form a marriage beset with difficulties with Mademoiselle de Marignan,
a rich heiress of one of the greatest families of Provence, he
displayed, like a wrestler, all kinds of stratagems and daring schemes
of policy in the small theater of Aix. Not only cunning, seduction,
and courage, but every resource of his nature was used to succeed, and
he succeeded; but he was hardly married before fresh persecutions
beset him, and the stronghold of Pontarlier gaped to enclose him. A
love, which his "Lettres à Sophie" has rendered immortal, opened its
gates and freed him. He carried off Madame de Monier from her aged
husband. The lovers, happy for some months, took refuge in Holland;
they were seized there, separated and shut up, the one in a convent
and the other in the dungeon of Vincennes.
Love, which, like fire in the veins of the earth, is always detected
in some crevice of man's destiny, lighted up in a single and ardent
blaze all the passions of Mirabeau. In his vengeance it was outraged
love that he appeased; in liberty it was love which he sought and
which delivered him; in study it was love which still illustrated his
path. Entering his cell an obscure man, he quitted it a writer,
orator, statesman, but perverted--ripe for anything, even ready to
sell himself, in order to buy fortune and celebrity. The drama of life
had been conceived in his head; he wanted only the stage, and that was
being prepared for him by time. During the few short years which
elapsed between his leaving the keep of Vincennes and the tribune of
the National Assembly, he employed himself with polemic labors which
would have weighed down another man, but which only kept Mirabeau in
health. Such topics as the bank of Saint Charles, the institutions of
Holland, the books on Prussia, with Beaumarchais (his style and
character), with lengthened pleadings on questions of warfare, the
balance of European power, finance, leading to biting invectives and
wars of words with the ministers of the hour, made scenes that
resembled those in the Roman forum of the days of Clodius and Cicero.
We discern the men of antiquity even in his most modern controversies.
We may hear the first roarings or popular tumults which were so soon
to burst forth, and which his voice was destined to control.
At the first election of Aix, when rejected with contempt by the
noblesse, he cast himself into the arms of the people, certain of
making the balance incline to the side on which he should cast the
weight of his daring and his genius. Marseilles contended with Aix for
the great plebeian; his two elections, the discourses he then
delivered, the addresses he drew up, the energy he employed commanded
the attention of all France. His sonorous phrases became the proverbs
of the Revolution. Comparing himself, in his lofty language, to the
men of antiquity, he placed himself already in the public estimation
in the elevated position he aspired to reach. Men became accustomed to
identify him with the names he cited; he made a loud noise in order to
prepare minds for great commotions; he announced himself proudly to
the nation, in that sublime apostrophe in his address to the
Marseillais: "When the last of the Gracchi expired, he flung dust
toward heaven, and from this dust sprang Marius!--Marius, who was less
great for having exterminated the Cimbri than for having prostrated
in Rome the aristocracy of the nobility."
From the moment of his entry into the National Assembly Mirabeau
filled it: he became the whole people. His gestures were commands; his
movements _coups d'etat_. He placed himself on a level with the
throne, and the nobility itself felt itself subdued by a power
emanating from its own body. The clergy, and the people, with their
desires to reconcile democracy with the church, lent him their
influence, in order to destroy the double aristocracy of the nobility
and bishops.
All that had been built by antiquity and cemented by ages fell in a
few months. Mirabeau alone preserved his presence of mind in the midst
of ruin. His character of tribune then ceased, that of the statesman
began, and in this part he was even greater than in the other. There,
when all else crept and crawled, he acted with firmness, advancing
boldly. The Revolution in his brain was no longer a momentary idea--it
became a settled plan. The philosophy of the eighteenth century,
moderated by the prudence of policy, flowed easily from his lips. His
eloquence, imperative as the law, was now a talent for giving force to
reason. His language lighted and inspired everything; and tho almost
alone at this moment, he had the courage to remain alone. He braved
envy, hatred, murmurs, supported as he was by a strong feeling of his
superiority. He dismissed with disdain the passions which had hitherto
beset him. He would no longer serve them when his cause no longer
needed them. He spoke to men now only in the name of his genius, a
title which was enough to cause obedience to him....
The characteristic of his genius, so well defined, so ill understood,
was less audacity than justness. Beneath the grandeur of his
expression was always to be found unfailing good sense. His very vices
could not repress the clearness, the sincerity of his understanding.
At the foot of the tribune, he was a man devoid of shame or virtue: in
the tribune, he was an honest man. Abandoned to private debauchery,
bought over by foreign powers, sold to the court in order to satisfy
his lavish expenditures, he preserved, amidst all this infamous
traffic of his powers, the incorruptibility of his genius. Of all the
qualities of being the great man of an age, Mirabeau was wanting only
in honesty. The people were not his devotees, but his instruments. His
faith was in posterity. His conscience existed only in his thought.
The fanaticism of his ideas was quite human. The chilling materialism
of his age had crusht in his heart all expansive force, and craving
for imperishable things. His dying words were: "Sprinkle me with
perfumes, crown me with flowers, that I may thus enter upon eternal
sleep." He was especially of his time, and his course bears no impress
of infinity. Neither his character, his acts, nor his thoughts have
the brand of immortality. If he had believed, in God, he might have
died a martyr.
LOUIS ADOLPHE THIERS
Born in 1797, died in 1877; settled in Paris in 1821;
published his "History of the French Revolution" in 1823-27;
established with Mignet and others the _National_ in 1830,
in which he contributed largely to the overthrow of the
Bourbons; supported Louis Philippe; became a member of
various cabinets, 1832-36; Premier in 1836 and 1840;
published his "Consulate and Empire" in 1845-62; arrested by
Louis Napoleon in 1851; led the opposition to the Empire in
1863; protested against the war of 1870; conducted the
negotiations with Germany for an armistice; chosen chief of
the executive power in 1871; negotiated the peace with
Germany; supprest the Commune; elected President in 1871,
resigning in 1873.
THE BURNING OF MOSCOW[52]
At last, having reached the summit of a hill, the army suddenly
discovered below them, and at no great distance, an immense city
shining with a thousand colors, surmounted by a host of gilded domes,
resplendent with light; a singular mixture of woods, lakes, cottages,
palaces, churches, bell-towers, a town both Gothic and Byzantine,
realizing all that the Eastern stories relate of the marvels of Asia.
While the monasteries, flanked with towers, formed the girdle of this
great city, in the center, raised on an eminence, was a strong
citadel, a kind of capitol, whence were seen at the same time the
temples of the Deity and the palaces of the emperors, where above
embattled walls rose majestic domes, bearing the emblem that
represents the whole history of Russia and her ambition, the cross
over the reversed crescent. This citadel was the Kremlin, the ancient
abode of the Czars.
[Footnote 52: From Book XLIV of the "History of the Consulate and
Empire." Napoleon's army entered Moscow on September 15, 1812, or
seven days after the battle of Borodino, "the bloodiest battle of the
century," the losses on each side having been about 40,000. Napoleon
had crossed the river Niemen in June of this year with an invading
army of 400,000 men. When he crossed it again in December, after the
burning of Moscow, the French numbered only 20,000, The "Consulate and
Empire" has been translated by D. F. Campbell, F. N. Redhead and N.
Stapleton.]
The imagination, and the idea of glory, being both excited by this
magical spectacle, the soldiers raised one shout of "Moscow! Moscow!"
Those who had remained at the foot of the hill hastened to reach the
top; for a moment all ranks mingled, and everybody wished to
contemplate the great capital, toward which we had made such an
adventurous march. One could not have enough of this dazzling
spectacle, calculated to awaken so many different feelings. Napoleon
arrived in his turn, and, struck with what he saw, he--who, like the
oldest soldiers in the army, had successively visited Cairo, Memphis,
the Jordan, Milan, Vienna, Berlin, and Madrid--could not help
experiencing deep emotion.
Arrived at this summit of his glory, from which he was to descend with
such a rapid step toward the abyss, he experienced a sort of
intoxication, forgot all the reproaches that his good sense, the only
conscience of conquerors, had addrest to him for two months, and for a
moment believed still that his enterprise was a great and marvelous
one--that to have dared to march from Paris to Smolensk, from Smolensk
to Moscow, was a great and happy rashness, justified by the event.
Certain of his glory, he still believed in his good fortune, and his
lieutenants, as amazed as he, remembering no more their frequent
discontents during this campaign, gave vent to those victorious
demonstrations in which they had not indulged at the termination of
the bloody day of Borodino. This moment of satisfaction, lively and
short, was one of the most deeply felt in his life. Alas! it was to be
the last!
Murat received the injunction to march quickly, to avoid all disorder.
General Durosnel was sent forward to hold communication with the
authorities, and lead them to the conqueror's feet, who desired to
receive their homage and calm their fears. M. Denniée was charged to
go and prepare food and lodging for the army, Murat, galloping at the
head of the light cavalry, arrived, at length, across the faubourg of
Drogomilow, at the bridge of the Moskowa. There he found a Russian
rear-guard, who were retreating, and inquired if there was no officer
there who knew French. A young Russian, who spoke our language
correctly, presented himself immediately before this king, whom
hostile nations knew so well, and asked what he wanted. Murat having
exprest a wish to know which was the commander of this rear-guard, the
young Russian pointed out an officer with white hair, clothed in a
bivouac cloak of long fur. Murat, with his accustomed grace, held out
his hand to the old officer, who took it eagerly. Thus national hatred
was silenced before valor.
Murat asked the commander of the enemy's rear-guard if they knew him.
"Yes," replied the latter, "we have seen enough of you under fire to
know you." Murat seeming struck with, the long fur mantle, which
looked as if it would be very comfortable for a bivouac, the old
officer unfastened it from his shoulders to make him a present of it.
Murat, receiving it with as much courtesy as it was offered, took a
beautiful watch and presented it to the enemy's officer, who received
this present in the same way as his had been accepted. After these
acts of courtesy, the Russian rear-guard filed off rapidly to give
ground to our vanguard. The King of Naples, followed by his staff and
a detachment of cavalry, went down into the streets of Moscow,
traversed alternately the poorest and the richest quarters, rows of
wooden houses crowded together, and a succession of splendid palaces
rising from amidst vast gardens: he found everywhere the most profound
silence. It seemed as if they were penetrating into a dead city, whose
inhabitants had suddenly disappeared.
The first sight of it, surprizing as it was, did not remind us of our
entry into Berlin or Vienna, Nevertheless, the first feeling of terror
experienced by the inhabitants might explain this solitude. Suddenly
some distracted individuals appeared; they were some French people,
belonging to the foreign families settled at Moscow, and asked us in
the name of heaven to save them from the robbers who had become
masters of the town. They were well received, but we tried in vain to
remove their fears. We were conducted to the Kremlin,[53] and had
hardly arrived in sight of these old walls than we were exposed to a
discharge of shot. It came from bandits let loose on Moscow by the
ferocious patriotism of the Count of Rostopchin. These wretched beings
had invaded the sacred citadel, had seized the guns in the arsenal,
and were firing on the French who came to disturb them after their few
hours' reign of anarchy. Several were sabered, and the Kremlin was
relieved of their presence. But on making inquiry we learned that the
whole population had fled, except a small number of strangers, or of
Russians acquainted with the ways of the French and not fearing their
presence. This news vexed the leaders of our vanguard, who were
flattering themselves that they would see a whole population coming
before them, whom they would take pleasure in comforting and filling
with surprize and gratitude. They made haste to restore some order to
the different quarters of the town, and to pursue the thieves, who
thought they should much longer enjoy the prey that the Count of
Rostopchin had given up to them.
[Footnote 53: The Kremlin is a fortified enclosure within the city and
containing the imperial palace, three cathedrals, a monastery, convent
and arsenal. It is surrounded by battlemented walls that date from
1492. Within the palace are rooms of great size, one of them being 68
by 200 feet, with a height of more than 60 feet. Many historic events
in the times of Ivan the Terrible, and Peter the Great, are associated
with the Kremlin. Among its treasures are the Great Bell, coronation
robes and the thrones of the old Persian Shah and toe last emperor of
Constantinople.]
The next morning, September 15, Napoleon made his entry into Moscow,
at the head of his invincible legions, but he crossed a deserted town,
and for the first time his soldiers, on entering a capital, found none
but themselves to be witnesses of their glory. The impression that
they experienced was sad. Napoleon, arrived at the Kremlin, hastened
to mount the high tower of the great Ivan, and to contemplate from
that height his magnificent conquest, across which the Moskowa was
slowly pursuing its winding course. Thousands of blackbirds, ravens
and crows, as numerous here as the pigeons at Venice, flying around
the tops of the palaces and churches, gave a singular aspect to this
great city, which contrasted strangely with the brightness of its
brilliant colors. A mournful silence, disturbed only by the tramp of
cavalry, had taken the place of life in this city, which till the
evening before had been one of the most busy in the world. In spite of
the sadness of this solitude, Napoleon, on finding Moscow abandoned
like the other Russian towns, thought himself happy nevertheless in
not finding it burned up, and did not despair of softening little by
little the hatred which the presence of his flags had inspired since
Vitebsk.
The army hoped, then, to enjoy Moscow, to find peace there, and, in
any case, good winter cantonments if the war was prolonged. However,
on the morrow after the day on which the entry had been made, columns
of flame arose from a very large building which contained the spirits
that the government sold on its own account to the people of the
capital. People ran there, without astonishment or terror, for they
attributed the cause of this partial fire to the nature of the
materials contained in this building, or to some imprudence committed
by our soldiers. In fact, the fire was mastered, and we had time to
reassure ourselves.
But all at once the fire burst out at almost the same instant with
extreme violence in a collection of buildings that was called the
Bazaar. This bazaar, situated to the northeast of the Kremlin
comprized the richest shops, those in which were sold the beautiful
stuffs of India and Persia, the rarities of Europe, the colonial
commodities, sugar, coffee, tea, and, lastly, precious wines. In a few
minutes the fire had spread through the bazaar, and the soldiers of
the guard ran in crowds and made the greatest efforts to arrest its
progress. Unhappily, they could not succeed, and soon the immense
riches of this establishment fell a prey to the flames. Eager to
dispute with the fire the possession of these riches, belonging to no
one at this time, and to secure them for themselves, our soldiers, not
having been able to save them, tried to drag out some fragments.
They might be seen coming out of the bazaar, carrying furs, silks,
wines of great value, without any one dreaming of reproaching them for
so doing, for they wronged no one but the fire, the sole master of
these treasures. One might regret it on the score of discipline, but
could not cast a reproach on their honor on that account. Besides,
those who remained of the people set them an example, and took their
large share of these spoils of the commerce of Moscow. Yet it was only
one large building--an extremely rich one, it is true--that was
attacked by the fire, and there was no fear for the town itself. These
first disasters, of little consequence so far, were attributed to a
very natural and very ordinary accident, which might be more easily
explained still, in the bustle of evacuating the town.
During the night of the 15th of September the scene suddenly changed.
As if every misfortune was to fall at once on the old Muscovite
capital, the equinoctial wind arose all at once with the double
violence natural to the season and to level countries where nothing
stops the storm. This wind, blowing at first from the east, carried
the fire westward, along the streets situated between the roads from
Tver and Smolensk, and which are known as the richest and most
beautiful in Moscow, those of Tverskaia, Nikitskaia, and Povorskaia.
In a few hours the fire, having spread fiercely among the wooden
buildings, communicated itself from one to another with frightful
rapidity. Shooting forth in long tongues of flame, it was seen
invading other quarters situated to the west.
Rockets were noticed in the air, and soon wretches were seized
carrying combustibles at the end of long poles. They were taken up;
they were questioned with threats of death, and they revealed the
frightful secret, the order given by the Count of Rostopchin to set
fire to the city of Moscow, as if it had been the smallest village on
the road from Smolensk. This news spread consternation through the
army in an instant. To doubt was no longer possible, after the arrests
made, and the depositions collected from different parts of the town.
Napoleon ordered that in each quarter the corps fixt there should form
military commissions to try, shoot, and hang on gibbets the
incendiaries taken in the act. He ordered likewise that they should
employ all the troops there were in the town to extinguish the fire.
They ran to the pumps, but there were none to be found. This last
circumstance would have left no doubt, if there had remained any, of
the frightful design that delivered Moscow to the flames....
Napoleon, followed by some of his lieutenants, went out of that
Kremlin which the Russian army had not been able to prevent him from
entering, but from which the fire expelled him after four-and-twenty
hours of possession, descended to the quay of Moskowa, found his
horses ready there, and had much difficulty in crossing the town,
which toward the northwest, whither he directed his course, was
already in flames. The wind, which constantly increased in violence,
sometimes caused columns of fire to bend to the ground, and drove
before it torrents of sparks, smoke, and stifling cinders. The
horrible appearance of the sky answered to the no less horrible
spectacle of the earth. The terrified army went out of Moscow. The
divisions of Prince Eugene and Marshal Ney, which had entered the
evening before, turned back again on the roads of Zwenigorod and Saint
Petersburg; those of Marshal Davoust returned by the road of Smolensk,
and, except the guard left around the Kremlin to dispute its
possession with the flames, our troops retired in haste, struck with
horror, before this fire, which, after darting up toward the sky,
seemed to bend down again over them as if it wished to devour them. A
small number of the inhabitants who had remained in Moscow, and had
hidden at first in their houses without daring to come out, now
escaped from them, carrying away what was most dear to them--women
their children, men their infirm parents.
HONORÉ DE BALZAC
Born in France in 1799, died in 1850; educated at Tours and
Paris; became a lawyer's clerk; wrote short stories and
novels anonymously and became seriously involved in a
publishing venture; his first novel of merit, "Le Dernier
Chonan ou la Bretagne," published in 1829, "Eugénie Grandet"
in 1833, "Père Goriot" in 1835, "César Birotteau" in 1838;
married in 1850 Madame Hanska of a noble Polish family.
I
THE DEATH OF PÉRE GORIOT[54]
There was something awful and appalling in the sudden apparition of
the Countess. She saw the bed of death by the dim light of the single
candle, and her tears flowed at the sight of her father's passive
features, from which the life has almost ebbed. Bianchon with
thoughtful tact left the room.
[Footnote 54: From the concluding chapter of "Old Goriot," as
translated by Ellen Marriàge.]
"I could not escape soon enough," she said to Rastignac.
The student bowed sadly in reply. Mme. de Restaud took her father's
hand and kissed it.
"Forgive me, father! You used to say that my voice would call you back
from the grave; ah! come back for one moment to bless your penitent
daughter. Do you hear me? Oh! this is fearful! No one on earth will
ever bless me henceforth; every one hates me; no one loves me but you
in all the world. My own children will hate me. Take me with you,
father; I will love you, I will take care of you. He does not hear
me--I am mad--"
She fell on her knees, and gazed wildly at the human wreck before her.
"My cup of misery is full," she said, turning her eyes upon Eugene.
"M. de Trailles has fled, leaving enormous debts behind him, and I
have found out that he was deceiving me. My husband will never forgive
me, and I have left my fortune in his hands. I have lost all my
illusions. Alas! I have forsaken the one heart that loved me (she
pointed to her father as she spoke), and for whom? I have held his
kindness cheap, and slighted his affection; many and many a time I
have given him pain, ungrateful wretch that I am!"
"He knew it," said Rastignac.
Just then Goriot's eyelids unclosed; it was only a muscular
contraction, but the Countess's sudden start of reviving hope was no
less dreadful than the dying eyes.
"Is it possible that he can hear me?" cried the Countess. "No," she
answered herself, and sat down beside the bed. As Mme. De Restaud
seemed to wish to sit by her father, Eugene went down to take a little
food. The boarders were already assembled.
"Well," remarked the painter, as he joined them, "it seems that there
is to be a death-drama up-stairs."
"Charles, I think you might find something less painful to joke
about," said Eugene.
"So we may not laugh here?" returned the painter. "What harm does it
do? Bianchon said that the old man was quite insensible."
"Well, then," said the employé from the Museum, "he will die as he has
lived."
"My father is dead!" shrieked the Countess.
The terrible cry brought Sylvie, Rastignac, and Bianchon; Mme. de
Restaud had fainted away, When she recovered they carried her
down-stairs, and put her into the cab that stood waiting at the door.
Eugene sent Therese with her, and bade the maid take the Countess to
Mme. de Nucingen.
Bianchon came down to them.
"Yes, he is dead," he said.
"Come, sit down to dinner, gentlemen," said Mme. Vauquer, "or the soup
will be cold."
The two students sat down together.
"What is the next thing to be done?" Eugene asked of Bianchon.
"I have closed his eyes and composed his limbs," said Bianchon. "When
the certificate has been officially registered at the Mayor's office,
we will sew him in his winding-sheet and bury him somewhere. What do
you think we ought to do?"
"He will not smell at his bread like this any more," said the painter,
mimicking the old man's little trick.