily, at that moment, our fair companions appeared on the
threshold of the farm, a bevy of pink and white damsels. Two or three
_chars-à-bancs_ were in readiness to take them to the appointed place.
The gentlemen were to go on foot. The rendezvous was barely a quarter
of a league's distance from the village. A long table of thirty covers
was laid under a leafy canopy, ten paces off a limpid, clear purling
spring called the _Fontaine-aux-Princes._ All these young folks,
maidens, mothers, children, seemed like so many woodland flowers
opening to the sweet-breathed breeze: some pale, that sought for shade
and solitude; others of brilliant hues, seeking light and stir and the
sunshine of admiration.
Oh! those glorious woods, those shady depths, the haunts of my
cherished moods of solitude, I have revisited you since; but no shade
glides now beneath your green vaults and in your dark alleys.... What
have you done with all that delightful world which vanished with my
youth? Why have not other generations come in their turn, pale or rosy,
lively or careless, noisy or silent like ours? Has that ephemeral
efflorescence disappeared for ever? Is it really wanting, or is it that
my eyes have lost the power of seeing?
We returned that night to Villers-Hellon. Everything was so beautifully
arranged in that luxurious little château that each of us had a
separate room and bed, and sometimes there were as many as thirty or
forty of us there.
I have related what nocturnal persecutions poor Hiraux was made a
victim of when he came to see us at les Fossés. It was now our turn to
undergo the like. Our rooms were prepared beforehand for the pantomime
that followed. The family doctor, Manceau, was the stage manager. He
had replaced an old doctor from Soissons named M. Paroisse. I will
explain presently why this change took place. The assistant stage
managers were Louise, Cécile and Augustine. The appointed victims were
Hippolyte Leroy, de Leuven and myself. Hippolyte Leroy was at this
period a young man of between twenty-five and twenty-six. He was a
cousin of M. Leroy de Corey. He had been one of the body-guard, and was
now Secretary to the Inspection at Villers-Cotterets. Later, he became
my cousin, by his marriage with Augustine Deviolaine. Our three rooms
communicated with one another. We retired to our rooms about half-past
twelve. De Leuven was the first to get into bed. He had scarcely lain
down before he began to complain of a most intolerable tickling: his
bed was sprinkled with the stuff charlatans sell which they call
scratching powder. Those unacquainted with this powder should recall
the famous scene in _Robert Macaire_, where the two heroes of the book
find a trunk, and in that trunk a quantity of tiny packets, containing
some unknown substance, whose property was revealed when they touched
it. In about five minutes' time Adolphe de Leuven began to scratch
himself like both Robert Macaire and Bertrand put together. We offered
de Leuven our sincere sympathy. We advised him to rub it off as best he
could, to wrap himself in his bed-curtain and to sleep on a couch. Then
we went to our own beds, quite convinced that we should find them like
Adolphe's. But we searched them in vain: they seemed perfectly free
from any preparation of the like nature. We lay down. In five minutes'
time Hippolyte Leroy uttered a sharp cry. In stretching himself, he
felt a piece of string at the foot of the bed; he pulled this thread,
and in doing so, he untied a bag full of frogs. The frogs, gaining
their liberty, hastened to disport themselves about the bed, and it was
the contact of his human flesh with their animal hide which produced
Hippolyte's yell above mentioned. He flung off the bed-clothes and
leapt out of bed. The frogs leaped out after him. He had been given
good measure; there were quite two dozen of them.
I was beginning to think I was the only one spared, when I thought I
heard a great stirring inside a cupboard against which the head of my
bed had been put. I looked at the lock. It was keyless. However, I
felt no doubt that some sort of animal was shut up in that cupboard.
Only, what sort of an animal was it? I was not kept long in suspense:
as one o'clock struck a cock crowed at the head of my bed, and renewed
his crowing every hour till day came. I did not deny Christ, like St.
Peter, but I confess I took His name in vain. We fell asleep by seven
o'clock,--de Leuven in spite of his itching powder, Hippolyte Leroy in
spite of his frogs, and I in spite of my cock,--when Manceau entered
our rooms and woke us by telling us that as he had heard in roundabout
ways we had spent a bad night, he had come to offer us his professional
services: Manceau denounced his own handiwork!
We had slept so badly, through that horrible night, that, with terrible
imprecations, we had consigned our persecutor, whoever he might be,
to the infernal regions. Manceau, as I have said, denounced himself:
expiation must follow the crime; our sworn oath must be fulfilled. At
a sign, de Leuven shut the door: I fell upon Manceau, Hippolyte gagged
him; we stripped him naked, we wrapped him in a sheet off Adolphe's
bed, we tied him up like a sausage, we took him down a disused
staircase and we deposited him in the most unfrequented part of the
park, in the very middle of the little river, at a place where he could
stand, but where, entangled as he was, he ran great risk of losing his
foothold at the first step he took. We then quietly returned to our
beds, and resumed our interrupted sleep.
We went down to the morning meal at ten o'clock. Our arrival was
eagerly expected. Everybody burst out laughing when we came within
view. The young ladies each played a part: some pretended to scratch,
others imitated in a low voice the croaking of frogs, and others
simulated the crowing of a cock. We were quite imperturbable: we merely
asked carelessly where Manceau was. Nobody had seen him. We sat down
to table. The fowl was tough, Cécile remarked; one would have said it
was an old cock which had crowed all the night. Augustine asked where
the frogs were that she had seen, she said, in the kitchen the night
before. Had they been moved?... Were the frogs lost?... The frogs
must be found again. Louise asked Adolphe if he was not attacked by a
contagious affection; for since he had offered her his arm to lead her
into the dining-room, her skin had felt fearfully irritable.
"If Manceau were here," I said to Louise, "you could ask him for a
prescription to allay it."
"But, joking apart, where is Manceau?" asked Madame Collard.
Silence again, as at the first inquiry. Matters were becoming serious,
and folks began to be uneasy about the dear doctor: it was not his
custom to absent himself at meal-times. They sent to ask the porter if
Manceau had gone out to attend some sick person in the village. The
porter had not seen Manceau.
"I believe he is drowned!" I said.... "Poor fellow!"
"Why should he be?" asked Madame Collard.
"Because yesterday evening he proposed a bathing party to us; but we
slept so well we missed meeting him in his room as arranged. As we did
not turn up, he must have gone alone to bathe."
"Oh, good gracious!" exclaimed Madame Collard, "the poor doctor! he
cannot swim."
A chorus of lamentations went up from the ladies at these words, by the
side of which the wailing of the Israelites in exile was a trifle. It
was settled that Manceau should be searched for immediately after the
meal was over.
"Good!" said de Leuven in a whisper to me,--"I will take the
opportunity while everybody is out to write my verses in Louise's
album."
"And I," I replied, "I will stand sentinel at the door to prevent your
being disturbed."
Everything happened as had been arranged. The whole beehive of the
castle swarmed into the garden. The older men--M. de Leuven the
father, M. Collard, M. Méchin--stayed in the drawing-room to read the
newspapers. Hippolyte played billiards with Maurice. De Leuven and I
went upstairs to Louise's room, which was next to M. Collard's, and
whilst I watched on the landing, he wrote his four lines in the album.
He had scarcely finished the last, when we heard loud shouts, and upon
going to look out of the window, we saw Louise and Augustine running
towards the castle. Cécile, who was braver, had remained stoutly where
she was, and had looked towards the river with more curiosity than
alarm.
"Bravo!" said I to Adolphe, "Manceau has made his appearance."
We quickly went down.
"A ghost! a ghost!" cried Louise and Augustine; "there is a ghost in
the river!"
"Oh! my God," said de Leuven--"can it be that the spirit of poor
Manceau is already borne down below?"
It was not his spirit, but his body. By dint of struggling with his
cords, Manceau had freed one arm, then both; his two arms freed, he
had taken the handkerchief off his mouth: when ungagged, he had called
out for help; unfortunately, the gardener was at the opposite end of
the garden. He had tried hard to untie the cords which bound his legs,
as he had done those binding his hands; but, to do so, he would have
to put his head under the water; and, as Madame Capelle had said,
the unlucky doctor did not know how to swim, and was restrained from
any such attempt by the fear of being suffocated. At last his cries
attracted the attention of the young girls; but at sight of the figure
wrapped in a sheet and making despairing gesticulations, fear had taken
possession of them, and not having the least notion that Manceau would
be discovered in the middle of the river, shrouded in such a garment,
they had shrieked at the apparition and had flown away. They sent to
the unhappy Manceau the gardener for whom he had called so loudly. He
clamoured vehemently for his clothes. He had been in the river from
seven in the morning until noon, and although it was towards the end of
July, the bath was infinitely too protracted, and had made him somewhat
chilly. He was put to bed with a hot bottle. From that moment Manceau
was the object of general pity, and we of universal execration. For,
God be merciful to him a sinner, Manceau had been cowardly enough to
denounce us. It was in vain for de Leuven to show his hands as red as
crabs and to offer to show the rest of his body, which was as red as
his hands; in vain did Hippolyte collect the frogs scattered about his
room and bring them into the drawing-room; in vain did I fetch the
cock, with which I had held discourse all the night, from the barnyard:
nothing moved our judges; we were banished from society, for deliberate
attempted homicide in the matter of Doctor Manceau. So we promised
ourselves to drown him out and out the first chance we got.
Banished from the society of the ladies, I took refuge in the
billiard-room, where Maurice gave me my first lesson in billiards.
We shall see that this lesson stood me in good stead, and that, four
years later, at a solemn occasion in my life, I practised the art of
cannoning, wherein I had made some progress. Our punishment lasted
throughout that evening, which the young ladies spent in Louise's room,
as it was raining. De Leuven made several attempts to get into that
chamber, but was repulsed each time. A great change had come over him
since four o'clock in the afternoon, after a conversation he had had
with his father, in which the elder man had seemed to me to sneer at
him strangely.
Adolphe grew very restless, almost gloomy, and although he was
determinedly kept out of Louise's room--where she was holding a
gathering of her girl-friends, as I have mentioned--he went back
persistently again and again. "Ah! I see," I said to myself, after a
moment's reflection, "he wants to obtain news of his quatrain and to
know how it has succeeded." And, satisfied with my reasoning, I did
not look any farther for the cause of de Leuven's insistence. But I
regretted I had not the means with which partial nature had endowed
Adolphe, to cause my shortcomings to be forgiven. I was pursued by this
regret when in Hippolyte's room, where we withdrew, questioning each
other what had become of de Leuven, who had not been seen for an hour,
when suddenly we heard a great noise in the midst of which we could
make out the words, "_Stop thief!_" echoing through the castle. As we
were still dressed, we dashed out of our room and quickly descended
the staircase. At the foot of the staircase was M. Collard in his
nightshirt, holding Adolphe by his coat collar. It was an extraordinary
sight. M. Collard looked furious and Adolphe exceedingly penitent. In
the meantime, M. de Leuven, who had not yet gone to bed, arrived on the
scene, as imperturbable as ever, his hands in his trousers pockets,
chewing a toothpick, after his usual fashion. This toothpick was an
indispensable item in M. de Leuven's life.
"Well, well! What is the matter now, Collard? What have you against my
boy?"
"What have I? what have I?" shrieked M. Collard, growing more and more
exasperated. "I have something that cannot be overlooked."
"Ah! what has he done, then?"
"What has he done?... I'll tell you what he has done!----"
"Forgive me, father," said Adolphe, trying to get in a word or two of
justification,--"forgive me, father, but M. Collard is mistaken.... He
believes----"
"Hold your tongue, you scoundrel!" yelled M. Collard, kicking him.
Then, turning to the Count de Ribbing, he said--
"Listen, my dear de Leuven, and I will tell you where I have found this
son of yours."
"But I must protest, dear M. Collard, it was solely and simply to----"
"Be quiet!" interrupted M. Collard. "Come with us: you shall clear
yourself if you can."
"Oh," said Adolphe, "that will not be difficult."
"We shall see!"
Pushing the youth before him, he signed to the count to go inside his
room, and, following himself, shut the door and double-locked it.
We withdrew in silence, Hippolyte, myself and the other spectators
of that curious scene. Adolphe returned at the end of a quarter of
an hour. He looked so crestfallen that we dared not question him
for details. We went to bed in ignorance of the cause of all the
disturbance.
But after Hippolyte had fallen asleep de Leuven came to me and told me
the whole story. This was what had happened.
As I have said above, Adolphe had written the wonderful quatrain in
Louise's album that morning. When it was finished he left the young
lady's room as fast as possible. Towards four o'clock, Adolphe, who had
not been able to contain the news, drew his father aside and repeated
his quatrain to him.
M. de Ribbing listened gravely until the last syllable of the fourth
line, and then he said--
"Say it over again, please."
Adolphe repeated it obediently:--
"Pourquoi dans la froide Ibérie,
Louise, ensevelir de si charmants attraits?
Les Russes, en quittant notre belle patrie,
Nous juraient cependant une éternelle paix!"
"There is but one slip," then said M. de Ribbing.
"What?" asked Adolphe.
"Oh, nothing much ... you have mistaken the South for the North--Spain
for Russia."
"Oh!" cried Adolphe, aghast, "upon my word, so I have! ... I have put
Ibérie for _Sibérie_."
"I understand," said the count, "it makes a better rhyme, but is less
accurate." And, shrugging his shoulders, he went off humming a little
air and chewing his toothpick.
Adolphe stood dumbfounded. He had signed his unlucky quatrain with
his full name. If the album were opened and the quatrain were read
he would be disgraced! This sword of Damocles, hung over the unlucky
poet's head, had distracted him all the evening. It was to get hold of
Louise's album that he had made the obstinate efforts to enter her room
I have detailed. But, as we have seen, his attempts had been fruitless.
When night came, Adolphe took a desperate resolve: he would go into
Louise's room when she was asleep, seize her album and destroy the
tell-tale page.
This resolution he put into execution about eleven o'clock. The door
opened without creaking too much, and Adolphe, who squeezed himself
through as softly as possible on tiptoe, with but the one end, one
hope and one desire of reaching the album, had thus invaded his young
friend's maiden chamber. All went well as far as the album. It was
on the table and Adolphe took it, put it in his vest, determined to
regain possession by hook or by crook of the four lines which had made
their author so unhappy, when suddenly he ran against a little table,
which fell and in falling awakened Louise. Louise, startled, cried out,
"Thief, thief!" At the cry of "Thief, thief!" M. Collard, whose room
adjoined his daughter's, rushed out of bed in his nightshirt, flung
himself on de Leuven on the landing, collared him, and, as we have
seen, suspecting poor innocent Adolphe of quite another crime, dragged
him into his chamber. His father followed them and closed the door
behind him. There, everything was explained, thanks to the album, which
Adolphe had been careful not to let go. M. Collard was convinced _de
visu_ of the geographical error Adolphe had committed; he thoroughly
understood the importance of that error, and, reassured in the matter
of motive, he was soon satisfied about the deed. So neither Louise's
reputation nor Adolphe's suffered any blemish from this occurrence.
As they continued to punish Hippolyte and me next day, for Manceau's
little adventure, we left Villers-Hellon without saying a word to
anyone, and took the road to Villers-Cotterets. Strange to say, I have
never re-entered Villers-Hellon since. The young girls' ostracism
lasted thirty years. Only once have I since seen Hermine, and that
was at the rehearsal of _Caligula_, when she was Madame la Baronne de
Martens. Only once have I since seen Louise, and that was at a dinner
given at the Bank, when she was Madame Garat. Only once have I since
seen Marie Capelle, a month before she became Madame Lafarge. I never
saw either Madame Collard or Madame Capelle again. Both are now dead.
But when I close my eyes, in spite of those thirty years of absence, I
can still see them all, the dead and the living.
I promised to tell the story of the old doctor who was Manceau's
predecessor, and it would be unfair to my readers to break my word. M.
Paroisse lived at Soissons. A thinly scattered practice allowed him to
dine once a week at Villers-Hellon, where he was always made heartily
welcome. This lasted for ten years. One day M. Collard received a
large manuscript signed by the worthy doctor. It was the bill for his
visits. He had charged twenty francs for each visit, and the sum total
was something alarming. M. Collard paid him, but told M. Paroisse from
henceforth not to come to Villers-Hellon unless he were specially sent
for. It was in consequence of this incident that Manceau was installed
in the castle as the regular medical attendant to the family. I forget
what became of Manceau ... I fancy the poor devil is dead. Happily,
this was not in consequence of the enforced bath we gave him.
CHAPTER V
Amédée de la Ponce--He teaches me what work is--M. Arnault and his two
sons--A journey by diligence--A gentleman fights me with cough lozenges
and I fight him with my fists--I learn the danger from which I escaped
After the unjust sentence that was passed upon us in Villers-Hellon, I
returned to Villers-Cotterets, and, disgusted with my sojourn in the
aristocratic regions whence I had just been cast forth, I returned
with delight to the world I preferred to theirs, wherein I could find
complete satisfaction for all my heart-longings and all my proud
cravings. Adèle at first received me back very coldly, and I had to
endure a fit of the sulks for some hours. At the end of that time,
little by little her pretty face cleared, and she ended by smiling upon
me with the freshness and sweetness of an opening flower. One might
have said of this lovely child that her smile itself was like a rose.
While these youthful love affairs were in progress--all of them, alas!
of the ephemeral character of love at sixteen--there were friendships
taking root in my heart that were to last the whole of my life.
I have already spoken of Adolphe de Leuven, who suddenly took a
prominent place in my life, apart from my childish friendships. Here
let me also be allowed to say a word about another friend, who was
to finish in certain other directions the work of opening out future
vistas before me that had been begun by the son of Count de Ribbing.
One day we saw a young man of twenty-six or twenty-seven go along
the streets of Villers-Cotterets, wearing the uniform of an officer
of Hussars with an unusually stately grace. No one could possibly
have been handsomer or more distinguished in appearance than this
young man. His face perhaps might have been criticised as a trifle
too feminine-looking, if it had not been for a fine sword-cut which,
without spoiling in any way the regularity of his features, began
at the left side of his forehead and ended at the right corner of
his upper lip, adding a touch of manliness and courage to his gentle
features. His name was Amédée de la Ponce. I do not know what chance
or whim or necessity led him to Villers-Cotterets. Had he come as an
idle tourist, to spend his income of five or six thousand livres in our
town? I do not know.... It is probable. He liked the country, he stayed
among us and, at the end of a year of residence, he became the husband
of a charmingly pretty young girl, Louise Moreau, a friend of my
sister. They had a beautiful fair-haired child, whom I should much like
to see to-day: we nicknamed it _Mouton_, on account of its gentleness,
the whiteness of its skin and its flaxen hair.
I lost sight of you such a long while ago, my dear de la Ponce!
Whatever part of the world you may be in, if you read these pages, you
will find therein a testimony of my ever living, sincere and lasting
friendship for you. For, my friend, you did a great deal for me. You
said to me: "Believe me, my dear boy, there are other things in life
besides pleasure and love, hunting and dancing, and the silly ambitions
of youth! There is work. Learn to work ... that is the true way to be
happy." And you were right, dear friend. Apart from the death of my
father, the death of my mother and the death of the Duc d'Orléans,
how is it I have never experienced a sorrow that I have not crushed
beneath my feet or a disappointment that I have not overcome? It is
because you introduced me to the only friend who can give comfort by
day and by night, who is ever near, who hastens to console at the first
sigh, who lends healing balm at the first tear: you made me acquainted
with _work._ O dear and most excellent Work,--thou who bearest in thy
strong arms that heavy burden of humanity which we call sorrow! Thou
divinity, with hand ever stretched open and with face ever smiling!...
Oh! dear and most excellent Work, thou hast never cast the shadow of
deception on me ... my blessings upon thee, O Work!
De la Ponce spoke Italian and German as fluently as his own language;
he offered to teach them to me in my leisure moments--and God knows I
had plenty of spare moments at that time.
We started with Italian. It was the easiest language--the honey of
which Horace speaks, the gilding that clothes the outside of the cup
of bitter drink given to a sick child. One of the books out of which
I learnt Italian was Ugo Foscolo's fine novel, which I have since
translated under the title of the _Last Letters of Jacopo Ortis._
That book gave me an idea of, an insight into and a feeling for
romantic literature of which previously I had been totally ignorant.
In two months' time I could talk Italian fairly correctly, and I
began to translate poetry. I much preferred this to my sales and my
marriage contracts and the drawing up of bonds and transfers at Maître
Mennesson's. Furthermore, a change took place in the office greatly to
the advantage of my literary education, but not to my legal education.
Niguet, that precious head clerk who had told tales to M. Mennesson
of my love-disappointments, had bought in a neighbouring village a
lawyer's practice, which I believe Lafarge had been obliged to sell
as he had not been able to find the wherewithal to take it up; and
Paillet, a friend of mine, who was six or eight years my senior, had
succeeded Niguet as head clerk over me. Paillet was well-to-do; he had
a delightful property two leagues from Villers-Cotterets; his tastes
were luxurious; consequently, he let me off more readily than Niguet
(who was an old Basochian[1] without any fun in him and entirely
wrapped up in his business) to pursue the simple luxuries I could
indulge in, namely, shooting, flirting and dancing.
So it came about that instead of encouraging me in treading the narrow
and difficult path of a provincial solicitor, Paillet allowed me to
cast my eyes abroad, instinctively understanding, doubtless, that
the work they had put me to was not what I was cut out for. It can
easily be seen that Paillet exercised material influence over my future
destiny, apart from the moral influence exercised by de la Ponce and
de Leuven. I was then perfectly happy in the love of my mother, and in
a younger and sweeter love growing up side by side with hers without
injuring it, and in the friendship of de la Ponce and of de Paillet,
when de Leuven came to complete my happiness: I lacked nothing save
that golden mean of which Horace speaks; had I had that too, I should
have had scarcely aught to wish for.
Suddenly we heard that M. Deviolaine was going to retire with
his family to his estate of Saint-Remy, and let his house at
Villers-Cotterets to the Count de Ribbing. So the house wherein I had
been brought up, the house peopled for me with a host of memories,
was to pass from the hands of a relative into the hands of a friend
The beautiful garden had taken M. de Leuven's special fancy; he hoped
to give vent in it to his hobby for gardening interrupted by the
successive sales of Brunoy and Quincy. Furthermore, the count had not
met with any more persecution, and whether it was because Louis XVIII.
did not know of his being in France, or whether the king closed his
eyes to the fact, he was left in undisturbed peacefulness.
De Leuven and his father settled, then, in Villers-Cotterets, where
Madame de Leuven joined them in a fortnight's time. As for de la
Ponce, he rented a house at the end of the rue de Largny, the first
house on the left as you come from Paris: it had a large garden and
a fine courtyard. My time was soon divided into three portions--one
was devoted to my friendships, another to love-makings, and the third
to my legal work. The reader may suggest that my mother was perhaps a
little neglected in all this. Is a mother ever forgotten? Is she not
always there, whether present or absent? Did I not go in and out of
my home ten or twenty times a day? Did I not kiss my mother each time
I went in? Every day de Leuven, de la Ponce and I managed to meet.
Generally it was at de la Ponce's house: we transformed the courtyard
which I have mentioned into a shooting range, and every day we used
up twenty or thirty balls. De Leuven had excellent German pistols
(_Kukenreiter_). These pistols were marvellously true, and we soon
were able to shoot with such precision, all three of us, that when
anyone doubted our powers, we would take it in turn to hold the piece
of cardboard which served as a target, whilst the others fired. And
we never any of us received a single graze! I remember one day after
heavy rain we found I do not know how many frogs in that gloomy, damp
courtyard. Here was novel game for us to pot at, and we exterminated
every frog with our pistols. Every little while de Leuven read us a
fable or an elegy of his own composition; but he was cured of making
geographical errors by the nocturnal misadventure at Villers-Hellon
and no longer mistook the South for the North, or Spain for Siberia.
One morning great news spread through the town. Three strangers had
just come to stay with M. de Leuven: M. Arnault and his two sons,
Telleville and Louis Arnault. M. Arnault, the author of _Germanicus_
and of _Marius à Minturnes_, was at that time a splendid-looking old
man of sixty, still full of life in spite of his curling white locks,
which were as fine as silk. He had a most superabundant flow of spirits
and excelled at repartee; he could strike as rapidly at his object
as the most accomplished fencing-master could parry a blow or deal a
right-handed stroke. The only fault one could find with this wit was
its keen, biting edge; but, like bites made by healthy teeth, the
poet's bites never left poison behind them. M. Arnault had made the
acquaintance of the Count de Ribbing at that famous _table d'hôte_
where the latter had struck the foreign colonel in the face. Since
that day, M. de Leuven, Frenchman at heart, and M. Arnault, Frenchman
in mind, had struck up a friendship which though broken by death was
continued between their children. Telleville Arnault was a handsome
young officer of a charming disposition and of tested valour. He had
fought a Dud over _Germanicus_ with Martainville which had made a great
sensation in the literary world. Louis was still a young lad of about
my own age.
I prudently kept from visiting Adolphe all the time M. Arnault and his
sons were staying with his father; but M. Deviolaine having invited
them to a rabbit shooting in the Tillet woods, I was present, and the
acquaintance which began by chance during the walks in the park was
sealed gun in hand. Telleville had a little gun made by Prélat, with
which he did wonders. This gun had a barrel not fourteen inches long,
which filled me with wonder, for I still believed in length of barrel
and hunted with siege-guns.
When M. Arnault left Villers-Cotterets, he took de Leuven with
him. It was heart-breaking to me to see Adolphe depart. I had two
memories of visits to Paris, one in 1806, the other in 1814. These two
recollections sufficed to make me passionately envious of the lot of
every favoured being who was going to Paris. I remained behind with de
la Ponce, and I redoubled my devotion to the study of Italian. I was
soon sufficiently far advanced in the language of Dante and of Ariosto
to be able to pass on to that of Schiller and of Goethe; but this was
quite a different matter. After three or four months' work, de la
Ponce put one of Auguste Lafontaine's novels in my way: the task was
too difficult, I soon had enough of it. German was dropped, and I have
never had the courage to take it up again. My first serious dramatic
impression dates from this period. Some nabob who had done business
through M. Mennesson, out of unheard-of generosity, left a hundred and
fifty francs to be divided among the lads in the office. M. Mennesson
distributed it in the following way: thirty-seven francs fifty cents
each to Ronsin and myself, seventy-five francs to Paillet. It was the
first time I had found myself possessed of so much money. I wondered
what I should do with it.
One of the four great fêtes of the year was approaching, when we should
have Sunday and Monday as holidays. Paillet proposed we should both
club our thirty-seven francs fifty cents to his seventy-five francs,
and that we should go and sink this fabulous sum of fifty crowns in
the delights that Soissons, the seat of the _sous-prefecture_, could
offer us. The suggestion was hailed with joy. Paillet was deputed
cashier, and we boldly took seats on the diligence for Paris, which
passes through Villers-Cotterets at half-past three in the morning,
and arrives at Soissons at six o'clock. Paillet and Ronsin each took
a place in the coupé, where one was already taken, and I went inside,
where there were four other passengers, three of whom got out at la
Vertefeuille, a post three leagues away from Villers-Cotterets, the
fourth continuing his journey to Soissons. From la Vertefeuille to
Soissons, therefore, I was left alone with this person, who was a man
of forty years or thereabouts, very thin of body, pale of face, with
auburn hair and well groomed. He had laid great stress on my sitting
near him, and, in order to leave me as much room as possible, squeezed
himself as closely into a corner of the coach as he could. I was much
touched by this attention, and felt sensibly drawn to the gentleman,
who had condescended to treat me with so much consideration.
I slept well and anywhere in those days. So, as soon as we got out of
the town I fell asleep, only to wake when the horses were changed,
and I should most certainly not have waked up then if the three
passengers who left us had not trodden on my toes as they got out, with
the habitual heavy-footed tread travellers indulge in at the expense
of those who remain behind. When the passenger saw I was awake, he
began to talk to me, and asked me, in a kindly, interested way, my
age, my name and my occupation. I made haste to supply him with full
particulars, and he seemed much interested therein. I told him the
object of our journey to Soissons; and, as I coughed while I related
my tale, he good-naturedly offered me two different sorts of cough
lozenges. I accepted both, and in order to get the full benefit of
them I put them both in my mouth together; then, although I found the
gentleman's conversation agreeable and his manners fascinating, there
was something even more seductive and pleasing than that conversation
and those manners, namely sleep, so I wished him a good-night, and,
with plenty of room to dispose myself in, I settled down in the corner
parallel with his, with my back upon one seat and my feet on the
other. I do not know how long I had slept when I felt myself awakened
in the oddest fashion in the world. My sleeping fellow-traveller had
apparently passed from mere interest to a more lively expression of
his sentiments, and was embracing me. I imagined he had a nightmare,
and I tried to awake him; but as I saw that the more soundly he slept,
the worse his gesticulations became, I began to strike him hard, and
as my blows had no effect, I cried aloud with all my might. Unluckily,
they were descending the hill of Vaubuin and they could not stop
the coach; the struggle therefore lasted ten minutes or more, and
without in the least knowing what danger I was combating, I was just
about to succeed in getting the better of my enemy, by turning him
over under my knee, when the door opened and the conductor came to
my rescue. Paillet and Ronsin were sleeping as I should have slept
if my travelling-companion had not waked me up by his overpowering
friendliness. I told the conductor what had happened and blamed him
for having put me along with a somnambulist or a madman, begging him
to put me in any other corner of the coach convenient to him, when,
to my intense astonishment, whilst the traveller was readjusting his
toilet, which had been considerably damaged by my struggle with him,
without uttering any sort of complaint against me, the conductor began
apostrophising him in the severest terms, made him get down out of the
coach, and told him that, as there only remained three-quarters of a
league from where we were to the _hôtel des Trois-Pucelles_, where
the coach stopped, he must have the goodness to do it on foot, unless
he would consent to mount up on the roof, where he could not disturb
anybody else. The gentleman of the auburn locks hoisted himself on
the roof, without opening his lips, and the diligence started off
again. Although I was now alone once more and consequently more at
my ease inside the coach, I was too much excited by the struggle I
had just gone through, to think of going to sleep again. I could hear
the conductor, in the cabriolet, relate my story to my two fellow
travelling-companions, and apparently he presented it to them under
a gayer light than that in which I had looked at it myself, for they
roared with laughter. I did not know what there could be to laugh at in
an interchange of fisticuffs with a somnambulist or a maniac. A quarter
of an hour after the gentleman had been installed on the imperial, and
I reinstated in the carriage, I heard by the heavy sound of the coach
wheels that we were crossing under the drawbridge. We had reached our
destination.
Five minutes after we had left the coach, Paillet and Ronsin told me
why they had laughed, and it sounded so ridiculous that I rushed off
in search of my gentleman of the cough lozenges almost before they
had finished; but I searched the imperial in vain in every corner and
cranny:--he had disappeared.
This nocturnal struggle upset me so greatly that I felt dazed the whole
of the day.
[1] Translator's note.--Member of the Society of Law Clerks.
CHAPTER VI
First dramatic impressions--The _Hamlet_ of Ducis_--The Bourbons en
1815_--Quotations from it
Among the pleasures we had promised ourselves in the second capital
of the department of Aisne we had put the theatre in the first rank.
A company of pupils from the Conservatoire, who were touring in the
provinces, were that night to give a special performance of Ducis's
_Hamlet._ I had absolutely no idea who _Hamlet_ was; I will go farther
and admit that I was completely ignorant who was Ducis. No one could
have been more ignorant than I was. My poor mother had tried to induce
me to read Corneille's and Racine's tragedies; but, I confess it to my
shame, the reading of them had bored me inexpressibly. I had no notion
at that time what was meant by style or form or structure; I was a
child of nature in the fullest acceptance of the term: what amused me I
thought good, what wearied me--bad. So I read the word _tragedy_ on the
placard with some misgivings.
But, after all, as this tragedy was the best that Soissons had to offer
us to pass away the evening, we put ourselves in the queue waiting
outside; in good time, and in spite of the great crowd, we succeeded in
getting into the pit.
Something like thirty-two years have rolled by since that night, but
such an impression did it make upon my mind that I can still remember
every little detail connected with it. The young fellow who took the
part of Hamlet was a tall, pale, sallow youth called Cudot; he had fine
eyes, and a strong voice, and he imitated Talma so closely, that when I
saw Talma act the same part, I almost thought he imitated Cudot.
As I have said, the subject of literature was completely unknown to
me. I did not even know that there had ever existed an author named
Shakespeare, and when, on my return, I was instructed by Paillet that
_Hamlet_ was only an imitation, I pronounced, before my sister, who
knew English, the name of the author of _Romeo_ and of _Macbeth_ as
I had seen it written, and it cost me one of those prolonged jokings
my sister never' spared me when occasion offered. Of course on this
occasion I delighted her. Now, as the _Hamlet_ of Ducis could not lose
in my estimation by comparison, since I had never heard Shakespeare's
spoken of, the play seemed to me, with Hamlet's grotesque entrance,
the ghost, visible only to himself, his struggle against his mother,
his urn, his monologue, the gloomy questionings concerning the fear of
death, to be a masterpiece, and produced an immense effect upon me.
So, when I returned to Villers-Cotterets, the first thing I did was to
collect together the few francs left over from the trip to Soissons and
to write to Fourcade (who had given up his place to Camusat, of whom I
spoke in connection with old Hiraux, and who had returned to Paris) to
send me the tragedy of _Hamlet._
For some reason or other Fourcade delayed sending it to me for five
or six days: so great was my impatience that I wrote him a second
letter, filled with the keenest reproaches at his negligence and want
of friendliness. Fourcade, who would never have believed anyone could
accuse a man of being a poor friend because he did not hurry over
sending _Hamlet_, sent me a charming letter the gist of which I did
not appreciate until I had studied more deeply the question of what
was good and what was bad, and was able to place Ducis's work in its
due rank. In the meantime I became demented. I asked everybody, "Do
you know _Hamlet_? do you know Ducis?" The tragedy arrived from Paris.
At the end of three days I knew the part of Hamlet by heart and, worse
still, I have such an excellent memory that I have never been able to
forget it. So it came to pass that _Hamlet_ was the first dramatic work
which produced an impression upon me--a profound impression, composed
of inexplicable sensations, aimless longings, mysterious rays of light
which only made my darkness more visible. Later, in Paris, I again
saw poor Cudot, who had played Hamlet. Alas! the grand talent that
had carried me away had not obtained him the smallest foothold, and
I believe he has long since given up hope--that daughter of pride so
hard to kill in the artist's soul--the hope of making a position on the
stage.
Now--as if the spirit of poetry, when wakened in me, had sworn never to
go to sleep again and used every means to that end, by even succeeding
in making Maître Mennesson himself his accomplice--scarcely had I
returned from Soissons, when, instead of giving me a deed of sale to
copy out or a bond to engross, or sending me out on business, Maître
Mennesson gave me a piece of poetry of which he wanted three copies
made. This piece of poetry was entitled _Les Bourbons en 1815._
M. Mennesson, as I have said, was a Republican; I found him a
Republican in 1830, and when I saw him again in 1848 he was still a
Republican. And to do him justice, he had the courage of his opinions
through all times and under all regimes; so freely did he express
his opinions that his friends were frightened by them and made their
observations thereon with bated breath. He only shrugged his shoulders.
"What the devil will they do to me?" he would exclaim. "My office is
paid for, my clientèle flourishing; I defy them to find a flaw in any
of my contracts; and that being the case, one can afford to mock at
kings and parsons."
Maître Mennesson was right, too; for, in spite of all these
demonstrations, all these accusations of imprudence made by timid
souls, his practice was the best in Villers-Cotterets and improved
daily. At this very moment he was in the seventh heaven of delight.
He had got hold of a piece of poetry, in manuscript, against the
Bourbons--I do not know how. He had read it to everybody in the town,
and then after reading it to everybody, when I came back from Soissons,
he, as I have said, ordered me to make two or three copies of it, for
those of his friends who, like himself, were anxious to possess this
poetical pamphlet. I have never seen it in print, I have never read it
since the day I copied it out three times, but such is my memory that
I can repeat it from beginning to end. But lest I alarm my readers, I
will content myself with quoting a few lines of it.
This was how it began:--
"Où suis-je? qu'ai je vu? Les voilà donc ces princes
Qu'un sénat insensé rendit à nos provinces;
Qui devaient, abjurant les prejugés des rois,
Citoyens couronnés, régner au nom des lois;
Qui venaient, disaient-ils, désarmant la victoire,
Consoler les Français de vingt-cinq ans de gloire!
Ils entrent! avec eux, la vengeance de l'orgueil.
Ont du Louvre indigné franchi l'antique seuil!
Ce n'est plus le sénat, c'est Dieu, c'est leur naissance,
C'est le glaive étranger qui leur soumet la France;
Ils nous osent d'un roi reprocher l'_échafaud_:
Ah! si ce roi, sortant de la nuit du _tombeau_,
Armé d'un fer vengeur venait punir le crime,
Nous les verrions pâlir aux yeux de leur victime!"
Then the author exclaims--in those days authors all
exclaimed--abandoning general considerations for the detailed drawing
of individuals, and passing the royal family in review:--
"C'est d'Artois, des galants imbécile doyen,
Incapable de mal, incapable de bien;
Au pied des saints autels abjurant ses faiblesses,
Et par des favoris remplaçant ses maîtresses;
D'Artois, dont rien n'a pu réveiller la vertu,
Qui fuit a Quiberon sans avoir combattu,
Et qui, s'il était roi, monterait à la France
Des enfants de Clovis la stupide indolence!
C'est Berry, que l'armée appelait à grands cris,
Et qui lui prodigua l'insulte et le mépris;
Qui, des ces jeunes ans, puisa dans les tavernes
Ces mœurs, ce ton grossier, qu'ignorent nos casernes.
C'est son frère, avec art sous un masque imposteur,
Cachant de ses projets l'ambitieuse horreur!
Qui, nourri par son oncle aux discordes civiles,
En rallume les feux en parcourant nos villes;
Ce Thersite royal, qui ne sut, à propos,
Ni combattre ni fuir, et se croit un héros!
C'est, plus perfide encor, son épouse hautaine,
Cette femme qui vit de vengeance et de haine,
Qui pleure, non des siens le funeste trépas,
Mais le sang qu'à grands flots elle ne verse pas!
Ce sont ces courtisans, ces nobles et ces prêtres,
Qui, tour à tour flatteurs et tyrans de leur maîtres,
Voudraient nous ramener au temps où nos aieux
Ne voyaient, ne pensaient, n'agissaient que par eux!"
Then the author ends off his discourse with a peroration worthy of the
subject and exclaims once more in his liberal enthusiasm:--
"Ne balonçons done plus, levons-nous! et semblables
Au fleuve impétueux qui rejette les sables,
La fange et le limon qui fatiguaient sous cours,
De notre sol sacré rejetons pour toujours
Ces tyrans sans vertu, ces courtisans perfides,
Ces chevaliers sans gloire et ces prêtres avides,
Qui, jusqu'à nos exploits ne pouvant se hausser,
Jusques à leur néant voudraient nous abaisser!"
Twelve years later the Bourbons were hounded out of France. It is
not only revolutionary bullets which overturn thrones; it is not
only the guillotine that kills kings: bullets and the guillotine are
but passive instruments in the hands of principles. It is the deadly
hatred, it is the undercurrent of rebellion, which, so long as it is
but the expression of the desires of the few, miscarries and spends
its fury; but which, the moment it becomes the expression of general
requirements, swallows up thrones and nations, kings and royal families.
It is easy to understand how the _Messéniennes_ of Casimir Delavigne,
which appeared in print the same time as these manuscript pamphlets,
seemed pale and colourless. Casimir Delavigne was one of those men who
celebrate in song revolutions that were accomplished facts, but who do
not help revolutions in the making. The Maubreuil trial was the outcome
of the piece of poetry from which I have just quoted these brief
extracts--a most mysterious and ill-omened business, in which names,
if not the most illustrious in Europe, yet at least the best known
at that time, were mixed up with acts of thievery and premeditated
assassination.
Probably I am the only person in France who now thinks of the
"affaire Maubreuil." Perhaps also I am the only person who has kept a
shorthand account of the sittings of that terrible trial, during which
the horrors of the dungeon and secret torture were employed in the
endeavour to drive a man mad whom they dare not kill outright, to whom
they could not succeed in giving the lie. I made a copy at the time
from a manuscript in a strange and unknown hand, which gave an account
of the sittings. Later, I read the account the illustrious Princess of
Wurtemberg took down in her own writing, first for her husband, Marshal
Jérôme Bonaparte, and then intended to be included in her Memoirs,
which are in the hands of her family, and are still unpublished.
CHAPTER VII
The events of 1814 again--Marmont, Duc de Raguse, Maubreuil and
Roux-Laborie at M. de Talleyrand's--The _Journal des Débats_ and the
_Journal de Paris_--Lyrics of the Bonapartists and enthusiasm of the
Bourbons--End of the Maubreuil affair--Plot against the life of the
Emperor--The Queen of Westphalia is robbed of her money and jewels
Let us now try to clear away the litter left by the events of the
year 1814. When the Almighty prophesied the destruction of Jerusalem,
He said to Ezekiel, "I will make thee eat thy bread prepared with
cow-dung" (Ezek. iv. 15). Oh! my God, my God! Thou hast served us more
hardly than Thou didst the prophet, and hast made us eat far worse than
that at times!
Napoleon was at Fontainebleau, the empress at Blois; a Provisional
Government, occult and unknown, carried on its operations on the ground
floor of a house in the rue Saint-Florentin. Is it necessary that I
should add that the house in the rue Saint-Florentin belonged to M. de
Talleyrand? On 16 March Napoleon had written from Rheims:--
"DEAR BROTHER,--In accordance with the verbal
instructions I gave you, and the wishes expressed in all
my letters, you must on no account allow the Empress and
the King of Rome to fall into the hands of the enemy. You
will not have any news from me for several days. If the
enemy advances upon Paris in such force that you decide
any resistance to be useless, send away my son and the
regent, the grand dignitaries, ministers, officers of the
Senate, presidents of the State Council, chief officers
of the Crown, Baron de la Bouillerie and the treasure,
towards the Loire. Do not desert my son, and remember
that I would rather know that he was in the Seine than
that he had fallen into the hands of the enemies of
France. The fate of Astyanax, prisoner of the Greeks, has
always seemed to me the unhappiest in history.
"NAPOLEON"
This letter was addressed to Joseph. The treasure referred to by
Napoleon was, be it understood, his own private possessions. On 28
March the departure of the empress was discussed. MM. de Talleyrand,
Boulay (de la Meurthe), the Duc de Cadore and M. de Fermon were of
opinion that the empress should remain. Joseph, with the emperor's
letter in his hand, insisted upon her departure. It was decided
that she should leave on the following day, at nine o'clock in the
morning. Afterwards M. de Talleyrand was blamed for having urged that
Marie-Louise should stay in Paris. A pale and cold smile flitted over
the vast chasm which served the diplomatist for a mouth.
"I knew that the empress would defy me," he said, "and that, if I
advised her going, she would stay. I urged that she should stay to
further her departure."
O monseigneur, Bishop of Autun! you put into the mouth of Harel, in
_le Nain Jaune_, the famous epigram, "Speech was given to man to
conceal his thoughts." And, monseigneur, you were eminently capable of
exemplifying the truth of the saying yourself.
On the morning of 29 March, through the uncurtained windows of the
Tuileries, the empress's women could have been seen in the dubious
light of the growing dawn, by the still more dubious light of lamps
and dying candles, running about, pale with fatigue and fear, after a
whole night spent in preparing for the journey. The departure, as we
have said, was fixed for nine o'clock. At ten o'clock the empress had
not yet left her apartments. She was hoping to the last that a counter
order would arrive either from the emperor or from Joseph. At half-past
ten the King of Rome clung to the curtains of the palais des Tuileries
in tears; for he too, poor child, did not want to go.
Alas! at a distance of seventeen years between, three children, all
suffering through the mistakes of their fathers, clung in vain to
those same curtains: for sixty years the Tuileries was little more
than a royal hostelry wherein the fleeting dynasties put up in turn.
By a quarter to eleven, the empress, clad like an amazon in brown,
stepped into a carriage with the King of Rome, surrounded by a strong
detachment of the Imperial Guard. On the same day and at the same hour,
the emperor set off from Troyes for Paris with his flying squadrons.
It is well known that the emperor was arrested at Fromenteau, but what
follows is not known, or but imperfectly known.
When time and occasion serve--_apropos_ of the July Revolution,
probably--we shall revert to one of the men whom fate, for some unknown
reason, branded with a fatal seal. We refer to Marmont. We will show
what he was, rather than what he did: he was superb, during that
retreat, in which he left neither gun nor prisoner in the hands of
the enemy; superb when--like a lion at bay against the walls of the
customhouse at Paris, surrounded by Russians and Prussians, in the
main street of _Belleville_, his right arm still in a sling, after the
battle of Arapiles, holding his sword in his left hand, mutilated at
Leipzig, his clothes riddled with bullets, wedged in between the dead
and the wounded who fell all round him, with only forty grenadiers
behind him--he forced his way to the barrier where he abandoned,
pierced with wounds, the fifth horse that had been killed under him
since the beginning of the campaign! Alas! why did he not cross Paris
from the barrier of Belleville to the barrier of Fontainebleau? Why
did he stop at his house in the rue Paradis-Poissonnière? Why did he
not go to Napoleon, with his coat in shreds and his face blackened
with powder? How determinedly fate seemed to oppose him! How different
would have been the verdict of the future! But we, who are now a part
of that future, and well-nigh disinterested spectators of all those
great events, we who by nature are without private hatreds, and by
position have nothing to do with political animosities, it is for us to
enlighten posterity, for we are poised between the worlds aristocratic
and democratic, the one in its decadence and the other in its
adolescence: it is ours to seek for truth wherever it may be buried,
and to exalt it wherever it may be found.
And now, having defined our position, let us return to Napoleon and
Marie-Louise. Let us pass over several days and say naught of great
betrayals and shameful dishonour; even so we are not, unhappily, at
the end of these things. From 29 March to 7 April the following events
happened:--
On 30 March, Paris capitulated. On the 31st, the Allied armies entered
the capital. On I April, the Senate appointed a Provisional Government.
On the 2nd, the Senate declared Napoleon to have forfeited the throne.
On the 3rd, the Legislative Body confirmed the forfeiture. On the
4th, Napoleon abdicated in favour of his son. On the 5th, Marmont
treated with the enemy. On the 6th, the Senate drew up a scheme for
a constitution. On the 7 th, the troops of the Duc de Raguse rose in
insurrection and refused to obey his orders. Also, Napoleon made his
plans for withdrawing across the Loire.
It will be seen that the Government of the rue Saint-Florentin had been
quick about its work. The empress remained at Blois, where she learnt
in rapid succession the declaration of dethronement by the Senate, the
emperor's first abdication and the defection of the Duc de Raguse. On
the 7th, she learned in the morning of the recall of the Bourbons.
Until that moment, as a cloud hid the future from sight, the
self-seekers watching and waiting had not yet ventured to show their
hands in her presence. But at the news of the return of the Bourbons
everyone sought to make his peace with the new power. The same thing
that happened to Napoleon happened to Marie-Louise. It was a race as to
who could most openly and with the greatest speed desert her; it was a
race of ingratitude, it was a steeplechase of treason.
She had left Paris a week before, the daughter of an emperor, the wife
of an emperor, the mother of a king! Orléans had saluted her, as she
passed through, with the pealing of its bells and the firing of its
artillery. She had a court around her, a treasure in her arms; two
peoples, those of France and Italy, some forty millions of souls, were
her subjects. In a week she lost rank, power, inheritance, kingdom;
in an hour she found herself left alone with a poor deserted child,
and treasure that was speedily taken away from her. God forbid that I
should pity the lot of this woman! But those who betrayed her, those
who deserted her, those who immediately robbed her could not plead the
excuse of an unknown future still hid from them.
On the 7th, as we have said, the whole court fled. On the morning of
the 8th, the two kings, Jérôme and Joseph, also left. On the evening of
the 8th, General Schouwaloff arrived with orders from the sovereigns
to take her from Blois to Orléans and from Orléans to Rambouillet.
Finally, on the morning of the 9th, this announcement appeared in the
_Moniteur_:--
"The Provisional Government having been informed that by
order of the sovereign whose dethronement was solemnly
pronounced on 3 April, considerable funds were taken away
from Paris, during the days which preceded the occupation
of that city by the allied troops:
It is decreed--
"That these funds be seized wherever they may be found,
in whose-soever hands they may be found, and that they be
deposited immediately in the nearest bank."
This order was elastic: it did not make any distinction between the
public treasure of the nation and the emperor's private property.
Moreover, they confided the execution of this order to a man whose
hatred for the fallen house would naturally incline him to the most
violent measures. They chose M. Dudon. I am happily too young to be
able to say who this M. Dudon was; I have therefore asked the Duc
de Rovigo, whose accuracy is well known. Here is his reply to my
questions:--
"M. Dudon was imprisoned at Vincennes, for having deserted his post,
for having left the army of Spain and, full of cowardly fears himself,
for having communicated them to whomsoever he met."
Nevertheless, M. Dudon hesitated; he looked about for an intermediary;
he did not dare to put his hand directly upon this wealth, which was so
much needed to pay for past treacheries and defections to come.
Again, what has M. le Duc de Rovigo to say? Let him be unto us the
bronze mouthpiece of truth: I write under his dictation.
"An officer of the special police corps, M. Janin de Chambéry, who is
now a general officer, was made use of. He had been charged to escort
the money. This young man, seeing the way to make his fortune, gave
himself up to M. Dudon. He collected his regiment, carried off, with
a very high hand, the coffers which contained the Emperor Napoleon's
treasure (for they had not yet been unloaded) and set off for Paris,
which he reached without striking a blow."
But even all this did not satisfy them: they had robbed the empress,
they would now kill the emperor. "Only the dead do not return," said
the man who was felicitously styled the "Anacreon of the guillotine."
So many sayings have been attributed to M. de Talleyrand that we
may well borrow one from Barère for a change. Moreover, it must be
acknowledged that the question what to do with Napoleon, on 31 March,
was a very awkward one. We must not be too angry with the people who
wished to rid themselves of him. Who were these people? Maubreuil
himself shall name them. A conference was being held in the house in
the rue Saint-Florentin.
"Yes," said the president to someone who had not yet opened his
lips,--"yes, you are right; we must rid ourselves of this man."
"We must!" cried the other members in concert.
"Well, then, that is decided: we will get rid of him."
"Only one other thing is lacking," said one of the members of the
conventicle.
"What is that?"
"The principal thing: the man who will deal the blow."
"I know the man," said a voice.
"A trustworthy man?"
"A ruined man, an ambitious man--one who has fallen from a high
position and would do anything for money and a position."
"What is his name?"
"Maubreuil."
This took place on the evening of 31 March. That same day, Marie-Armand
de Guerry, Count de Maubreuil, Marquis d'Orvault, had fastened the
cross of the Legion of Honour, which he had won bravely in Spain, to
his horse's tail, and showed himself thus in the boulevards and on the
place Louis XV. He even did better than this in the place Vendôme. He
tied a rope round the neck of the emperor's statue, and, with a dozen
other worthy men of his kidney, pulled with might and main; then,
seeing that his forces were not strong enough, he attached the rope to
his horse. Even that was not enough. They then asked for a relay of
horses from the Grand-duke Constantin, who refused, saying, "_It is no
business of mine."_
Now, who went to seek this relay? Who made himself Maubreuil's
emissary? A very great lord, upon my word, a most excellent name,
renowned in history! True, this most puissant seigneur, the bearer of
this honourable name, had to forget a slight obstacle--namely, that he
owed everything to the emperor. You ask his name. Ah! indeed, search
for it as I have done. Maubreuil had indeed fallen from a high rank, as
his patron Roux-Laborie had said. There! I see I have named his patron,
though I did not mean to name anyone. Never mind! let us continue.
Maubreuil, who was of an excellent family, had fallen indeed. His
father, who had married, for his second wife, a sister of M. de la
Roche-jaquelein, was killed in the Vendéean Wars, together with thirty
other members of his family. M. Roux-Laborie, then Secretary to the
Provisional Government, answered for Maubreuil. He did more: he said
to M. de Talleyrand, "Come, come! here I am tearing off another mask
without thinking what I am doing; upon my word, so much the worse!
Since that pale face is unmasked, let it remain!" He did much more:
he said to M. de Talleyrand, "I will bring him to you." But M. de
Talleyrand, who was always cautious, exclaimed, "What are you thinking
of, my dear sir? Bring M. de Maubreuil to me! Why so? He must be
conducted to Anglès, he must go to Anglès! You know quite well it is
Anglès who is attending to all this." "Very well, be it so; I will
take him there," replied the Secretary to the Provisional Government.
"When?" "This very evening." "My dear fellow, you are beyond price."
"Take back that word, monseigneur." And Roux-Laborie bowed, went out
and ran to Maubreuil's house. Maubreuil was not at home.
When Maubreuil was not at home, everyone knew where he was. He was
gaming. What game was it? There are so many gambling hells in Paris!
Roux-Laborie ran about all night without finding him, returned to
Maubreuil's house and, as Maubreuil had still not returned, he left
word with his servant that he would expect Maubreuil at his house the
next day, 1 April. He waited for him the whole day. Evening came and
still no Maubreuil.
It is distracting to a man of honour to fail in his word. What would M.
de Talleyrand think of a man who had promised so much and performed so
little? Twice during the day he wrote to Maubreuil: his second note was
as pressing as time was. This is what he said--
"Why have you not come? I have expected you all day. You are driving me
to desperation!"
Maubreuil returned to change his dress at six o'clock that evening. He
found the note: he ran off to Roux-Laborie.
"What is it?"
"You can make your fortune."
"I am your man, then!"
"Come with me."
They entered a carriage and went to M. Anglès'. M. Anglès was at the
house in the rue Saint-Florentin. They rushed to the house in the rue
Saint-Florentin; M. Anglès had just gone out. They asked to see the
prince.
"Impossible! the prince is very busy: he is in the act of betraying.
True, he is betraying in good company,--he is betraying along with the
Senate." The Senate was next day going to declare that the emperor had
forfeited his throne.
Be it remembered that it was this same Senate--_Sénat
conservateur_--which, on the return from the disastrous Russian
campaign, fifteen months earlier, had said to the emperor--
"Sire, the Senate is established for the purpose of preserving the
fourth dynasty; France and posterity will find it faithful to this
_sacred duty_, and every one of its members will be ever ready to
perish in defence of this _palladium_ of the national prosperity."
We must admit that it was drawn up in very bad French. It is also true
that it was drawn up by very poor specimens of Frenchmen.
The next day, Maubreuil and Roux-Laborie returned. The prince was
no more visible than on the previous evening; the prince was at the
Luxembourg. But it did not matter: they could be introduced into his
cabinet presently, which was occupied at the moment. Besides, perhaps
he might return. "We will wait," said Roux-Laborie.
And they waited a short while in the green salon,--that green salon
which became so famous, you will remember, in history,--they waited,
reading the papers. The newspapers were very amusing. The _Journal des
Débats_ and the _Journal de Paris_ above all vied with each other in
being facetious and witty.
"To-day," said the old _Journal de l'Empire_, which since the previous
evening had donned a new cassock and now called itself the _Journal des
Débats_,--"to-day _His Majesty_ passed in front of the colonne Vendôme
..."
Forgive me if I pause a moment: I am anxious that there should not be
any confusion. _His Majesty_! You would imagine that this meant the
Emperor Napoleon, to whom a week before the _Journal de l'Empire_ had
published these beautiful lines:--
I
"'Ciel ennemi, ciel, rends-nous la lumière!
Disait AJAX, et combats contre nous!'
Seul contre tous, malgré le ciel jaloux,
De notre Ajax void la voix guerrière:
Que les cités s'unissent aux soldats;
Rallions-nous pour les derniers combats!
Français, la Paix est aux champs de la gloire,
La douce Paix, fille de la Victoire.'
II
Il a parlé, le monarque, le père;
Qui serait sourd à sa puissante voix?
Patrie, honneur! c'est pour vos saintes lois,
Nous marchons tous sous la même bannière.
Rallions-nous, citoyens et soldats,
Rallions-nous pour les derniers combats!
Français, la Paix est au champ de la gloire,
La douce Paix, fille de Victoire.
III
Napoleon, roi d'un peuple fidèle,
Tu veux borner la course de ton char;
Tu nous montras _Alexandre_ et _César;_
Oui, nous verrons _Trajan_ et _Marc-Aurèle_!
Nous sommes tous _tes enfants, tes soldats_,
Nous volons tous à ces derniers combats,
Elle est conquise aux nobles champs de gloire,
La douce Paix, fille de la Victoire."
For, indeed, it is very easy to call a man His Majesty five days
before his abdication and a _monarch_ and a _father_ whom one has just
addresssed as _Ajax, Alexander, Cæsar, Trajan_ and _Marcus Aurelius._
Undeceive yourselves! To-day, His Majesty is the Emperor Alexander;
as for that other emperor, the Emperor Napoleon, we shall see, or
rather we have already seen, what has become of him since his return
from the isle of Elba. After having been a _monarch,_ a _father,
Ajax, Alexander, Cæsar, Trajan_ and _Marcus Aurelius_, he has become
TEUTATÈS. Ah! what a villainous fall was there!
Let us proceed, or we shall never finish: we have had more trouble in
getting over this word _Majesty_ than Cæsar had in crossing the Rubicon.
"To-day His Majesty passed in front of the colonne de la place Vendôme,
and looking at the statue, he said to the noblemen who surrounded
him, 'Were I placed so high, I should be afraid of being giddy.' So
philosophic a remark is worthy of a Marcus Aurelius."
Pardon me, Monsieur Bertin, to which Marcus Aurelius do you refer? Is
it the one to whom you recently compared Napoleon, or some other Marcus
Aurelius with whom we are unacquainted? Ah! Monsieur Bertin, you are
like Titus: you have not wasted your day, or rather your night! We will
relate what happened during the night in which Monsieur Bertin worked
so energetically, and in the course of which the serpent changed his
tricoloured skin for a white skin and the _Journal de l'Empire_ became
the _Journal des Débats_. It has to be admitted, however, that during
the night of 20-21 March 1815 you resumed your old tricoloured skin
which you had sold Monsieur Bertin, but which you had not delivered up.
Now let us pass on to the _Journal de Paris_. "It is a good thing to
know," quoth the _Journal de Paris_, "that Bonaparte's name is not
_Napoleon_, but _Nicolas_."
Really, Mr. Editor, what an excessively sublime apotheosis you make of
yesterday's poor emperor! Instead of showing base ingratitude, like
your contemporary, you flatter outrageously. Bonaparte did no more
than presume to call himself _Napoléon_,--that is, the _lion of the
desert_,--and here you make him Nicolas, which means _Conqueror of the
peoples_. Ah! my dear Mr. Editor, if your _Journal de Paris_ had been
a literary paper, like the _Journal des Débats_, you would have known
Greek like your _confrère_--that is to say, like an inhabitant, and
you would not have made such blunders. But you did not know Greek. Let
us see if you are better acquainted with French. We will complete the
quotation.
"It is a good thing to know that Bonaparte's name is not _Napoléon_,
but _Nicolas_; not Bonaparte, but Buonaparte; he cut out the U in order
to connect himself with a distinguished family of that name."
"You know that the Balzacs of Entraigues make out that you do not
belong to their family," said someone once to M. Honoré de Balzac, the
author of _Père Goriot_ and of _les Parents pauvres._
"If I do not belong to their family," retorted M. Honoré de Balzac, "so
much the worse for them!"
We will return to the _Journal de Paris_, and let it have its say:--
"Many people have amused themselves by making different anagrams from
the name of _Buonaparte_ by taking away the U. The following seems to
us to depict that personage the best: NABOT PARÉ."[1]
What a misfortune, Mr. Editor, that in order to arrive at such a
delightful conclusion you have been obliged to sacrifice your U, like
the tyrant himself!
Now, as a sequel to the verses in the _Journal des Débats_, we must
quote some lines from the _Journal de Paris_; they only amount to a
single strophe, but it alone, in the eyes of all lovers of poetry, is
fully equal to three. Besides, these lines are of great importance: M.
de Maubreuil actually waxes prophetic in the last line.
TESTAMENT DE BONAPARTE
"Je lègue aux enfers mon génie,
Mes exploits aux aventuriers,
A mes partisans l'infamie,
Le grand-livre à mes créanciers,
Aux Français l'horreur de mes crimes,
Mon exemple à tous les tyrans,
La France à ses rois légitimes,
_Et l'hôpital à mes parents_."
Finally, to conclude our series of quotations, we promised to return
once more to the _Journal des Débats._ There shall be no cause for
complaint: we will return to it twice. We will place a double-columned
account, with its _Doit_ and its _Avoir_, before our readers' eyes.
There was only an interval of fourteen days between the two articles,
as can be seen from the dates.
"JOURNAL DES DÉBATS "JOURNAL DE L'EMPIRE
PARIS, 7 _mars_ 1815 PARIS, 21 _mars_ 1815
(PEAU BLANCHE) (PEAU TRICOLORE)
DOIT AVOIR
Buonaparte s'est evade de l'île La famille des Bourbons est partie
d'Elbe, où l'imprudente magnanimité cette nuit; on ignore encore en
des souverains alliés lui avait route qu'elle a prise. Paris offre
donne une souveraineté, pour prix l'aspect _de la sécurité et de la joie_;
de la désolation qu'il avait portée les boulevards sont couverts d'une
dans leurs États. foule immense, impatiente de voir
l'armée et LE HÉROS _qui lui est
Cet homme, qui, en abdiquant le rendu._ Le petit nombre de troupes
pouvoir, n'a jamais abdiqué son qu'on avait eu l'espoir _insensé_ de
ambition et ses fureurs, cet homme, lui opposer s'est rallié _aux aigles_,
_tout couvert du sang des générations,_ et toute la milice française, devenue
vient, au bout d'un an, essayer de nationale, marche sous les drapeaux
disputer, au nom de l'usurpation, la _de la gloire et de la patrie._ SA
légitime autorité du roi de France; MAJESTÉ L'EMPEREUR a traversé
à la tête de quelques centaines deux cents lieues de pays avec la
d'ltaliens et de Polonais, _il ose rapidité de l'éclair, au milieu d'une
mettre le pied sur une terre qui le population _saisie d'admiration_ et de
repoussa pour jamais._ respect, pleine du bonheur présent
et de la certitude du bonheur à
Quelques pratiques ténébreuses, venir.
quelques manœuvres dans l'ltalie,
excitée par son aveugle beau-frère, _Ici, des propriétaires se félicitant
ont enflé l'orgueil du LACHE GUERRIER de la garantie réelle que leur assure
de Fontainebleau. Il s'expose ce retour miraculeux;_ là, des
à mourir de la mort des héros: Dieu hommes bénissant l'evènement inespéré
permettra qu'il meure de la mort qui fixe irrévocablement la
des traîtres. La terre de France liberté des cultes; plus loin, de
l'a rejeté. Il y revient, la terre de braves militaires pleurant de joie de
France le dévorera. revoir leur ancien général; des
plébéiens, convaincus que l'honneur
Ah! toutes les classes le repoussent, et les vertus seront redevenus le
tous les Français le repoussent premier titre de la noblesse, et
avec horreur, et se réfugient dans le qu'on acquerra, dans toutes les
sein d'un roi qui nous a apporté la carrières, la splendeur et la gloire
miséricorde, l'amour et l'oubli du pour les services rendus à la patrie.
passé.
Tel est le tableau qu'offrait cette
Cet _insensé_ ne pouvait donc trouver marche ou plutôt cette course triomphale,
en France de partisans que parmi les dans laquelle L'EMPEREUR n'a trouvé
artisans éternels de troubles et de d'autre ennemi que le _misérables
révolutions. libelles_ qu'on s'est vainement
plu à répandre sur son passage,
Mais nous ne voulons ni de troubles contraste bien étrange avec les
ni de révolutions. Ils désigneront sentiments d'enthousiasme qui
vainement des victimes pour leur éclataient à son approche. Ces sentiments,
TEUTATÈS; un seul cri sera le cri justifiés par la lassitude des
de toute la France: onze mois qui viennent de s'écouler,
ne le sont pas moins par les garanties
MORT AU TYRAN! VIVE LE ROI! que donnent à tous les rangs les
proclamations de SA MAJESTÉ, et
Cet homme, qui débarqua à Fréjus qui sont lues avec une extrême
contre tout espoir, nous semblait avidité. Elles respirent la modération
alors appelé de Dieu pour rétablir qui accompagne aujourd'hui la
en France la monarchie légitime; force, et qui est toujours inséparable
cet homme, entrant par sa _noire de la véritable grandeur.
destinée_, et comme pour mettre le
dernier sceau à la Restauration, _P.S._--Huit heures du soir
revient aujourd'hui pour peser
comme un rebelle sur cette même L'empereur est arrive ce soir au
terre où il fut reçu, il y a quinze palais des Tuileries, _au milieu des
ans, par un peuple abusé, et détrompé plus vives acclamations._ Au moment
depuis par douze ans de où nous écrivons, les rues, les
tyrannie." places, les boulevards, les quais,
sont couverts d'une foule immense,
et les cris de VIVE L'EMPEREUR!
retentissent de toutes parts, depuis
Fontainebleau jusqu'à Paris. Toute
la population des campagnes, ivre
de joie, s'est portée sur la route de
Sa Majesté, que cet empressement
a forcée d'aller au pas."
M. de Maubreuil and Roux-Laborie had no need to feel bored with such
entertainment as the above before their eyes! Therefore, although they
were in the green salon nearly an hour, they thought they had hardly
been in it ten minutes when the door of the cabinet of the Prince de
Talleyrand opened. They entered.
Now do not fancy we are writing a romance: it is history, the record,
not of fair and pleasant events, but of sad and ugly ones. If you
doubt it, consult the report drawn up by MM. Thouret and Brière de
Valigny, deputies of the _procureur impérial_, in the month of June
1815, about this affair, and laid before one of the Chambers of the
Court of First Instance of the Seine. If Napoleon had returned but
to restore unto us this official paper, it would have been almost
sufficient to justify his return.
M. de Maubreuil was taken inside M. de Talleyrand's study. Roux-Laborie
made him sit down in the prince's own armchair, and said to him--
"You are anxious to recover your position, to retrieve your broken
fortunes; it depends upon yourself whether you obtain far more than
even that which you desire."
"What must I do?" asked Maubreuil.
"You have courage, resolution: rid us of the emperor. If he were dead,
France, the army, everything would be ours, and you would receive an
income of 200,000 livres; you would be made a duke, lieutenant-general
and governor of a province."[2]
"I do not quite see how I could accomplish it."
"Nothing easier."
"Tell me how."
"Listen."
"I am listening."
"It is not unlikely that there may be a great battle fought near here
in a couple of days. Take a hundred determined men, whom you can clothe
in the uniform of the Guards, mingle with the troops at Fontainebleau,
and it will be quite easy, either before or during or after the battle,
to render us the service I am commissioned to ask of you."
Maubreuil shook his head.
"Do you refuse?" asked Roux-Laborie quickly.
"Not so. I am only thinking that a hundred men would be difficult
to find: luckily one would not need a hundred; a dozen would be
sufficient. I shall perhaps be able to find them in the army, but I
must have power to advance them two or three ranks, and to give them
pecuniary recompense, in proportion to the service they will have to
undertake."
"You shall have whatever you want. What do ten or a dozen colonels,
more or less, matter to us?"
"That's all right."
"You therefore accept?"
"Probably ... but I ask until to-morrow to think it over."
And Maubreuil went out, followed by Roux-Laborie, who was very uneasy
because of the delay requested. However, Maubreuil reassured him,
promising to give him a definite answer next day. We can understand
Maubreuil's hesitation: he had been introduced into the prince's study,
he had sat in the prince's chair, but, after all, he had not seen the
prince. Now, when one stakes one's head at another's bidding, one
prefers to see the person who holds the cards.
Next day they returned to the house. Maubreuil accepted. Roux-Laborie
breathed again.
"But," added Maubreuil, "on one condition."
"What is that?"
"I do not look upon your word alone as sufficient authority. I want
solid security for your promises. I wish to see M. de Talleyrand
himself and to receive my commission from him."
"But, my dear Maubreuil, can't you see how difficult that would be?..."
"I can quite see that; but it must be thus or not at all."
"Then you wish to see M. de Talleyrand?"
"I wish to see M. de Talleyrand and to receive my orders _direct_ from
him."
"Oh! oh!" said the lawyer, striking his friend on the chest, "one might
think you were afraid!"
"I am not afraid, but I wish to see M. de Talleyrand."
"Very well, so be it," said Roux-Laborie: "you shall see him, and since
you demand his guarantee, you shall be satisfied. Wait a few minutes in
this salon."
And he went in to M. de Talleyrand. A moment later, he came out.
"M. de Talleyrand is going out; M. de Talleyrand will make you a sign
with his hand; M. de Talleyrand will smile upon you. Will that satisfy
you?"
"Hum!" returned Maubreuil; "never mind! we will see."
M. de Talleyrand passed out, made the prearranged gesture, and smiled
graciously upon Maubreuil.
It is Maubreuil, be it understood, who relates all this.
The gesture seduced Maubreuil, the smile carried him away; but
Maubreuil wanted something else--he wanted 200,000 francs. They
hesitated, they chaffered, they had not the money--there were so many
betrayals to pay for! But, thanks to the decree of the 9th, they made
a haul of 13 millions--the private moneys of Napoleon. They did it
conscientiously, not leaving anything to Marie-Louise, either money or
jewellery: she was reduced to the point of being obliged to borrow a
little china and silver from the bishop, with whom she stayed. So they
had 13 millions--without reckoning the 10 millions in bullion deposited
in the cellars of the Tuileries, on which they had already laid violent
hands. This made 23 millions they had already borrowed of Napoleon.
What the deuce did it matter? They were quite justified in taking two
hundred thousand francs from this sum in order to assassinate him! So
they took two hundred thousand francs, and they gave them to Maubreuil.
Maubreuil rushed off to a gambling-house and lost a hundred thousand
francs that night. Was he going to assassinate Napoleon for a hundred
thousand francs? Not he, indeed!... It was not enough. He had recourse
to M. A----. M. A---- was a man of imagination. An idea came into his
head.
"The Queen of Westphalia is following in Napoleon's wake ...?"
"Yes."
"We may suppose that the Queen of Westphalia carries the crown jewels
with her?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, seize what she has and you will have a good catch."
"Yes, but I want authority to do that."
"Authority? What do you mean?"
"A written order."
"Signed by whom?"
"Signed by you."
"Oh, if that is all, here goes!"
And M. A---- took a pen and signed the following order.
"Pardon me, you say, who is M. A----?"
Good gracious! you have but to read, the signature is at the foot of
the order:--
"OFFICE OF THE POLICE
"It is ordered that all officials under orders of the
police générale of France, prefects, superintendents and
officers, of whatsoever grade, _shall obey the commands_
that M. de Maubreuil shall give them; _they shall carry
out his orders and fulfil his wishes without a moments
delay_, M. de Maubreuil _being charged with a secret
mission of the highest importance._
"ANGLÈS"
This was not enough. Maubreuil wanted another order, a similar one,
signed by the Minister of War: he had settled with the civil power, it
remained to put himself right with the military. He went to look up
the Minister of War. He obtained a similar order to the one we have
just given. The Minister of War was General Dupont. There are some very
ill-fated signatures! On 22 July 1808 this signature was at the foot of
the capitulation treaty of Baylen. On 16 April 1814 it was at the foot
of Maubreuil's commission! The one handed over to the enemy, without
striking a blow, the liberty of fourteen thousand men; the other gave
up the life and the gold of a queen to a thief and an assassin!
In the face of such _errors_ one is proud to be able to boast that one
has never put one's name save in the forefront of a play, be it good or
bad, save at the end of a book, be it bad or good!
Besides these two orders, Maubreuil possessed himself of three others
in the same terms: one from Bourrienne, Provisional Director of the
Posting Arrangements ... de Bourrienne, do you understand?--But this
was not the Bourrienne who was the emperor's secretary?... Excuse
me, even the same ... where would have been the infamy of the thing,
had it not been so? He placed the posts at the disposition of M. de
Maubreuil: one from General Sacken, Governor of Paris; one from General
Brokenhausen. Thanks to these two last orders, Maubreuil, who had the
police already at his disposal through Anglès' order, the army through
Dupont's, the posts through Bourrienne's, got possession also of the
allied troops under command of the Russian and Prussian generals.
True, on 3 April, the day following that on which the _Journal des
Débats_ and the _Journal de Paris_ issued those clever articles with
which the reader is already acquainted, two charming verses, which we
propose to bring before your notice, were sung at the Opera, by Laïs,
to the tune of _Vive Henri IV.,_ national air though it was:--
Vive Alexandre!
Vive ce roi des rois!
Sans rien prétendre,
Sans nous dicter des lois,
Ce prince auguste
A le triple renom,
De héros, de juste,
De nous rendre un Bourbon.
Vive Guillaume!
Et ses guerriers vaillants!
De ce royaume,
Il sauva les enfants;
Par sa victoire,
Il nous donne la paix,
Et compte sa gloire
Par ses nombreux bienfaits.
Really, it gives one a certain amount of pleasure to see that these
lines are almost as poor as the prose of the _Journal des Débats_ and
of the _Journal de Paris_!
So Maubreuil had his five orders all correct, in his pocket. Armed with
these, he could act, not against Napoleon direct,--that was too risky
a business,--but against the Queen of Westphalia. And, on the whole,
was it not a good stroke of business to have made them pay the price of
assassinating Napoleon, and then not to assassinate him?
This is what Maubreuil proposed to do. First of all, he allied himself
with a person called d'Asies, who, in virtue of his plenary powers, he
appointed _Commissioner Royal._ Next, he put himself on the watch at
the corner of the rue du Mont-Blanc and the rue Saint-Lazare. The Queen
of Westphalia was lodging at Cardinal Fesch's house. Her departure
was fixed for the 18th. The orders were signed on the 16th and 17th.
Maubreuil was well informed of the Princess Catherine de Wurtemberg's
movements. On the 18th, at three o'clock in the morning, the ex-Queen
of Westphalia entered her coach and started off _en route_ for Orléans.
Princess Catherine was cousin of the Emperor of Russia, and travelled
with a passport signed by him and by the Emperor of Austria. Two great
names, were they not? Alexander and Francis! Maubreuil had gone on in
advance. He learnt from the post-master at Pithiviers (now you see
how useful was M. de Bourrienne's authorisation) that the princess
would take the road which ran by the Bourgogne. Then he hid himself at
Fossard, the posting-house a half-league from Montereau. There was not
the slightest danger that Maubreuil would make any mistake, he knew the
princess too well for that--he had been her equerry. On the 21 st, at
seven o'clock in the morning, the princess's carriage came into sight
on the road. Maubreuil rushed out, at the head of a dozen cavaliers,
stopped the carriage, obliged the ex-queen to enter a kind of stable,
into which all her luggage was removed, piecemeal. There were eleven
boxes, and cases: Maubreuil demanded the keys of them. The princess
had no means of resistance: she gave him them without appearing to
recognise him in any way, without deigning to address a word to him.
Maubreuil saw this, but took no notice: he sat down quietly to his
breakfast, with d'Asies, in a room on the ground floor of the inn,
waiting for a detachment of troops which, taking advantage of his
powers, he had requisitioned from Fontainebleau.
Let us, however, be just to Maubreuil. As the weather was bad, as it
rained, as it was very cold, he invited his past sovereign to come
into the inn; but as she would have been compelled to share the same
room with him, she preferred to remain in the courtyard. A woman who
had compassion on her fellow-woman brought her a chair, and she sat
down. Maubreuil finished his breakfast, and a lieutenant arrived from
Montereau, with a dozen men, Mamelukes and infantry. Some sort of
explanation had to be given to this officer and to these soldiers;
callous though Maubreuil was, it was not to be supposed that he would
say, "You see me for what I am--a robber."
No, it was Princess Catherine who was a thief. Princess Catherine
had been stopped by Maubreuil because she was carrying off the crown
jewels. Four sentries were posted to prevent any travellers coming
near--unless such travellers came in a carriage; in which case, willy
nilly, the carriage must be requisitioned. Some merchants came from
Sens leading a stage-waggon. The stage-waggon and the two horses
harnessed thereto were confiscated by Maubreuil. They loaded this
stage-waggon with the princess's trunks. Only then did she deign to
address a word to Maubreuil, who had been apologising to her for _his
mission._
"For shame, monsieur!" she said; "when a man has shared bread with
another, he should not undertake such a mission to their detriment....
You are doing an abominable act!"
"Madame," replied Maubreuil, "I am but the commander of the armed
force. Speak to the commissioner: I will do whatever he orders."
The commissioner, as we know, was d'Asies. It was a case of Robert
Macaire and Bertrand. But the poor princess did not know this, and took
d'Asies for a real commissioner.
"Monsieur," she said, "you are robbing me of all I possess. The king
has never given any such orders.... I swear to you, on my honour and
by my faith as a queen, I have nothing that belongs to the Crown of
France."
D'Asies drew himself up.
"Do you take us for thieves, madame?" he said. "Let me tell you that we
are acting as ordered. All those boxes must be taken."
As he said that, d'Asies caught sight of a small square box tied round
with tape. He put his hand under it. The little case was very heavy.
"So ho!" he said.
"That little chest, monsieur," said the princess, "contains my gold."
D'Asies and Maubreuil exchanged glances which said as well as words
could say, "Your gold, princess; that is exactly what we are looking
for."
They withdrew and made a pretence of deliberating. Then, after this
cogitation, they came up, and gave orders to the commander of the
Mamelukes to take this box away with the others. The princess still
disbelieved her eyes and ears.
"But," she cried, "you cannot possibly be taking my private jewels and
money! You will leave me and my suite stranded on the highway!"
Then her courage failed this noble creature, the daughter of a king,
the wife of a king, the cousin of an emperor. Tears came into her eyes:
she asked to be allowed to speak to Maubreuil. Maubreuil came to her.
"What is to become of me, monsieur?" she said. "At least give me back
this money: I need it to continue my journey."
"Madame," replied Maubreuil, "I do but carry out the orders of the
Government: I must give up your luggage in Paris intact. I can only
give you the hundred napoleons in my own purse."
Acting upon the Count de Furstenstein's advice, the princess accepted
this offer, thinking it a last token of devotion from a man who had
been in her service. Besides, she thought he would give her leave
to return to Paris, where she would regain possession of her money.
But this was not to be: they made her re-enter her carriage, and the
princess continued her journey to Villeneuve-la-Guyare, under the
escort of two soldiers, while her boxes, her gold, her jewels, piled on
the post-waggon, were sent back to Paris. Had the princess resisted,
the two infantry men were ordered to use violence in compelling her to
continue her journey. She then asked at least to be allowed to send one
of her own servants along with her boxes, as escort. But as the demand
was considered outrageous, it was refused.
So the princess's carriage went forward to Villeneuve-la-Guyare.
Maubreuil's and d'Asies' consciences were quite easy:--had not the
princess a hundred napoleons wherewith to provide her needs? At the
next post-house Maubreuil's purse was opened to pay. They found it
contained only forty-four napoleons. They left the purse and the
forty-four napoleons there and then in the hands of the justice of the
peace at Pont-sur-Yonne. When Maubreuil left Fossard, he forbade the
post-master to supply horses to anyone before three o'clock.
So far so good. Now they could give their attention to the second part
of their mission--the least important to Maubreuil--that of killing the
emperor.
It was the 21st of April. On the 19th, the emperor, deserted by
everyone, was alone save for a single valet. It was an opportune
moment: unluckily, they let it slip. They were lying in wait for the
princess in the rue Saint-Lazare; they could not be everywhere at the
same time. On the 20th, the day after, the emperor bade farewell to his
Guards. It was not in the midst of that pack of brigands that he could
be attacked. On the 21 st, as we have seen, they were busily engaged.
And it was just at that moment that the emperor left for Fontainebleau,
with the commissioners of the four Powers.
Bah! even if they had not killed the emperor, what mattered it? Since
they had robbed the Queen of Westphalia, and taken her gold and her
jewels, it was just as good. The emperor was not killed.
They returned to Paris, where they spent the night in gambling, losing
part of the princess's eighty-four thousand francs. The little chest
had contained eighty-four thousand francs in gold. Next day, Maubreuil
presented himself at M. Anglès'. He was in despair--first at having
lost part of his gold, then for having missed Napoleon. M. Anglès was
not in despair: he was furious--furious because the Emperor Alexander
knew everything, and the Emperor Alexander was furious. The Emperor
Alexander swore that he would avenge his cousin.
The _Journal de Paris_ did not know that _Nicolas_ means _Conqueror of
peoples_; but M. Anglès, Minister of the Police, knew well enough that
Alexander spells he _who grinds men down._ M. Anglès had no wish to be
ground down. He therefore advised Maubreuil to fly.
"Fly!" said Maubreuil. "What of the police?"
"Bah! Am I not responsible for them?"
This assurance did not in the least set Maubreuil's mind at ease.
He rushed off to the house of M. de Talleyrand: M. de Talleyrand
slammed the door in his face. Is it likely that M. de Talleyrand would
recognise a highway robber? Nonsense!
Maubreuil fled. He had not got three leagues before he was apprehended
(_empoigné_, as they called it under the Restoration), and thrown
into a dungeon, from which he was released on the emperor's return
and to which he returned on the accession of Louis XVIII. After two
fresh releases and two fresh arrests, Maubreuil, who never believed
they would dare to try him, appeared at length before the Royal Court
of Douai, the Chamber of the Court of Appeal. The affair created a
tremendous scandal, as can very well be imagined. M. de Talleyrand
denied, M. Anglès denied, Roux-Laborie denied; everybody denied,
except Maubreuil. Maubreuil not only confessed the whole thing, but,
from being the accused, he turned accuser. Of course the papers were
expressly forbidden to report the proceedings. But Maître Mennesson
had a friend who was present at the trial. This friend, no doubt a
shorthand writer, took down, transcribed, verified and forwarded him
his report. I made two or three copies of this account and distributed
them by order of our zealous, faithful and loyal Republican notary. And
I kept a copy of the proceedings myself. I do not know that this report
has appeared in any history. It is a curiosity, and I give it here.
[1] A dressed-up dwarf.
[2] When one writes of such matters as these, two authorities are
better than one. Besides the report of MM. Thouret and Brière de
Valigny, see Vaulabelle's _Histoire des deux Restaurations_, vol. ii.
p. 15.
CHAPTER VIII
Account of the proceedings relative to the abstraction of the jewels of
the Queen of Westphalia by the Sieur de Maubreuil--Chamber of the Court
of Appeal--The sitting of 17 April, 1817
Enter the Sieur de Maubreuil. Placed at the prisoner's bar, he looked
fixedly at M. de Vatimesnil, the king's counsel, and spoke to him as
follows:--
"_M. le procureur du roi_," he said, "you have called me an
appropriator of treasure, it is false. I have never been an
appropriator of treasure. The journalists have made use of your last
speech to spread an odious interpretation on my trial; but I am above
their reproaches."
They endeavoured to silence the Sieur de Maubreuil, but he went on with
renewed pertinacity:--
"I appeal to all Frenchmen here present, I place my honour in your safe
keeping. To-morrow I may be poisoned or assassinated."
The warders laid hands on M. de Maubreuil; but he shook himself free of
them, and went on:--
"Yes, I quite expect it. They may shoot me in my cell; the police may
carry me off and make away with me, as happened to my cousin, M. de
Brosse, who, in the month of February, presented a petition to the
Chamber in my favour; but I place my honour in the custody of the
Frenchmen who are here present. Hear what I have to say to you."
Here the prisoner raised his voice.
"I accepted the commission to murder the emperor, but I accepted it
only in order to save him and his family. Yes, my countrymen, I am not
a miserable thief, as they are trying to make out. Frenchmen! I call
you all to my aid. No, I am not a thief! No, lam not an assassin! On
the contrary, I accepted a commission to save Napoleon and his family.
It is true that, during the first outburst of my royalist enthusiasm,
I did, along with several other people, attach a rope to the neck of
Napoleon's statue, on the 31st of March, to pull it down from its
pedestal in the place Vendôme; but I here acknowledge publicly that I
served a thankless cause. Though I did insult Napoleon's statue, I have
done good to him in the flesh. No, I am not an assassin! Frenchmen, my
honour is in your hands. You will not be deaf to my entreaties."
Again they tried to stop M. de Maubreuil's mouth, but the harder they
tried to silence him the louder he spoke.
"I accepted," he continued, "a commission to save Napoleon, his son
and his family; I admit that, bribed, deluded and entangled by the
Provisional Government to do it, I was foolish enough to tie the cross
of the Legion of Honour to my horse's tail; I bitterly repent of doing
so. I have donned that cross of heroes again now: see, here it is on my
breast; I won it in Spain in fair fight."
Here the Sieur de Maubreuil succumbed to the efforts they made to drown
his voice. The whole time he had been speaking, the president and the
judges had been fruitlessly endeavouring to enforce silence. In vain
did the president shout, "Warders, take him away, take him away! Do
your duty, warders!" Maubreuil writhed, clutching hold of the bar, and,
nearly strangled by the warders, he still went on:--
"_M. le président_, my respect for you is unbounded, but your acts and
words are useless: they wished to assassinate the emperor, and I only
accepted the commission which has brought me here in order to save him."
There was a tremendous noise, an uproar and shouts among the audience.
Many Vendéens were present, relatives and friends of the prisoner, who
was related to the family of la Roche-jaquelein. Before the prisoner
was brought in, these had tried to influence public opinion in his
favour, by talking of the mystery which enshrouded his mission, and
by pointing out his unblemished devotion to the royal cause. Picture
to yourself, then, their dismay when they saw the line of defence
he adopted; their confusion when they heard their client speak so
diametrically opposite to their expectations; their astonishment
when they heard the name of Napoleon pronounced with respect by the
prisoner, at a time when the conqueror of the Pyramids and of Marengo
was only spoken of as Buonaparte; at the title of Emperor given to a
man whom King Louis XVIII., dating the beginning of his reign from
1795, declared never to have reigned!
Me. Couture, M. de Maubreuil's counsel, was then allowed to speak.
We will not report his speech, which was very long. He pleaded more
on a legal technicality than on the matter of the charge. He spoke
in the first instance of the injustice of Maubreuil being the only
one arraigned, while d'Asies, Cotteville, and others who had acted
in concert with him, were in full enjoyment of their liberty. He
added that the trunks having been deposited without verification at
M. de Vanteaux's, it could not be established who had abstracted the
eighty-four thousand francs in gold. He referred to the marvellous
manner in which some of the jewels that had been thrown by an unknown
hand into the Seine had been recovered by a man named Huet, an
ex-employé of the police, who, when fishing, had drawn up two diamond
combs caught in his hooked line. Me. Couture went on to assert that
the prisoner, to whom a mission of the gravest importance had been
entrusted, ought not to be tried by an ordinary Court, and to prove his
point, Me. Couture read the five different orders which had authorised
M. de Maubreuil to call into requisition all the officials of the
kingdom. The tenor of these orders was as follows:--
The first, signed by General Dupont, War Minister, authorised M. de
Maubreuil to make use of the army, which was to obey all his demands,
and commanded the authorities to furnish him with all the troops
he might require, as he was charged with a mission of the highest
importance. The second, signed by Anglès, Minister of Police, ordered
all the police force throughout the kingdom of France to lend
assistance to M. de Maubreuil to the same end. The third, signed by
Bourrienne, Director-General of the Posts, ordered all post-masters
to supply him with whatever horses he should require, and to consider
themselves personally responsible for the least delay they might
occasion him. The fourth, signed by General Sacken, Governor of Paris,
enjoined the Allied troops to assist M. de Maubreuil. Finally, the
fifth, which was in Russian, was addressed to those officers who did
not understand French and who could not therefore have obeyed the
preceding orders. From these documents Me. Couture argued that the
king's council alone must have had cognisance of M. de Maubreuil's
mission, and alone ought to decide the case.
After having replied to Me. Couture's pleading, the king's procurator
set forth his reasons for regarding the _tribunal correctionnel_ as
incompetent in the present case, since the charges brought against the
Sieur de Maubreuil constituted a crime, and were not those of a simple
misdemeanour; that it was a question of a robbery under arms committed
on the highway, and not merely a case of breach of confidence. For it
was vain, he said, to try to allege the unlimited power with which the
prisoner was vested; no power could authorise a citizen to run counter
to existing laws; for if such a contention could be maintained it could
be pursued to its logical conclusion and, in that case, it might be
excusable to commit a murder or burn down a village. "As a matter of
fact," continued M. de Vatimesnil, "we are advised that Maubreuil,
acting as a Government agent, was endowed on that very count with a far
graver responsibility, and the law ought to be set in force against him
with the greater severity. No mission could excuse a man for having
ill-treated a person travelling on the highways with a passport, and
his crime assumed still graver proportions when that person happened to
be an august princess, sprung from an illustrious house, allied to all
the crowned heads of Europe, and travelling under the protection of a
passport from her illustrious cousin, the Emperor of Russia, a princess
who was entitled to double respect, both from her rank and because of
the reverses of fortune she had recently experienced." "And," exclaimed
the king's counsel, "with what indignation ought we to be seized,
when we hear the accused uttering such libellous fables to avoid the
course of justice! Who are those Frenchmen he addresses, whom he
invokes to his aid? What faith could be put in such an unlikely story,
as that he had received a mission against a person travelling under
the safeguard of the most solemn treaties, signed by all the allied
sovereigns? and if he did accept such a mission, was it not doubly mean
to have accepted money for carrying it out, and then to have deceived
those whom he pretended had given it him? Should he not be regarded
henceforth as one of those hateful creatures known of all men, who,
under pressure of an accusation, hatches conspiracies, and denounces
unknown fellow-citizens, to the sole end of arresting or diverting
justice?"
The Sieur de Maubreuil had listened to all this tirade with fiery
impatience, and his solicitor had only been able to pacify him
by allowing him the pen and paper which he demanded. When M. de
Vatimesnil's speech was over, Maubreuil passed what he had just written
to the president, then rose and said:--"_M. le président_, as a man
who expects to be assassinated at any moment, I place this political
deposition in your hands. Frenchmen, it is my honour I am bequeathing
to all you who are here present. As a man on the brink of appearing
before God, I swear that it was M. de Talleyrand who, by means of M.
Laborie, sent me; that the prince forced me to sit down in his own
arm-chair; that he offered me two hundred thousand livres income and
the title of duke, if I accomplished my mission satisfactorily;[1]
furthermore, the Emperor Alexander offered me his own horses; but, I
repeat, if I accepted the mission I am blamed for, it was to save the
emperor and his family."
Here they again compelled Maubreuil to stop speaking, and the warders,
taking hold of him by his shoulders, forced him down into his seat.
Then his lawyer, Me. Couture, rose, addressed the king's counsel once
more, and begged for pity's sake that no notice should be taken of his
client's mad words.
"Alas!" he cried, "the man whom you see before you, monsieur, is no
longer M. de Maubreuil, but only the remains, the shade of M. de
Maubreuil. A detention of _three years,_ three hundred and ninety days
of which has been spent in solitary confinement without communication
with a soul, _without even seeing his own counsel_, has deranged his
reason. He is now nothing but the ruins of a man. For the love of
humanity, do not take account of a speech which can only tell against
him!" The judges, greatly embarrassed by what they had just heard,
although their business was but to decide on the simple question of the
competence or incompetence of their tribunal, deferred sentence until
the following Tuesday, 22 April.
Probably the delay was arranged, so those in court thought, in order to
receive instructions from the château, and to act in accordance with
those instructions.
THE SITTING OF 22 APRIL
Maubreuil was led in. He had scarcely entered the prisoner's dock
before he violently pushed away the guard and cried out, "You have no
right to maltreat me like this, warders; you have made me suffer quite
enough the three years I have been in prison. It is a dastardly wicked
thing! We are here before justice and not before the police! Let me
rather be shot immediately than delivered over longer to the tortures
of which I have been the victim for three years! No, never was greater
cruelty exercised in the Prussian fortresses, in the dungeons of the
Inquisition under the foundations of Venice! I am cut off from the
world; my complaints are hushed up; my lawyer is forbidden to print and
distribute my defence. I here express before all, my gratitude for his
zeal and his devotion; but I am in despair that he has not based his
defence on the information I have given him: he has not dared to do so."
Here silence was again imposed on the prisoner. The president then read
the sentence, pronouncing that the _tribunal de police correctionnelle_
declared its incompetence, and sent the prisoner to the assizes, on the
ground that if the facts which had been laid bare were proved, they
constituted a crime, and not a simple misdemeanour.
When the prisoner heard the sentence of incompetence to deal with the
case pronounced he sighed deeply, and his face, changed by a long
captivity, expressed dejection and despair. But he rallied his strength
and cried--
"The blood of twenty-nine of my relations was shed for the Bourbons in
Vendée and at Quiberon! I too am to be sacrificed to them in my turn!
They wish to destroy me, my groans are to be stifled. I am to be made
out a madman! It is a diabolical plot! No, I am not mad; no, I was
not mad when my services were required by them! Frenchmen, I repeat
to you what I told you at the last sitting: they asked me to take
the life of Napoleon! Write to Vienna, to Munich, to St. Petersburg.
Yes, yes,"--pushing away the warders, who sought to impose silence
upon him,--"yes, they demanded of me the blood of Napoleon.... _M. le
président_, they have handled me with violence! _M. le président_, they
will maltreat me! _M. le président_, they will put my feet in irons!
But, come what may, to the last moment I will proclaim it: they asked
me to take Napoleon's life! the Bourbons are assassins!..."
These last words were pronounced by the accused as he struggled with
the police, while they led him away by force.
Here the shorthand report concludes: I have not altered a word of the
statement, a certified copy of which is under my eyes.
On the 18th of the following December, Maubreuil was arraigned to
appear before the Court of Assizes at Douai, and succeeded in escaping
before the trial. On 6 May 1818, judgment was issued, condemning him
to five years' imprisonment by default and to pay five hundred francs
fine, for being a dishonest trustee.
Maubreuil, having taken refuge in England, returned on purpose to deal
M. de Talleyrand the terrible blow which struck him down, on the steps
of the church of Saint-Denis, during the funeral procession of Louis
XVIII.
"Oh! what a cuff!" exclaimed the prince, as he picked himself up.
How can people deny M. de Talleyrand's presence of mind after that! M.
Dupin could not have done better.
This obscure, strange, mysterious Maubreuil affair did the Bourbons
of the Restoration the greatest possible harm. To the Count d'Artois
and M. de Talleyrand it was what the affair of the necklace was to
Marie-Antoinette and the Cardinal de Rohan--that is to say, one of
those hidden springs from which revolutions derive power for the
future; one of those weapons the more dangerous and terrible and deadly
for being dipped so long in the poison of calumny.
[1] We see by this that, according to Maubreuil, it was M. de
Talleyrand himself with whom he had had to deal. We have not wished to
endorse the accusation blindly and, in our account, we have accepted
the intermediate agency of Roux-Laborie.
BOOK II
CHAPTER I
The last shot of Waterloo--Temper of the provinces in 1817, 1818
and 1819--The _Messéniennes_--The _Vêpres siciliennes--Louis
IX._--Appreciation of these two tragedies--A phrase of Terence--My
claim to a similar sentiment--Three o'clock in the morning--The course
of love-making--_Valeat res ludrica_
I am not sure who said--perhaps I said it myself--that the Revolution
of 1830 was the last shot of Waterloo. It is very true. Setting aside
those whose family interest, position or fortune attached them to the
Bourbon dynasty, it is impossible to conceive any idea of the ever
growing feeling of opposition which spread throughout the provinces; it
got to such a pitch that, without knowing why, in spite of every reason
that my mother and I had to curse Napoleon, we hated the Bourbons far
more, though they had never done anything to us, or had even done us
good rather than harm.
Everything tended to the unpopularity of the reigning house: the
invasion of French territory by the enemy; the disgraceful treaties
of 1815; the three years' occupation which had followed the second
restoration of the Bourbons; the reactionary movements in the South;
the assassination of Ramel at Toulouse, and the Brune assassination at
Avignon; Murat, who was always popular, in spite of his stupidity and
his treachery, shot at Pizzo: the proscriptions of 1816; defections,
disgraceful deeds, shameful bargains, came to light daily; the verses
of Émile Debraux, the songs of Béranger, the _Messéniennes_ of Casimir
Delavigne and the _tabatières à la charte_, the Voltaire-Touquets and
Rousseaus of all kinds, unpublished rhymes of the type I have quoted;
anecdotes, true or false, attributed to the Duc de Berry, in which the
ancient glories of the Empire were always sacrificed to some youthful
aristocratic ambition; all, down to the king with his black gaiters,
his blue coat with gilt buttons, his general's epaulettes and the
little tail of his wig,--all tended, I say, to depreciate the ruling
power--or rather, worse still, to make it absurd.
_Vêpres siciliennes_ was played at the Odéon on 23 November 1819
with overwhelming success. It would be difficult to explain why,
to anyone who has read the piece dispassionately. Why did a crowd
wait outside the doors of the Odéon from three o'clock? Why was that
splendid building crowded to suffocation, instead of there being, as
usual, plenty of room for everyone? Just to hear four lines thought to
contain an allusion to the political encroachments in which the king's
favourite minister was said to indulge. These are the four lines. They
seemed innocent enough on the face of them:--
"De quel droit un ministre, avec impunity,
Ose-t-il attenter à notre liberté?
Se reposant sur vous des droits du diadème,
Le roi vous a-t-il fait plus roi qu'il n'est lui-même?"
All the same, these four lines roused thunders of applause and rounds
of cheering. And then one heard on every side the concert of admiration
which all the Liberal papers sounded in praise of the patriotic young
poet. The whole party petted him, praised him, exalted him.
Some time after the _Vêpres siciliennes_ had been played at the Odéon,
the Théâtre-Français, on 5 November 1819, put _Louis IX._ on the stage.
This was the Royalist reply which the leading theatre gave to the
Nationalist tragedy at the Odéon.
At that period Ancelot and Casimir Delavigne were about equally
celebrated and, in the eyes of impartial critics, _Louis IX._ was as
good as _Vêpres siciliennes._ But all the popularity, all the applause,
all the triumph went to the Liberal poet. It was as though the nation
were breathing again, after its suspension of animation from '93
onward, as though it were urging the public spirit to take the path of
liberty.
I recollect that because of the noise these two controversial plays
made throughout the whole of the literary world, I, who was just
beginning to feel the first breath of poetry stir within me, was
anxious to read them. I wrote to de Leuven, who sent me both the
Liberal and the Royalist work. The Liberal work was the most praised,
and, with that in my hand, I ran to announce to our young friends,
Adèle, Albine and Louise, the good fortune which had befallen us
from Paris. It was decided that the same evening we should read the
masterpiece aloud, and, as I was the owner of the work, I was naturally
promoted to the office of reader.
Alas! we were but simple children, without knowledge of either side of
the case, artless young folk, who wanted to amuse ourselves by clapping
our hands and to be stirred to the heart by admiration. We were greatly
surprised at the end of the first act, more surprised still by the end
of the second, that so much fuss and noise should have been aroused
by, and so much praise bestowed upon, a work, estimable, no doubt,
in its way, but one which did not cause a single thrill of sentiment
or passion, or rouse an echoing memory. We did not yet understand
that a political passion is the most prejudiced of all passions, and
that it vibrates to the innermost feeling of a disturbed country. Our
reading was interrupted at the second act, and the tragedy of _Vêpres
siciliennes_ was never finished, at any rate as a joint reading. Our
audience had naïvely confessed that Montfort, Lorédan and Procida bored
them to death, and that they much preferred Tom Thumb, Puss in Boots
and other fairy tales of like nature. But this attempt did not satisfy
me. When I went home to my mother, I read not only the whole of _Vêpres
siciliennes_ but also _Louis IX._
Well, it is with feelings of great satisfaction that I date from
that time the impartial appreciation for contemporary works which
I possess--an appreciation borrowed far more from my feelings than
from my judgment; an appreciation which neither political opinion nor
literary hatred has ever been able to influence: my critical faculty,
when considering the work of my _confrères,_ asks not whether it be the
work of a friend or of an enemy, whether of one intimately known to
me or of a stranger. However, I need hardly say that neither _Vêpres
siciliennes_ nor _Louis IX._ belong to that order of literature which I
was to be called upon later to feel and to understand, whose beauties
I endeavoured to reproduce. I remained perfectly unmoved by these two
tragedies, although I slightly preferred _Louis IX._ I have never read
them again since, and probably I shall never re-read them; but I feel
convinced that if I were to re-read them, my opinion upon them would
be just the same to-day that' it was then. What a difference there was
between the tame and monotonous feeling I then experienced and the
glowing emotion _Hamlet_ roused in me, though it was the curtailed,
bloodless, nerveless _Hamlet_ of Ducis! I had an innate instinct for
truth and hatred of conventional standards; Terence's line has always
seemed to me one of the finest lines ever written: "I am a man, and
nothing that is human is alien unto me." And I was fast laying claim to
my share in that line. I was growing more manly every day; my mother
was the only person who continued to look upon me as though I were
still a child. She was therefore greatly astonished when one evening
I did not return at my usual time of coming home--and when at last I
did come in, towards three in the morning, my heart leaping joyfully,
I slipped into my room, which for the last three months I had obtained
leave to have to myself, apart from my mother, foreseeing what was
going to take place. I found my mother in tears, seated by my window,
where she had been watching for my return, ready to give me the lecture
such a late, or rather, early, return deserved!
After more than a year of attentions, signs, loving-making, little
favours granted, refused, snatched by force, the inexorable door which
shut me out at eleven o'clock would be softly reopened at half-past
eleven, and behind that door I found two trembling lips, two caressing
arms, a heart beating against my heart, burning sighs and lingering
tears. Adèle too had managed to get a room to herself, apart from her
mother, just as I had. This room was better than an ordinary room: it
was a tiny summer-house which projected into a long garden enclosed
only by hedges. A passage between the room occupied by her brother and
the room occupied by her mother led to the garden, and consequently
to the summer-house, which was only separated from the passage by a
staircase leading to the first storey. It was the door of this passage,
opening on one side into the street, and on the other, as I have said,
into the garden, which was reopened to me at half-past eleven at night
and was not closed behind me until three in the morning, on that night
when my mother stood anxiously waiting, all in tears, at the window of
my room, just ready to go and seek for me in the six hundred houses
of the town. But what plagued my mother still more was--as I quickly
discovered--that though she had not the least doubt as to the reason
for my misconduct, she could not guess who was the young lady at the
bottom of it. She had not seen me come back the way she had expected.
The reason for that was simple enough. The little girl who had given
her heart to me, after more than a year's struggle, was so pure, so
innocent, so modest, that although my love and pride were ready to
reveal everything, my conscience told me that honour and every fine
feeling I had demanded that the secret be kept with the utmost care.
Therefore, so that no one should see me at such an hour, either in the
neighbourhood of her house, or in the street leading to it, when at
three in the morning I came out of the blest passage that had served
me in good stead, I made my exit by a little by-street, and gained
the fields. From the fields I entered the park, leaping a ditch like
the one over which I had given proofs of my agility to Mademoiselle
Laurence, under such different circumstances, at Whitsuntide. Finally,
from the park I reached what was called with us the "_manège_," and I
re-entered the town by the rue du Château. It so happened, therefore,
that my mother, who was watching in an entirely opposite direction,
did not see me return, and, not guessing the ruse I had made use of
to foil the cruel and ready slander little towns are so prone to set
going, should matters so turn out, she puzzled her wits in despair to
know where I had come from. My mother's ignorance and the suspicions
that grew up in her mind later in connection with another girl had a
sufficiently serious influence upon my future life for me to dwell on
the subject for a moment: these details are not so trivial as they
may appear at first sight. Is it not the case that some minds regard
everything as trivial, whilst others (and I am much inclined to think
that these latter, without wishing to speak evil of the former class of
people, are the true thinkers and the true philosophers), who try to
follow the thread Providence holds in His hands, with which He guides
men from birth to death, from the unknown to the unknown, look upon
every detail as of importance, because the slightest has its part in
the great mass of details which we call life? Well, I was well scolded
by my mother, who did not scold me long,
I however, for I kissed her the whole time she scolded me; besides,
her uneasiness was somewhat allayed, and with the eye of a mother
and perhaps even more with the insight of a woman, which sees to the
very heart of things, she saw I was profoundly happy. Joy is as much
a mystery as sorrow; excessive joy approaches so nearly the border of
pain, that, like suffering, it too has its measure of tears. My mother
left me to go to bed, not because she was tired out, poor mother! but
because she felt I wanted to be alone with myself, with my recent
memories, which I clasped as closely to my throbbing heart as one holds
to one's breast a young nestling which is trying to fly away.
Oh! but Maître Mennesson's office was deserted that day! How beautiful
the park looked to me! The tall trees with their whispering leaves,
the birds singing above my head, and the frightened roebuck on the
skyline--all seemed to make a frame which could scarce contain my
smiling thoughts, my thoughts which danced like a joyous nymph!
Love--first love--the welling-up of the sap, opens out life to us!
It flows through the most secret recesses of our being; it gives life
to the most remote of our senses; it is a vast realm wherein every man
imprisoned in this world imprisons in turn the whole world in himself.
CHAPTER II
Return of Adolphe de Leuven--He shows me a corner of the artistic and
literary world--The death of Holbein and the death of Orcagna--Entrance
into the green-rooms--Bürger's _Lénore_--First thoughts of my vocation
In the meantime, de Leuven returned to Villers-Cotterets, after five
or six months' absence. His return was to open out new fields for my
ambitions--ambitions, however, which I believed were capable of being
fulfilled. If you throw a stone into a lake, however large the lake may
be, the first circle it will make round it, after its fall, will go on
growing and multiplying itself, even as do our days and our desires,
until the last one touches the bank--that is to say, eternity.
Adolphe returned and brought Lafarge back with him. Poor Lafarge! Do
you remember the brilliant head clerk, who returned to his native
place in an elegant carriage, drawn by a mettlesome steed? Well, he
had bought a practice, but there the progress of his rising fortune
had stopped. By some inconceivable fatality, although he was young,
good-looking, clever, perhaps even because he possessed all these
gifts, which are perfectly useless to a lawyer, he had not found a wife
to pay for the practice, so he had been obliged to sell it again, and,
disgusted with the law, he had taken to literature. De Leuven, who had
taken notice of him in Villers-Cotterets, found him out in Paris and
returned with him. Some of his ancient splendour still stuck to the
poor fellow, but you might seek in vain for any real stability at the
base of his fresh plans for the future; those fleeting clouds hardly
got beyond the stage of hopes. During his stay in Paris a great change
had come over Adolphe's character--a change which was to react on me.
At M. Arnault's house, in which he had been a guest, Adolphe had
had a closer view of the literary world than he had previously
caught glimpses of in the house of Talma. He had there made the
acquaintance of Scribe, who was already at the zenith of his fame. He
met Mademoiselle Duchesnois there, who at that time was Telleville's
mistress, and who recited _Marie Stuart._ There he became acquainted
with M. de Jouy, who had finished his _Sylla;_ Lucien Arnault, who had
begun his _Régulus_; Pichat, who, while composing his _Brennus_ and
thinking out his _Léonidas_ and _William Tell_, was facing a future in
which, his first wreath on his head and his first palm in his hand,
Death lurked, waiting for him. He had then dropped from these lofty
heights in the regions of art to inferior places, where he became
acquainted with Soulié, who was publishing poems in the _Mercure_; with
Rousseau, that Pylades of Romieu whom Orestes had left one day at the
turning of the road which led to his sub-prefecture; with Ferdinand
Langlé, the fickle lover of poor little Fleuriet, upon whom, it is
said, a notorious poisoner tried the deadly powder with which he was
later to kill his friend; with Théaulon, that delightful person and
indefatigable worker, who worked only in the hope that some day he
would be able to be idle, but who never had time to be idle, who was
cradled for a brief time in the arms of Love, but who was never really
to rest until he lay on the bosom of Death. This poor Epicurean, who by
dint of imagination saw his life in rosy garb, although for him it was
clothed in black, wrote these four lines on the door of his study: they
express at once his easy carelessness and his gentle philosophy--
Loin du sot, du fat et du traître,
Ici ma constance attendra:
Et l'amour qui viendra peut-être,
Et la mort qui du moins viendra!
Death came, poor Théaulon! Came all too soon, for thee as for Pichat,
for Soulié, for Balzac; for there are two Deaths charged by Providence
with the task of hurling men into eternity: the one inexorable, icy,
impassive, obeying the sad laws of destruction; the Death of Holbein,
the Death in the cemetery of Bâle, the Death which is ever intermingled
with life, hiding its skeleton face under the most capricious of masks,
veiling its bony body beneath the king's mantle, in the gilded dress
of the courtesan, under the filthy rags of the beggar, walking side
by side with us; an invisible but ever present spectre; a lugubrious
guest, a sepulchral comrade, the supreme friend who receives us in
its arms when we fall over the edge of life, and who gently lays us
to rest for ever under the cold damp stones of the tomb;--the other,
sister of the above, daughter too of Erebus and of Night, unexpected,
spiteful, lies in ambush at a turning-point of happiness or prosperity,
ready like a vulture or a panther to pounce or spring out upon its
prey; this is the Death of Orcagna, the Death of the Campo-Santo in
Pisa; Death in life, envious, with cadaverous hue, hair flying wildly
in the wind, eyes flashing like those of a lynx, the Death which took
Petrarch in the midst of his triumph, Raphael in the midst of his love
affairs; before whom all joy and glory and riches pale; that power
which, passing rapidly, heedlessly and inexorably over the unfortunate
victims who appeal to it, strikes down in the midst of their flowers,
their wine and their perfumes, the handsome youth crowned with myrtle,
the lovely maiden rose-crowned, the laurel-wreathed poet, and drags
them brutally to the grave, their eyes open, their hearts yet beating,
their arms stretched out towards the light, the day and the sunshine!
Orcagna! Orcagna, great sculptor, great painter and, above all, great
poet! how many times have I trembled as I touched the hand of a beloved
child, or kissed the face of a mistress who had made me happy! for I
had an inward vision of that Death of the Campo-Santo at Pisa, passing
in the distance, dark, threatening like a sailing cloud; then, the next
day, I heard the words, "He is dead!" or "She is dead!" and it was
almost always a young genius whose light had gone out, a young soul
that had gone to its Maker.
This then, was the world de Leuven had seen during his stay in Paris,
and he brought a reflection of its unknown brilliance to me, the poor
provincial lad, buried in the depths of a little town. De Leuven had
done more than look into it: he had entered the tabernacle, he had
touched the ark! He had been permitted the honour of having some of his
work read before M. Poirson, the high priest of the Gymnase, and before
his sacristan, M. Dormeuil. Of course the work was declined after it
had been read; but--like the pebble which lies near the rose and shares
the scent of the queen of flowers--there remained to de Leuven, from
his declined work, an entry into the green-rooms. Oh! that entree to
the green-rooms, what a weariness it is to those who have attained it,
whilst by those who have not attained it, it is regarded as the most
coveted thing on earth! Adolphe, however, had been in it for such a
short time that _ennui_ had not yet had time to spring up, and so the
dazzling glow of the honour still remained with him. It was the spirit
of this enchantment which he transferred to me. At that time, Perlet
was at his best, Fleuriet in the heyday of her beauty, Léontine Fay at
the height of her popularity. The latter, poor child, at the age of
eight or nine, had been forced to learn a craft in which a grown-up
woman might have succumbed; but what did that matter? They had consoled
themselves in advance for everything, even for her death; for they had
already made so much money out of her, that, in the event of her death,
they could afford to go to her burial in fine style.
Adolphe's return, then, was a great event to me; like Don Cléophas,
I hung on the cloak of my fine _diable boiteux_, and he, telling me
what he had seen in the theatres, made me see also. What long walks we
took together! How many times did I stop him, as he passed from one
artiste to another, saying, after he had exhausted all the celebrities
of the Gymnase, "And Talma? And Mademoiselle Mars and Mademoiselle
Duchesnois?" And he good-naturedly held forth upon the genius and
talent and good-fellowship of those eminent artistes, playing upon the
unknown notes of the keyboard of my imagination, causing ambitious and
sonorous chords to vibrate within me that had hitherto lain dormant,
the possession of which astonished me greatly when I began to realise
their existence. Then poor Adolphe little by little conceived a
singular idea, which was to make me share, on my own behalf, the hopes
he had indulged in for himself; to rouse in me the ambition to become,
if not a Scribe, an Alexandre Duval, an Ancelot, a Jouy, an Arnault or
a Casimir Delavigne, at least a Fulgence, a Mazère or a Vulpian. And
it must be admitted the notion was ambitious indeed; for, I repeat, I
had never received any proper education, I knew nothing, and it was not
until very much later, in 1833 or 1834, on the publication of the first
edition of my _Impressions de Voyage_, that people began to perceive I
had genius. In 1820 I must confess I had not a shadow of it.
A week before Adolphe's return had brought to me the first vivifying
gleam of light from the outside world 3 the hemmed-in and restricted
life of a provincial town had seemed to me the limit of my ambition, a
salary of say fifteen or eighteen hundred francs 3 for I never dreamt
of becoming a solicitor: first because I had no vocation for it; for
although I had spent three years in copying deeds of sale, bonds and
marriage contracts, at Maître Mennesson's, I was no more learned in
the law than I was in music, after three years of solfeggio with old
Hiraux. It was evident, therefore, that the law was no more my vocation
than music, and that I should never expound the Code any better than I
played on the violin. This distressed my mother dreadfully, and all her
kind friends said to her--
"My dear, just listen to what I say: your son is a born idler, who will
never do anything."
And my mother would heave a sigh, and say, as she kissed me, "Is it
true, my dear boy, what they tell me?"
And I would answer naïvely, "I don't know, mother!"
What else could I reply? I could see nothing beyond the last houses in
my natal town, and even though I might find something that responded
to my heart inside the city boundary, I searched in vain therein for
anything that could satisfy my mind and imagination.
De Leuven made a gap in the wall which closed me in, and through that
gap I began to perceive something to aim at as yet undefined on the
infinite horizon beyond.
De la Ponce also influenced me at this period. As before related,
I had translated with him the beautiful Italian romance--or rather
diatribe--of _Ugo Foscolo_, that imitation of Goethe's _Werther_
which the author of the poem called _Sépulcres_ contrived, by dint
of patriotic feeling and talent, to develop into a national epic.
Moreover, de la Ponce, who wished to make me regret that I had
abandoned the study of the German language, translated for my benefit
Bürger's beautiful ballad _Lénore._ The reading of this work, which
belonged to a type of literature of which I was completely ignorant,
produced a deep impression on my mind; it was like one of those
landscapes one sees in dreams, in which one dares not enter, so
different is it from everyday surroundings. The terrible refrain which
the sinister horseman repeats over and over again to the trembling
betrothed whom he carries off on his spectre-steed,
"Hourra!--fantôme, les morts vont vite!"
bears so little resemblance to the conceits of Demoustier, to Parny's
amorous rhymes or to the elegies of the Chevalier Bertin, that the
reading of the tragic German ballad made a complete revolution in my
soul. That very night, I tried to put it into verse; but, as may well
be understood, the task was beyond my powers. I broke the wings of my
poor fledgeling Muse, and I began my literary career as I had begun my
first love-making, by a defeat none the less terrible because it was a
secret one, but quite as incontestable in my own estimation.
What mattered it? These were indubitably my first steps towards the
future God had destined, untried totterings like the steps of a child
just learning to walk, who stumbles and falls as soon as he tears
himself away from his nurse's leading-strings, but who picks himself up
again and, aching after every fall, continues to advance, urged forward
by hope, which whispers in his ear, "Walk, child, walk! it is by means
of suffering that you become a man, by perseverance that you become
great!"
CHAPTER III
The Cerberus of the rue de Largny--I tame it--The ambush--Madame
Lebègue--A confession
Six months passed by between my first love-makings and my first
attempts at work. Besides our meetings at Louise Brézette's every
night, Adèle and I used to see each other two or three times a week, in
the summer-house, which, to our great delight, her mother had allowed
her to have as her new chamber. It was necessary for Adèle to open the
door of the passage-way for me, and for me to pass in front of her
mother's bedroom door: these two courses were fraught with so many
dangers that I had for a long time been contemplating some other means
of access to my lady-love. After much pondering, I settled upon a way.
I carefully examined the topography of the surrounding district and
discovered, three doors off Adèle's house, a door, which led through a
kind of passage into a small garden. One wall and two hedges separated
this garden from Adèle's. I carefully studied the position all round,
from Adèle's garden, to which I had free entree during the daytime,
and I saw that all difficulties would be overcome if I could open the
street door, cross the passage, enter the garden, scale the wall and
stride over the two hedges. Then I had only to knock on the outside
shutter, Adèle would open to me, and the thing would be done. But, as I
had noticed, the door had to be opened and the passage crossed.
The door was locked, and the passage was guarded at night by a dog
who was less a match from his size and from the fight he might make,
than from the noise he could set up. It took me a week to make my
investigations. One night I ascertained, Muphti (that was the dog's
name) barking loudly all the time, that the lock only turned once, and
that I could open the door with my knife-blade; the remaining seven
nights I cultivated Muphti's acquaintance, seducing him little by
little, by poking bits of bread and chicken bones under the door. The
last two or three nights, Muphti, grown used to the windfalls I brought
him, impatient for my arrival, expecting me long before I appeared,
heard me come when I was twenty paces off, and, at my approach,
scratched with both paws at the door and whined gently at the obstacle
that separated us. On the eighth day, or rather the eighth night,
feeling sure that Muphti was now no longer an enemy but an ally, I
opened the door, and, according to my expectations, Muphti leapt upon
me in the greatest friendliness, delighted to find himself in direct
communication with a man who brought him such dainty scraps: I had only
one fault to find with his greeting, namely, that it was expressed in
rather too noisy a fashion. However, as all enthusiasm calms down in
time, Muphti's enthusiasm died down, and, passing into expressions of a
gentler affection, allowed me to venture farther. I chose, for my first
attempt at housebreaking, a dark, moonless autumn night: I stepped
very lightly, with my ears on the alert; I advanced without making a
single grain of sand crunch beneath my feet. I thought I heard a door
open behind me; I hastened my steps; I reached a large patch of beans
growing up on sticks, into which I flung myself as did Gulliver in his
wheat-field, with Muphti hidden between my legs, his neck held between
both my hands, ready to be able to intercept the slightest sound he
might wish to make--and there I waited. It was indeed one of the
inhabitants to whom the passage belonged: he had heard the noise. In
order to find out what caused it, he took a turn in the garden, passed
within a couple of steps of me, without seeing me, coughed as though
he were beginning with a cold, and went indoors again. I let Muphti
go; I made for the palings; I leapt to the other side of the wall; I
straddled over the two hedges, and I ran to the shutters. But I did not
need to knock. Before I reached them, I heard someone breathing, I saw
a shadow, I felt two trembling arms stretch out to enfold me and drag
me inside the summer-house, and the door shut behind us.
Oh! had I only been a poet in those days, what ravishing lines I could
have made in honour of those first flowers which flourished in the
garden of our love! But, alas! I was not a poet then, and I had to be
satisfied with repeating to Adèle Parny's and Bertin's elegies, which I
believe only bored her. I have already remarked, _apropos_ of _Vêpres
siciliennes_ what good taste this little girl possessed.
I left her, as usual, towards two or three in the morning. As usual,
also, I returned by the park, and reached home by a roundabout way. I
have explained the way I took, and how I had to leap a wide ditch so as
to reach the park from the open country. In order to avoid making the
same jump three or four times a week, which was a very perilous feat
on dark nights, I made a very big heap of stones in one corner of the
ditch, so that I had only to make for this particular corner and then
make my jump in two leaps.
On this particular night, as I leapt into the ditch, I noticed a
shadow four paces off me, that looked slightly less caressing than
that which had awaited me in the garden, and drawn me inside the
summer-house. This shadow held an actual, stout stick--not the shade
of one--in all its knotty reality. Directly I attained to manhood's
estate, and whenever danger faced me, whether by night or by day, I may
proudly record that I always marched straight on towards that danger.
I walked right up to the man with the stick. The stick rose, and I
clutched it in my hand. Then followed, in that dark ditch, one of the
severest tussles I have ever had in my life. I was indeed the person
he was lying in wait for, the person he wished to meet. The man who
was waiting for me had blackened his face; consequently I could not
recognise him; but without recognising him I guessed who he was. He was
a young man of twenty-four or twenty-five; I was scarcely eighteen,
but I was well broken in to all physical exercises, especially to
wrestling. I succeeded in taking hold of him round the body and
twisting him under me. His head struck on a stone with a heavy sound.
No word passed on either side; but he must have been hurt. I felt him
fumbling in his pocket, and I knew he was hunting for his knife. I
seized his hand above the wrist, and managed to twist him so that his
fingers opened, and the knife dropped. Then, by a quick move, I got
hold of the knife. For one second a terrible temptation assailed me, to
do what was indeed my right, namely, to open the knife and to plunge it
into my antagonist's breast. That moment a man's life hung by a thread:
had my anger broken that thread, the man would have been killed! I had
sufficient control over myself to get up. I still held the knife in
one hand, I took the stick by the other, and, fortified by these two
weapons, I allowed my adversary to rise too. He took a step backwards,
and stooped to pick up the stone against which he had hurt his head;
but just as he was lifting himself up, I hit him with the end of the
stick on the chest and he fell back ten paces. This time he seemed to
lose consciousness completely, for he did not get up again. I climbed
the embankment from the ditch and got away from the place as fast as I
could: this unexpected attack had revealed such a spirit of hatred that
I feared treachery might follow. No one else put in an appearance, and
I reached home very much upset, I must confess, by this incident. I
had certainly escaped from one of the most serious dangers I had ever
incurred in my life.
This event brought very serious consequences to a person who had had
nothing to do with the affair, and led me to commit the only evil
action I have to reproach myself with during the course of my life.
The blame attaching to this evil deed is all the greater as it was
committed against a woman. I can only say that it was committed without
any premeditation. I reached home, as I have said, very glad to have
escaped with nothing worse than a few bruises, and very proud at the
end of the fray to have overthrown my enemy.
Next morning I went to de la Ponce. As such an attack might be renewed
under more disadvantageous circumstances than those from which I had
just escaped, I wanted to borrow from him the pocket-pistols I had seen
in his rooms. It was difficult to borrow them from him without telling
him why I wanted them. I told him. But as it would have revealed, or
almost revealed, the house I came away from, if I had told him the
true locality of the struggle, I indicated another place altogether.
I selected, hap-hazard, a spot near the _manège_, in a little narrow
street, where three houses had their entrances. The first of these
three houses was inhabited by Hippolyte Leroy, the ex-body-guardsman of
whom I have already spoken in connection with our misadventures at M.
Collard's, and who was soon to become my cousin by marrying Augustine;
the second by the de Leuven family; and the third by the lawyer to whom
Maître Mennesson had related the misadventures of my early love-making
and who, as I have already mentioned, had married Éléonore, the second
daughter of M. Deviolaine by his first marriage. I have related also,
when speaking of M. Lebègue, how the charming nature and sociable
spirit of his wife had roused suspicion and dislike in a little town,
where superiority of any kind is a reason for jealousy. Now I had told
others besides de la Ponce of the nocturnal attack of which I had very
nearly been a victim; and to others also, as well as to de la Ponce, in
order to divert suspicions, I had mentioned the same locality by the
_manège_ of which I have just spoken. Where could I have been coming
from, at two in the morning, when I was attacked near the _manage!_
It could not have been from Hippolyte Leroy's; it could not have been
from Adolphe de Leuven's. It must then have been from M. Lebègue's--or
rather, from Madame Lebègue's. This wicked suggestion, entirely
incorrect as it was, could only be supported by some semblance of a
foundation.
I was a very easy prey to being teased, perhaps because I laid myself
open to it by my defenceless condition, and neither Madame Lebègue nor
her sisters spared me. Madame Lebègue was pretty, witty and a flirt:
she waved the most charming and gracious gestures imaginable to her
friends at a distance; whilst at closer quarters she allowed them
to look at, admire and even kiss her hand, with that aristocratic
indifference assumed by women who are the possessors of pretty hands.
It was her only sin, poor woman. The crime was great, but the hand was
pretty. I was exceedingly fond of Madame Lebègue; I liked her, I can
confess to-day, with a feeling that might even have got beyond the
bounds of friendly affection, if she had consented to more; but she had
never given me the least encouragement, and whenever I was near her,
her superior wit, her woman-of-the-world manners, her fine-lady airs,
would send me into the deepest depths of that shyness of which I had
given such glaring proofs during my earliest love-makings.
One day, without knowing whence this rumour had sprung, without
suspecting the cause that had given rise to it, I heard it whispered
that I was Madame Lebègue's lover. I ought at once to have quenched
this rumour with indignant denials; I ought to have treated the
calumny with the justice it deserved. I was wicked enough to refute it
half-heartedly, and in such a fashion that my vain denial bore every
appearance of a confession. And of course the ill-natured rumour served
my own purposes to perfection. Poor silly fool that I was! I had a
momentary delight, an hour's pride, in this rumour, which ought to
have made me blush with shame, for I had allowed an untrue statement
to be believed. I soon suffered for my mean action. First of all, the
rumour set me at variance with the person herself whom it concerned:
Madame Lebègue thought me more guilty than I was; she accused me of
having started the scandal. She was mistaken there: I had allowed it
to live, allowed it to grow, that was all. True, that was bad enough.
She forbade me her house, the house my mother and I both loved, and
it became hostile to us both ever after. Madame Lebègue never forgave
me. On two or three occasions during my life I have felt the prick of
the needle of the vengeance she vowed against me. I never attempted
to return the injuries received; I felt, in my heart of hearts, I had
deserved them. Whenever since I have met Madame Lebègue, I have turned
away my head and lowered my eyes before her glance. The guilty one
tacitly confessed his crime. To-day he openly avows it. But now the
confession has been made, I can boldly face the rest of the world of
men or women and say, "You may look me in the face and try to make me
blush, if you can!"
The day after my struggle I had the curiosity to visit the scene of
battle. I had not been mistaken: the stone on which my enemy's head had
crashed was stained with blood at its sharpest end, and the colour of
a few hairs, stuck to the bloody stone, confirmed my suspicions--which
now became a definite certainty when furnished with this last proof.
That night I saw Adèle: she was still ignorant of what had happened to
me. I told her everything; I told her whom I suspected: she refused to
believe it.
Just at that moment, a surgeon, named Raynal, went past; I had seen
him that morning come from the direction which led to the house of my
wounded enemy. I went up to him.
"What is the matter?" I asked him. "Why have you been sent for this
morning?"
"What is the matter, boy?" he replied in his Provençal accent.
"Yes."
"Why, he cannot have seen plainly last night, and, hurrying home, he
gave himself a knock in the chest against a carriage pole. It was such
a violent blow that he fell on his back and split his head open in
falling."
"When shall you pay him a second visit?"
"To-morrow, at the same time as to-day."
"Very well, doctor; tell him from me that, last night, passing by the
same place where he fell, after him, I found his knife, and I send it
back to him. Tell him, doctor, that it is a good weapon, but that,
nevertheless, a man who has no other arms but this with him is unwise
to attack a man who possesses two such pistols as these...."
I fancy the doctor understood.
"Oh yes; very good," he said. "I'll tell him, never fear."
I presume that the man who owned the knife also understood, for I never
heard the matter spoken of again, although, fifteen days later, I
danced _vis-à-vis_ with him at the park ball.
CHAPTER IV
De Leuven makes me his collaborator--The _Major de Strasbourg_--My
first _couplet-Chauvin_--The _Dîner d'amis_--The _Abencérages_
I had naïvely told de Leuven of my failure to translate Bürger's
beautiful ballad; but as he had made up his mind to make me a dramatic
author, he consoled me by telling me it was his father's opinion that
some German works were absolutely untranslatable, and that the ballad
of _Lénore_ was first among these. Seeing that de Leuven did not lose
hope, I gradually regained mine. I may even venture to say that, a few
days after this, I achieved a success.
Lafarge had laughed hugely at de Leuven's idea of making me his
collaborator. For, indeed, what notice would the Parisian stage take
of an uneducated child; a poor provincial lad, buried away in a
small town in the Ile-de-France; ignorant both of French and foreign
literatures; hardly acquainted with the names of the great; feeling
only a tepid sympathy with their most highly praised masterpieces, his
lack of artistic education having veiled their style from him; setting
to work without knowing the theory of constructing a plot, an action,
a catastrophe, a _dénoûment_; having never read to the end of _Gil
Blas_, or _Don Quixote_, or _le Diable boiteux_--books which are held
by all teachers to be worthy of universal admiration, and in which, I
confess to my shame, the man who has succeeded to the child does not
even to-day feel a very lively interest; reading, instead, all that
is bad in Voltaire, who was then regarded as the very antithesis of
politics and religion; having never opened a volume of Walter Scott
or of Cooper, those two great romance-writers, one of whom understood
men thoroughly, the other of whom divined God's workings marvellously;
whilst, on the contrary, he had devoured all the naughty books of
Pigault-Lebrun, raving over them, _le Citateur_ in particular; ignorant
of the name of Goethe, or Schiller, or Uhland, or André Chénier;
having heard Shakespeare mentioned, but only as a barbarian from whose
dunghill Ducis had collected those pearls called _Othello_, _Hamlet_
and _Romeo and Juliet_, but knowing by heart his Bertin, his Parny, his
Legouvé, his Demoustier.
Lafarge was unquestionably in the right, and Adolphe must have had
plenty of time to waste to undertake such a task, the hopelessness
of which alone could take away from its ridiculousness. But Adolphe,
with that Anglo-German stolidness of his, manfully persevered in the
work undertaken, and we sketched out a scheme of a comedy in one act,
entitled the _Major de Strasbourg_: it was neither good nor bad.
Why the Major of Strasbourg, any more than the Major of Rochelle or
of Perpignan? I am sure I cannot tell. And I have also completely
forgotten the plot or development of that embryonic dramatic work.
But there was one incident I have not forgotten, for it procured me
the first gratification my _amour-propre_ received. It was the epoch
of patriotic pieces; a great internal reaction had set in against our
reverses of 1814 and our defeat of 1815. The national couplet and
Chauvinism were all the rage: provided you made _Français_ rhyme with
_succès_ at the end of a couplet, and _lauriers_ with _guerriers,_
you were sure of applause. So, of course, de Leuven and I were quite
content not to strike out any fresh line, but to follow and worship
in the footsteps of MM. Francis and Dumersan. Therefore our _Major de
Strasbourg_ was of the family of those worthy retreating officers whose
patriotism continued to fight the enemy in couplets consecrated to the
supreme glory of France, and to the avenging of Leipzig and Waterloo on
the battlefields of the Gymnase and the Varies. Now, our major, having
become a common labourer, was discovered by a father and son, who
arrived on the scene, I know not why, at the moment when, instead of
digging his furrows, he was deserting his plough, in order to devote
himself to the reading of a book which gradually absorbed him to such
an extent that he did not see the entrance of this father and son--a
most fortunate circumstance, since the brave officer's preoccupation
procured the public the following couplet:--
JULIEN (apercevant le major)
N'approchez pas, demeurez où vous etes:
Il lit ...
LE COMTE
Sans doute un récit de combats,
Ce livre?
JULIEN (regardant par-dessus l'épaule du major, et revenant à son père)
C'est _Victoires et Conquêtes._
LE COMTE
Tu vois, enfant, je ne me trompais pas:
Son cœur revole aux champs de l'Allemagne!
Il croit encor voir les Français vainqueurs....
JULIEN
Mon père, il lit la dernière campagne,
Car de ses yeux je vois couler des pleurs.
When my part of the work was done, I handed it over to de Leuven, who,
I ought to mention, was very indulgent to me; but this time, when he
came to the couplet I am about to quote, his indulgence ascended into
enthusiasm: he sang the couplet out loud--
"Dis-moi, soldat, dis-moi, t'en souviens-tu?"
He sang it over twice, four times, ten times, interrupting himself to
say--
"Oh! oh! that couplet will be done to death if the Censorship lets it
pass."
For, from that time, the honourable institution called the Censorship
was in full vigour, and it has gone on increasing and prospering ever
since.
I confess I was very proud of myself; I did not think such a
masterpiece was in me. Adolphe ran off to sing the couplet to his
father, who, as he chewed his toothpick, asked--
"Did you make it?"
"No, father; Dumas did."
"Hum! So you are writing a comic opera with Dumas?"
"Yes."
"Why not make room in it for your _froide Ibérie_? It would be just the
place for it."
Adolphe turned on his heels and went off to sing my couplet to Lafarge.
Lafarge listened to it, winking his eyes.
"Ah! ah! ah!" he cried, "did Dumas compose that?"
"Yes, he made it."
"Are you sure he did not crib it from somewhere?"
Then, with touching confidence, Adolphe replied--
"I am quite certain of it: I know every patriotic couplet that has been
sung in every theatre in Paris, and I tell you this one has never yet
been sung."
"Then it is a fluke, and he will soon be undeceived."
De la Ponce read the couplet too; it tickled his soldierly taste,
remainding him of 1814, and he took an early opportunity to compliment
me on it.
Alas! poor couplet, but indifferently good though thou wert, accept
nevertheless thy due meed of praise, at any rate from me. Whether gold
or copper, thou wert, at all events, the first piece of literary coin
I threw into the dramatic world! Thou wert the lucky coin one puts
in a bag to breed more treasure therein! To-day the sack is full to
overflowing: I wonder if the treasure that came and covered thee up was
much better than thyself? The future alone will decide--that future
which to poets assumes the superb form of a goddess and the proud name
of Posterity!
The reader knows what an amount of vanity I possessed. My pride did not
need to be encouraged to come out of the vase in which it was enclosed
and swell like the giant in the _Arabian Nights:_ I began to believe
I had written a masterpiece. From that day I thought of nothing else
but dramatic literature, and, as Adolphe was some day to return to
Paris, we set ourselves to work, so that he could carry away with him
a regular cargo of works of the style of the _Major de Strasbourg._ We
never doubted that such distinguished works would meet with the success
they deserved, from the enlightened public of Paris, and open out to
me in the capital of European genius a path strewn with crowns and
pieces of gold. What would the well-disposed people say then, who had
declared to my mother that I was an idle lad and that I should never do
anything? Go spin, you future Schiller! Spin, you future Walter Scott!
spin!... From this time a great force awoke in my heart, which held its
place against all comers: determination--a great virtue, which although
certainly not genius, is a good substitute for it--and perseverance.
Unluckily, Adolphe was not a very sure guide; he, like myself, was
groping blindly. Our choice of subjects revealed that truth. Our second
opera was borrowed from the venerable M. Bouilly's _Contes à ma fille._
It was entitled le _Dîner d'amis._ Our first drama was borrowed from
Florian's _Gonzalve de Cordoue_: it was entitled _les Abencérages._
O dear Abencérages! O treacherous Zégris! with what crimes of like
nature you have to reproach yourselves! O Gonzalve de Cordoue! what
young poets you have led astray into the path upon which we entered so
full of hope, from which we returned shattered and broken.
Poor lisa Mercœur! I saw her die hugging to her heart that Oriental
chimera; only she stuck fast to it, like a drowning man to a floating
plank; while we, feeling how little it was to be relied on, had the
courage to abandon it and to let it float where it would on that dark
ocean where she encountered it and stuck to it.
But then we did not know what might be the future of these children,
wandering on the highways, whom we sought to seduce from their lawful
parents, and whom we saw die of inanition, one after the other, in our
arms.
These labours took up a whole year, from 1820 to 1821. During that year
two great events came about, which passed unnoticed by us, so bent on
our work were we, and so preoccupied by it: the assassination of the
Duc de Berry, 13 February 1820; the death of Napoleon, 5 May 1821.
CHAPTER V
Unrecorded stories concerning the assassination of the Duc de Berry
The assassination of the Duc de Berry hastened the down-fall of M.
Decazes. A singular anecdote was circulated at the time. I took it down
in writing at the house of my lawyer, who was a collector of historical
documents. As well as I can remember, it was as follows. Three days
before the Duc de Berry's assassination, King Louis XVIII. received a
letter couched in these words:--
"SIRE,--Will your Majesty condescend to receive a person
at eight o'clock to-morrow night, who has important
revelations to make specially affecting your Majesty's
family?
"If your Majesty deigns to receive this person, let a
messenger be sent at once to find a chip of Oriental
alabaster, which rests on the tomb of Cardinal Caprara,
at Ste. Geneviève.
"In addition to this, your Majesty must obtain, by
means of some other agent, a loose sheet of paper, out
of a volume of the works of St. Augustine [here the
exact designation was given], the use of which will be
indicated later by the writer of this letter.
"Under penalty of not obtaining any result from the
promised revelations, you must not begin by sending to
the Library, nor by sending at the same time to the
Library and to Ste. Geneviève. The safety of the person
who desires to offer good advice to His Majesty depends
upon the execution of the two prescribed acts in their
given order."
The letter was unsigned. The mysterious bearing of this letter
attracted the attention of Louis XVIII., and he sent for M. Decazes
at seven o'clock on the following morning. Please be careful to note
that I am not relating a historical fact, but an anecdote from memory,
which I copied something like thirty years ago. Only later and in quite
different circumstances of my life, it recurred to my mind as does
effaced writing under the application of a chemical preparation.
So, as indicated above, Louis XVIII. sent next morning for M. Decazes.
"Monsieur," he said, as soon as he saw him, "you must go to the church
of Ste. Geneviève; you must descend to the crypt, where you will find
the tomb of Cardinal Caprara, and you must bring away the thing, no
matter what it is, that you will find on the tomb."
M. Decazes went, and when he reached Ste. Geneviève, he went down to
the crypt. There, to his great surprise, he found nothing on the tomb
of Cardinal Caprara but a fragment of Oriental alabaster. However, his
orders were precise: we might rather say they were positive. After a
moment's hesitation, he picked up the bit of alabaster and took it back
to the Tuileries. He expected the king to jeer at the servile obedience
that brought him only an object so worthless, but quite the reverse was
the case, for at the sight of the bit of alabaster the king trembled.
Then, taking it in his hand and examining it minutely, he placed it on
his desk.
"Now," said Louis XVIII., "send a trusted messenger to the Royal
Library; he must ask for the works of St. Augustine, the 1669 edition,
and in volume 7, between pages 404 and 405, he will find a sheet of
paper."
"But, sire," asked M. Decazes, "why should not I myself go rather than
entrust this commission to another?"
"Out of the question, _mon enfant_!" "_Mon enfant_" was the pet name by
which the king called his favourite minister.
A trusted messenger was sent to the Royal Library: he opened St.
Augustine at the given pages and found the paper described. It was
a simple matter to take it away. The paper was a very thin, blank
folio sheet oddly snipped here and there. While Louis XVIII. was
searching for the mysterious revelations hidden in the jagged paper
the secretary brought him a missive containing a leaf of the same
size as that from the St. Augustine, but inscribed with apparently
unintelligible letters. At the corner of the envelope in which
this leaf came were written the two words: "Most urgent." The king
understood that there was a connection between the two events and a
likeness between the two leaves. He placed the cut sheet of paper over
the written sheet and saw that the letters shown up through the holes
in the upper leaf made sense. He dismissed the secretary and intimated
to M. Decazes to leave him alone, and when both had gone, he made out
the following lines:--
"King, thou art betrayed! Betrayed by thy minister and by
the P.P. of thy S----.
"King, I alone can save thee. MARIANI."
The reader will understand that I do not hold myself responsible for
this note any more than for the rest of the anecdote. The king did not
mention this note to anyone; but, that evening, the Minister of the
Police,[1] who was dismissed next day, issued orders to find a man
named Mariani.
The following day, which was Sunday the 13th of February, the king on
opening his prayer-book at mass found this note inside:--
"They have found out what I wrote; they are hunting for me. Do your
utmost to see me, if you would avoid great misfortunes for your house.
I shall know if you will receive me, by means of three wafers which you
should stick inside the panes of your bedroom windows."
Although the king was greatly interested by this last letter of
advice, he did not think it sufficiently urgent to attend to it as
directed. He waited and hesitated, and then left matters till the
morrow. That evening there was a special performance at the Opera,
when _Le Rossignol_, _les Noces de Gamache_, and _le Carnaval de
Venise_ were played. The Duc and Duchesse de Berry were present. About
eleven o'clock, at the close of the second act of the ballet, the
duchess, feeling tired, told her husband that she wished to leave.
The prince would not allow her to go alone, but himself conducted her
out of the Opera House. When he reached their carriage, which stood
in the rue Rameau, just as he was helping the princess up the step,
and saying to her, "Wait for me, I will rejoin you in a moment," a man
darted forward rapidly, passed like a flash of lightning between the
sentinel on guard at the door of exit and M. de Clermont-Lodève, the
gentleman-in-waiting, seized the prince by the left shoulder, leant
heavily against his breast and plunged a thin, sharp small-sword,
with a boxwood hilt, in his right breast. The man left the weapon
in the wound, knocked three or four curious bystanders spinning and
disappeared immediately round the corner of the rue de Richelieu and
under the Colbert Arcade. For the moment nobody noticed that the prince
was wounded; he himself had hardly felt any pain beyond the blow of a
fist.
"Take care where you are going, you clumsy fellow!" M. de Choiseul, the
prince's aide-de-camp, had exclaimed, pushing the assassin to one side,
thinking he was simply an unduly inquisitive bystander. Suddenly the
prince lost his breath, grew pale and tottered, crying out, as he put
his hand to his breast--
"I have been assassinated!"
"Impossible!" exclaimed those about him.
"See," replied the prince, "here is the dagger." And giving effect
to his words, he drew out and held up the bloodstained sword from
his breast. The carriage door had not yet been shut. The duchess
sprang out, trying to catch her husband in her arms; but the prince
was already past standing, even with this support. He fell gently
back into the arms of those surrounding him, and was carried into the
drawing-room belonging to the king's box. There he received immediate
attention.
By the mere appearance of the wound, the shape of the dagger and
the length of its blade, the doctors recognised the serious nature
of the case, and declared that the prince must not be taken to the
Tuileries. They therefore carried him to the suite of rooms occupied
by M. de Grandsire, the Secretary to the Opera Company, who lived at
the theatre. By a singular coincidence, the bed on which the dying
prince was laid was the same on which he had slept the first night of
his joyful re-entry into France. M. de Grandsire was at that time at
Cherbourg and he had lent this very bed to put in the Duc de Berry's
room. Here the prince learnt the arrest of his murderer. He asked his
name. They told him it was Louis-Pierre Louvel. He seemed to search
his memory and then, as if speaking to himself, he said, "I cannot
recollect ever having injured this man."
No, prince, no, you did nothing to him; but you bear on your forehead
the fatal seal which carries the Bourbons to the grave or into exile.
No, prince, you have not injured the man, but you are heir to the
throne and that is sufficient in this country for the hand of God to
be laid heavily upon you. Look back, prince, on what has happened to
those who, for the last sixty years, have handled the fatal crown to
which they aspired. Louis XVI. died on the scaffold. Napoleon died at
St. Helena. The Duc de Reichstadt died at Schoenbrünn. Charles X. died
at Frohsdorf. Louis-Philippe died at Claremont. And who knows, prince,
where your son, the Count de Chambord, will die? Where your cousin the
Count de Paris? I ask the question of you who are about to know the
secret of that eternal life which hides away from us all the mysteries
of life and of death. And we would further point out to you, prince,
that not one of your race will die in the Tuileries, or will rest as
kings in the tombs of their fathers.
But it was a good and noble heart that was about to cease to beat
amidst all the distracting events of that period. And when Louis
XVIII., who had been informed of the assassination, came at six in the
morning, to receive his nephew's last wishes, the first words of the
wounded prince were--
"Sire, pardon the man!"
Louis XVIII. neither promised nor refused to pardon.
"My dear nephew, you will survive this cruel act, I trust," he replied,
"and we will then discuss the matter again. It is of grave import,
moreover," he added, "and it must be looked into most carefully at some
future time."
These words had scarcely been uttered by the king when the prince began
to fight for his breath; he stretched out his arms and asked to be
turned on his left side.
"I am dying!" he said, as they hastened to carry out his last wish.
And, indeed, they had hardly moved him when, at the stroke of half-past
six, he died.
The grief of the duchess was inexpressible. She seized scissors from
the mantelpiece, let down her beautiful fair hair, cut it off to the
roots and threw the locks on the dead body of her husband.
The sorrow of King Louis was twofold: not knowing that the Duchesse de
Berry was pregnant, he deplored even more than the death of a murdered
nephew the extinction of a race.
When he withdrew to the Tuileries, he remembered the events of the
two preceding days--the letter received on the very morning of the
assassination, the warning of some great calamity threatening the royal
family. Then, although there was nothing more to be expected from the
mysterious stranger, the legend that we have given goes on to say that
Louis XVIII. dragged his aching limbs to the window and stuck the three
wafers on its panes as a signal of welcome to the unknown writer of the
letters. Two hours later, the king received a letter wrapped in three
coverings:--
"It is too late! Let a confidential person come and meet me on the pont
des Arts, where I will be at eleven o'clock to-night.
"I rely on the honour of the king."
At a quarter-past eleven the mysterious stranger was introduced into
the Tuileries and conducted to the king's private chamber. He remained
with Louis till one o'clock in the morning. No one ever knew what
passed in that interview. The next day, M. Clausel de Coussergues
proposed, in the Upper House, to impeach M. Decazes as an accomplice in
the assassination of the Duc de Berry.
Thus, at the same time that the Napoleonic and Liberal party were
disseminating the skits against the Bourbons which we have quoted, and
distributing copies of the proceedings of the Maubreuil trial, the
Extreme Right was attacking by similar means the Duc d'Orléans and M.
Decazes; each in turn undermining and destroying one another, to the
advantage of a fourth party, which was soon to make its appearance
under the cloak of Carbonarism--we mean that Republican element which
Napoleon, when he was dying in the island of St. Helena, prophesied
would dominate the future.
But before tackling this question, one word more about Louvel. God
forbid that we should glorify the assassin, no matter to what party he
belonged! We would only indicate, from the historical point of view,
the difference that may exist between one murderer and another. We have
related how Louvel disappeared, first round the corner of the rue de
Richelieu and then under the Colbert Arcade. He was just on the point
of escaping when a carriage barred his course and compelled him to
slacken his pace. During this moment of hesitation, the sentinel, who
had thrown down his gun to pursue him and who had lost sight of him,
had a glimpse of him again and redoubled his speed, caught up with him
and seized him round the waist, a waiter from a neighbouring café; at
the same time seizing hold of him by his collar. When he was captured,
the assassin did not attempt any fresh effort. One would have thought
that from motives of self-preservation he would have struggled to
escape, but his one attempt at flight seemed to satisfy him, and had
they let go their hold, he would not have taken his chance to regain
liberty. Louvel was taken to the guard-house below the vestibule of the
Opera.
"Wretch!" exclaimed M. de Clermont-Lodève, "what can have induced you
to commit such a crime?"
"The desire to deliver France from one of its cruellest enemies."
"Who paid you to carry out the deed?"
"Paid me!" cried Louvel, tossing his head,--"paid me!" Then with a
scornful smile he added, "Do you think one would do such a thing for
money?"
Louvel's trial was carried to the Upper Chamber. On 5 June he appeared
before the High Court. On the following day he was condemned to death.
Four months had been spent in trying to find his accomplices, but not
one had been discovered. He was taken back to the Conciergerie, an hour
after his sentence had been pronounced, and one of his warders came to
him.
"You would like," said the man to the prisoner, who throughout
his trial had preserved the utmost calm and even the greatest
decorum,--"you would like to send for a priest?" "What for?" asked
Louvel.
"Why, to ease your conscience."
"Oh, my conscience is at ease: it tells me I did my duty."
"Your conscience deceives you. Listen to what I say and make your peace
with God: that is my advice."
"And if I confess, do you suppose that will send me to Paradise?"
"May be: the mercy of God is infinite."
"Do you think the Prince de Condé, who has just died, will be in
Paradise?"
"He should be, he was an upright prince."
"In that case, I would like to join him there; it would amuse me vastly
to plague the old _émigré._"
The conversation was here interrupted by M. de Sémonville, who came to
try and extract information from the prisoner. Finding he could not get
anything from him, he said to Louvel--
"Is there anything you want?"
"Monsieur le comte," replied the condemned man, "I have had to sleep
between such coarse sheets in prison, I would like some finer ones for
my last night."
The request was granted. Louvel had his fine sheets and slept soundly
between them from nine at night till six o'clock the next morning. On
6 June, at six in the evening, he was taken from the Conciergerie: it
was the time of the famous troubles of which we shall speak presently.
The streets were blocked, and there were spectators even on the roofs.
He wore a round red cap and grey trousers, and a blue coat was fastened
round his shoulders. The papers next day announced that his features
were changed and his gait enfeebled.
Nothing of the kind: Louvel belonged to the family of assassins to
which Ravaillac and Alibaud were akin--that is to say, he was a man of
stout courage. He mounted the scaffold without bombast and also without
any trace of weakness, and he died as men do who have sacrificed their
lives to an idea.
His cell was the last in the Conciergerie, to the right, at the bottom
of the corridor; it was the same in which Alibaud, Fieschi and Meunier
had been kept.
[1] M. Decazes, Ministre de l'Intérieur, had charge of the police.
CHAPTER VI
Carbonarism
I will now (1821) give some details of the Carbonari movement--a
subject on which Dermoncourt and I had held long conversations.
Dermoncourt was an old aide-decamp of my father, whose name I have
often mentioned in the earlier chapters of these Memoirs--he was one of
the principal leaders in the conspiracy of Béfort.
You will recollect the troubles of June; the death of young Lallemand,
who was killed whilst trying to escape and was accused after his
death of having disarmed a soldier of the Royal Guard. It was thought
that the dead could be accused with impunity. But his father defended
him. The Censorship--sometimes a most infamous thing--prevented the
poor father's letter from appearing in the papers. M. Lafitte had to
take his letter to the Chambers and to read it there before he could
make its contents known to the public. I give it in the form in which
Lallemand sent it to the newspapers, when they refused to publish it:--
"SIR,--Yesterday my son was beaten to death by a soldier
of the Royal Guard; to-day he is defamed by the _Drapeau
blanc_, the _Quotidienne_ and the _Journal des Débats._
I owe it to his memory to deny the fact cited by those
papers. The statement is false! My son did not attempt
to disarm one of the Royal Guard; he was walking past
unarmed when he received from behind the blow that killed
him. LALLEMAND"
The military conspiracy of 19 August was the outcome of the troubles
of June. The chief members of the lodge _Des Amis de la Verité_ were
involved in that conspiracy. They afterwards separated. Two of the
affiliated members, MM. Joubert and Dugier, set out for Italy. They
reached Naples in the midst of the Revolution of 1821--a Revolution
during which patriots were shamefully betrayed by their leader,
François. The two named above threw themselves into the Revolution and
were affiliated to the Italian Carbonari, while Dugier returned to
Paris, a member of a higher grade in the Society. This institution, as
yet unknown in France, had greatly appealed to Dugier, and he hoped
to be able to establish it in France. He set forth the principles and
aims of the Society to the executive council of the lodge _des Amis
de la Vérité_ on whom they produced a profound impression. Dugier had
brought back with him the rules of the Italian Society and he was
authorised to translate them. This task he accomplished; but the type
of religious mysticism which formed the basis of these rules was not
in the least congenial to French minds. They adopted the institution,
minus the details which, at that epoch, would have made it unpopular;
and M. Buchez--the same who on 15 May had tried to make Boissy-Anglas
forgotten--and MM. Bazard and Flottard were deputed to establish the
French Carbonari upon a basis better suited to French conditions of
mind and thought. On 1 May 1821, three young men, then unknown, none
of them thirty years old, met for the first time in the depths of
one of the poorest quarters of the capital, in a room which was very
far removed from representing, even to its owner, the golden mean
spoken of by Horace. They sat at a round table, and with grave and
even gloomy faces--for they were not ignorant of the terrible work to
which they were going to devote their lives--they defined the first
tenets of that Society of Carbonari which changed the France of 1821
and 1822 into one vast volcanic disturbance whose flames' burst out
at the most opposite and unexpected quarters, at Effort, la Rochelle,
Nantes and Grenoble. What was still more remarkable, the work which
these three revolutionary chemists were preparing had only one object
in view, namely, to draw up a code for future conspirators, leaving
everyone perfectly free to agitate against anything he individually
chose, provided he conformed to the main rules of the association.
The following is a résumé of these rules: "Since might is not right,
and the Bourbons have been brought back by foreigners, the Carbonari
band together to secure for the French nation free exercise of their
rights--namely, the right to choose what form of government may be most
suited to the country's needs."
It will be seen that nothing was clearly defined; but in reality a
Republican form of government was being shadowed forth. This, however,
was not to be proclaimed until thirty-seven years later, and only then
to be struck dead from its birth, by the very hand to which it owed its
being. It need hardly be said that the hand was the hand of Napoleon:
it is a family tradition of the Napoleons to strangle liberty as soon
as it has produced a first consul or a president; even as in the case
of those beautiful aloes which only flower once in fifty years and
perish when they have brought forth their brilliant but ill-fated
blossoms, which are but barren and deadly flowers.
The division of the Carbonari into higher, central and private lodges
is well known. None of these lodges was allowed to contain more than
twenty members--thus avoiding the penal law directed against societies
which comprised over twenty members. The Higher Lodge was composed
of the seven founders of the Carbonari. These seven founders were
Bazard, Dugier, Flottard, Buchez, Carriol, Joubert and Limperani. Each
Carbonaro was expected to keep a pistol and fifty cartridges in his
house, and he had to hold himself in readiness to obey orders sent him
by his commanders from the Higher Lodge, whether by day or night.
While the Society of Carbonari was being organised with its upper
lodge of seven members above named, something of the same kind of
thing was being established in the Chamber--only less active, vital
and determined in character. It was called the _Comité directeur_, and
its title sufficiently indicates its purpose. This _Comité directeur_
was composed of General la Fayette, his son Georges de la Fayette,
of Manuel, Dupont (de l'Eure), de Corcelles senior, Voyer-d'Argenson,
Jacques Koechlin, General Thiars and of MM. Mérilhou and Chevalier.
For military questions the committee added Generals Corbineau and
Tarayre. The _Comité directeur_ and the _Higher Lodge_ were in close
communication with one another. At first their meetings were only
intended for general discussions; for the young Carbonari treated the
old Liberals with contempt, and the latter reciprocated the feeling.
The Carbonari charged the Liberals with feebleness and vacillation;
the Liberals, in their turn, accused the Carbonari of impertinence and
frivolity. They might as well have accused one another of youth and
age. Furthermore, the Carbonari had organised the whole plot of Béfort
without saying a single word to the _Comité directeur._
However, Bazard was in league with la Fayette, and well aware of the
general's burning desire after popularity. Now, popular feeling in
1821 was on the side of the party in opposition. The farther they
advanced, the more popular they became. Bazard wrote to the general
asking him to authorise the use of his name as of one in co-operation
with them, and the request was granted. La Fayette possessed this
admirable characteristic: he yielded at the first pressure, without
having taken the initiative personally, and he went farther and
more to the point than most people. The secrets of the Upper Lodge
were revealed to him and he was asked to join it. He accepted the
invitation, was received into their number and became one of the most
active conspirators of Béfort. In this he risked his head, just as much
as did the humblest of the confederates. The boldest members of the
Chamber followed him and enlisted with him in the same cause. These
were Voyer-d'Argenson, Dupont (de l'Eure), Manuel, Jacques Koechlin and
de Corcelles senior. They did not have long to wait for a recognition
of their self-sacrificing devotion. When the Revolution was set afoot
they adopted the groundwork of the constitution of the year III. Five
directors were appointed, and these five were la Fayette, Jacques
Koechlin, de Corcelles senior, Voyer-d'Argenson and Dupont (de l'Eure).
Carbonarism had its military side; indeed it was more military than
civil in character. They relied strongly and with good reason upon the
army in all their movements. The army was abandoned by the king, abused
by the princes, sacrificed to privileged parties and three parts given
over to the Opposition. Lodges were established in most regiments,
and everything was so well arranged that even the very movements of
the regiments served as a means of propaganda. In leaving the town
where the president of the military lodge had been quartered for three
months, six months or a year, as the case might be, he received half
a piece of money, the other half being sent on in advance to the town
where his regiment was going--either to a member of the Higher or
Central Lodge. The two halves of the coin were fitted together, and the
conspirators were thus put into communication. By this means soldiers
became commercial travellers, as it were, charged with the spread of
revolution throughout France. Thus we shall find that all insurrections
which broke out were as much military as civil.
Towards the middle of 1821 all plans were laid for a rising in Bordeaux
as well as at Béfort, at Neuf-Brisach as well as at Rochelle, at Nantes
and Grenoble, at Colmar and at Toulouse. France was covered with an
immense network of affiliated societies, so that the revolutionary
influence had expanded, unnoticed but active, into the very heart of
social life, from east to west, from north to south. From Paris--that
is, from the Higher Lodge--all orders were issued for the animation
and support of the propaganda; as the pulsations of the heart send
the life-giving blood to all parts of the human body. Everything
was in readiness. Information had been received that, thanks to the
influence of four young men who had been previously compromised in the
rebellion of 19 August, the 29th infantry, a regiment consisting of
three battalions, severally stationed at Béfort, Neuf-Brisach and at
Huningue, had been won over to the Carbonari. These four young men were
a guardsman called Lacombe, Lieutenant Desbordes and Second-Lieutenants
Bruc and Pegulu, to whom were joined a lawyer named Petit Jean and a
half-pay officer called Roussillon. Furthermore, there was Dermoncourt,
who had been placed on half-pay and who lived in the market town of
Widensollen, a mile away from Neuf-Brisach; he was engaged in the
coming insurrection to lead the light cavalry which was stationed in
barracks at Colmar. So much for the military operations.
The civil side of the conspiracy was also in motion and conducted by
MM. Voyer-d'Argenson and Jacques Koechlin, who possessed factories,
near Mulhouse and Béfort, and who exercised great influence over their
workpeople, almost all of whom were discontented with the Government
that had given back to the nobles their ancient privileges, and to
the priests their old influence. These malcontents were eager to take
part in any rising into which a leader might be ready to urge them.
So, towards the close of 1821, the Higher Lodge in Paris received the
following news:--
At Huningue, Neuf-Brisach and at Béfort the 29th infantry was
stationed, commanded by Lieutenants Carrel, de Gromely and Levasseur;
at Colmar was the light cavalry headed by Dermoncourt; at Strasbourg
they had a stand-by in the two regiments of artillery and in the
battalion of _pontoniers_ at Metz in a regiment of engineers, and
better still the military school: finally, at Spinal they had a
regiment of cuirassiers, MM. Koechlin and Voyer-d'Argenson could be
relied upon not only for a rising at Mulhouse, but also all along the
course of the Rhine where private lodges were stationed; making a total
of more than 10,000 associates amongst the retired officers, citizens,
customs officers and foresters: all were men of determined character
and ready to sacrifice their lives.
About this time, my poor mother, on reckoning up her income, found we
were so poor that she bethought her of our friend Dermoncourt, in hopes
that he might perhaps have still some relations with the Government.
So she decided to write and beg him to make inquiries with respect to
that unpaid pension of 28,500 francs owing to my father for the years
VII and VIII of the Republic. The letter reached Dermoncourt about 20
or 22 December--eight days before the outbreak of insurrection. He
replied by return of post, and on 28 December we received the following
letter:--
"MY GOOD MADAME DUMAS,--What the devil possesses you
to imagine that I could have maintained relations with
that rabble of scoundrels who manage our affairs at
the present moment? Nay, thank heaven, I have retired,
I have nothing at all to do either by means of pen or
sword with what is going on. Therefore, my dear lady, do
not count on a poor devil like me for anything beyond
my own miserable pittance of 1000 francs per annum; but
look to God, who, if He does watch what goes on here
below, should be very angry at the way things are done.
There are two alternatives: either there is no good God,
or things would not go on as they are; but I know you
believe in the good God--so put your trust in Him. One of
these days things will be altered. Ask your son, who must
be a tall lad by now, and he will tell you that there is
a saying by a Latin author called Horace to the effect
that after rain comes fine weather. Keep your umbrella
open, then, a little longer and, if fine weather comes,
put it down and count on me.
"Be hopeful; without hope, which lingers at the bottom of
every man's heart, there would be nothing left to decent
folk but to blow out their brains.
"BARON DERMONCOURT"
This letter said very little and yet it said a good deal: my mother
gathered that something lay behind it and that Dermoncourt was in the
secret.
On the day following the receipt of our letter this is what was
happening at Béfort: carrying out the plan of the conspirators, the
signal was sent to Neuf-Brisach and Béfort at the same moment; and at
the identical hour and day, or rather the same night, these two places
took up arms and raised the tricolour standard. The insurrection took
place on the night of 29-30 December. A Provisional Government was
proclaimed at Béfort and then at Colmar. This Government, as we have
already mentioned, consisted of Jacques Koechlin, General la Fayette
and Voyer-d'Argenson. Twenty-five or thirty Carbonari had received
orders to set out to Béfort. They started without a moment's delay, and
arrived on the 28th in the daytime. On the 28th, just as Joubert, who
had preceded them to Béfort, was preparing to leave the town in order
to lead them in, he met M. Jacques Koechlin. M. Koechlin was looking
for him to tell him a singular piece of news. M. Voyer-d'Argenson,
who with himself and General la Fayette formed the revolutionary
triumvirate, had indeed come, but had shut himself up in his factories
in the valleys behind Massevaux, stating that he did not wish to
receive anyone there, but that the instructions brought were to be kept
for him.
"All very well, but what are we to do?" asked Joubert.
"Listen," said M. Koechlin: "I will go myself to Massevaux; I will look
after d'Argenson and draw him out, willy nilly, whilst you must try by
what means you can to hurry up the arrival of la Fayette."
Whereupon the two conspirators left, the one, M. Koechlin, post haste,
as he said, to Massevaux, a little village off the main road, perhaps
seven miles from Béfort and equidistant from Colmar; the other,
Joubert, posted off to Lure, a small town on the road to Paris, twenty
leagues from Béfort. There a carriage stopped, and he recognised two
friendly faces inside, those of two brothers, great painters and true
patriots, Henri and Ary Scheffer; with them was M. de Corcelles junior.
Joubert very soon made them acquainted with what was happening. Ary
Scheffer, the intimate friend of General la Fayette, retraced his steps
to go and look for him at his castle of La Grange. The others returned
with Joubert to Béfort to announce that the movement was delayed. Thus
the 29th and 30th passed in useless waiting. On the night between those
two days General Dermoncourt, becoming impatient, sent to Mulhouse an
under-foreman called Rusconi, belonging to M. Koechlin. This man had
been once an officer in the Italian army and had followed Napoleon to
Elba. He was sent to inquire whether anything had been learnt by M.
Koechlin. Rusconi set off at ten o'clock a.m., covered nine stiff
leagues of country in driving rain, and reached M. Koechlin's house at
ten o'clock that night: he found him entertaining ten of his friends,
and he took him aside to inquire whether he had news of the conspiracy.
M. d'Argenson would not budge; there was no news yet from la Fayette;
it was supposed he was being detained by Manuel. In the meantime
General Dermoncourt was to be patient, and he should be informed when
it was time to act.
"But," demanded the messenger, "for whom is he to act?"
"Ah! there lies the difficulty," replied M. Koechlin: "the generals
want Napoleon II.; the others, with Manuel at their head, want
Louis--Philippe; General la Fayette wants a Republic ... but let us
first overthrow the Bourbons and then all will come clear."
Rusconi left, hired a carriage, journeyed all that night, reached
Colmar at ten o'clock next day, and from Colmar he went on foot to
Widensollen, where he found the general ready for action. Nothing had
been done during his absence. This is what had happened. Ary Scheffer
had found la Fayette at La Grange. The general, who belonged to the
Chamber and whose absence would have been remarked if he stayed away
longer, did not wish to reach Béfort until the decisive moment. He
promised to set out that night on one condition--that M. Ary Scheffer
should make all speed to Paris to persuade Manuel and Dupont (de
l'Eure), the last two members of the Provisional Government, to come
and take part in the rebellion; he must also bring back Colonel
Fabvier, a man of judgment and courage, to take command of the
insurgent battalions. Ary Scheffer started for Paris, met Manuel,
Dupont and Fabvier, and got Manuel and Dupont to promise to set out
that same night. He took Colonel Fabvier in his carriage and again set
out after la Fayette, followed by Manuel and Dupont.
Whilst this string of carriages was bearing the revolution at full
speed along the road from Paris, whilst M. Jacques Koechlin, preceded
by Joubert and Carrel, was nearing Béfort, and whilst Colonel Pailhès,
unaware of the arrival of Fabvier, was preparing to take command of
the troops, and Dermoncourt, with horse ready saddled, awaited the
signal, Second-Lieutenant Manoury, one of the chief associates, was
changing guard with one of his comrades and installing himself at
the main gate of the town, at the same time that the other initiated
members were warning their friends that the moment had come and that
in all probability the rising would take place during the night of 1
January 1822. Now the evening of 1 January had come. Only a few hours
more and all would burst forth. In the meanwhile night approached. At
eight o'clock the roll was called. After roll-call the non-commissioned
adjutant, Tellier, went the round of all the sergeant-majors, ordering
them to their rooms, where each company put flints to the muskets,
packed knapsacks and prepared to march. The sergeant-majors returned
to supper with Manoury. Twenty paces from the place where Manoury and
his sergeant-majors supped, Colonel Pailhès went to the _Hôtel de la
Poste_ to dine with a score of the insurgents, and as the host of a
posting-inn is generally one of the principal ringleaders, no one was
anxious, and the dining-room was decorated with tricoloured flags and
cockades and eagles. And, indeed, what had they to fear? No officer
occupied the barracks, and at midnight the insurrection broke out.
Alas! none knew what an accumulation of unlooked-for misfortunes was to
escape out of the Pandora's box which men call fate!...
A sergeant whose six months' furlough had expired that evening and
who in consequence of his long absence knew nothing of what was going
forward, reached Béfort on the evening of 1 January just in time
to answer to the roll-call and to assist in the preparations. When
these preparations were accomplished, he wished to show proof of his
promptness and zeal to his captain by going to tell him the regiment
was ready.
"Ready for what?" asked the captain.
"To march."
"To march where?"
"To the place which has been appointed."
The captain gazed at the sergeant.
"What is it you say?" he asked again.
"I say that the knapsacks are packed, captain, and the flints are in
the muskets."
"You are either drunk or mad," cried the captain; "take yourself off to
bed."
The sergeant was just about to withdraw, in fact, when another officer
stopped him and questioned him more minutely, gathering by the accuracy
of his replies that it was really the truth.
"How could such an order be given unless the two captains had known of
it?"
"Who gave the order?... Doubtless it must have been the
lieutenant-colonel?"
"No doubt," the sergeant replied mechanically.
Both the captains rose and went to find the lieutenant-colonel. He was
equally astonished and as much in the dark as they were.
The order must have come from M. Toustain, deputy-governor and
commander-at-arms of the fortress of Béfort. They all three went to M.
Toustain. He had not heard anything of the rumour they brought him; but
suddenly an idea struck him. It was a plot. The two captains at once
rushed back to the barracks to order the knapsacks to be unstrapped,
the flints to be taken out of the muskets and the soldiers to be
confined to the barracks.
In the meantime the deputy-governor visited the posts. The two officers
rushed to the barracks and M. Toustain began his inspection. One of the
first posts he came to was that guarded by Manoury. As he came nearer
he saw by the light of his lantern a group of four people. This group
struck him as looking suspicious and he accosted them. They were four
young men dressed like citizens. The king's lieutenant interrogated
them.
"Who are you, gentlemen?" he asked.
"We are citizens of this neighbourhood, commandant."
"What are your names?"
Whether from carelessness or from surprise, or whether they did not
want to lie, these four youths gave their names--
"Desbordes, Bruc, Pegulu and Lacombe."
The reader will recollect that they had all four been in the
insurrection of 19 August, and their names had been blazoned in the
papers, so they were perfectly familiar to the deputy-governor; he
called to the head of the guard, Manoury, and ordered him to arrest
the four young men, to put them under a guard, and then to give him
five men to go out and clear the entrance to the suburbs. Scarcely
had the deputy-governor gone a hundred steps, when he perceived what
looked to be twenty-five or thirty persons taking flight: some of them
were in uniform; amongst them he recognised an officer of the 29th. M.
Toustain sprang on him and stretched out his hand to seize him by the
collar; but the officer freed himself, and presenting a pistol at close
quarters, fired full at M. Toustain's chest, the bullet hitting the
cross of St. Louis, which it broke and flattened. The shock was quite
enough, however, to knock down the commandant. But he soon got to his
feet, and as he saw that his five men were no match against thirty, he
returned to the town and stopped at the guard-house to take up Bruc,
Lacombe, Desbordes and Pegulu. All four had disappeared: Manoury, one
of the officers, had set them free and had disappeared with them. The
deputy-governor marched straight to the barracks and put himself at
the head of the battalion. This he led to the market-place, sending
his company of grenadiers to guard the gate of France and to arrest
whoever should attempt to go out. But he was already too late--for all
the insurgents were outside the town. After leaving his two chiefs,
the non-commissioned officer who had let out everything met Adjutant
Tellier, he who had given the order to pack up knapsacks and put flints
to the guns. He told him what had happened and the measures that had
been taken. Tellier realised that all was lost: he ran to the _Hôtel de
la Poste_, and opening the door, shouted out in the midst of the supper
party the terrible words--
"All is discovered!"
Two officers, Peugnet and Bonnillon, still misbelieved and offered to
go to the barracks; indeed, they went. Ten minutes later they ran
back: the news was but too true, and there was only just time for
flight. And they fled.
That was how the deputy-governor encountered Peugnet and his friends
outside the gate of France, for it was Peugnet whom he tried to arrest
and who fired the pistol-shot which flattened the cross of St. Louis.
Pailhès and his supper companions had scarcely left the hotel when
Carrel and Joubert arrived upon the scene. They had come to announce,
in their turn, the discovery of the conspiracy. They only found in
the dining-room Guinard and Henri Scheffer, who were just leaving it
themselves. But not being natives of that country, they did not know
where to fly! Guinard, Henri Scheffer and Joubert mounted a carriage
and took the road to Mulhouse. M. de Corcelles junior and Bazard set
out to meet la Fayette in order to turn him back. When near Mulhouse,
Carrel quitted his three companions, took to horse and returned to
Neuf-Brisach, where his battalion was stationed. At the gate of Colmar
he met Rusconi on the road, the same fellow who, the evening before,
had been at Mulhouse.
General Dermoncourt still waited, placing Rusconi as sentinel to bring
news to him. Rusconi knew Carrel and learnt from him that all had been
discovered and that the conspirators were fleeing.
"But where will you go?" asked Rusconi.
"_Ma foi_, I shall go to Neuf-Brisach to resume my duties."
"That does not seem to me a prudent course."
"I shall keep a look-out and at the first alarm I shall decamp.... Have
you any money?"
"I have a hundred louis belonging to the conspiracy, take fifty of
them."
"Give them to me, and then take my horse and go and warn the general."
The exchange was made, and Carrel continued his journey on foot, while
Rusconi reached the general's country house at a gallop. The general
was just rising. Rusconi acquainted him with the failure of the
enterprise at Béfort, but Dermoncourt refused up to the last to believe
it.
"Ah, well," he said, "the failure of Béfort must mean success at
Neuf-Brisach."
"But, general," said Rusconi, "perhaps the news has already got abroad
and measures have been taken to frustrate everything?"
"Then go to Colmar to make inquiries, and I will go to Neuf-Brisach:
return here in two hours' time."
Each went his way. When Rusconi reached Colmar he entered the _Café
Blondeau_ for news. All was known.
Whilst making his inquiries, a magistrate who was a friend of General
Dermoncourt found means to warn him that two orders of arrest had been
issued, one against himself and the other against the general. Rusconi
did not wait to learn more, but set off immediately for Widensollen. He
arrived at midnight, and found the general was sleeping peacefully: he
had been to Neuf-Brisach and had satisfied himself that all attempts
at rising were now impossible after what had occurred at Béfort.
At Rusconi's fresh news and at his wife's urgent entreaty, General
Dermoncourt decided to leave Widensollen for Heiteren. There he sought
refuge with a cousin, an old army-teacher. Two hours after their
departure the soldiers and a magistrate appeared at Widensollen.
Baroness Dermoncourt sent the general word of this by their gardener,
urging him to fly without a moment's loss of time. They discussed the
possibility of crossing the Rhine, and decided that on the following
day they would pretend to go on a hunting excursion among the islands
which lay opposite Geiswasser. Geiswasser is a small hamlet situated on
this side of the Rhine, inhabited by fishers and customs officers.
The pretext was all the more plausible as the islands were teeming
with game and General Dermoncourt had, together with M. Koechlin of
Mulhouse, rented several of them for shooting. At dawn they set out
with dogs and guns. They had hired the boatmen overnight and found them
ready. About nine o'clock, in a mist which prevented seeing ten paces
ahead, they embarked and told the boatmen to make for mid-stream. They
landed at one of the islands. Rusconi and Dermoncourt alone remained in
the boat, whilst those who had nothing to be afraid of pretended to go
and shoot.
"Now, my men, I have business on the other side the Rhine," the general
said to the boatmen. "You must have the goodness to take me across."
The boatmen looked at each other and smiled.
"Willingly, general," they replied. A quarter of an hour later Rusconi
and Dermoncourt were in Breisgau.
When he had put foot on the Grand Duke of Baden's territory, he drew a
handful of sovereigns from his pocket and gave them to the boatmen.
"Thanks, general," they replied; "but there was really no need for
that. We are true Frenchmen and we would not like to see a brave man
like yourself shot."
These boatmen knew about Béfort and were perfectly aware that they were
conducting fugitives and not a hunting party.
The general retreated to Freiburg and from there he went to Bâle. On 5
and 6 January we read the full details of the conspiracy in the papers.
The name of Dermoncourt took such a prominent part in the proceedings
that we were quite sure if he were arrested his arrears of half-pay
would never be settled.
These particulars explained his letter, and we were able to understand
what sort of fine weather to expect after the rain. Instead of the
barometer rising to "Set fair," it had dropped to "Stormy."
My poor mother was obliged to keep her umbrella open, as Dermoncourt
had advised. Only the umbrella was such a dilapidated one that it no
longer served to ward off showers.
In other words--to abandon our metaphor--we had come to the end of our
resources.
But hope was still left me.
You ask from what quarter?
I will tell you.
CHAPTER VII
My hopes--Disappointment--M. Deviolaine is appointed forest-ranger to
the Duc d'Orléans--His coldness towards me--Half promises--First cloud
on my love-affairs--I go to spend three months with my brother-in-law
at Dreux--The news waiting for me on my return--Muphti--Walls and
hedges--The summer-house--Tennis--Why I gave up playing it--The wedding
party in the wood
I hoped that de Leuven would be able to get our comedies and melodramas
put upon the stage.
M. de Leuven, his father, finding that no stir was made about his
presence in France, made up his mind to risk returning to Paris.
Adolphe naturally followed his father. His departure, which under any
other circumstances would have filled me with despair, now overwhelmed
me with delight, our ideas being what they were. De Leuven took away
our _chefs-d'œuvre_: we never doubted that the directors of the
various theatres for which they were destined would receive them with
enthusiasm!
Thanks to our two vaudevilles and our drama, we would turn aside a
tributary of that Pactolus which, since 1822, had watered M. Scribe's
dominions. I would set sail on that tributary, with my mother, and
rejoin de Leuven in Paris. There a career would open before me, strewn
with roses and bank-notes. It can be imagined how anxiously I waited
Adolphe's first letters. These first letters were slow in coming.
I began to feel uneasy. At last one morning the postman (or rather
post-woman, an old dame, whom we called "Mother Colombe") turned her
steps in the direction of our house. She held a letter in her hand;
this letter was in Adolphe's handwriting and bore the Paris postmark.
The directors--for reasons Adolphe could not fathom--did not put
themselves out to make that fuss over our _chefs-d'œuvre_ he thought
he had the right to expect of them. However, Adolphe did not despair
of getting them a hearing. If he could not succeed in this, he would
have to submit the manuscripts to the critics, which would be most
humiliating! In spite of the gleams of hope which still shone through
the epistle, the general tone of the letter was doleful. In conclusion,
Adolphe promised to keep me well posted concerning his doings.
I awaited a second letter. The second letter was more than a month
in coming. And then, alas! practically all hope had fled. The _Dîner
d'amis_, borrowed from M. Bouilly, had not sufficient plot; the _Major
de Strasbourg_ was too much like the _Soldat Laboureur_, which had just
been played at the Variétés with such great success.
And as for the _Abencérages_, every boulevard theatre had received a
play on that subject for the last ten, fifteen, or twenty years.
Even supposing, therefore, that ours were received, it did not carry us
far.
Still, we had not yet lost all hope in the matter of the _Dîner d'amis_
and the _Major de Strasbourg._
After vain attempts to gain access at the Gymnase and the Varietés, we
tried the Porte-Saint-Martin, the Ambigue-Comique and the Gaieté.
As for the unlucky _Abencérages_, its fate was sealed.
I shed as bitter a tear over it as Boabdil shed over Grenada, and I
awaited Adolphe's third letter with very gloomy forebodings.
Our cup of humiliation was full to the brim: we were refused
everywhere. But Adolphe had several plays on the way with Théaulon,
with Soulié and with Rousseau. He was going to try to get them played,
and when played, he would use the influence gained by his success to
demand the acceptance of one of our efforts. This was but poor comfort
and uncertain expectancy. I was greatly cast down.
In the meantime an event had taken place which would have filled
me with high spirits under any other circumstances. M. Deviolaine
was appointed keeper of the forests of the Duc d'Orléans; he left
Villers-Cotterets and went to Paris to take over the management of the
forestry department. Two ways of helping me lay open to him: he could
take me into his office, or he could give me open air work. Unluckily,
since my affair with Madame Lebègue, the family had given me the cold
shoulder. This did not discourage my mother, who saw an opening for me
in one or other of these two careers, from approaching M. Deviolaine.
It will be remembered that M. Deviolaine, although he was not an old
soldier, could never disguise the truth. He replied to my mother--
"Why, certainly, if your rascal of an Alexandre were not an idle lad, I
could find a berth for him; but I confess I have no confidence in him.
Besides, after the goings on there have been, not necessarily his, but
in which at all events he has not denied a share, everybody here would
make a dead set against me."
Still my mother urged her case. She saw her last hope fading.
"Very well, then," said M. Deviolaine; "give me some time to think over
things, and later we will see what can be done."
I awaited my mother's return with the same impatience with which I had
awaited Adolphe's letters. The result was not more satisfactory.
Two days before, we had received a letter from my brother-in-law, who
was a receiver at Dreux: he invited me to spend a month or two with
him. We had become so poor, alas! that the economy my absence would
produce would go a long way towards compensating my mother for her loss
at my departure. It was, moreover, my first absence: my mother and I
had never been parted except during that wonderful visit to Béthisy,
when the Abbé Fortier had given me my first lessons in hunting. There
was also another person in the town from whom it was a cruel wrench to
tear myself. It can be guessed to whom I refer.
Although our _liaison_ had lasted more than three years, counting
more than a year of preliminary attentions, I still loved Adèle very
dearly, and the azure of our sky had hardly had so much as a light
cloud upon it during that period--an almost unique experience in the
annals of a courtship. Yet the poor girl had been feeling sad for some
time. While I was but nineteen, she was already twenty years old; and
our love-making, though delightful child's play, not only promised
nothing for her future, but rather compromised it. As no one thought
ill of our relations with each other, Adèle had received two or three
offers of marriage, all of which she declined, either because they did
not quite meet her views or because she would not sacrifice our love to
them. Was she not in danger of suffering from the same disappointment
which a certain hero of our acquaintance, almost a fellow-countryman,
experienced? After having despised perch, carp and eel, would she not
be compelled to sup with frogs? The prospect was not alluring, hence
her melancholy. Poor Adèle! I perceived that my departure was as
necessary for her welfare as for my own. We wept abundantly, she more
than I, and it was quite natural she should shed the most tears, seeing
she was to be consoled the soonest.
My going away was settled. We had now reached the month of July 1822.
Only another week--eight days and eight nights!--a last week of
happiness, remained to me; for some presentiment warned me that this
week would be the last. The moment of parting came. We vowed fervently
never to forget one another for one single hour; we promised to write
to each other at least twice a week. Alas! we were not rich enough
to afford the luxury of a letter a day. At last we said our final
farewell. It was a cruel farewell--a separation of hearts even more
than a corporeal separation.
I cannot explain how I got from Villers-Cotterets to Dreux--although
I can recollect the most trivial details of my youth, almost of my
babyhood. It is evident I must have gone through Paris, since that
is the direct route; but how could I forget having passed through
Paris? I cannot tell whether I stopped there or not. I have not the
faintest recollection whether I saw Adolphe or not. I know I left
Villers-Cotterets, and I found myself at Dreux! If anything could have
distracted my attention, it would have been that stay with my sister
and my brother-in-law. Victor, as I have already mentioned, was a
delightful fellow, full of wit, of repartee, of resource. But, alas!
there were too empty places in my heart which were difficult to fill.
I stayed two months at Dreux. I was there at the beginning of the
shooting season. They told me a story of a three-legged hare, a sort
of enchanted creature seen by all sportsmen, known by all sportsmen,
shot at by all sportsmen; but after each shot the queer beast shook
its ears and only ran the faster. This hare was all the better known,
I might say all the more popular, because it was nearly the only one
in the countryside. We had not gone a quarter of a league from the
house, on the 1st of September, before a hare rose up near me. I gave
chase, I fired and it rolled over. My dog brought it to me: it was the
three-pawed hare! The sportsmen of Dreux united in giving me a grand
dinner. The death of this strange hare, and certain shots that brought
down two partridges at the same time, gave me a reputation in the
department of Eure-et-Loir which has lasted until to-day. But none of
these honours showered upon me, however exalted they were, could make
me stay beyond the 15th of September.
Adèle's letters had become less and less frequent. Finally they ceased
altogether.
I left on the 15th of September. I do not remember any more than about
my going, whether I went back through Paris or not. I found myself back
at Villers-Cotterets, and the news that met me on my arrival was--
"Do you know that Adèle Dalvin is going to be married?"
"No, I had not heard it, but it is quite likely," I replied.
Oh! what were the elegies of Parny on Éléonore's faithlessness, or
Bertin's lamentations on the infidelity of Eucharis; oh, my God, how
bloodless they seemed, when I tried to re-read them, with my own heart
wounded!
Alas! poor Adèle! she was not making a love match: she was going to
marry a man double her own age; he had lived for years in Spain, and he
had brought home a small fortune. Adèle was making a prudent marriage.
I determined to see her the very night I returned. You remember how I
paid my visits to Adèle. I entered the usual way, by slipping back the
bolt of the lock, I opened the door, I met Muphti again, and he gave me
such a greeting that he almost betrayed me by his demonstrations; then,
with my heart thumping as it had never yet beaten, I scaled the wall
and leapt over the two hedges. I felt quite ill when I was once more in
the garden; I leant against a tree to get my breath. Then I went to the
pavilion; but the nearer I drew, and the better I could see things in
the darkness, the more I felt my heart tighten. The shutters were quite
wide open, instead of being closed; the window, instead of being shut,
was half open. I leant on the window-sill: everything was dark inside.
I pushed the two flaps, I knelt on the sill. The room was empty: I felt
the bedside with my hands; the bed was unoccupied. It was evident that
Adèle had guessed I would come, that she had deserted the room, leaving
it easy for me to gain an entrance therein, in order to show me her
intentions. Ah yes! I guessed ... I understood everything. What good
could it do to meet, since all was over between us? I sat down on the
bed and I gave thanks to God for the gift of tears, since He had willed
us to endure sorrow.
The marriage was fixed for fifteen days hence. During those fifteen
days I kept almost entirely to the house. I went to the park on Sunday,
but only to play tennis. I was very fond of that game, as of all games
of skill; I was rather good at it; for I had very strong muscles and I
could hold out through the longest game and sometimes even longer; this
strength of mine was a terror to other players. On this particular day,
when I wanted to overcome my mental feelings by great physical fatigue,
I gave myself up to the game with a kind of frenzy. One ball, which I
sent as high as a man, hit one of the players and knocked him down;
he was the son of a _brigadier de gendarmerie_, called Savard. We ran
up to him, and found that the ball had luckily hit him on the top of
his shoulder, a little above the biceps, just where the shirt-sleeve
gatherings come. Had it gone six inches higher I should have killed him
on the spot, for it would have reached his temple. I threw down my
racquet and I gave up the game: I have never played it since. I went
home, and I tried to find distraction in working. But I could not set
myself to my task: one works with heart and mind combined. Adolphe had
possession of my thoughts; Adèle was in the act of breaking my heart.
The wedding-day drew near; I could not stay in Villers-Cotterets on
that day. I arranged a bird-snaring party with an old comrade of mine,
a playmate of my younger days, who had been somewhat neglected since de
la Ponce and Adolphe had not only taken hold of my affections but were
influencing my life. He was a harness-maker called Arpin.
In the evening we went to prepare our tree: it was in a lovely copse,
a quarter of a league or so from the pretty village of Haramont, which
I have since attempted to make famous in _Ange Pitou_ and _Conscience
l'innocent._ At the foot of this tree, all whose branches we cut off,
to make way for our lime twigs, we built a hut of branches and covered
it with fern fronds, Next day, we were at our post before daybreak;
when the sun rose and shone on our stiff tree, we found the sport
had begun. It was a strange thing that, although when younger I had
taken such pleasure in this sport that I often lay sleepless the night
before, this present snaring had no power to distract my heart from the
anguish weighing upon it.
O Sorrow, thou sublime mystery by which a man's spirit is raised and
his soul expanded! Sorrow, without which there would be no poetry, for
poetry is nearly always made up of joy and hope in equal parts, with an
equivalent amount of sorrow!
Sorrow, which leaves its trace for life; a furrow moistened by tears,
whence Prayer springs, the mother of those three heavenly, noble
daughters, whose names are Faith, Hope and Charity! The benediction of
a poet is ever thine, O Sorrow!
We had taken bread and wine with us; we had breakfasted and had dinner;
the catch was plentiful, and would have been entirely satisfactory
at any other time. We had reached the day's end, the hour when the
blackbird whistles or the robin sings, when the first shadows creep
silently to the heart of the wood;--suddenly I was startled from my
reverie (if one can so call a formless chaos of thoughts through which
no light had shone) by the sharp sound of a violin and by happy shouts
of laughter. Violin and laughter came nearer, and I soon began to see
through the trees that a player and a wedding party were coming from
Haramont and going towards Villers-Cotterets; they were taking a narrow
side-path, and would pass within twenty paces of me--young girls in
white dresses, youths in blue or black clothes, with large bouquets and
streaming ribbons.
I put my head out of our hut and uttered a cry. This wedding party
was Adèle's! The young girl with the white veil and the bouquet of
orange blossom who walked in front, and gave her arm to her husband,
was Adèle! Her aunt lived at Haramont. After mass they had been to the
wedding breakfast with the aunt; they had gone by the high road in the
morning; they were returning at night by the shorter way. This short
cut, as I have said, ran within twenty paces of our hut. What I had
fled from had come to find me! Adèle did not see me; she did not know
that she was passing near me: she was leaning against the shoulder of
the man to whom she now belonged in the eyes of man and of God, while
he had his arm round her waist and held her closely to him.
I gazed for a long time on that file of white dresses which, in the
growing darkness, looked like a procession of ghosts. I heaved a sigh
when it had disappeared. My first dream had just vanished, my first
illusion been shattered!
CHAPTER VIII
I leave Villers-Cotterets to be second or third clerk at Crespy--M.
Lefèvre--His character--My journeys to Villers-Cotterets--The
_Pélerinage à Ermenonville_--Athénaïs--New matter sent to
Adolphe--An uncontrollable desire to pay a visit to Paris--How
this desire was accomplished--The journey--Hôtel des
Vieux-Augustins--Adolphe-_Sylla_--Talma
During my absence a place had been offered me as second or third clerk,
I do not know exactly which, with M. Lefèvre, a lawyer at Crespy. It
was a very desirable place, because the clerks were lodged and boarded.
My keep had become such a burden on my poor mother, that she consented
for the second time to part with me in order to save my food. She made
up my little bit of packing--not much bigger than a Savoyard's on
leaving his mountains--and off I set. It was three and a half leagues
from Villers-Cotterets to Crespy: I did the journey on foot one fine
evening, and I duly arrived at M. Lefèvre's.
M. Lefèvre was, at that period, a fairly good-looking man of
thirty-four or thirty-five, with dark brown hair, a very pale
complexion, and a well-worn appearance physically. You could recognise
he was a man who had lived a long while in Paris, who had taken many
permissible pleasures, and still more forbidden ones. Although M.
Lefèvre was confined to a little provincial town, he might be styled
a lawyer of the old school: he had ceremonious ways with his clients,
ceremonious manners with us, lofty domineering airs with the world at
large. M. Lefèvre seemed to say to all those who had business with him,
"Pray appreciate the honour I am bestowing upon you and your town, in
condescending to be a lawyer in the capital of a canton when I might
have been in practice in Paris."
There was one thing that specially called forth from me feelings of
admiration for M. Lefèvre, and it was this: he went to the capital, as
they call it in Crespy, some eight or ten times a year, and he never
lowered himself to take the diligence: when he wanted a conveyance he
would call the gardener. "Pierre," he would say, "I am going to-morrow,
or this evening, to Paris; see that the post-horses are ready in the
chaise at such and such an hour."
Pierre would go: at the appointed hour the horses would arrive, rousing
the whole district with their bells; the postillion, who still wore
a powdered wig and a blue jacket with red lapels and silver buttons,
would fling himself clumsily, heavily-booted, into the saddle, M.
Lefèvre would stretch himself nonchalantly in the carriage, wrapped in
a big cloak, take a pinch of snuff from a gold box, and say with an air
of careless indifference, "Go on!" and at the word the whip cracked,
the bells jingled and the carriage disappeared round the corner of the
street for three or four days. M. Lefèvre never told us the day or hour
of his return: he would return unawares, for he delighted in taking his
world by surprise.
But M. Lefèvre was not a bad sort of man. Although cold and exacting,
he was just; he rarely refused holidays when they were asked for, but,
as we shall see, he never pardoned holidays taken without leave.
My brother-in-law's mother lived at Crespy, so I had a ready entree
into the society of that little town. Alas! alas! what a different
world it was from our three-tiered society of Villers-Cotterets of
which I have spoken, and above all from our own charming little circle
of friends! All the good family of Millet, with whom we had taken
shelter during the first invasion, had disappeared: the mother, the two
brothers, the two sisters, had all left Crespy and lived in Paris. I
have since come across the mother and the eldest sister: they were both
in want. I was dreadfully bored in the heart of that ancient capital
of Valois! so sick of it that I very often returned home to sleep at
my mother's at Villers-Cotterets, when Saturday evening came, taking
my gun for a shoot on the way; then I would shoulder my gun at six
on Monday morning, and, shooting all the time, I returned to Maître
Lefèvre's before the office opened.
Thus things went on for three months. I had a pretty room looking into
a garden full of flowers; the evening sun shone into the room; I had
paper, ink and pens in abundance on my table; the food was good, I
looked well enough, and yet I felt I could not possibly continue to
live thus.
During one of my Sunday excursions I turned in the direction of
Ermenonville. Ermenonville is about six leagues from Crespy, but what
were six leagues to such legs as mine! I visited the historic places
of M. de Girardin, the desert, the poplar island, the tomb of the
Unknown. The poetic side to this pilgrimage revived my poor drooping
Muse a little, like a wan, sickly butterfly coming out of its chrysalis
in January instead of May. I set to work. I wrote partly in prose,
partly in verse, and under the inspiration of a charming young society
damsel named Athénaïs--who knew nothing about it-a bad imitation of
the _Lettres d'Émilie_ by Demoustier, and of the _Voyages du chevalier
Berlin_. I sent the work to Adolphe when it was finished. Since I
could not achieve success by the stage, I might perhaps attain it by
publishing. I gave it the essentially novel title of _Pélerinage à
Ermenonville._ Adolphe, naturally enough, could not do anything with
it; he lost it, never found it again, and so much the better. I cannot
recollect a single word of it.
As a matter of fact, Adolphe was not succeeding any better than I was.
All his hopes fell to the ground, one after another, and he wrote me
that we should never do anything unless we were together. But, to be
together, it would be necessary to leave Crespy for Paris, and how was
this to be done, in the state of my purse, which even on those happy
days when my mother sent me some money never contained more than eight
or ten francs.
So it was a material impossibility. But infinite are the mysteries of
Providence. One Saturday in the month of November, M. Lefèvre announced
to us in his usual fashion--by ordering Pierre to have the horses ready
by seven next morning--that he was going to pay one of his monthly
visits to Paris. Almost simultaneously with his giving this order, at
the conclusion of dinner (another of his habits), the cook came and
told me a friend wanted to see me. I went out. It was Paillet, my old
head clerk; like myself, he had left Maître Mennesson. He was living
temporarily on his farm at Vez, where he lodged in the top of a tower,
compared with which the tower of Madame Marlborough, however vaunted
it may be, is a mere trifle. The tower of Vez was really wonderful,
the only remains left standing of a stout castle of the twelfth
century--the ancient nest of vultures now peopled by rooks. Paillet had
come over on horseback, to learn the price of corn, I believe. He was
from time to time head clerk in the provinces or second clerk in Paris;
but his real business, his actual life, was that of a property-owner.
We took a turn round the ramparts. I was in full tide of pouring out
my grievances to this good friend, who loved me so devotedly, and who
sympathised with me to the utmost, when, all of a sudden, I struck my
forehead and burst out with--
"Oh, my dear fellow, I have an idea ...!"
"What is it?"
"Let us go and spend three days in Paris."
"And what about the office?"
"M. Lefèvre goes to Paris himself to-morrow; he usually stays away two
or three days; we shall have returned in two or three days' time."
Paillet felt in his pockets and drew out twenty-eight francs.
"There, that is all I possess," he said. "And you?"
"I? I have seven francs."
"Twenty-eight and seven make thirty-five! How the deuce do you think we
can go to Paris on that? We need thirty francs, to begin with, simply
for a carriage to get there and back."
"Wait a bit: I know a way...."
"Well?"
"You have your horse?"
"Yes."
"We will put our things into a portmanteau, we will go in our
hunting-clothes, with our guns, and we will shoot along the route; we
can live on the game, and so it will cost us nothing."
"How do you make that out?"
"It is simple enough: from here to Dammartin, surely we can kill a
hare, two partridges and a quail?"
"I hope we can kill more than that."
"So do I, hard enough, but I am putting it at the lowest. When we reach
Dammartin we can roast the hinder portion of our hare, we can jug the
front half, and we can drink and eat."
"And then?"
"Then?... We will pay for our wine, our bread and our seasoning with
the two partridges, and we will give the quail to the waiter as a
tip.... There will only remain your horse to trouble about! Come, come,
for three francs a day we shall see wonders."
"But what the dickens will people take us for?"
"What does that matter?--for scholars on a holiday."
"But we only have one gun."
"That will be all we shall need: one of us will shoot, the other will
follow on horseback; in this way, as it is only sixteen leagues from
here to Paris, it will only mean eight for each of us."
"And the keepers?"
"Ah! that is our worst difficulty. Whichever of us is on horseback must
keep watch; he will warn the one who is poaching. The cavalier must
dismount from his horse, the sportsman will get up, spur with both
heels and clear out of the place at a gallop. The keeper will then come
up to the cavalier, and finding him walking along with his hands in his
pockets, will say, 'What are you doing here, sir?' 'I?... You can see
quite well for yourself.' 'Never mind, tell me.' 'I am walking.' 'Just
a minute ago, you were on horseback.' 'Yes.' 'And now you are on foot?'
'Yes.... Is it against the law for a man first to ride and then to
walk?' 'No, but you were not alone.' 'Quite possible.' 'Your companion
was shooting.' 'Do you think so?' 'Good heavens! why, there he is on
horseback carrying his gun.' 'My dear sir, if he is there with his gun
on horseback, run after him and try to stop him.' 'But I can't run
after him and stop him, because he is on horseback and I am on foot.'
'In that case you will be wise, my friend, to go to the nearest village
and drink a bottle of wine to our health.' And at this, one of us will
hold out a twenty-sous piece to the honest fellow, which we will reckon
in among our profit and loss; the gamekeeper will bow to us, go and
drink our health, and we shall pursue our journey."
"Well, I never! that is not badly conceived," cried Paillet. "... They
tell me you are writing things."
I heaved a sigh. "It is exactly for the purpose of going to ask de
Leuven for news of the plays I have written that I want to go to
Paris.... And then, once in Paris----"
"Oh!" interrupted Paillet, "once in Paris, I know a little hotel, rue
des Vieux-Augustins, where I usually put up, and where I am known; once
in Paris, I shall not be anxious."
"Then it is settled?"
"Why, yes!... it will be a joke."
"We will start for Paris?"
"We will."
"Very well, then, better still, let us start to-night, instead of
to-morrow! We can sleep at Ermenonville, and to-morrow evening, leaving
Ermenonville early, we shall be in Paris."
"Let us leave to-night."
We went our way, Paillet to his inn, to have his horse saddled; I to
Maître Lefèvre's, to get my gun and to put on my shooting-clothes. A
shirt, a coat, a pair of trousers and a pair of boots were sent off by
the third clerk to Paillet, who stuffed them into a portmanteau; these
things accomplished, I shouldered my gun and awaited Paillet outside
the town. Paillet soon appeared. It was too late for shooting: our only
thoughts were to gain the country. I jumped up behind. Two hours later,
we were at Ermenonville.
It was the second or third time I had visited the _Hôtel de la Croix_:
so far as I can remember, I was not a profitable customer; but my
antecedents were by no means bad, rather the reverse. We were well
received. An omelette, a bottle of wine and as much bread as we wanted,
constituted our supper. Next day, our account, including the horse's
stabling, came to six francs--leaving twenty-nine. Paillet and I looked
at one another, as much as to say, "Dear me! how money does fly!"
And after two or three sage noddings of the head, we continued our
journey, going across country to Dammartin, where we meant to lunch.
Lunch did not trouble us: it lay in the barrel of our gun, and we set
forth to find it. The country round Ermenonville is full of game and
well guarded; so we had hardly gone a quarter of a league before I had
killed two hares and three partridges with six shots of my gun. I ought
to confess with due humility that these two hares and three partridges
belonged to M. de Girardin-Brégy.
Now, when my dog was retrieving the third partridge, Paillet gave
the prearranged signal. The figure of a gamekeeper appeared on the
skyline, boldly defined against the white fleecy sky, like one of those
shepherds or country rustics in huge leggings that Decamps or Jadin put
in their landscapes, as a contrast to a lonely and twisted elm-tree.
The manœuvre had already been discussed. In an instant I was on
horseback, spurring the horse with both heels, and carrying off with
me the incriminating plunder. The dialogue between Paillet and the
gamekeeper was lengthy and animated; but it ended as I had predicted.
Paillet majestically drew a twenty-sous piece from the common purse,
and our total expenditure had reached the sum of seven francs. That was
our loss; but on the profit side of our account we had two hares and
three partridges. Paillet joined me again; I remained on horseback and
he took his turn at hunting. So we alternated. By ten o'clock in the
morning we were at Dammartin, with three hares and eight partridges.
Of the two gamekeepers we ran across since our last, one had loftily
refused the twenty sous, the other had basely accepted. Our funds were
now reduced to twenty-seven francs. But we were more than half-way
there; and we had three hares and eight partridges to the good! As I
had foreseen, we paid our way, and generously, with a hare and three
partridges. We could have paid our way in larks.
By eleven o'clock, we were off again, and we made straight tracks for
Paris, which we reached at half-past ten that night, I on foot and
Paillet on horseback, with four hares, a dozen partridges and two
quails. We had a marketable value of thirty francs of game with us.
When we reached the _Hôtel des Vieux-Augustins_, Paillet made himself
known and imposed his conditions. He told our host we had made a big
bet with some Englishmen. We had wagered that we could go to Paris
and back without spending a halfpenny, so we wished to gain the bet
by selling our game to him. He engaged to board and put us up, horse
and dog included, for two days and two nights, in exchange for our
twelve partridges, four hares and two quails. Besides this, when we
left he put us up a pasty and bottle of wine. On these conditions, our
host declared he would make a good thing out of us, and offered us a
certificate to certify that, at least while with him, we had not spent
a son. We thanked him and told him our Englishmen would take our word
for it.
Paillet and I took our bearings and went to get a bath. With all
economy possible, we had had to deduct the sum of three francs fifty
from our remaining balance; we were thus left with twenty-three francs
fifty. We had spent rather less than a third of our wealth; but we had
arrived, and bed and board were assured us for _forty-eight hours_.
In spite of the fatigue of the journey, I slept but ill: I was in
Paris! I envied my dog, who, laid down at the foot of my bed, free from
imagination, tired out in body, and indifferent to his resting-place,
was taking a nap. Next day I woke up at seven o'clock. In a twinkling I
was dressed.
De Leuven lived in the rue Pigale, No. 14. It was nearly a league from
the rue des Vieux-Augustins, but, good gracious! what did that matter?
I had covered ten or a dozen leagues the day before, without reckoning
the ins and outs, and I could surely manage one to-day. I set out.
Paillet had business of his own to attend to; I had mine. We should
probably meet at dinner-time, or perhaps not until night. I left the
rue des' Vieux-Augustins by the rue Croix-des-Petits-Champs and walked
straight ahead. I saw a passage where a crowd of people were going in
and coming out. I went down seven or eight steps until I thought I
was lost. I wanted to ascend again, but I felt ashamed. I continued
on my way and alighted on the rue Valois. I had made acquaintance,
first go off, with the ugliest passage in Paris, the passage of the
rue Neuve-des-Bons-Enfants. I went down another passage which opened
out before me, and I found myself in the Palais-Royal. I went all
round it: half the shops weren't opened. I stopped in front of the
Théâtre-Français and I saw on the poster--
"To-morrow, Monday, _Sylla_, a Tragedy in verse, in five
acts, by M. de Jouy."
I vowed fervently that somehow or other I would get access to the
common purse and I would see _Sylla._ All the more because I read in
large letters on the same poster--
"M. TALMA will take the part of Sylla"
However, since it would be much better to go with the help' of Adolphe,
I immediately inquired my way to the rue Pigale, and started off for
it. After many turnings and twistings, I reached my destination at
about nine in the morning. Adolphe was not yet up; but his father was
walking in the garden. I went up to him. He stopped, let me approach,
held out his hand to me, and said--
"So you have come to Paris, then?"
"Yes, Monsieur de Leuven."
"For some stay?"
"For two days."
"What have you come for?"
"I have come to see two people--Adolphe and Talma."
"Ah! is that so? You have become a millionaire, then, or you would not
commit such extravagances."
I told M. de Leuven how Paillet and I had accomplished the journey. He
looked at me for a minute, then he said--
"You will get on, you have will-power. Go and wake Adolphe; he will
take you to see Talma, who will give you tickets; then come back and
lunch together here."
That was the very thing I wanted. I took stock of the interior
topography of the house, and rushed off. I only opened two wrong doors
before I found Adolphe's: one was Gabriel Arnault's door; the other,
Louis Arnault's. I lost my way on the first landing: Louis put me
right. I reached Adolphe's room at last. Adolphe slept like the Seven
Sleepers. But had I had to deal with Epimenides I would have wakened
him. Adolphe rubbed his eyes, and could not recognise me.
"Come, come," I said, "it is really I; wake up and get dressed. I want
to go to Talma."
"To Talma! What for? You don't mean to say you have a tragedy to read
to him?"
"No, but I want to ask him for some tickets."
"What is he playing in now?"
I fell from my state of exaltation. Adolphe, living in Paris, did
not know what Talma was acting! What was the idiot thinking of? No
wonder he had not yet got my _Pélerinage d'Ermenonville_ placed, or
any of our plays acted. Adolphe got out of bed and dressed himself. At
eleven o'clock we were ringing the bell of a house in the rue de la
Tour-des-Dames. Mademoiselle Mars, Mademoiselle Duchesnois and Talma
all lived side by side. Talma was dressing, but Adolphe was an habitué
of the house: they let him in. I followed Adolphe, as Hernani followed
Charles-Quint; I, naturally, behind Adolphe.
Talma was extremely short-sighted: I do not know whether he saw me
or not. He was washing his chest: his head was almost shaved--this
astonished me greatly, for I had heard it said, many times, that in
_Hamlet_, when the father's ghost appears, Talma's hairs could be
seen standing on end. I must confess that Talma's appearance, under
the above conditions, was far from being artistic. But when he turned
round, with his neck bare, the lower part of his body wrapped in a
large sort of white linen wrapper, and he took one of the corners of
this mantle and drew it over his shoulder, half veiling his breast,
there was something so regal in the action that it made me tremble.
De Leuven laid bare our request. Talma took up a kind of antique
stiletto, at the end of which was a pen, and signed an order for two
seats for us. It was a member's order. Besides the actors' order which
were received on days when they were acting, members had the right to
give two free tickets every day.
Then Adolphe explained who I was. In those days I was just the son
of General Alexandre Dumas: but that was something. Besides, Talma
remembered having met my father at Saint-Georges's. He held out his
hand to me, and I longed to kiss it. Full of theatrical ambitions as I
was, Talma was like a god to me--an unknown god, it is true, as unknown
as Jupiter was to Semele; but a god who appeared to me in the morning,
and who would reveal himself to me at night. Our hands clasped. Oh,
Talma! if only you had been twenty years younger or I twenty years
older! But at that time the whole honour was mine.
Talma! I knew the past: you could not guess the future. If anyone had
told you, Talma, that the hand you had just held was to write sixty to
eighty dramas, in each of which you--who were looking out for rôles
all your life--would have found one which you would have acted to
perfection, you would not have allowed the poor youth to go away thus,
blushing at having seen you, proud at having shaken hands with you! But
how could you see anything in me, Talma, since I had not discovered it
myself?
CHAPTER IX
The theatre ticket--The _Café du Roi_--Auguste
Lafarge--Théaulon--Rochefort--Ferdinand Langlé--People who dine
and people who don't--Canaris--First sight of Talma--Appreciation
of Mars and Rachel--Why Talma has no successor--_Sylla_ and the
Censorship--Talma's box--A cab-drive after midnight--The return to
Crespy--M. Lefèvre explains that a machine, in order to work well,
needs all its wheels--I hand in my resignation as his third clerk
I went back to de Leuven's house hugging the order in my pocket. With
the possibility of procuring another by the means of it, I would not
have parted with it for five hundred francs! I was filled with pride
at the thought of going to the Théâtre-Français, with an order signed
"_Talma_." We lunched.
De Leuven raised great difficulties about going to the play: he had an
engagement with Scribe, a meeting with Théaulon, an appointment with I
don't know how many other celebrities besides, that night. His father
shrugged his shoulders, and de Leuven raised no more objections. It
was arranged that we were to go to the Français together; but, as I
wanted to see the Musée, the Jardin des Plantes and the Luxembourg,
he arranged to meet me at the _Café du Roi_ at seven o'clock. The
_Café du Roi_ formed the corner of the rue de Richelieu and the rue
Saint-Honoré. We shall have more to say about it later.
After luncheon, I set out by myself and went to the Musée. At six
o'clock, I had tramped the tourists' round--that is to say, having
entered the Tuileries by the gate of the rue de la Paix, I had passed
under the Arch, visited the Musée, gone along the Quays, examined
Nôtre-Dame inside and out, made Martin climb up his tree and, under
cover of being a stranger--a title which only a blind man or an
evilly disposed person could dispute--I had forced my way through the
gates of the Luxembourg.
I returned at six o'clock to the hotel, where I found Paillet. Upon
my word, we dined well! Our host was a conscientious man, and he gave
us soup, a _filet_ with olives, roast beef and potatoes _à la maître
d'hôtel_, the worth of two hares and four partridges, which we absorbed
under other guises. I urged Paillet in vain to come to the Français
with us: Paillet was formerly a second clerk in Paris; he had friends,
or perhaps it would be more truthful to say girl-friends, of other
days, to see again; he refused the offer, pressing though it was, and
I set off for the _Café du Roi_, not comprehending how there could
be anything more vitally important than to see Talma, or, if one had
already seen him, than to see him again. I reached our rendezvous some
minutes before Adolphe. Paillet had foreseen that I should probably
have some indispensable expenses: he had generously drawn three francs
from the common purse and given them to me. After this, a total of
twenty francs fifty centimes remained to us.
I went into the _Café du Roi_ and sat down at a table; I calculated
what would cost me the least; I concluded that a small glass of brandy
would give me the right to wait, and at least to look as though I
was a habitué of the establishment; so I ordered one. Now, I had
never managed to swallow one drop of that abominable liquor; however,
although obliged to order it, I was not obliged to drink it. I had
scarcely taken my seat when I saw one of the regular customers (I
judged he was a regular attender, because I saw that he had nothing at
all on the table before him) get up and come towards me. I uttered a
cry of surprise and joy: it was Lafarge. Lafarge had gone a step lower
towards poverty: he wore a coat shiny at the elbows, trousers shiny at
the knees.
"Why, surely I am not mistaken, it is really you?" he said.
"It is really I. Sit down here."
"With pleasure. Ask for another glass."
"For you?"
"Yes."
"Take mine, my dear fellow. I never touch brandy."
"Then why did you ask for it?"
"Because I did not like to wait till Adolphe came in without asking for
something."
"Is Adolphe coming here?"
"Yes. We are going to see _Sylla_ together."
"What! you are going to see that filth?"
"Filth, _Sylla_? Why, it is an enormous success!"
"Yes, the success of a wig."
"The success of a wig?" I echoed, not understanding. "Certainly! Take
away from Sylla his Napoleonic locks, and the piece would never be
played through."
"But surely M. de Jouy is a great poet?"
"In the provinces he may be thought great, my dear boy; but here we are
in Paris, and we see things differently."
"If he is not a great poet, he is at least a man of infinite resource."
"Well, perhaps he might have been thought clever under the Empire; but
you see, my boy, the wit of 1809 is not the wit of 1822."
"Still, I thought that _l'Ermite de la Chaussée-d'Antin_ was written
under the Restoration."
"Why, certainly; but do you think _l'Ermite de la Chaussée-d'Antin_ was
by M. de Jouy?"
"Most certainly, since it appears under his name."
"Oh, what sweet simplicity!"
"Then who wrote it?"
"Why, Merle."
"Who is Merle?"
"Hush! he is that gentleman you see over there in a big coat and a
wide-brimmed hat. He has ten times more wit than M. de Jouy."
"But if he has ten times M. de Jouy's wit, how is it he has not a
quarter of his reputation?"
"Oh, because, you see, my boy, reputations, as you will find later, are
not made either by wit or talents, but by coteries.... Just ask for
the sugar; brandy makes me ill if I drink it neat. Waiter! some sugar."
"But if brandy upsets you, why drink it?"
"What else can one do?" said Lafarge; "if one passes one's life in
cafés, one must drink something."
"So you spend all your time in cafés?"
"Nearly all: I can work best so."
"In the midst of all the noise and talking?"
"I am used to that: Théaulon works thus, Francis works thus, Rochefort
works thus, we all work thus. Don't we, Théaulon?"
A man of thirty to thirty-five, who had been writing rapidly, on quarto
paper, something that looked like dialogue, at this interpellation
lifted up his pale face--red about the cheek bones--and looked at us
kindly.
"Yes," he said; "what is it? Ah! it is you, Lafarge? Good-evening." And
he resumed his work.
"Is that Théaulon?" I asked.
"Yes; there's a man of ready wit for you! only he squanders and abuses
his ready wit. Do you know what he is doing now?" "No."
"He is writing a comedy, in five acts, in verse."
"What! he can write poetry here, in a café?"
"In the first place, dear boy, this is not a café: it is a kind
of literary club; everybody you see here is either an author or a
journalist."
"Well," I said to Lafarge, "I have never seen a café where they
consumed so little and wrote so much."
"The deuce, you are framing already. You almost made a witticism just
then, do you know?"
"Well, then, in return for the witticism I have almost perpetrated,
tell me who some of these gentlemen are."
"My dear fellow, it would be useless: you need to be a Parisian to be
acquainted with reputations which are wholly Parisian."
"But I assure you, my dear Auguste, I am not so provincial in such
matters as you think I am."
"Have you heard of Rochefort?"
"Yes. Has he not composed some very pretty songs and two or three
successful vaudevilles?"
"Exactly so. Very well! he is that tall thin man, who is playing
dominoes."
"Both players are of equal thinness."
"Ah! quite true!... He is the one whose face always plays and never
wins." A way Rochefort had, gave rise to this joke on the part of his
friend Lafarge. I say gave rise to, and not _excused._
"And who is his partner?"
"That is Ferdinand Langlé."
"Ah! little Fleuriet's lover?"
"Little Fleuriet's lover!... Hang it, you talk like a Parisian.... Who
has primed you so well?"
"Hang it all! Adolphe ... he does not appear to hurry himself."
"You are in a hurry, then?"
"Of course I am, and naturally enough: I have never seen Talma."
"Ah, well, dear boy, hurry up and see him."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because he is _wearing out_ horribly."
"What do you mean by _wearing out_?"
"I mean he is getting old and growing rusty."
"I see! But the papers say he has never been fresher in talent or more
beautiful in facial expression."
"Do you believe what the papers say?"
"Oh!"
"You may be a journalist yourself one day, my boy."
"Well, if I am?"
"Why, then, when you are, you will see how things come about."
"And ...?"
"And you will not believe what the papers say--that is all!" At this
moment the door opened, and Adolphe poked his head in.
"Be quick," he said; "if we do not hurry, we shall find the curtain
raised."
"Oh! it is you at last!"
I darted towards Adolphe.
"You have forgotten to pay," said Lafarge.
"Oh! so I have.... Waiter, how much?"
"One small glass, four sous; six sous of sugar, ten."
I drew ten sous from my pocket and flung them on the table, and then,
the lighter by fifty centimes, I rushed out of the café.
"You were with Lafarge?" said Adolphe.
"Yes.... What is wrong with him?"
"What do you mean by what is wrong with him?"
"He told me that M. de Jouy was an idiot, and Talma a Cassandra."
"Poor Lafarge!" said Adolphe; "perhaps he had not dined."
"Not dined! Is he reduced so low as that?"
"Pretty nearly."
"Ah!" I said, "that explains many things!... MM. de Jouy and Talma dine
every day, and poor Lafarge cannot forgive them for it."
Alas! I have since seen critics, besides Lafarge, who could not forgive
those who dined.
I had dined so well that I had quite as much of the spirit of
indulgence in my stomach as curiosity in my mind.
We went into the theatre. The hall was crowded, although it was about
the eighth performance of the play. We had terrible difficulty in
obtaining seats: our places were unreserved. Adolphe generously gave
forty sous to the woman who showed people to their seats, and she
wriggled a way in so well for us that she found us a corner in the
centre of the orchestra, into which we slipped like a couple of wedges,
which we must have resembled in shape and appearance. We were only
just in time, as Adolphe had said. Scarcely were we seated before the
curtain went up.
It is odd, is it not, that I should be talking of _Sylla_ to the public
of 1851? "What was _Sylla_?" a whole generation will exclaim. O Hugo!
how true are your lines upon Canaris! They come back to me now, and, in
spite of my will, flow from my pen:--
"Canaris! Canaris! nous t'avons oublie!
Lorsque sur un héros le temps c'est replie,
Quand ce sublime acteur a fait pleurer ou lire,
Et qu'il a dit le mot que Dieu lui donne à dire;
Quand, venus au hasard des revolutions,
Les grands hommes out fait leurs grandes actions,
Qu'ils ont jeté leur lustre étincelant ou sombre,
Et qu'ils sont, pas à pas, redescendus dans l'ombre;
Leur nom s'éteint aussi! Tout est vain, tout est vain!
Et jusqu'à ce qu'un jour le poëte divin,
Qui peut créer un monde avec une parole,
Les prenne et leur rallume au front une auréole,
Nul ne se souvient d'eux, et la foule aux cent voix,
Qui, rien qu'en les voyant, hurlait d'aise autrefois,
Hélas! si par hasard devant elle on les nomme,
Interroge et s'étonne, et dit:'Quel est cet homme?'"
No! it is true M. de Jouy was not a hero, although he had fought
bravely in India, nor a great man, although he had composed _l'Ermite
de la Chaussée-d'Antin_ and _Sylla_; but M. de Jouy was a man of parts,
or rather he possessed talent.
This was my conviction then. Thirty years have rolled by since the
evening on which I first saw Talma appear on the stage. I have just
re-read _Sylla_ and it is my opinion to-day. No doubt M. de Jouy
had cleverly turned to account both the historical and the physical
likeness. The abdication of _Sylla_ called to mind the emperor's
abdication; Talma's head the cast of Napoleon's. No doubt this was the
reason why the work met with such an enthusiastic reception, and ran
for a hundred times. But there was something else besides the actor's
looks and the allusions in the tragedy; there were fine lines, good
situations, a _dénoûment_ daring in its simplicity. I am well aware
that very often the fine lines of one period are not the fine lines of
another,--at least so people hold,--but the four lines which the poet
puts into the mouth of Roscius are fine lines for all time: Roscius,
the Talma of those last days of Rome, who had witnessed the fall of
the Roman Republic, as Talma had witnessed the fall of the French
Republic:--
"Ah! puisse la nature épargner aux Romains
Ces sublimes esprits au-dessus des humains!
Trop de maux, trop de pleurs attestent le passage
De ces astres brûlants nés du sein de l'orage!"
Then, again, very fine are the lines that the proscriber, who arrests
with his powerful hand the proscription, which was going to include
Cæsar, addresses to Ophelia when Ophelia says to him:--
"Oserais-je, à mon tour, demander à Sylla
Quel pouvoir inconnu, quelle ombre protectrice,
Peut dérober César à sa lente justice?
_Sylla._ J'ai pesé comme vous ses vices, ses vertus,
Et mon œil dans César voit plus d'un Marius!
Je sais de quel espoir son jeune orgueil s'énivre;
Mais Pompée est vivant, César aussi doit vivre.
Parmi tous ces Romains à mon pouvoir soumis,
Je n'ai plus de rivaux, j'ai besoin d'ennemis,
D'ennemis fibres, fiers, dont la seule presence
Atteste mon génie ainsi que ma puissance;
L'histoire à Marius pourrait m'associer,
César aura vécu pour me justifier!"
When I saw Talma come on to the stage I uttered a cry of astonishment.
Oh yes I it was indeed the impassive mask of the man I had seen pass in
his carriage, his head bent low on his breast, eight days before Ligny,
whom I saw return the day following Waterloo. Many have tried since,
with the aid of the green uniform, the grey overcoat and the little
hat, to reproduce that antique medallion, that bronze, half Greek,
half Roman; but not one of them, O Talma I possessed your lightning
glance, with the calm and imperturbable countenance upon which neither
the loss of a throne nor the death of thirty thousand men could imprint
one single line of regret or trace of remorse. Those who have never
seen Talma cannot imagine what he was: in him was the combination of
three supreme qualities which I have never found elsewhere combined
in one man--simplicity, power and poetry; it was impossible to be
more magnificent, with the perfect grace of an actor; I mean that
magnificence which has in it nothing personal attaching to the man,
but which changes according to the characters of the heroes he is
called upon to represent. It is impossible, I say, to find any actor
so endowed with this type of magnificence as was Talma. Melancholy in
_Orestes_, terrible in _Néro_, hideous in _Gloucester_, he could adapt
his voice, his looks, his gestures to each character. Mademoiselle
Mars was but the perfection of the graceful; Mademoiselle Rachel was
but the imperfection of the beautiful; Talma was the ideally great.
Actors lament that nothing of theirs survives themselves. O Talma!
I was a child when on that solemn evening I saw you for the first
time, as you came upon the stage and your gestures began, before that
row of senators, your clients; well, of that first scene, not one of
your actions is effaced from my memory, not one of your intonations
is lost.... O Talma! I can see you still, when these four lines are
uttered by Catiline:--
"Sur d'obscurs criminels qu'pargne ta clémence,
Je me tais; mais mon zèle eclaire ma prudence;
Le nom de Clodius sur la liste est omis,
C'est le plus dangereux de tous tes ennemis!"
I can see you still, Talma!--may your great spirit hear me and thrill
with pleasure at not being forgotten!--I can see you still as with
scornful smile upon your lips you slowly diminish the distance that
separates you from your accuser; I can see and hear you still as you
place your hand upon his shoulder, and, draped like one of the finest
statues in Herculaneum or Pompeii, you utter these words to him, in
the vibrating voice which could penetrate to the very depths of one's
being:--
"Je n'examine pas si ta haine enhardie
Poursuit dans Clodius l'époux de Valérie;
Et si Catiline, par cet avis fatal,
Pretend servir ma cause ou punir un rival."
O Talma! your incisive and sonorous intonation took root in the hearts
of all who heard you. It was indeed a fearfully ungrateful and barren
soil which at that unpoetical period of the Empire was left you to
cultivate, for, had you been disheartened by its sterility, there would
have been nothing great, or fine, or wide-spreading, during all those
thirty years in which you wore the Roman sandal or the Greek. Is it
that the spirit of genius, with all its absorbing power, is mortal like
that of the upas tree or the manchineel?
I should like to continue speaking of Sylla to the end of the play in
order to render tribute to the prodigious talent Talma possessed, and
to follow him in the twofold development of his creation of the rôle of
Sylla and the details of that rôle. But what would be the good? Who is
interested in these things nowadays? Who amuses himself by recalling
thirty years after its extinction the intonation of an actor as he
declaimed line or hemistich or word? What does it matter to M. Guizard,
to M. Léon Faucher, to the President of the Republic, in what manner
Talma replied to Lænas, when he was sent by the Roman populace to learn
from Sylla the number of the condemned, and asked him--
"Combien en proscris-tu, Sylla?"
What matters it to those gentlemen to know how Talma uttered his
"Je ne sais pas!"
At the most, they can only remember the cadence of voice with which
General Cavaignac pronounced those four words when he was asked how
many people he had transported untried out of France. And let us
remember that it is now but two years since the Dictator of 1848
uttered these four words, which richly deserve to hold a place in
the annals of history beside those of Sylla. But though Talma was by
turns simple, great, magnificent, it was in the abdication scene that
he rose to actual sublimity. It is true that the abdication of Sylla
recalled that at Fontainebleau, and, we repeat, we have no doubt that
the resemblance between the modern and the ancient Dictator produced
an immense impression upon the vulgar public. This opinion was held by
the Censorship of 1821, which cut out these lines because they were
supposed to refer in turn to Bonaparte, first consul, and Napoleon, the
emperor.
These to Bonaparte:--
... C'était trop pour moi des lauriers de la guerre;
Je voulais une gloire et plus rare et plus chère.
Rome, en proie aux fureurs des partis triomphants,
Mourante sous les coups de ses propres enfants,
Invoquait à la fois mon bras et mon génie:
Je me fis dictateur, je sauvai la patrie!"
These to Napoleon:--
"J'ai gouverné le monde à mes ordres soumis,
Et j'impose silence à tous mes ennemis!
Leur haine ne saurait atteindre ma mémoire,
J'ai mis entre eux et moi l'abîme de ma gloire."
When one re-reads at the end of ten, twenty, or thirty years either
the lines which the Censorship forbade, or the plays it suppressed,
one is completely amazed at the stupidity of Governments. As soon
as a revolution has cut off the seven heads of a literary hydra,
governments make all speed to collect them again and to stick them
back on the trunk that feigned death whilst taking care not to lose
its hold on life. As though the Censorship had ever annihilated any
of the works that have been forbidden to be played! As though the
Censorship had strangled _Tartuffe, Mahomet, le Mariage de Figaro,
Charles IX., Pinto, Marion Delorme_ and _Antony_! No, when one of these
virile pieces is hounded from the theatre where it has made its mark,
it waits, calm and erect, until those who have proscribed it fall or
pass away, and, when they are fallen or dead, when its persecutors
are hurled from their thrones, or entering their tombs, the calm and
immortal daughter of Genius, omnipotent and great, enters the enclosure
that the mannikins have closed against her, from whence they have
disappeared, and their forgotten crowns being too small for her brow
become the sport of her feet.
The curtain fell in the midst of immense applause. I was stunned,
dazzled, fascinated. Adolphe proposed we should go to Talma's
dressing-room to thank him. I followed him through that inextricable
labyrinth of corridors which wind about the back regions of the
Théâtre-Français, and which to-day unfortunately are no longer unknown
regions to me. No client who ever knocked at the door of the original
Sylla felt his heart beat so fast and so furiously as did mine at the
door of the actor who had just personated him. De Leuven pushed open
the door. The great actor's dressing-room lay before us: it was full of
men whom I did not know, who were all famous or about to become famous.
There was Casimir Delavigne, who had just written the last scenes of
_l'École des Vieillards;_ there was Lucien Arnault, who had just had
his _Régulus_ performed; there was Soumet, still very proud of his
twofold success of _Saül_ and of _Clytemnestre_; there was Népomucène
Lemercier, that paralysed sulky brute, whose talents were as crooked as
his body, who in his healthy moments had composed _Agamemnon, Pinto,_
and _Fridegonde,_ and in his unhealthy hours _Christophe Colomb, la
Panhypocrisiade,_ and _Cahin-Caha;_ there was Delrieu, who had been at
work upon the revised version of his _Artaxerch,_ since 1809; there
was Viennet, whose tragedies made a sensation for fifteen or twenty
years on paper, to live and agonise and die within a week, like him
whose reign lasted two hours and whose torture three days; there was,
finally, the hero of the hour, M. de Jouy, with his tall figure, his
fine white head, his intellectual and kindly eyes, and in the centre
of them all--Talma in his simple white robe, just despoiled of its
purple, his head from which he had just removed the crown and his two
graceful white hands with which he had just broken the Dictator's palm.
I stayed at the door, blushing vividly, and very humble.
"Talma," said Adolphe, "we have come to thank you." Talma looked round
out of his eye-corners. He perceived me at the door.
"Ah! ah!" he said; "come in."
I took two steps towards him.
"Well, Mr. Poet," said he, "were you satisfied?"
"I am more than that, monsieur ... I am wonder-struck." "Very well, you
must come and see me again, and ask for more seats."
"Alas! Monsieur Talma, I leave Paris to-morrow or the day after at
latest."
"That is a pity! you might have seen me in _Régulus._ ... You know I
have put _Régulus_ on the bill for the day after to-morrow, Lucien?"
"Yes," Lucien replied.
"And cannot you stop till the evening of the day after to-morrow?"
"Impossible: I have to return to the provinces."
"What do you do in the provinces?"
"I dare not tell you: lama lawyer's clerk ..."
And I heaved a deep sigh.
"Bah!" said Talma, "you must not give way to despair on that account!
Corneille was clerk to a procurator!... Gentlemen, allow me to
introduce you to a future Corneille."
I blushed to the eyes.
"Lay your hand on my forehead: it will bring me good luck," I said to
Talma.
Talma laid his hand on my head.
"There--so be it," he said. "Alexandre Dumas, I baptize thee poet in
the name of Shakespeare, of Corneille and of Schiller!... Go back
to the provinces, go back to your office, and if you really have a
vocation, the angel of Poetry will know how to find you all right
wherever you be, will carry you off by the hair of your head like the
prophet Habakkuk and will take you where fate determines."
I took Talma's hand and tried to kiss it.
"Why, see!" he said, "the lad has enthusiasm and will make something of
himself;" and he shook me cordially by the hand.
I had nothing more to wait for there. A longer stay in that
dressing-room crowded with celebrities would have been both
embarrassing and ridiculous: I made a sign to Adolphe, and we took our
leave. I wanted to fling my arms round Adolphe's neck in the corridor.
"Yes, indeed," I said to him, "be sure I shall return to Paris. You may
depend upon that!"
We went down by the little twisting staircase, which has since been
condemned; we left by the black corridor; we went along the gallery
then called the galerie de Nemours, and called to-day I know not what,
and we came out on the place du Palais-Royal.
"There, you know your way," said Adolphe,--"the rue Croix-des-Petits
Champs, the rue Coquillière, the rue des Vieux-Augustins. Good-night; I
must leave you: it is late, and it is a long way from here to the rue
Pigale.... By the way, remember we lunch at ten and we dine at five."
And Adolphe turned round the corner of the rue Richelieu and
disappeared. It was indeed late; all lights were out, and only a few
belated people were passing across the place du Palais-Royal. Although
Adolphe had told it me, I did not in the least know my way, and I was
extremely scared when I found myself alone. It must be confessed I
felt very uneasy at being out in the streets of Paris at such a late
hour; for I had heard heaps of stories of night attacks, robberies and
assassinations, and, with my fifty sous in my pocket, I trembled at
the thought of being plundered. A struggle went on in my mind between
courage and fear. Fear won the day. I hailed a cab. The cab came up to
me and I opened the door.
"Monsieur knows it is past midnight?" said the driver.
"Of course I know it," I replied; and I added to myself, "That is the
very reason I am taking a cab."
"Where is the country squire going?"
"Rue des Vieux-Augustins, _Hôtel des Vieux-Augustins."_
"What?" said the driver.
I repeated it.
"Is monsieur quite sure he wants to go there?"
"The deuce I do!"
"In that case, off we go!"
And lashing his horses, at the same time clicking with his tongue as do
all drivers, he urged them into a canter.
Twenty seconds later, he pulled up, got down from his seat, and opened
the door.
"Well ...?" I asked.
"Well, my country lad, we are at your destination, rue des
Vieux-Augustins, _Hôtel des Vieux-Augustins"_
I raised my head, and there, beyond doubt, was the house. I then
understood the driver's astonishment at seeing a great bumpkin of
twenty, who seemed in no way unsound of limb, wanting to take a cab
from the place du Palais-Royal to go to the rue des Vieux-Augustins.
But as it would have been too absurd to avow that I did not know the
distance between the two places, I said in a stout voice--
"All right--what is the fare?"
"Oh, you know the fare well enough, young fellow."
"If I knew it, I should not ask you."
"It is fifty sous, then."
"Fifty sous?" I exclaimed, horrified at having incurred such useless
expense.
"Certainly, young chap, that is the tariff."
"Fifty sous to come from the Palais-Royal here!"
"I warned monsieur it was past midnight."
"There you are," I said; "take your fifty sous."
"Aren't you going to give me a _pourboire_, young fellow?"
I made a movement to strangle the wretch; but he was strong and
vigorous. I reflected that perhaps he would strangle me, so I stayed
my hand. I rang the bell, the door was opened, and I went inside. I
felt dreadfully stricken with remorse for having squandered my money,
especially when I considered that even had Paillet spent nothing on his
side, we only had twenty francs fifty centimes left. Paillet had been
to the Opera, and had spent eight francs ten sous. Only a dozen francs
were left us.
We looked at each other with some anxiety.
"Listen," he said: "you have seen Talma, I have heard _la Lampe
mervilleuse_; this was all you wanted to see, all I wanted to hear: if
you agree, let us leave to-morrow, instead of the next day."
"That is exactly what I was going to suggest to you."
"All right; do not let us lose any time. It is now one o'clock; let
us get to bed as quickly as possible and sleep until six; then let us
start at seven, and sleep, if we can manage it, at Manteuil."
"Good-night"
"Good-night...."
A quarter of an hour later, we were rivalling one another who could go
to sleep the soundest.
Next day, or rather the same day, at eight o'clock, we had passed
Villette; at three o'clock, we were dining at Dammartin, under the same
conditions as we had lunched there; at seven, we were having our supper
at Manteuil; and on Wednesday at one o'clock, loaded with two hares
and six partridges,--the result of the economy we had exercised by our
hunting of the previous night and day,--we entered Crespy, giving our
last twenty sous to a poor beggar. Paillet and I parted at the entry
to the large square. I went to Maître Lefèvre's by the little passage,
and up to my room to change my things. I called Pierre, through the
window, and asked him for news of M. Lefèvre. M. Lefèvre had returned
in the night. I gave my game to the cook, went into the office and
slipped into my place. My three office companions were all in their
places. Nobody asked me a question. They thought I had just returned
from one of my usual excursions, only one that had lasted rather longer
than usual. I enquired if M. Lefèvre had asked any questions about me.
M. Lefèvre had wanted to know where I was; they had replied that they
did not know, and the matter had ended there. I drew my papers from my
desk and set to work. A few minutes later, M. Lefèvre appeared. He went
to the head clerk, gave him some instructions, and then returned to
his room, without even having seemed to notice my presence, which led
me to think he had taken particular notice of my absence. Dinner-time
arrived. We sat down; all went on as usual; save that, after dinner,
when I was rising to go, M. Lefèvre said to me--
"Monsieur Dumas, I want a few words with you."
I knew the storm was about to burst, and I resolved to keep myself well
in hand.
"Certainly, monsieur," I replied.
The head clerk and the office boy, who shared the master's table with
me, discreetly withdrew. M. Lefèvre pointed to a chair opposite his
own, on the other side of the fireplace. I sat down. Then M. Lefèvre
lifted his head as a horse does under the martingale, a gesture which
was customary with him, crossed his right leg over his left leg, held
up one leg till the slipper fell, took his gold snuff-box, inhaled a
pinch of snuff, drew a dignified breath, and then, in a voice all the
more threatening because of its dulcet tones, he said, scratching his
right foot with his left hand, his most cherished habit--
"Monsieur Dumas, have you any knowledge of mechanics?"
"Not in theory, monsieur, only in practice."
"Well, then, you will know enough to understand my illustration."
"I am listening, monsieur."
"Monsieur Dumas, in order that a machine may work properly, none of its
wheels must stop."
"Of course not, monsieur."
"Very well, Monsieur Dumas; I need not say more. I am the engineer, you
are one of the wheels in the machine; for two days you have stopped,
and consequently for two days the general action of the machine has
lacked the co-operation of your individual movement."
I rose to my feet.
"Quite so, monsieur," I said.
"You will understand," added M. Lefèvre in a less dogmatic tone, "that
this warning is merely provisional?"
"You are very good, monsieur, but I take it as definitive."
"Oh, then, that is better still," said M. Lefèvre. "It is now seven in
the evening, night is coming on, and the weather is bad; but you may
leave when you like, my dear Dumas. From the moment you cease to be
third clerk here you can remain as a friend, and in that capacity the
longer you stay the better I shall be pleased."
I bowed a graceful acknowledgment to M. Lefèvre and withdrew to my
room. I had taken a great step, and an important career was now closed
to me; henceforth my future was in Paris, and I made up my mind to move
heaven and earth to leave the provinces. I spent half the night in
thinking, and before I fell asleep all my plans were made.
BOOK III
CHAPTER I
I return to my mother's--The excuse I give concerning my return--The
calf's lights--Pyramus and Cartouche--The intelligence of the fox more
developed than that of the dog--Death of Cartouche--Pyramus's various
gluttonous habits
I packed up my things next day and went. I was not without uneasiness
with regard to the way my mother might receive me--my poor mother!
her first expression at seeing me was always one of delight, but my
leaving Maître Lefèvre's would trouble her. So the nearer I drew to
Villers-Cotterets, the slower did my steps become. It generally took
me two hours to walk the three and a half leagues between Crespy and
Villers-Cotterets, for I used to run the last league; but now the
reverse was the case, for the last league took me the longest of all to
cover. I returned in shooting costume after my usual fashion. And my
dog was hardly three hundred yards away before he smelt home, stopped
an instant, lifted up his nose, and set off like an arrow. Five seconds
after he had disappeared down the road, I saw my mother appear on the
threshold. My courier had preceded me and announced my return. She met
me with her usual smile; the whole tenderness of her heart welled up at
my approach and shone in her face. I flung myself in her arms.
Oh! what a love is a mother's!--a love always good, always devoted,
always faithful; a true diamond lost amongst all the false stones with
which youth decks its happiness; a pure and limpid carbuncle, which
shines in joy as in sorrow, by night as by day! My mother's first
thoughts were nought but joyful ones at seeing me again; then, at last,
she asked me how it was I had returned home on Thursday instead of on
Saturday, to spend Sunday with her, going back on Monday as usual.
I dared not tell her of the misfortune that had befallen me. I told her
that, as business was slack at the office, I had obtained a holiday for
several days, which I meant to spend with her.
"But," my mother observed, "I see you are wearing your hunting-coat and
breeches."
"Yes, why not?"
"How is it you have nothing in your game-bag?"
It was not indeed customary for me to return with the game-bag empty.
"I was so anxious to see you, dear mother, that instead of shooting, I
came the shortest way, by the high road."
I lied. Had I spoken the truth, I should have said, "Alas! dear mother,
I was so much taken up with thinking what effect my news would have
upon you that I never thought of shooting, though at other times I have
forgotten everything for that passion." But had I told her that, I
should have had to tell her the news, and I wanted to delay it as long
as possible.
An incident freed me from embarrassment and diverted my mother's
thoughts for the moment. I heard my dog howl.
I ran to the door. The next house to ours was that of a butcher,
called Mauprivez. In the front of the butcher's slab there was a long
cross-bar of painted wood, in which at different intervals iron hooks
were fixed to hold various specimens of meat. In jumping up at a calfs
lights, Pyramus had got hooked like a carp on a fish-hook, and hung
suspended. That was why he howled, and, as will readily be imagined,
not without cause. I seized hold of him by the body, unhooked him,
and he rushed into the stable, his jaws bleeding. If I ever write the
history of the dogs that have belonged to me, Pyramus shall have a
prominent place by the side of Milord. I may therefore be allowed to
leave in suspense the interest my return naturally created, to talk
a bit about Pyramus, who, in spite of his name, which indicated that
all sorts of love misfortunes were before him, had never had, to my
knowledge, any misadventures except gastronomic ones. Pyramus was a
large chestnut-coloured dog, of very good French pedigree, who had been
given me when quite a puppy, with a fox-cub of the same age, which
the keeper who gave him me (it was poor Choron of la Maison-Neuve)
had had suckled by the same mother. I often amused myself by watching
the different instincts of these two animals develop, as they were
placed opposite one another in the yard in two parallel recesses. For
the first three or four months an almost brotherly intimacy reigned
between Cartouche and Pyramus. I need not mention that Cartouche
was the fox and Pyramus the dog. Nor need I mention that the name
of Cartouche was given to the fox in allusion to his instincts of
stealing and depredation. It was Cartouche who began to declare war
on Pyramus, although he was the weaker looking; this declaration of
war took place over some bones which were within Cartouche's boundary,
but which Pyramus had surreptitiously tried to annex. The first time
Pyramus attempted this piracy, Cartouche snarled; the second time, he
showed his teeth; the third time, he bit. Cartouche was the more to
be excused because he was always on the chain, while Pyramus had his
hours of liberty. Cartouche, restrained to a very circumscribed walk,
could not therefore, at full length of his chain, do unto Pyramus the
evil deeds which Pyramus, abusing his liberty, was guilty of on his
side. On account of this captivity, I was able to notice the superior
intelligence of the fox over that of the dog. Both were gourmands in
the highest degree, with this difference, that Pyramus was more of a
glutton and Cartouche more of an epicure. When they both stretched to
the full length of their chains, they could reach a distance of nearly
four feet, from the opening of their recesses. Add ten inches for the
length of Pyramus's head, four inches for Cartouche's pointed nose, and
you will arrive at this result, that whilst Pyramus, at the length of
his chain, could reach a bone at four feet ten inches from his recess,
Cartouche could only perpetrate the same deed four feet four inches
from his. Very well, if I placed a bone six feet off,--that is to
say, out of the reach of both,--Pyramus had to content himself with
stretching his chain with the whole strength of his sturdy shoulders,
but not being able to break it, he would stand with fixed bloodshot
eyes, his jaws slobbering and open, attempting from time to time,
with plaintive whines, to exorcise the distance, or, by desperate
efforts, to break his chain. If the bone were not either taken away
or given him, he would have gone mad; but he had never succeeded, by
any ingenious contrivance, to snatch the prey beyond his reach. It was
another matter with Cartouche. His preliminary tactics were the same as
those of Pyramus, and consequently equally fruitless. But soon he began
to reflect, rubbing a paw on his nose; then, all at once, as though a
sudden illumination had come into his mind, he turned himself round,
adding the length of his body to the length of his chain, dragged the
bone into the circle of his kingdom, by the help of one of his hind
paws, turned round again, seized hold of the bone, and entered into
his kennel, from which it was not rejected until it was as clean and
polished as ivory. Pyramus saw Cartouche perform this trick ten times;
he would howl with jealousy as he listened to his comrade's teeth
grinding on the bone which he was gnawing; but, I repeat, he never had
the intelligence to do the same thing himself, and to use his hind
paw as a hook to draw the tit-bit within his reach. Cartouche was of
superior intelligence to Pyramus in a thousand other instances such
as this, although his tractability was always inferior. But it is
common knowledge that with animals as with human beings, the capacity
for being trained is not always, nay is scarcely ever, combined with
intelligence.
The reader may ask why the injustice was perpetrated of keeping
Cartouche always fastened, while Pyramus was allowed his liberty at
times. This is why: Pyramus was only a glutton by need, while Cartouche
was destructive by instinct. One day he broke his chain, and went from
our yard into the farmyard belonging to our neighbour Mauprivez. In
less than ten minutes he had strangled seventeen fowls and two cocks.
Nineteen cases of homicide: it was impossible to plead extenuating
circumstances: he was condemned to death and executed. So Pyramus
reigned sole master of the place, which, to his shame be it said, he
appreciated greatly. His appetite seemed to increase when he was left
alone. This appetite was a defect at home; but, out shooting, it was
a vice. Nearly always, the first game I killed under his nose, were
it small game, such as partridge, young pheasant or quail, would be
lost to me. His big jaws would open, and, with a rapid gulp, the piece
of game disappeared down his throat. Very rarely did I arrive in time
to perceive, by opening his jaws, the last feathers of the bird's
tail disappearing in the depths of his gullet. Then a lash with my
horse-whip, vigorously applied on the loins of the guilty sinner, would
cure him for the remainder of the chase, and it was seldom he repeated
the same fault; but, between one shoot and another, he generally
had time to forget the previous punishment, and more expenditure of
whipcord was needed. On two other occasions, however, the gluttony of
Pyramus turned out badly for him.
One day de Leuven and I were shooting over the marshes of Pondron. It
was a place where two harvests were gathered during the year. The first
harvest was that of a small thicket of alderwood. The owner of the
land, after having cut his branches, stripped the twigs off, sawed it
and tied it in bundles. Then he became busy over his second harvest,
which was that of hay. They were just reaping this crop. But, as it was
luncheon-time, the reapers had rested their scythes, here and there,
and were feeding by a small river wherein they could moisten their
hard bread. One of them had placed his scythe against one of the heaps
of cut wood, about two feet and a half high, placed in cubic metres
or half-mètres. I put up a snipe; I fired and killed it, and it fell
behind this pile of wood against which the scythe was propped. It was
the first thing I had killed that day, consequently it happened to be
the perquisite Pyramus was in the habit of appropriating. So, putting
two and two together, he had scarcely seen the snipe, stopped in its
flight, fall vertically behind the wood pile, before he darted over
the stack so as to fall on the spot as soon as it did, without loss of
time. As I knew beforehand that it was a head of game lost, I did not
hurry myself to see the tail feathers of my snipe in the depths of
Pyramus's throat, but, to my great surprise, I saw no more of Pyramus
than if he had tumbled down an invisible chasm, hewn out behind the
pile of wood. When I had re-loaded my gun, I decided to fathom this
mystery. Pyramus had fallen on the far side of the heap of wood, his
neck on the point of the scythe; this point had penetrated to the right
of the pharynx, behind the neck, and stuck out four inches in front.
Poor Pyramus could not stir, and was bleeding' to death: the snipe,
intact, was within six inches of his nose. Adolphe and I raised him
up, so as to cause him the least possible hurt; we carried him to the
river, and we bathed him in deep water; then I made him a compress with
my handkerchief, folded in sixteen, which we bound round his neck with
Adolphe's silk one. Then, seeing a peasant from Haramont passing, with
a donkey carrying two baskets, we put Pyramus in one of the paniers
and we had him carried to Haramont, whence next day I took him away in
a small conveyance. Pyramus was a week between life and death. For a
month he carried his head on one side, like Prince Tuffiakin. Finally,
at the end of six weeks, he had regained his elasticity of movement,
and appeared to have completely forgotten the terrible catastrophe. But
whenever he saw a scythe, he made an immense detour to avoid coming
in contact with it. Another day, he returned home, his body as full
of holes as a sieve. He had been wandering about the forest alone,
watching his opportunity, and he had leapt at the throat of a hare; the
hare screamed out: a keeper, who was about a couple of hundred steps
away, ran up; but before the keeper could clear the two hundred paces,
the hare was half devoured. Now Pyramus, on seeing the approach of
the keeper and on hearing his execrations, understood that something
alarming would occur between himself and the man in blue clothes. He
took to his heels and set off full tear. But, as Friday, of Robinson
Crusoe memory remarked, "Small shot ran after me faster than you did!"
the keeper's small shot travelled faster than Pyramus, and Pyramus
returned home riddled in eight places.
I have already related what happened to him ten minutes after my
return. A week later, he came in with a calf's lights in his mouth. A
knife was quivering in his side. Behind him came one of the Mauprivez'
sons.
"Ah!" he said, "isn't it enough that your beastly Pyramus carries away
the contents of our shop, joint by joint, but he must needs carry away
my knife too?"
Seeing Pyramus carry off the calfs lights, Mauprivez' boy had hurled
at him the knife butchers generally wear at their girdles; but, as
the knife went three or four inches into Pyramus's hide, Pyramus had
carried off both meat and knife. Mauprivez recovered his implement; but
the calfs lights were already devoured. Just when Pyramus's various
misdeeds had incurred not merely our individual reprobation, but public
reprobation still more, an advantageous occasion offered to get rid
of him. But as that occasion was invested in my eyes with all the
semblance of a miracle, I must be permitted to relate that miracle in
its proper time and place, and not to anticipate it here.
Let us, for the moment, occupy ourselves over the unexpected return of
the prodigal son to the maternal roof--a return from which Pyramus and
Cartouche have incidentally diverted our attention.