Whilst this sad operation proceeded, the widowed empress wrote to the dowager-empress:—
"Our angel is in heaven, while I still linger on earth.... Alas! who would ever have thought that I, weak and ill as I am, should have survived him?... Mother, I entreat you not to desert me, for I am absolutely alone in this world of sorrow!"The face of our beloved dead has resumed its expression of gentle kindliness; the smile upon it assures me that he is happy, and that his eyes see better things than here below.... My only comfort in this irreparable loss is that I shall not long survive him!..."
"Our angel is in heaven, while I still linger on earth.... Alas! who would ever have thought that I, weak and ill as I am, should have survived him?... Mother, I entreat you not to desert me, for I am absolutely alone in this world of sorrow!
"The face of our beloved dead has resumed its expression of gentle kindliness; the smile upon it assures me that he is happy, and that his eyes see better things than here below.... My only comfort in this irreparable loss is that I shall not long survive him!..."
And, indeed, the empress died six months later.
The letter was sent off by courier to St. Petersburg, where the emperor's illness was already known. He had himself written, on 17 November, to say that he had had to return to Taganrog on account of illness. On the 24th, the Empress Elisabeth had written to the Grand-Duchess Helena asking her to inform the Empress Marie that the emperor was going onwell. On the 27th, however, General Diebitch had sent news that the emperor was suffering from an attack of yellow fever; and on 29 November the Empress Elisabeth again wrote to the dowager-empress to tell her of a temporary improvement in the emperor's condition. Although this improvement was so slight, the dowager-empress and the Grand-Dukes Nicolas and Michel gave orders for aTe Deumto be sung on 9 December in the great metropolitan cathedral of Kasan. The people flocked there joyfully, for the good news had been exaggerated for their sake. Towards the close of the service the Grand-Duke Nicolas was advised that a messenger from Taganrog was waiting for him in the sacristy; he was the bearer of a despatch that had to be delivered only in person. The grand-duke rose and went into the sacristy, where he found the messenger, and received from his hands the letter we have already read. He did not even need to read the letter: its contents were revealed to him by the black seal.
The Grand-Duke Nicolas sent for the metropolitan and announced to him the melancholy tidings, charging him to break the news as gently as possible to the dowager-empress, as he felt he had not the courage to fulfil the cruel mission himself. He then returned and took his place by her who, in ignorance of the sad truth, was praying for the life of her dead son. The grand-duke had scarcely resumed his position by her side before the metropolitan re-entered the choir. He was a fine-looking old man, with a long white beard and hair that fell almost to his waist. At a sign from him, all the voices that were chanting hymns of thankful praise to Heaven ceased, and a death-like silence followed. Then, with the eyes of all upon him, he walked slowly and solemnly towards the altar, took down the massive silver crucifix and draped it with a black veil; then he advanced to the dowager-empress and gave her the black draped crucifix to kiss.
"My son is dead!" cried the empress; and she fell on her knees, even as, eighteen centuries before, at the foot of her Son's Cross, another Mother, the Queen of Heaven, whose name she bore, had fallen.
And in that way Russia learnt she had lost her emperor.
We promised we would relate the history of the strange self-sacrifice by which a man gave up an empire—a history all the more strange in that the empire was an absolute monarchy, and that he would then have succeeded to fifty-three millions of subjects, and to a territory which already covered a seventh part of the world, without reckoning future possibilities of expansion. This history is as follows:—
The reader knows what an Ukranian bear Constantine was, for ever growling, grumbling or roaring, whose countenance was no more like a human being's than the face of Kalmouk is like that of a man; he was as rough as his brother Alexander was courteous, as ugly as his brother Nicolas was handsome; a true son of Paul when he was in a bad temper. We have learnt his reply as a lad to his own tutor, who tried to make him learn to read—
"I do not want to learn to read; you are always reading, and you become more and more stupid every day."
It will be readily believed that a mind built in that fashion had no inclinations in the direction of learning. But in proportion as the young prince grew to detest his mental exercises, his love of military pursuits increased. Here he took after his father, Paul, who rose at five in the morning after his wedding-night, to control the manœuvres of a platoon of soldiers on guard near by. His military predilection led Constantine to spend all his time in soldierly exercises, on horseback, perfecting himself in the use of the lance, manœuvring his men, all of which accomplishments seemed to him far more useful than geometry, astronomy or botany. They only succeeded in making him learn French by means of telling him that the best books on military tactics were written in that language. Great was his delight when Paul had a rupture with France and when Souvarov was sent into Italy. The grand-duke was placed under command of an old marshal, a chief who exactly suited Constantine, since he was one of the old Russian stock, more savage, more brutal, more uncivilised, if that be possible, than hisyoung pupil. Constantine took part in his victories on the Mincio, and in his defeats among the Alps; he watched him dig the grave in which he wished to be buried alive. The consequence of association with such an uncouth companion was to foster the young prince's own peculiarities to such an extent, that people more than once queried whether Paul, in being forced to leave the empire to Alexander, had made a special point of bequeathing his mad temperament to Constantine.
After the French campaign and the Treaty of Vienna, Constantine was made Viceroy of Poland. It was just the post for him. Here, placed at the head of a warlike nation, whose whole history is one long struggle, his military tastes grew with redoubled energy; unfortunately, he substituted lawless encounters for the bloody struggles in which he had just taken part. Summer or winter—whether living in the palace of Bruhl or residing in the palace of Belvédère—he was up and equipped in his general's uniform by three in the morning, without the assistance in his toilet of any valet. He would then seat himself before a table covered with regimental lists and military orders, in a room wherein every single panel on the walls was painted with different regimental costumes; he read the reports that had been drawn up the day before, either by Colonel Axamilovisky or by Suboividsky, the Prefect of Police, signifying his approval or disapproval of them in a side note. With the exception of letter-writing to some members of his family, these were the only occasions he handled a pen. This work generally took him until nine in the morning, when he partook of the hasty breakfast of a soldier. He then went down to the parade ground to inspect a couple of regiments of infantry or a squadron of cavalry. The band saluted him as he approached, and the review immediately began. The platoons marched past the viceroy, a little way off, with mathematical precision—a sight that always filled him with childish joy, and moved him as much as though the men were marching to a real battle. He would stand on foot watching them pass by,attired in the green uniform of the Light Infantry, his cap, which was decorated with cocks' feathers, posed on his head in such a manner that one of the corners touched his left epaulette, whilst the other pointed heavenwards at an alarming angle. Below shone, like two carbuncles, eyes that seemed more like a jackal's than those of a human being, set below a narrow forehead, which was furrowed with deep lines, indicating constant and anxious preoccupation; and his thick long eyebrows were crooked from habitual frowning. In his moments of extreme happiness, the strange vivaciousness of the czarovitch's expression, coupled with the snub nose that looked like a skeleton's, and his protruding lower lip, gave a very savage appearance to his head. His neck, which he could push out and withdraw at will, came in and out of his collar just like a tortoise's from below its shell. As he listened to the music and saw the men he had trained and heard the measured tramp of their feet, his whole being expanded with delight, until he looked feverish with excitement: the flush would come into his cheeks, his arms would stiffen against his body down to his elbows, his rigid, tightly clasped fists would nervously open and close, while his restless feet beat time, and his guttural voice every now and then, between his harshly uttered commands, would give vent to hoarse, raucous, inhuman cries, expressive, alternately, of satisfaction or anger, according as matters pleased him or he saw something that offended his sense of discipline. For, indeed, his anger was a terrible sight, and his good humour was that of a rough savage.
If he were pleased, he would double up in fits of laughter, rubbing his hands together noisily and hilariously, stamping on the ground first with one foot and then with the other: if he caught sight of a child at the moment, he would catch hold of it, turn it over and over like a monkey with a doll, make the child kiss him, pinch its cheeks, pull its nose, and then putting it down, he would send it away with the first piece of gold or silver in its hands that he could find in his pocket.
When he was angry, he roared aloud, striking the soldierwho had failed in his work, himself pushing the man towards the prison, shouting or rather yelling imprecations after him till the man was out of sight. His severity indeed extended to all—to animals as well as to men. One day he had a monkey hung because it was too noisy: he lashed a horse again and again and again with his riding-stick because it stumbled while he had trustingly let the reins fall on its neck for a little while; and he had a dog shot one morning because it had kept him awake during the night with its howling. Between these fits of anger and moments of exultation he was subject to hours of depression. He fell into moods of deep melancholy which ended in complete prostration. Weak as a woman, he would lie on his couch or roll about on the floor, a prey to nervous attacks.
At these times, not even the most favoured person dared go near him. The last valet to leave the room would open wide the window and the door, and upon the threshold would appear a fair pale woman, clothed almost always in a white dress clasped with a blue girdle, her expression as sad as a ghost's, and, like a ghost, smiling through her melancholy. The vision had a magical influence upon Constantine; his spirits grew brighter, he first sighed and then sobbed, cried out, and, after bitter and abundant tears, he rested his head on the woman's lap and would fall asleep to wake up cured.
This woman was Poland's guardian angel, Jeannette Groudzenska. Once, when quite a child, she was praying in the Metropolitan Church of Warsaw, before an image of the Virgin, when a crown of immortelles that had been placed at the foot of the picture fell on her head, resting upon it, until she removed it and replaced it on its nail. On her return home, Jeannette related this incident to her father, who told it to an old Ukranian Cossack thought to be a seen The old Cossack replied that the falling of the holy crown on the maiden's head meant that God had intended an earthly crown for her, had she not herself renounced it by returning it to the Virgin, who would keep her a heavenly crown instead. Both father and daughter had forgotten all about this prediction,or, if not forgotten entirely, they only thought of it as a dream, when chance, or rather, shall we say, Providence, who was watching over the interests of fifty-three millions of men, brought Constantine and Jeannette face to face.
Then it came about that that hot-blooded savage, that roaring bear, became as timid as a young girl; he who broke down all opposition, who disposed of the lives of fathers and the honour of their children, came bashfully to the old father to ask for the hand of Jeannette, imploring him not to refuse him the being without whose presence he could never be happy again. The old man recollected the Cossack's prediction, and, seeing in the viceroy's request the fulfilment of Almighty designs, the viceroy obtained his consent and that of the daughter. Then the emperor's sanction had to be obtained. Alexander had a constant dread of what would become of the empire in Constantine's hands. More than anyone else did he feel the responsibility of having had the charge of souls committed to him from Heaven. He therefore tried to utilise this love affair for the benefit of the community at large, though without much hope that he would succeed. He granted his consent on condition that Constantine would abdicate his succession, and awaited the brother's answer as anxiously as his brother waited for his. Constantine received the imperial despatch, opened it, read it, gave a shout of delight and renounced his rights. Yes, that strange, inexplicable man renounced his right to the throne, he, an Olympian Jove, before whose frown a whole people trembled. He gave up his twofold right to both an Eastern and a Western sovereignty in exchange for the heart of a young girl—an empire containing two great capitals and territory that began at the shores of the Baltic and ended at the Rocky Mountains, an empire washed by seven seas.
Jeannette Groudzenska received from the Emperor Alexander in exchange, the title of Princess of Lovics.
Nevertheless, when the news of the death of the Emperor Alexander reached St. Petersburg, the Grand-Duke Nicolas ignored the fact of the renunciation, took oath of allegianceto the Grand-Duke Constantine and despatched a messenger to him to invite him to come and take possession of the throne. But at the same time that this letter was being carried from St. Petersburg to Warsaw, the Grand-Duke Michel was on his way from Warsaw to St. Petersburg with the following letter from Constantine to his brother:—
"MY VERY DEAR BROTHER,—It was with the most profoundgrief that I learnt yesterday evening the news of thedeath of our adored sovereign and my benefactor, the EmperorAlexander. I hasten to express to you my feelings of sorrowat this cruel misfortune, and at the same time I beg toinform you that I am sending a letter by the same handsto Her Imperial Majesty, our royal mother, in which I declarethat, in accordance with the edict I obtained dated February1822, sanctioning my renunciation of the throne, it is stillmy unalterable resolution to cede to you all my rights ofsuccession to the throne of the Emperor of All the Russias.I therefore beg our beloved mother and those who areconcerned in this matter, to announce that my wishes in thisrespect are still unchanged, in order that matters may besettled as arranged."Having made this declaration, I look upon it as my sacredduty very humbly to beseech your Imperial Majesty to let mebe the first to swear faithful allegiance and submission to you,and to allow me to assert that I do not wish for any freshdignity or any new title; I wish simply and solely to maintainmy title of Czarovitch, which my revered father condescendedto confer upon me in recognition of my services. Henceforthmy only happiness will be to tender your Imperial Majestytokens of my profoundest respect and of my unboundeddevotion; I can offer in pledge thereof more than thirty yearsof faithful service, and the unswerving zeal that I have displayedtowards my imperial father and brother. Animated by thesesentiments, I will not cease to serve your Imperial Majestyand your successors as long as life shall be granted me, in mypresent office and functions.—I am, with the most profoundrespect,CONSTANTINE"
"MY VERY DEAR BROTHER,—It was with the most profoundgrief that I learnt yesterday evening the news of thedeath of our adored sovereign and my benefactor, the EmperorAlexander. I hasten to express to you my feelings of sorrowat this cruel misfortune, and at the same time I beg toinform you that I am sending a letter by the same handsto Her Imperial Majesty, our royal mother, in which I declarethat, in accordance with the edict I obtained dated February1822, sanctioning my renunciation of the throne, it is stillmy unalterable resolution to cede to you all my rights ofsuccession to the throne of the Emperor of All the Russias.I therefore beg our beloved mother and those who areconcerned in this matter, to announce that my wishes in thisrespect are still unchanged, in order that matters may besettled as arranged."Having made this declaration, I look upon it as my sacredduty very humbly to beseech your Imperial Majesty to let mebe the first to swear faithful allegiance and submission to you,and to allow me to assert that I do not wish for any freshdignity or any new title; I wish simply and solely to maintainmy title of Czarovitch, which my revered father condescendedto confer upon me in recognition of my services. Henceforthmy only happiness will be to tender your Imperial Majestytokens of my profoundest respect and of my unboundeddevotion; I can offer in pledge thereof more than thirty yearsof faithful service, and the unswerving zeal that I have displayedtowards my imperial father and brother. Animated by thesesentiments, I will not cease to serve your Imperial Majestyand your successors as long as life shall be granted me, in mypresent office and functions.—I am, with the most profoundrespect,
CONSTANTINE"
The day after the Grand-Duke Nicolas had despatched his courier to the czarovitch, the Council of State had informedhim that they had been commissioned to keep a document for him, that had been handed to their care on 15 October 1823, sealed with the seal of the Emperor Alexander and accompanied by an autograph letter from His Majesty, who had charged them to keep the document until further orders, and in case of death to open it at an extraordinary session.
Now, as the emperor had died, the Council of State had opened the package, and within a double wrapping they found the Grand-Duke Constantine's renunciation of the Empire of All the Russias. This renunciation was couched in the following terms:—
"SIRE,—I am emboldened by the many proofs of your Imperial Majesty's kindness towards me to venture to crave your further indulgence and to lay my humble petitions at your feet. As I do not think myself fitted by my mental endowments and qualifications, nor gifted with sufficient capability, should I ever be called upon to fulfil the high position my birth would entitle me to assume, I earnestly implore your Imperial Majesty to transfer my rights to my immediate successor, and thus to place the empire for ever upon a stable foundation. So far as I am concerned, my renunciation will give an additional guarantee and added strength to the solemn oath I took, at the time of my divorce from my first wife. The existing condition of things establishes me more firmly in the opinion, day by day, that I am right in taking this step, and it will prove the sincerity of my sentiments to the empire and to the whole world."May your Imperial Majesty be moved to listen favourably to my entreaties, to influence our noble mother to look upon matters in the same light and to sanction my wishes with your imperial consent!"In the sphere of a private life I will ever strive to set a good example to your faithful subjects and to all who are animated by a feeling of affection towards our beloved country.—I remain, with the most profound respect,CONSTANTINE"
"SIRE,—I am emboldened by the many proofs of your Imperial Majesty's kindness towards me to venture to crave your further indulgence and to lay my humble petitions at your feet. As I do not think myself fitted by my mental endowments and qualifications, nor gifted with sufficient capability, should I ever be called upon to fulfil the high position my birth would entitle me to assume, I earnestly implore your Imperial Majesty to transfer my rights to my immediate successor, and thus to place the empire for ever upon a stable foundation. So far as I am concerned, my renunciation will give an additional guarantee and added strength to the solemn oath I took, at the time of my divorce from my first wife. The existing condition of things establishes me more firmly in the opinion, day by day, that I am right in taking this step, and it will prove the sincerity of my sentiments to the empire and to the whole world.
"May your Imperial Majesty be moved to listen favourably to my entreaties, to influence our noble mother to look upon matters in the same light and to sanction my wishes with your imperial consent!
"In the sphere of a private life I will ever strive to set a good example to your faithful subjects and to all who are animated by a feeling of affection towards our beloved country.—I remain, with the most profound respect,
CONSTANTINE"
To this letter the emperor had made the following reply:—
"MY VERY DEAR BROTHER,—I have just read your letter with all the attention it deserves. I am not surprised at itscontents, since I have always understood and appreciated the lofty sentiments of your heart; it has afforded me one proof more of your sincere attachment to the State, and of your far-seeing care for the preservation of its best interests. I have communicated the contents of your letter to our beloved mother, as you desired me; she has read it with the same feelings as those I have expressed and gratefully recognises the noble motives that have prompted you. After consideration of the reasons you have laid before us, the only course we feel free to take is to leave you full liberty to follow your fixed determination and to ask Almighty God to bless your single-hearted zeal, and to cause it to produce a happy issue.—I am ever your very affectionate brother,ALEXANDER"
"MY VERY DEAR BROTHER,—I have just read your letter with all the attention it deserves. I am not surprised at itscontents, since I have always understood and appreciated the lofty sentiments of your heart; it has afforded me one proof more of your sincere attachment to the State, and of your far-seeing care for the preservation of its best interests. I have communicated the contents of your letter to our beloved mother, as you desired me; she has read it with the same feelings as those I have expressed and gratefully recognises the noble motives that have prompted you. After consideration of the reasons you have laid before us, the only course we feel free to take is to leave you full liberty to follow your fixed determination and to ask Almighty God to bless your single-hearted zeal, and to cause it to produce a happy issue.—I am ever your very affectionate brother,
ALEXANDER"
Nicolas, however, waited for the czarovitch's reply, and not until 25 December did he issue a manifesto accepting the throne that had devolved upon him by his elder brother's renunciation. He then fixed the following day, the 26th, for the taking of the oath of allegiance to himself and to his eldest son, the Grand-Duke Alexander.
And that is the strange story of these two brothers and the refusal of one of the most splendid crowns the world has to offer, and how Constantine remained simply the Czarovitch and Nicolas became the Emperor of All the Russias.
Rousseau and Romieu—Conversation with the porter—The eight hours' candle—TheDeux Magots—At what hour one should wind up one's watch—M. le sous-préfet enjoys a joke—Henry Monnier—A paragraph of information—On suppers—On cigars
Rousseau and Romieu—Conversation with the porter—The eight hours' candle—TheDeux Magots—At what hour one should wind up one's watch—M. le sous-préfet enjoys a joke—Henry Monnier—A paragraph of information—On suppers—On cigars
While these great events were happening in high political spheres, our humble fortunes were on the wane. The hundred louis that my mother had brought with her had come to an end; we were aghast to find we had spent nearly 4000 francs within a year and a half—nearly 11 1800 francs, that is to say, more than we ought to have done, t; It was therefore imperative that I should fulfil my promises and add to my salary by working out of my office hours.
De Leuven and I had stuck valiantly and persistently at collaborating together, but nothing had come of it—a result that made us bitterly inveigh aloud against the injustice of managers, and the want of taste of directorates, although, under my breath, I was more just in my criticism of our efforts, and frankly admitted to myself that were I a manager I would not have accepted my own work. So we made up our minds to make certain sacrifices, and ask Rousseau to join us, in order that he might add those indescribable finishing touches to our works which would make all the difference in the world. These sacrifices consisted in our procuring several bottles of good old Bordeaux, some flasks of rum and some loaf-sugar. Rousseau belonged to the famous school of Favart, Radet, Collé, Désaugiers, Armand Gouffé and Company, who neverworked save to the sound of the popping of corks, with the vision of seething fumes of punch-bowls before their eyes. Rousseau had a reputation which, later, he was most unwillingly obliged to share with his illustrious collaborator Romieu. At a certain period I should not have dared to speak thus of the famous prefect of the Dordogne, for fear of injuring his political career. It will be remembered what distress was caused by the news (which happily proved to be false) of his having been devoured by bugs, and how his partisans hastened to fling back the ill-natured jest into the face of the wretched papers that had spread the report. It is, alas! so difficult for an intellectual man to be forgiven his wit, and for a funny man to pass for a serious one, that Romieu had scarcely begun to recover from this duplex reputation, unluckily but too well deserved, when, after ten years at thesous-préfectureandpréfecture, a similar fate overtook him to that of the poor Roman cobbler who taught a raven to exclaim, "Vive César Auguste!" the Cæsar Augustus of France fell, and all Romieu's pains and labours were lost,opera et impensa periit.Romieu retired into private life, and the fall above referred to, which, contrary to the laws of gravity, operated from the base upwards, gave us full liberty with respect to the author of theEnfant trouvéand theÈre des Césars.
In 1825, then, Romieu was collaborating with Rousseau; but, as in the case of Adolphe and myself, they got absolutely nothing out of it beyond a crowd of adventures each more delightfully amusing than its predecessor, which defrayed their expenses at thecafé du Roiand thecafé des Variétés.
Let us make it clear, for there might be some ambiguity in the matter, and it might be thought that something also came out of our collaboration.
No, nothing at all came of ours: Adolphe had always been as jolly as a Trappist monk, while I, although by nature extremely light-hearted, was only able to laugh at the farces of others, without ever being able, in all the farces that were made, to be more than a simple spectator. I profoundly admired Rousseau's and Romieu's cleverness in these lines. So there were fewnights when Rousseau especially (who could not carry his wine as well as Romieu, but who, it should be acknowledged, went in for excellent wines), abandoned to himself by his treacherous Pylades, had to be led home by some patrol or other, and taken to the police-station for making a nocturnal uproar. But Rousseau was like those children who, as a precaution against their being lost, are taught their name and address. Rousseau had deeply engraved upon his memory the name of a certain police-officer of his acquaintance, and it was so firmly embedded there that neither wine, nor brandy, nor rum nor punch was powerful enough to wash it out. Rousseau staggering, Rousseau stuttering, Rousseau tight, Rousseau drunk, Rousseau dead drunk, Rousseau forgetful of the name and address of his mother, the name and address of Romieu, his own name and his own address, could always distinctly articulate the name and address of that particular police-officer!
And as no one could refuse a man as drunk as he was the reasonable request to be taken to a police-officer, Rousseau was taken to his friend, who delivered him a formal lecture, but always wound up by setting him free.
Once, however, the lecture was more keen than usual, and Rousseau listened to it looking very penitent. Then, as the police-officer upbraided him for disturbing his slumbers, thus waking him night after night, Rousseau responded—
"You are quite right, and I promise you I will henceforth have myself taken before someone else once every three times."
He kept his word. But all police-officers were not so long-suffering as good M.—. The first one before whom Rousseau appeared sent him to the Saint-Martin guard-room and kept him there for a couple of days. After this experience he decided to go back to his old habit.
Rousseau and Romieu were very fond of playing pranks on porters and grocers. Rousseau would put his head in at a porter's grille and call out—
"Good-day, my friend."
"Good-day, monsieur."
"May I ask what bird that is you have in your window?"
"It is a blackcap, monsieur."
"Ah! indeed!... Why do you keep a blackcap?"
"Because it sings so nicely, monsieur."
"Really?"
"Stop and listen...."
And the porter would put his hands on his hips and wag his head up and down with a smile on his face as he listened to the singing of his blackcap.
"Ah! you are right!... You are married?"
"Yes, monsieur,—been married three times."
"And where is your woman?"
"My wife, Monsieur means?"
"Yes, of course, your wife."
"She is at the lodger's, on the fifth floor."
"Indeed! indeed! And what is she doing at the lodger's on the fifth floor?"
"Charing."
"Is the lodger on the fifth floor young or old?"
"Between the two."
"Good.... And your children?"
"I haven't any."
"You haven't any?"
"No."
"Then what have you been about during your three marriages?"
"Excuse me ... does Monsieur want someone?"
"No."
"Monsieur wants something?"
"No."
"Well, for the past quarter of an hour Monsieur has been asking me question after question."
"Yes."
"What did you mean by these questions?"
"Nothing at all."
"What! nothing at all?... But surely Monsieur had some reason?"
"None."
"Monsieur had no reason?"
"No."
"Well, then, I should much like to know why Monsieur did me the honour ...?"
"Why, I was passing by ... I saw the words over your lodge 'Speak to the porter,' so I spoke to you."
Romieu would enter a grocer's shop.
"Good-morning, monsieur."
"Monsieur, your very humble servant."
"Have you candles eight to the pound?"
"Certainly, monsieur, plenty of them; it is an article much in demand, for there are more small purses than large ones."
"Your observation, monsieur, savours of higher matters than groceries."
Romieu and the grocer bowed to each other.
"You flatter me, monsieur."
"Monsieur said that he wanted ...?"
"One candle of eight to the pound."
"Only one?"
"Yes, at first; later, I will see."
The grocer took a candle out of a packet.
"Here it is, monsieur."
"Will you cut it in half? I detest fingering candles!"
"Quite so, monsieur; they have such a strong smell.... Here is your candle in two pieces."
"Ah! now will you be good enough to cut each of those halves into four pieces?"
"Into four?"
"Yes; I need eight pieces of candle for my purpose."
"Here are your eight pieces, monsieur."
"Pardon me, will you oblige me by preparing the wicks for me?"
"The whole eight?"
"Seven rather, since one naturally has its wick ready."
"Quite so."
"That is all right ... there, there, very good ... there,thank you. Now then ... place them on the counter at three inches' distance from one another.... Ah!..."
"But what on earth is that for?"
"You will see.... Now, would you have the goodness to lend me a lucifer match?"
"Certainly ... take one."
"Thanks."
And Romieu would solemnly light the eight candle-ends.
"But what is that for, monsieur?"
"I am creating a farce."
"A farce?"
"Yes."
"And now ...?"
"And now the farce is done, I am going"; and Romieu would nod to the grocer and make off.
"What! are you going without paying for the candle?" shrieked the grocer. "At least pay for the candle."
Romieu would turn round—
"If I paid for the candle, where would be the farce?"
And he would go on his way quite heedless of the grocer's objurgations.
Occasionally, Romieu's ambitions would soar higher than teasing grocers, and he would play irreverent pranks in higher circles of commerce.
One evening, he was passing along the rue de Seine, at the corner of the rue de Bussy, at half-past twelve midnight, when an assistant was preparing to close the shop ofles Deux Magots.Generally, the establishment closed at eleven, so it was unusually late.
Romieu rushed inside the shop.
"Where is the proprietor of the establishment?"
"M. P——?"
"Yes."
"He has gone to bed."
"Has he been gone long?"
"About an hour."
"But he sleeps in the house?"
"Certainly."
"Take me to him."
"But, monsieur...."
"Without delay."
"But...."
"Instantly."
"Is your communication then of so pressing a nature?"
"It is so important that I shudder lest I be too late."
"Since Monsieur assures me...."
"Come, take me to him, take me to him quickly!"
The assistant did not wait to close the shop, but took Romieu through into an anteroom, where M. P—— was snoring like a bass-viol.
"M. P——! M. P——!..." shouted the shopboy.
"Well, what is it? Go to the devil with you! What do you want?"
"It is not I...."
"What do you mean by saying it is not you?"
"No, it is a gentleman who wishes a few words with you."
"At this time of night?"
"He says it is very urgent."
"Where is the gentleman?"
"He is at the door. Come in, monsieur, come in."
Romieu entered on tiptoe, hat in hand, with a smiling countenance.
"Pardon, monsieur, a thousand pardons for disturbing you."
"Oh, do not mention it, monsieur; it is nothing. What is your business?"
"I wish to speak with your partner."
"With my partner?"
"Yes."
"But I have no partner."
"You haven't?"
"No."
"Then why put on your sign, 'Aux Deux Magots'? It deceives the public!"
But sometimes it happened that the hoaxer was recognised, and then he was caught in his own trap.
One day Rousseau went into a watchmaker's.
"Monsieur, I wish to see some good watches."
"Monsieur, here is the very article you desire."
"Whose make is it?"
"Leroy's."
"Who is Leroy?"
"One of the most famous of my craft."
"Then you can guarantee it?"
"I can."
"How many times a week does it need winding?"
"Once."
"Morning or evening?"
"Whichever you prefer; though it is really better to wind it in the morning."
"Why so?"
"Because one may be drunk in the evening, Monsieur Rousseau, and break the mainspring."
Rousseau was caught this time; he left, promising the watchmaker his custom—a promise he never fulfilled, bearing in mind the watchmaker's retort.
It will be seen that when Romieu became first a sub-prefect and then a prefect he could not continue this kind of pleasantry; nevertheless, I understand that the old Adam in him would crop out from time to time, for it is very difficult to efface natural propensities, which, according to the poet of Auteuil, will persist in returning full tilt.
So it is related that one night the sub-prefect was returning home at eleven o'clock, after supper;—when Romieu was in Paris and took supper out he never returned home until the following morning; but every creature knows, alas! that Paris is not the provinces!—and he caught sight of three or four street lads belonging to the district, busy throwing stones at the complimentary street lamp that was always lit in front of thesous-préfecture; however, as it was not Paris, but only a provincial town, the young guttersnipes were country lubbers,and had already thrown four or five stones without being able to touch the spot. The sub-prefect saw them without being seen and shrugged his shoulders. Finally, being totally unable to contain himself at the sight of such clumsiness, he came up to them, took his place in the midst of the astonished urchins, picked up the first stone he saw, threw it—and behold, lo!—the lamp ceased to be a lamp. "That is how it should be done, messieurs," he said, and he entered his house, muttering—
"Oh! the young folk of to-day are a degenerate lot!"
Sometimes, too, M. le préfet, in his brave braided coat of office, would condescend to be gluttonous,—for who does not have his bad moments? even the wisest sin seven times a day, so surely the intellectual man may make a beast of himself once a year.
Henri Monnier, the witty caricaturist, charming creator ofproverbesand friend of all, when passing through Périgueux, went to call on his old comrade Romieu and invited himself to dinner that day. M. le préfet gave a formal dinner party, the guests being mostly departmental officials, the stiffest and most punctilious he could find. It took a great deal to overawe Henri Monnier; he chattered away, told all sorts of tales just as freely as if he had been in his own house, or in yours or in mine; in other words, he was delightful. But he noticed that, although he persistently addressed Romieu in familiar language, Romieu was equally persistent in being formal with him.
This was entirely contrary to their habits and customs. Henri Monnier made quite certain that he was not labouring under any misapprehension; then, when he was sure he was right, he shouted from one end of the table to the other, "Look here, my dear Romieu, why ever do you address me asyouwhile I use the familiarthou? The company here will take you for my valet."
Paris really missed Romieu when he left it, although it still possessed Rousseau; as the authorities were bent on making Romieu a prefect, Paris would have liked him to be prefectof Paris, but apparently that was not possible. How could Romieu have left Rousseau behind him in Paris? Ah! Rousseau never forgave him for doing that! He wrote a very pretty song about it, which I will give my readers, if I can find it.
When Romieu was appointed sub-prefect, Rousseau jumped for joy; it would, he argued, be a grave omission on the part of the Government to make Romieu a sub-prefect without giving Rousseau some title or other; and as Rousseau had not asked for even a sub-prefecture after the Revolution, it was but reasonable to refrain from blaming the Government, and, less proud than Cæsar, he was quite willing to play second fiddle. He went in search of Romieu.
"Well done, my dear friend, I congratulate you."
"Oh! you have heard?"
"The deuce I have!"
"Yes, they have made me a sub-prefect."
"Well?"
"Well, what?"
"I hope you are thinking of me."
"Thinking of you? In what way?"
"You will require a secretary, I should think."
"Yes, so I shall."
"You have not got one yet?"
"No."
"Very well, that is my berth, then. Twelve hundred francs, board, lodging and your society. I could ask for nothing better."
"Indeed?" said Romieu.
"Come, now!"
"Return the day after to-morrow, and I will tell you if the thing be possible."
"Possible! What the devil should prevent it ...?"
Rousseau took his departure, and returned two days later. He found Romieu looking very serious, even anxious.
"Well?" he asked.
"Well, my dear friend, I am in despair."
"Why?"
"Impossible!"
"Impossible to take me with you?"
"Yes ... you see...."
"No, I don't see."
"Before I could take you with me I had to make some inquiries."
"About me?"
"Yes, about you, and I learnt...."
"You learnt ...?"
"I learnt that you drank."
Rousseau left; but this time he did not return again. Poor Rousseau! Three months before his death, he related this story to my son and me, with tears in his eyes.
"Romieu will come to a bad end," he said in tones as tragic as those of Calchas; "he is an ungrateful being."
May Heaven preserve Romieu from Rousseau's prediction!
Romieu stayed in the provinces for three years without coming back to Paris, and during those three years his absence led to great changes in the capital, as the following distich by an unknown author appears to state:—
"Lorsque Romieu revint du MonomotapaParis ne soupait plus, et Paris ressoupa."
I said great changes had taken place in Paris, I should have said fatal changes. The cessation of supper parties has brought about more troublesome consequences in a civilised world than might be supposed. I attribute our present state of intellectual degeneration to the cessation of supper parties and the innovation of the cigar. God forbid I should state that our sons' mental abilities are not equal to our own; I, at least, have a son who would not forgive me if I made such a statement. But they are of a different type of mind. Time alone can settle which is the better of the two.
We men of forty years and upwards still preserve something of the aristocratic spirit of the eighteenth century, tempered with the chivalrous spirit of the Empire.
Women had great influence over minds of that period, and supper parties were a real social factor.
By eleven o'clock at night all the cares of the day are cast aside, and one knows there are still from six to eight hours to spend at one's ease between the night ends and day comes. When one sits at a well-filled table, face to face with a pretty girl, amid the pleasurable excitement of lights and flowers, the mind lets itself be carried away into the realm of dreams, though wide awake, and at such a time it attains its highest flights of brilliancy and exaltation. It is not only that one is more brilliant at supper-time than at any other meal, and that one has more wit than at any other repast, but one's very nature seems to be different.
I am sure that the greater number of the witty sayings of the eighteenth century were said at supper-time. Let us, therefore, have more of these supper parties, and we shall not lack what made them so brilliant.
Now let us turn to the cigar. Formerly, afterdéjeuner, men and women would proceed to the billiard-room or to the garden; after dinner, they would adjourn to the drawing-room; and there the conversation would continue on the same lines, whether desultory or more general. Nowadays, men have scarcely risen from table before they say to one another, "Come, let us have a cigar."
Then they go out, and walk up and down the pavements smoking. There they meet women also, but not at all capable of the same type of wit as those whom they have just left in the drawing-room. Men's minds are raised to the level of the women with whom they associate; one cannot demean oneself before the most lovely half of creation. And this generalisation is proved true every day.
One does not meet the same people in the public promenades two days running, but, though the people change, the type of conversation is pretty much the same always. Imperceptibly the tone of mind becomes lower. If you add to this the influence of the narcotic contained in tobacco, you can judge what the state of society will be in half a century if thetaste for the cigar goes on increasing incessantly. We shall have about as much intellectual activity in France in 1950 as there is in Holland at the present time.
The reader will see that we have travelled far from Rousseau and Romieu. We have only Rousseau now to deal with, and let us, therefore, return to him.
The lantern—La Chasse et l'Amour—Rousseau's part in it—The couplet about the hare—Thecouplet de facture—How there may be haresandhares—Reception at l'Ambigu—My first receipts as an author—Who Porcher was—Why no one might say anything against Mélesville
The lantern—La Chasse et l'Amour—Rousseau's part in it—The couplet about the hare—Thecouplet de facture—How there may be haresandhares—Reception at l'Ambigu—My first receipts as an author—Who Porcher was—Why no one might say anything against Mélesville
De Leuven and I went to hunt up Rousseau, who was then living in the rue du Petit-Carreau with a woman. We found him in a mad state of mind. The night before, he had been supping, and supping very well, too, at Philippe's—I may as well mention here that I can recommend Philippe as the only man left at whose place one can still have a good supper. Rousseau had left with Romieu at about one o'clock in the morning, just tipsy. He had not taken two steps before the fresh air had its usual effect, and he became drunk; after walking about a hundred paces he was dead drunk. Romieu made heroic efforts to lead him as far as he could; but, when he had been dragged down to the pavement twice, he decided to place him in the safest position possible and then to leave him. Consequently, at thirty paces from his door, recognising the impossibility of dragging him farther, Romieu laid him comfortably down outside a fruiterer's shop-door, on a heap of cabbage leaves and dead carrot tops which he found there, propping his head up against a wall. Then, by the aid of his knuckles and boots, he knocked up a grocer hard by, where he bought a lantern, which he lighted and placed by Rousseau's side. Then he bid adieu to his unlucky friend, addressing him in the following terms, half in satisfaction of a duty fulfilled and half in supplication to the Powers above:—
"And now, sleep peacefully, son of Epicurus. No one will trample upon you!"
Rousseau spent the night quite quietly, thanks to the lamp which kept watch over him, and he woke up finding two or three sous in his hand. Some kind souls had given him alms, taking him for a poor wretched outcast. But, as he was in his own neighbourhood, when daylight broke, he was recognised by both grocer and fruiterer, and was exceedingly humiliated by the fact. We comforted him by the offer of a good breakfast at thecafé des Variétés, and, being Sunday, and therefore a holiday, we afterwards took him off to Adolphe's rooms.
Adolphe had a very charming apartment at that time, almost as pretty as Soulié's. The house that M. Arnault had built in the rue de la Bruyère was a very nice one, and the de Leuven family had followed the Arnaults from the rue Pigalle to the rue de la Bruyère. We sat down and had some tea, Rousseau declaring he was dying of thirst, and then we each read in turn to our guest the whole of our literary attempts, in order that he might judge for himself which he thought worthiest of his exalted protection. By the time we had come to the second scene, Rousseau pretended that he could listen better if he lay down on Adolphe's bed, and consequently he mounted it; at the fourth scene he was snoring—which testified that, no matter how soft the bed of herbs lent him by the fruiterer in the rue du Petit-Carreau, one never sleeps properly when one stays out all night. We respected Rousseau's sleep, and waited patiently till he awoke again. When he awoke, his head felt heavy and he could not put two ideas together, so he asked to be allowed to take our MSS. away with him, and promised to read them carefully at home and let us know the result. We confided our treasures to him,—two melodramas and three comic operas,—and we arranged to dine with him at Adolphe's rooms on the following Thursday. Madame de Leuven herself undertook to see that the dinner should be good and well served, for she was conscious of the importance of theoccasion, and Rousseau was invited by letter as well as verbally. At the bottom of the letter, where' one puts on ball invitations "Dancing," we put, "There will be two bottles of champagne"; and Rousseau, of course, turned up.
Neither melodramas nor vaudevilles had pleased him. The melodramas were borrowed from novels too well known, from which plenty of melodramas had already been taken. The vaudevilles were founded on ideas which were dull from beginning to end. Stronger men than we might well have been cast down at such a verdict. But Adolphe had an idea which supported our courage and soothed our self-respect.
"He has not read them," he whispered to me.
"Quite likely," I replied.
This semi-conviction somewhat restored our spirits. At dessert, I told several stories, and among them a hunting tale.
"What do you mean," exclaimed Rousseau, "by telling such capital stories as that and yet amusing yourself by cribbing melodramas from Florian and tales from M. Bouilly? Why, in the story you have just related, there is a comedietta complete in itself,la Chasse et l'Amour."
"Do you think so?" we both exclaimed.
(At that period of our friendship we addressed Rousseau in formal parlance.)
"The deuce I do."
"But suppose we were to write this comedietta ...?"
"Let us do it!" we repeated in chorus.
"Wait a moment; not so fast," said Rousseau. "There is still another bottle of champagne; let us drink it."
"Yes," said Adolphe, "and we must have a third to toast our new venture. We will begin work upon it immediately."
"Amen!" cried Rousseau; and he raised his glass. "To the success ofla Chasse et l'Amour!" he cried.
We took good care to do full justice to the toast, which was renewed until not one drop of the golden liquor was left in the bottle.
"The third bottle!" said Rousseau, as he drained the last drops of the second into his glass.
"Let us set to work on the draft.... The third bottle shall be brought up."
"All right, let us start!" cried Rousseau.
We rang for the servant, who removed the plates, dishes and cloth, leaving only the three glasses; then pens, ink and paper were put on the table, a pen was stuck into my hand, and the third bottle was brought up. It was emptied in a quarter of an hour's time, and by the end of an hour the plan was drawn up. Do not ask me to describe the play, I have no wish to remember it. We divided the twenty-one scenes which, I believe, composed the work, into three divisions of seven each. My seven were those of the beginning, Rousseau took the seven dealing with the denouement and de Leuven the middle seven. Then we arranged to meet again at dinner in a week's time to read the play, each undertaking to complete his part in a week. This was how plays of the old school were composed. Scribe has changed all that, after the fashion of Molière's doctor, who had located the liver on the left and the heart on the right. That which had been undertaken before Scribe's time in a spirit of caprice and flippancy was turned by him into a serious business. My seven scenes were written by the following night. At the appointed day we all met; both Adolphe and I had done our parts, but Rousseau had not written a word of his. He declared that he was so accustomed to writing in company that his ideas would not flow when he was alone, and he could not do a thing. We told Rousseau that that need certainly not stop him, for we would keep him company.
It was arranged that the evening of that day should be given up to revising Adolphe's and my portions, and that the following day the sittings should begin, during which Rousseau should compose his part. My part was read, and was received with great applause—one couplet especially astonishing Rousseau. The comic rôle was filled by a Parisian sportsman, bespectacled, a sportsman of the plain of Saint-Denis, in fact;and he sings the following lines in explanation of his prowess:—
"La terreur de la perdrixEt l'effroi de la bécasse,Pour mon adresse à la chasse,On me cite dans Paris.Dangereux comme la bombe,Sous mes coups rien qui ne tombe,Le cerf comme la colombe,A ma seule vue, enfin,Tout le gibier a la fièvre;Car, pour mettre à has un lièvre,Je sais un fameux lapin!"
Adolphe read his part, and received honourable mention for his workmanship in thecouplet de facture.[1]No one nowadays has any knowledge of thecouplet de facture, save the Nestors of art, who have pleasant memories of thehisandter[repeated encores] which almost always welcomed thecouplet de facture.Here are Adolphe's couplets—to every man his due:—
AIR DU VAUDEVILLE DESBLOUSES"Un seul instant examinez le monde,Vous ne venez que chasseurs ici-bas.Autour de moi quand on chasse à la ronde,Pourquoi donc seul ne chasserais-je pas?Dans nos salons, un fat parfumé d'ambreDe vingt beautés chasse à la fois les cœurs,Un intrigant rampant dans l'antichambreChasse un cordon, un regard, des faveurs.Sans consulter son miroir ni son âge,Une coquette, à soixante-dix ans,En minaudant, chasse encore l'hommageQue l'on adresse à ses petits-enfants.Un lourd journal que la haine dévore,Toujours en vain chasse des souscripteurs;Et l'Opéra, sans en trouver encore,Depuis longtemps chasse des spectateurs.Un jeune auteur, amant de Melpomène,Chasse la gloire et parvient à son but:Un autre croit, sans prendre autant de peine,Qu'il lui suffit de chasser l'Institut.Pendant vingt ans, les drapeaux de la FranceSur l'univers flottèrent en vainqueurs,Et l'étranger sait par expérience,Si nos soldats sont tous de bons chasseurs:Un seul instant examinez le monde,Vous ne verrez que chasseurs ici-bas.Autour de moi quand on chasse à la ronde,Pourquoi donc seul ne chasserais-je pas?"
As we have said, only Rousseau's part now remained to be done. We set to work the following evening, but, because of the making up of the mail-bag, we could not begin until nine o'clock, and we did not finish before one in the morning. As I lived in the faubourg Saint-Denis, it fell to me to conduct Rousseau to the rue Poissonnière. But when Rousseau left our hands he was nearly always in a sound state of mind and body, so I had no occasion to go to the expense of purchasing lanterns to keep watch over him.
When the play was finished, we had to consider to what theatre we would present ourchef-d'œuvre.I had no preference in the matter; so long as the play was acted at all, and taken up promptly, I cared little at what house I was presented. Adolphe and Rousseau were in favour of the Gymnase, and, as I had nothing to say against that house, it was agreed. Rousseau asked for a reading, and, as he had had his pieces played there before, they could not refuse him a hearing. He therefore obtained a reading, though Poirson, who was the mainspring of the Gymnase, kept him waiting three weeks. There was nothing to be done but to wait—we had been waiting for the past two years!
The great day arrived at last. We had arranged that the names of only two of the authors should appear in the matter. I generously yielded the post of honour to de Leuven, for I did not wish my name to be known until I had done some really important work. All depends in this world on a good beginning, and to make myself known byla Chasse et l'Amour, remarkable though that work was, did not seem to myambitious pride a sufficiently worthy début. For, although my hopes had been dwindling during the past two years, my pride was still to the fore. It was therefore decided that I should not appear either in the matter of the reading or on the play-bills, but that my name, Dumas, should be published when the play was printed.
The great day arrived at last. We breakfasted together at the café du Roi; then, at half-past ten, we separated: Rousseau and Adolphe went to the Gymnase, and I went to my office.
Oh! I must confess I passed through a terrible strain from eleven till three o'clock. At three, the door opened, and through the crack I caught a glimpse of two sorrowful faces. Rousseau came in first, followed by de Leuven.La Chasse et l'Amourhad been declined unanimously. There hadn't been a single dissentient voice. Poirson seemed astounded that anyone should have dreamed of reading such a piece of work at a theatre that bore the lofty title Théâtre de Madame. He was dreadfully scandalised by the passage which ended with these four lines:—
"A ma seule vue, enfin,Tout le gibier a la fièvre;Car, pour mettre à has un lièvre,Je suis un fameux lapin!"
Rousseau pointed out to him that there had not always been, even in prohibited seasons, such a horror of game, since, in theHéritière, Scribe had made his colonel say, whilst holding up an old hare that he drew from out his game-bag:—
"Voyez ces favoris épaisSous lesquels se cachent ses lèvres;C'est le Nestor de ces forêts,C'est le patriarche des lièvres!D'avoir pu le tuer vivant,Je me glorifîrai sans cesse,Car, si je tardais d'un instant,Il allait mourir de vieillesse!"
But Poirson retorted that there were haresandhares; that the comparison which M. Scribe made of his, to a patriarchand to Nestor, elevated it in the eyes of all cultured people, whilst the horrible play of words we had allowed ourselves by opposing the wordlièvretolapinwas in the worst possible taste, and would not even be tolerated by athéâtre de boulevard.I innocently asked if the Gymnase was not a boulevard theatre; and now it was Rousseau's turn to pay me out: he was very angry with me, as he looked upon my passage as the cause of our rejection.
"You must learn, my dear friend, that there are boulevardsandboulevards, just as there are haresandhares."
I was immensely surprised; I had never made any distinction between hares, other than in dividing them into hares tender and hares tough; or, in the matter of boulevards, beyond in summer preferring those that were shadiest to those that were sunniest, and in winter those that were sunny to those in the shade. I was mistaken: hares and boulevards had degrees of rank.
We parted, after arranging a meeting for that night. Lassagne noticed that I was cast down, and was most sympathetic towards me. When Ernest's back was turned, he said—
"Never mind, my dear friend, we will write a play together."
"Do you really mean it?" I cried, leaping for joy.
"Hush!" he said; "don't go dancing like that in the passages and bellowing in the office."
"Oh, don't be anxious!"
"I read your ode to General Foy; it is crude, but it contains several excellent lines, and two or three good metaphors. I will help you to succeed."
"Oh, thank you, thank you!"
"But we may perhaps be obliged to call in a third person, for neither you nor I could attend the rehearsals; besides, it must not be known that I have had anything to do with it."
"Add whoever you like. But when can we begin?"
"Well, try to think of a subject, and I will do the same; we will then select whichever seems the likeliest."
Then Ernest came back, and Lassagne put his finger on his lips. I nodded, and the matter was settled. That night, as arranged, Adolphe, Rousseau and I met.
Can anything possibly be more melancholy than a meeting of authors whose works have been refused? Unless one is a Corneille or a M. Viennet, there is always the haunting doubt that the manager may be correct, and the author self-deceived. Rather than settle this momentous question outright, we adopted avia media, and that was to read it before some other theatre. But to which should we take it? Poirson had contemptuously condemned us to the boulevard theatres, so Rousseau offered to read it at the Ambigu. The manager, Warez, was a friend of his, so there was a chance he could get a hearing at once, which would certainly not be the case elsewhere. We therefore sanctioned the proposal, and the reading, which Rousseau, asked on the following day, was accorded for the ensuing Saturday.
We awaited that day in great anxiety, I especially; for the result, miserable though it might be, was almost a matter of life or death to me. My mother and I were terrified to see how nearly we had reached the end of our resources. Although our neighbour Després was dead and we had taken his rooms as he advised, since they were a hundred francs cheaper than ours, and although we exercised the greatest possible economy in our expenses, our resources were lessening, little by little, but quite fast enough to give us serious uneasiness as we contemplated the time when we should be reduced to living on my income only.
The eventful Saturday arrived.
I went to my office, the others to the reading.
At one o'clock the door of my office opened, but behind it stood two faces whose expression left me no more room for doubt than I had had the first time.
"Accepted?" I cried.
"With acclamation, my dear boy," said Rousseau.
"And what about the hare passage?"
"Encored!"
Oh! instability of human judgment! that which had revolted M. Poirson sent M. Warez into ecstasies.
It seemed, then, that there were indeed haresandhares, boulevardsandboulevards. I ascertained what the rights of the author of a vaudeville written for the Ambigu would amount to. They consisted of twelve francs for author's rights and six seats in the theatre. That meant four francs each per night and two seats. These two places were valued at forty sous. The total I should make out of my dramatic début would be six francs a day. Six francs a day, be it understood, equalled my salary and half as much again. Only, when would our first representation be given? They had promised Rousseau it should be as soon as possible, and, as a matter of fact, he was summoned to read it to the actors in a week's time. That was indeed a red-letter day. When he came back after the reading, Rousseau drew me aside.
"Listen," he said; "we have become intimate friends during our ups and downs of disappointment and delight—if you are hard up for a little money...."
"Hard up for money? I should think I am, indeed!"
"All right; if you are in need, I will tell you of a decent fellow who will lend you some."
"On what security?"
"On your tickets."
"On what tickets?"
"Why, on your theatre tickets."
"On my two seats a day?"
"Yes, that is what I mean. I have sold him both my tickets and my rights ... he has paid me two hundred and fifty francs outright. So, I said to myself, I mustn't forget my friends. I puffed you up well; I told him you were a young fellow just beginning your career, but that you showed considerable promise. I left him under the impression that you I were going to surpass Scribe and Casimir Delavigne altogether, and he is expecting you this evening at the café de l'Ambigu."
"What is your man's name?"
"Porcher."
"Good! I will go."
Rousseau had already gone a little way when he came back again.
"By the bye, talk to him about whatever you like, but don't run down Mélesville to him."
"Why ever do you suppose I should say anything against Mélesville? I think nothing but good of him."
"Oh, you callow lad! Don't you know that in the literary arena it is of those one thinks the best that one says the worst things?"
"No, I did not know.... But why must one not speak ill of Mélesville to Porcher?"
"Some day when I have time I will tell you."
And Rousseau nodded amicably to me, and, with a wave of his hand, went off jingling his 250 francs, leaving me to puzzle as to why I might not run down Mélesville to Porcher.
I did not wait till the usual closing hour, but ran home gleefully with the good news to my mother. I did not, however, mention the offer Rousseau had made me. That evening, after making up my second mail-bag, I went to the café de l'Ambigu and asked for M. Porcher. He was pointed out to me playing a game of dominoes. I went up to him, and he probably knew who I was, for he got up.
"I am the young man Rousseau spoke about," I said to him.
"I am at your service, monsieur. Are you in a hurry, or will you allow me to finish my game of dominoes?"
"By all means finish it, monsieur—I am in no hurry; I will take a walk on the boulevard."
I went outside the café to wait, and Porcher came out five minutes later.
"So you have had a play accepted at the Ambigu?" he began.
"Yes, and it has been put in rehearsal to-day."
"I know. And you want money advanced on your tickets?"
"Listen!" I said; "this is how I am placed." And I told him in a few words the whole story of my life.
"How much do you want on your tickets? You know they are only worth two francs per day?"
"Oh yes, I know that only too well!"
"I cannot therefore give you much."
"I know that also."
"For the piece may not be a success."
"Well, what can you give me?"
"How much?... Let us see!"
I rallied all my courage, for I thought myself that the request was exorbitant.
"Can you give me fifty francs?"
"Oh yes," said Porcher.
"When?"
"Immediately—I haven't the amount with me, but I will get it from the café."
"And I will come in and give you a receipt."
"No need; I shall put your name down on my register, as I do M. Mélesville's and other authors'; but it is an understood thing, is it not, that you will always do business with me?"
"I agree, on my sacred honour."
Porcher went in, got fifty francs from the desk and handed them to me. I have experienced few sensations as delightful as the touch of the first money I earned by my pen: hitherto, what I had earned had been but for my orthography.
"Look here," he said, "be sensible, work hard, and I will introduce you to Mélesville."
I looked at Porcher: this was the second time he had pronounced the name in connection with which Rousseau had cautioned me particularly.