On the 10th, came the turn of Machecoul; here, there was less to do than at Chollet. Machecoul was a small town, exposed on every side and easy to capture. They first learnt the danger they were in on a Sunday; the tocsin was rung and all the peasantry of the surrounding country made for the town.Two hundred patriots rallied and bravely advanced against the assailants—two hundred against two thousand!—the mass opened, surrounded the little band and made but one mouthful of it. Machecoul had a constitutional curé, and the priests who had not taken the oath to the constitution bore a grudge against those who had: they protested that the latter "spoilt the profession"; they seized the poor man as he came to say mass, and they killed him; but there was a preconcerted plan among them to kill him by inches by blows on the face. The torture lasted a long time: life is sometimes very tenacious, especially in the hands of skilful executioners, who do not incline to chase it too quickly out of the body. But everything has an end: the curé died a martyr, and, when he was dead, they consulted an old huntsman, a clever bugle blower, and organised a hunt, searching from house to house to track down their quarry. When they unearthed a patriot they blew thevue, at the sound of which every man, woman and child ran out (in this kind of warfare, women and children are even worse than men). When the patriot was beaten down, thehallaliwas bugled, then came thecurée, which lasted a long time: it was carried out, usually, by women, with the help of scissors and nails, and by children, with the aid of stones. Machecoul lies on an eminence between two departments; it was judged to be a good place for establishing a court of justice; and they massacred there for forty-two days, from 10 March to 22 April.
The reader knows how the insurrection spread from the Lower Vendée to the Higher. It was brought about by an affair at Saint-Florent: an émigré had sent his servant, a Vendean named Forest into Vendée to preach resistance, and opposition to the military system. They tried to stop him, but he would not be denied a hearing; he openly preached revolt in the streets. A gendarme came to him; he drew a pistol from his pocket, fired at the gendarme and killed him. That pistol-shot woke those who were yet slumbering, And, mark well, when this unlucky shot was fired, the tocsin was already ringing in six hundred parishes;then it was carried by the wind in all directions; nothing could be heard but the ringing of bells, as though flocks of invisible birds were flying over their brazen tongues. The vibration of those deadly knells, which were answering one another from village to village, grew in volume, clashing in the air, charging the atmosphere like a thunderstorm, with electric currents of hatred and of revenge.
Meantime, what was Cathelineau, the prime mover of all this, busy about? We will hear Michelet's version:—
"He had heard of the fight at Saint-Florent and the firing of guns clearly enough; nor could he be unaware by the 12th of the frightful massacre of the 10th, which had compromised the Vendean coast in the revolt past all drawing back. Even if he had not heard anything, the tocsin would have roused him hard enough: the whole country seemed in an uproar, the very earth trembled. He began to think things were growing serious, and whether from the foresight of the father of a family which he was shortly to leave, or whether from military prudence, in the matter of laying in stores of food, he began to heat his ovens and to make bread. First came his nephew, with the story of the affray at Saint-Florent. Cathelineau continued to knead his dough. Then the neighbours began dropping in—a tailor, a weaver, a shoemaker, a hatter."'Well, neighbour, what shall we do?'"Quite twenty-seven of them had assembled there, bent on following his counsel implicitly. He pointed out first that a crisis had come: the leaven had done its work, the fermentation was sufficiently advanced; it was time to stop kneading, wipe his hands and shoulder his gun. Twenty-seven went forth; at the end of the village they numbered five hundred. It was the whole of the population, all worthy men, sturdy, strong, steadfastly brave and honest, the very pick of the Vendean armies, intrepid leaders almost always to be found in the front ranks, facing the Republican cannon."
"He had heard of the fight at Saint-Florent and the firing of guns clearly enough; nor could he be unaware by the 12th of the frightful massacre of the 10th, which had compromised the Vendean coast in the revolt past all drawing back. Even if he had not heard anything, the tocsin would have roused him hard enough: the whole country seemed in an uproar, the very earth trembled. He began to think things were growing serious, and whether from the foresight of the father of a family which he was shortly to leave, or whether from military prudence, in the matter of laying in stores of food, he began to heat his ovens and to make bread. First came his nephew, with the story of the affray at Saint-Florent. Cathelineau continued to knead his dough. Then the neighbours began dropping in—a tailor, a weaver, a shoemaker, a hatter.
"'Well, neighbour, what shall we do?'
"Quite twenty-seven of them had assembled there, bent on following his counsel implicitly. He pointed out first that a crisis had come: the leaven had done its work, the fermentation was sufficiently advanced; it was time to stop kneading, wipe his hands and shoulder his gun. Twenty-seven went forth; at the end of the village they numbered five hundred. It was the whole of the population, all worthy men, sturdy, strong, steadfastly brave and honest, the very pick of the Vendean armies, intrepid leaders almost always to be found in the front ranks, facing the Republican cannon."
By the time they reached Chollet, they were fifteen thousand. They had seized a piece of cannon at Jallais, which they christened theMissionnaire; and a second, at some other place, which was dubbedMarie-Jeanne. All along the route priestsjoined their ranks, exhorting, preaching, singing mass to them. They started on the 12th, as we have seen; after the 14th, a large band joined forces with them, headed by a man who was to share the command with Cathelineau, and, later, to succeed him. This was Stofflet, another rough but brave peasant, a gamekeeper on M. Maulevrier's estate, whose grandson, poor lad, the last descendant of the race, was killed out hunting, at the age of sixteen. When the Vendean army reached Chollet it sent in a flag of truce—a strange envoy he was, too, and he gives us a good idea of the times, the place and the circumstances: his head and his feet were bare; he carried in his hand a crucifix crowned with thorns, bound round with a huge rosary; his eyes were lifted to heaven, as those of a mystic or martyr, and he cried out between his sobs—
"Surrender, my dear friends, or you will all be put to fire and sword!"
This summons was made in the name ofcommanding officerStofflet andalmonerBarbotin.
The whole of the garrison of Chollet comprised three hundred patriots armed with muskets, and five hundred armed with pikes; they attempted to offer resistance to fifteen thousand men; but, of course, resistance was utterly impossible; M. de Beauveau, the head of the Republicans, fell in the first attack. The patriots retired into a part of the castle which commanded the square, and from whence they could fire upon the Vendeans as they entered the square; this was all the easier as there was a Calvary in the square before which every peasant knelt and prayed, heedless of the firing, not returning to the fight until his prayers were finished and the sign of the cross made. These good folk—let us lay stress on the word and call them brave folk—for they did not understand the enormity of the crimes they were committing, since their priests had ordered them!—did not plunder, but they killed not merely during battle, which was a necessity, but even afterwards, and they killed cruelly, as we shall see.
We will again refer to Michelet for an account of howthey killed; if I related it to you in my own words you would say I was romancing. He, it is known, did not lie; he was, indeed, driven from his chair because he told the truth not only about the past but also about the future. Michelet says:—
"Directly a prisoner was confessed, the peasants no longer hesitated to kill him, as his spiritual salvation was made secure; several escaped death by refusing confession, and by saying that they were not yet in a state of grace; one of them was spared because he was a Protestant and could not confess. They were afraid to send him into damnation. History has dealt very severely with the unfortunate patriots who slaughtered the Vendeans; many of them displayed heroic courage and died like martyrs. Those who were cut into pieces could be counted by hundreds. I will give one instance, among many, of a boy of sixteen who, over the dead body of his father, shouted 'Vive la nation!' until he was pierced through by a score of bayonettes. The most celebrated of these martyrs was Sauveur, a municipal officer of Roche-Bernard, rather let us say of Roche-Sauveur, for it should preserve his name. This town, which is a thoroughfare between Nantes and Vannes, was attacked on the 16th by an immense gathering of nearly six thousand peasants; there were hardly any armed men in the town and it was compelled to surrender. The maddened crowd began at once by butchering twenty-two persons on the square, on the pretext of a gun going off suddenly in the air; they rushed upon the town hall and discovered theprocureur syndic, Sauveur, a fearless magistrate who had stuck to his post. He was seized and dragged off; they put him into a dungeon whence, next day, he was taken out to be barbarously massacred. They sampled all kinds of weapons on him, principally pistols: they fired at him with small shot, trying to make him cry, 'Vive le roi!' but he would only shout, 'Vive la république!' Infuriated, they fired at his mouth with gunpowder and dragged him before the Calvary to beg for mercy; he lifted his eyes to heaven in adoration, but still he cried, 'Vive la nation!' Next they shot his left eye out and kicked him on a few paces; mangled and bleeding, he stood with hands clasped looking upward."'Commend thy spirit to God!' yelled his assassins."They shot him down; he fell, but rose again, clasping tightly his magisterial medal and still kissing it. Again he was fired upon; he fell on one knee, dragged himself to the edge of a trench with stoical calmness, without a single groan or cry of anger or of despair! His fortitude drove the frenzied mob to madness, for his only words were—"'Finish me off, my friends,' and 'Vive la République!Do not keep me lingering on, friends; 'Vive la nation!'"He made his confession of faith to the end, and they silenced him with blows from the butt ends of their rifles!"
"Directly a prisoner was confessed, the peasants no longer hesitated to kill him, as his spiritual salvation was made secure; several escaped death by refusing confession, and by saying that they were not yet in a state of grace; one of them was spared because he was a Protestant and could not confess. They were afraid to send him into damnation. History has dealt very severely with the unfortunate patriots who slaughtered the Vendeans; many of them displayed heroic courage and died like martyrs. Those who were cut into pieces could be counted by hundreds. I will give one instance, among many, of a boy of sixteen who, over the dead body of his father, shouted 'Vive la nation!' until he was pierced through by a score of bayonettes. The most celebrated of these martyrs was Sauveur, a municipal officer of Roche-Bernard, rather let us say of Roche-Sauveur, for it should preserve his name. This town, which is a thoroughfare between Nantes and Vannes, was attacked on the 16th by an immense gathering of nearly six thousand peasants; there were hardly any armed men in the town and it was compelled to surrender. The maddened crowd began at once by butchering twenty-two persons on the square, on the pretext of a gun going off suddenly in the air; they rushed upon the town hall and discovered theprocureur syndic, Sauveur, a fearless magistrate who had stuck to his post. He was seized and dragged off; they put him into a dungeon whence, next day, he was taken out to be barbarously massacred. They sampled all kinds of weapons on him, principally pistols: they fired at him with small shot, trying to make him cry, 'Vive le roi!' but he would only shout, 'Vive la république!' Infuriated, they fired at his mouth with gunpowder and dragged him before the Calvary to beg for mercy; he lifted his eyes to heaven in adoration, but still he cried, 'Vive la nation!' Next they shot his left eye out and kicked him on a few paces; mangled and bleeding, he stood with hands clasped looking upward.
"'Commend thy spirit to God!' yelled his assassins.
"They shot him down; he fell, but rose again, clasping tightly his magisterial medal and still kissing it. Again he was fired upon; he fell on one knee, dragged himself to the edge of a trench with stoical calmness, without a single groan or cry of anger or of despair! His fortitude drove the frenzied mob to madness, for his only words were—
"'Finish me off, my friends,' and 'Vive la République!Do not keep me lingering on, friends; 'Vive la nation!'
"He made his confession of faith to the end, and they silenced him with blows from the butt ends of their rifles!"
What do you think of that, you Royalist gentlemen? Surely the 2nd and 3rd of September could not show you anything better than that? Wait a bit, this is not all; and what we are about to tell, be it clearly understood, is not written for the purpose of reviving hatred, but to make people detest civil warfare. If I once again borrow Michelet's words, it is not only because they are more eloquent than mine, but so that there may be two of us to cry "Shame!" Listen, and you will see how true are his words:—
"One essential difference that we have noticed between the violence of the revolutionist and that of the fanatic, urged on by the fury of priests is, that the former, in killing, desire nothing but to be rid of their enemy; the latter, inspired with the feelings of ferocity of the times of the Inquisition, have less desire to kill than to cause suffering, to make the poor finite victim expiate in infinite misery, in protracted agony, by way of avenging God! To read the gentle idyllic accounts of Royalist writers, one might think that these insurgents were saints; that, in the main, they only exacted vengeance and entered upon reprisals when forced thereto by the cruelties of the Republicans. Let them tell us what were the reprisals which caused the people of Pontivy, on the 12th or 13th of March, led by a refractory curé, to murder seventeen of the National Guard in the public square! Were they reprisals which were exercised at Machecoul, for six weeks, under the organised authority of the Royalist Committee? One Souchu, a tax-gatherer, who presided, filled and emptied the town prisons four times. The mob had, as we have seen, at first killed from sheer sport out of brutal delight. Souchu put a stop to that, and took care that the executionsshould be long drawn-out and painful. As executioners, he specially preferred children, because their clumsy hands caused more protracted suffering. Seasoned men such as sailors and soldiers could not witness these deeds without indignation, and wanted to prevent them, so the Royalist Committee did its murders by night: they did not shoot any longer, but slaughtered their victims and then hastily covered up the dying with earth. According to authentic reports made at the Convention, 542 persons perished in one month and by what ghastly deaths! When they could find practically no more men to slay they proceeded to women. Many were Republicans and not sufficiently complaisant to the priests who had a spite against them. A frightful miracle took place: in one of the churches there was a tomb of some noted saint or other; they consulted it; a priest said mass over the tomb and laid hands on it. Behold, the stone moved."'I can feel it rising up!' exclaimed the priest."And why did it rise up? To demand a sacrifice pleasing to God, namely, that women should no longer be spared but slaughtered! Happily, indeed, the Republicans, the National Guard from Nantes, arrived."'Alas!' the townspeople said to them, coming to them weeping and wringing their hands, 'you come too late! You can but save the walls, the town itself is exterminated!...'"And they pointed to the place where men had been buried alive. Horrified, they beheld a shrivelled hand which in the fearful anguish of suffocation had seized hold of and twisted the withered grasses...."
"One essential difference that we have noticed between the violence of the revolutionist and that of the fanatic, urged on by the fury of priests is, that the former, in killing, desire nothing but to be rid of their enemy; the latter, inspired with the feelings of ferocity of the times of the Inquisition, have less desire to kill than to cause suffering, to make the poor finite victim expiate in infinite misery, in protracted agony, by way of avenging God! To read the gentle idyllic accounts of Royalist writers, one might think that these insurgents were saints; that, in the main, they only exacted vengeance and entered upon reprisals when forced thereto by the cruelties of the Republicans. Let them tell us what were the reprisals which caused the people of Pontivy, on the 12th or 13th of March, led by a refractory curé, to murder seventeen of the National Guard in the public square! Were they reprisals which were exercised at Machecoul, for six weeks, under the organised authority of the Royalist Committee? One Souchu, a tax-gatherer, who presided, filled and emptied the town prisons four times. The mob had, as we have seen, at first killed from sheer sport out of brutal delight. Souchu put a stop to that, and took care that the executionsshould be long drawn-out and painful. As executioners, he specially preferred children, because their clumsy hands caused more protracted suffering. Seasoned men such as sailors and soldiers could not witness these deeds without indignation, and wanted to prevent them, so the Royalist Committee did its murders by night: they did not shoot any longer, but slaughtered their victims and then hastily covered up the dying with earth. According to authentic reports made at the Convention, 542 persons perished in one month and by what ghastly deaths! When they could find practically no more men to slay they proceeded to women. Many were Republicans and not sufficiently complaisant to the priests who had a spite against them. A frightful miracle took place: in one of the churches there was a tomb of some noted saint or other; they consulted it; a priest said mass over the tomb and laid hands on it. Behold, the stone moved.
"'I can feel it rising up!' exclaimed the priest.
"And why did it rise up? To demand a sacrifice pleasing to God, namely, that women should no longer be spared but slaughtered! Happily, indeed, the Republicans, the National Guard from Nantes, arrived.
"'Alas!' the townspeople said to them, coming to them weeping and wringing their hands, 'you come too late! You can but save the walls, the town itself is exterminated!...'
"And they pointed to the place where men had been buried alive. Horrified, they beheld a shrivelled hand which in the fearful anguish of suffocation had seized hold of and twisted the withered grasses...."
Is it any good to speak about Carrier after all this? What would it serve to tell of hisbateaux à Soupapes;[2]of hisbagnades républicaines; of hismariages révolutionnaires[men and women bound hands and feet together and thrown into the Loire]; of hisdéportations verticales.[3]It would only be to set crime against crime, which would prove nothing beyond the wickedness of man. Besides, Carrier has atoned for his crimes. I am well aware that though this may have been enough to satisfy the requirements of justice as far as the man himselfwas concerned, it has not been sufficient to satisfy history. It was in vain for Carrier to struggle with all his might and main against the accusation, which came upon him like a shock; in vain for him to exclaim, with sombre eyes, outstretched arms and strident voice, to his old colleagues, now become his judges—
"I do not understand you! You must be mad! Why blame me to-day for doing what you gave me orders to do yesterday? In accusing me, the Convention accuses itself.... My condemnation, look to it, is your condemnation also; you will find yourselves caught in the same proscription with me: if I am guilty, so is every man here ... every one, every one, every one! down to the very bell on the president's table!"
But all his cries were useless. And herein lies the horror of revolutions; they reach a pitch at which the same terror that drove them into action drives them into reaction, and in which the guillotine, sated with drinking the blood of the accused, is callously and indifferently willing to drink the blood of judges and executioners! This reaction, which set in two days later, saved the lives of André Chénier and M. Villenave, together with a hundred and thirty-one of the Nantais, his companions.
[1]Alas! since these lines were penned death has intervened in the life and happiness of this poor lady, for I read in the papers one day at Brussels, in words as cold as the steel of the Middle Ages which used to be placed in the hands of a skeleton:—"Madame Bataillard, daughter of Madame Mélanie Waldor, has just died after a long and painful illness. The funeral will take place to-morrow. Any friends who may not have received an invitation to be present are invited to attend at the cemetery at eleven o'clock."Unhappily, the notice came too late for me. Amongst all her many friends I certainly held her in the most affectionate remembrance, and I was denied the consolation either of seeing her before she died or of following her to her grave. The merry child, the beautiful young girl, the serious and intelligent wife, who should have died long after us, since we saw her grow up, has gone before us, and we still wait here!
[1]Alas! since these lines were penned death has intervened in the life and happiness of this poor lady, for I read in the papers one day at Brussels, in words as cold as the steel of the Middle Ages which used to be placed in the hands of a skeleton:—
"Madame Bataillard, daughter of Madame Mélanie Waldor, has just died after a long and painful illness. The funeral will take place to-morrow. Any friends who may not have received an invitation to be present are invited to attend at the cemetery at eleven o'clock."
"Madame Bataillard, daughter of Madame Mélanie Waldor, has just died after a long and painful illness. The funeral will take place to-morrow. Any friends who may not have received an invitation to be present are invited to attend at the cemetery at eleven o'clock."
Unhappily, the notice came too late for me. Amongst all her many friends I certainly held her in the most affectionate remembrance, and I was denied the consolation either of seeing her before she died or of following her to her grave. The merry child, the beautiful young girl, the serious and intelligent wife, who should have died long after us, since we saw her grow up, has gone before us, and we still wait here!
[2]TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.—Carrier compelled his victims to embark on boats, which were then scuttled.
[2]TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.—Carrier compelled his victims to embark on boats, which were then scuttled.
[3]TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.—See note 2.
[3]TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.—See note 2.
M. Villenave's house—The master's despotic rule—The savant's coquetry—Description of the sanctuary of the man of science—I am admitted, thanks to an autograph ofBuonaparte—The crevice in the wall—The eight thousand folios—The pastel by Latour—Voyages of discovery for an Elzevir or aFaust—The fall of the portrait and the death of the original
M. Villenave's house—The master's despotic rule—The savant's coquetry—Description of the sanctuary of the man of science—I am admitted, thanks to an autograph ofBuonaparte—The crevice in the wall—The eight thousand folios—The pastel by Latour—Voyages of discovery for an Elzevir or aFaust—The fall of the portrait and the death of the original
I meant to talk of M. Villenave, and behold I have been talking about Cathelineau, Stofflet, Sauveur and Carrier. What a strange thing imagination is! the wayward inhabitant of one's house, thought to be a slave therein, but in reality its queen!
I left off saying that we were going to take tea at M. Villenave's house.
Every bird makes its own nest, whether of twigs or of different kinds of feathers; and each man makes his own home—when he possesses one at all—indicative of his character, his temperament and his idiosyncrasy. And so M. Villenave's house had its own characteristics, reflecting the taste of its occupant. It was built of stones which had once been white, but which time had coloured grey, and which were fast turning into black. It did not open out on the road; it was a severe and gloomy-looking house which did not lend itself to any such frivolous doings; a wall, ten feet high, faced the street, like a kind of outwork, ornamented at the top by a formidable fringe of jagged glass. This wall had in it two gates, a large one and a small one. Unless carriages wanted to enter, the large one was always kept shut, its hinges rusty, its lock broken; the small door, next to the porter's lodge, opened upon and gave access to the garden—agarden trodden hard into paths without flower-borders, possessing vines without grapes, and leafless trees that did not afford any shade. If, by any chance, a flower pushed its way up in some corner, it was a wild flower that had mistaken that damp enclosure for waste ground and had sprung up there unawares—a bindweed, a daisy or a buttercup. One day the poor flower would hear a cry of surprise and see a pretty, rosy-cheeked child, with curly golden hair, running to it in breathless haste and with eager feet, her eyes fixed on it, and then furtively grasp it as carefully as though it were a butterfly; when she had picked it, she would run with joyful surprise to her mother, crying—
"See, mamma! a flower!..."
The garden, which may have been fifteen mètres square, was bounded on the side of the house by a pathway of paving-stones, leading to a corridor tiled with square red bricks, a staircase at the end completing the vista. But before you reached this staircase, you first passed four doors. The one on the left belonged to the dining-room, the window of which looked out upon the tidiest part of the garden; on the right, opposite it, was a small room, not much used, where a table and three or four old arm-chairs were left to grow damp. In several places the wall paper was bulging out and falling off, without anybody taking any notice of it, and was becoming pitted with green and white damp spots. Then, on the left again, came the kitchen door, and, on the right, the larder and pantry. This dark and damp ground-floor was like a catacomb, and was only descended into at meal-times. The real dwelling-rooms, where we were entertained, were on the first floor. This floor contained a small and a large drawing-room, and the bedrooms belonging to Madame Villenave and Madame Waldor. We will leave the small drawing-room and the two bedrooms and give our whole attention to the large salon, which, after the attics (let us hasten to mention these here, before we have the right of entering them), was the strangest room in the house. Its shape was a long rectangle, having, at each of its angles,a console table supporting a bust. One of these busts was that of the master of the house. Between the two busts, at the bottom end, on a marble-topped table opposite the fireplace, was the most important piece of art and archæology in the room: this was the bronze urn that had once contained the heart of Bayard. A little bas-relief encircled the urn depicting the "chevaliersans peur et sans reproche" leaning against a tree and kissing his sword handle. Next came four large pictures—three of them portraits and the fourth a landscape. Let us begin with the landscape—honour to whom honour is due—the landscape was by Claude Lorraine. One of the portraits represented Anne Boleyn and was signed by Holbein. I forget by whom the two other paintings were: one was of Madame de Montespan and the other either Madame de Sévigné or de Grignan, I am not sure which. The walls were covered with one of those indefinite papers that leave no impression on the memory; the furniture was upholstered in Utrecht velvet; large couches with thin white arms, like the arms of a hunchback, invited friends of the family to be comfortable; while there were chairs and arm-chairs for more formal visitors. That storey had both its king and its vice-queen: the king was M. Villenave, the vice-queen was Madame Waldor. We purposely say "vice-queen," because immediately M. Villenave entered his salon he became the master of it, the king—more than king, the despot! M. Villenave was inclined to be tyrannical in character, and exercised this tyranny over strangers as well as over his own family. Like those petty princes of Italy whose principles people are obliged to adopt as soon as they have crossed the borders of their limited territories, so with M. Villenave, when you had stepped across the threshold of his salon, he would not allow you to hold a different opinion from his own on any subject. You became part of the being of the man, who had seen everything and studied everything, and, in fact, knew everything. Although this tyrannical spirit was tempered by the courtesy appertaining to the master of the house, it none the less had a depressingeffect on the company generally. Although in the presence of M. Villenave the conversation was, as they used to express it,bien menée—i.e. skilfully managed—yet it was always less amusing, more fettered and less brilliant than when he was not present. It was just like the difference between a minuet and the game of puss-in-the-corner. It was exactly the reverse at Nodier's social evenings: Nodier liked people to make themselves as much at home as he was.
This recalls to my mind that I have not mentioned Nodier since I described him as helping me to gain entrance to the Théâtre-Français. Excellent and beloved Nodier!—one of my dearest friends! He shall not lose, you may be sure, by the postponement.
Happily, M. Villenave very rarely appeared in the salon, except on the Athénée nights. He spent the rest of his time on the second floor, only appearing among his family for dinner; then, after a few minutes' chat, after lecturing his son and scolding his wife, he would stretch himself out in an armchair, have his curls attended to by his daughter and return to his own apartments. The quarter of an hour during which the teeth of the comb gently scratched his head was the happiest time of the day to M. Villenave, the only rest he allowed himself from his unending absorption in scribbling.
"But why did he curl his hair?" someone asks.
That was the question I myself put.
Madame Waldor declared that it was purely an excuse for having his head scratched. M. Villenave must have been a parrot in one of the metamorphoses that preceded his life as a human being. Madame Villenave, who had known her husband longer than her daughter had, and who therefore could claim to know him better, averred that it was from vanity. And, indeed, M. Villenave, who was a good-looking old man, must have been splendidly handsome as a young man. His strongly marked features were wonderfully set off in their frame of flowing white hair, which showed up the fiery light of his fine black eyes. In fact, although M. Villenave was a learned man, he was also vain—a combination of virtue andfault rarely found together—but he was only vain about his head. As for the rest of his appearance, with the exception of his cravat, which was invariably white, he left it to his tailor and his bootmaker, or rather, to his daughter's care, who looked after these matters for her father. Whether his coat were blue or black, his trousers wide or narrow, the toes of his boots round or square, so long as M. Villenave's hair was well dressed, it was all he cared about. We have mentioned that when his daughter had combed and curled his locks, M. Villenave went upstairs to his own rooms—orhome>as the English say. Good gracious! what a curious place it was, too!
Follow me, reader, if these minute details after the fashion of Balzac amuse you, and if you believe nature takes as much pains over the making of a hyssop as over the making of a cedar-tree. Besides, we may perhaps be able to unearth some curious anecdote from out the medley, concerning a charming pastel by Latour. But we have not got there yet; we shall come to it in the end, just as at last we have come to M. Villenave's sanctum.
We have divided up the ground floor into dining-room, kitchen, pantry; and on the first floor into the small and large salons and the bedrooms; there was nothing like that on the second floor. The second floor had five rooms, five rooms full of nothing else but books and boxes. These five rooms must have contained forty thousand volumes and four thousand boxes, piled up on the floor and on tables. The anteroom alone was a vast library. It had two entrances: that on the right led to M. Villenave's bedroom—a chamber to which we shall return. That on the left opened into a large room, which, in its turn, led into a much smaller one. These two rooms, be it understood, were nothing but two libraries. The four walls of them were tapestried with books upheld on a substratum of boxes. This was odd enough in itself, as will readily be imagined, but it was not the most original thing that caught one's notice. The most ingenious arrangement was a square construction which stood in the middle of the room like an enormous block and formed a second library withinthe first, leaving only space for a pathway round the room, bordered with books on left and right, just wide enough to allow a single person to move freely; a second person would have blocked the traffic. Moreover, only M. Villenave's most intimate friends ever presumed to be allowed the privilege of admission to thissanctum sanctorum.The substratum of boxes contained autographs. The age of Louis XIV. alone needed five hundred boxes! Herein were contained the result of fifty years of daily labour, concentrated on this one object; hour after hour taken up by this one passion. It was, in a word, the gentle and ardent passion of a born collector, into which he put his mind and happiness and joy and life!
There were to be found a portion of the papers of Louis XVI., discovered in the iron chest; there was the correspondence of Malesherbes, two hundred autographs of Rousseau, and four hundred of Voltaire together with autographs of all the kings of France, from Charlemagne down to our own time; there were drawings by Raphael and Jules Romain, by Leonardo da Vinci, Andrea del Sarto, Lebrun, Lesueur, Greuze, Vanloo, Watteau, Boucher, Vien, David, Girodet, etc.
M. Villenave would not have parted with the contents of those two rooms for a hundred thousand crowns.
I There now only remain the bedroom and the black cabinet behind M. Villenave's alcove, which was reached by a corridor, about which we shall have occasion to say a few words. Only those who saw that bedroom, wherein the bed was the least conspicuous piece of furniture, can conceive any idea of what the bedroom of a bibliomaniac is like. It was in this room that M. Villenave received his friends. After four or five months' intimacy in the household, I had the honour of being received in it. An old servant, called, I believe, Françoise, conducted me to it. I had promised M. Villenave an autograph—not that of Napoleon, of which he possessed five or six, or that of Bonaparte, of which he had three or four—but one ofBuonaparte.
He had given orders that I was to be shown upstairs as soon as I arrived.
Françoise half opened the door.
"M. Dumas is here," she said.
Generally, when anyone was announced, even were he an intimate friend who had come unexpectedly, M. Villenave would utter a loud cry, scold Françoise and fling up his arms in despair; then, finally, when he had indulged his fit of despair, and moaned and sighed his fill, he would say—
"Very well, Françoise, as he is there, show him in."
Then the intruder would be let in.
My reception was quite otherwise. M. Villenave had hardly caught my name before he exclaimed—
"Show him in! show him in!"
In I went.
"Ah! here you are," he said. "Well, I wager you have not been able to find it!"
"What?"
"That famous autograph you promised me yesterday."
"Yes, indeed ... I have found it."
"And have you brought it?"
"To be sure I have!..."
"Really?"
"Here it is!"
"Quick, let me see it!"
I handed it to him. M. Villenave rushed up to the window.
"Yes, it is genuine," he said; "there is theu!... Oh! there is his very ownu, there is no doubt about it. Let us see: '29 vendémiaire, year IV,' that is it!... Stop, stop!" He went to a box. "See, here is one offrimairein the same year, signed 'Bonaparte, 12 frimaire'; so it must have been between 29 vendémiaire and 12 frimaire that he dropped hisu; this determines a great historic question!"
While this monologue was being carried on, I had been glancing round the bedchamber thoroughly, and I had noticed that the only piece of furniture that was not encumbered with books was the arm-chair from which he had just risen. After M. Villenave had carefully examined theautograph, he put it into a white wrapper, wrote on the wrapper, placed it in a box, put the box in its place and flung himself back into his arm-chair, with a sigh of joy.
"Ah! now, sit down," he said.
"I should like nothing better," I replied; "but what do you mean me to sit on?"
"Why, on the couch."
"Oh yes, on the couch!"
"What about it?"
"Well, just look at the couch for yourself."
"Upon my word, you are right; it is full of books. Never mind, pull up an arm-chair."
"With great pleasure. But the arm-chairs ...?"
"The arm-chairs?"
"Are littered just like the couch."
"Ah! I have so many books.... Have you noticed the great crack in the walls of the house?"
"No."
"It is visible enough, nevertheless.... Well, my dear monsieur, it is the books! The books are pulling down the house."
"The books? How?"
"Yes, twelve hundred folios, monsieur, twelve hundred splendid and rare folios; I even believe there are quite unknown ones among them, so rare are they! I put all those in the garret and I was intending to put more there, for there was room for another twelve hundred; when, suddenly, the house trembled, uttered a groan and cracked."
"Why, you must have thought it was an earthquake?"
"Exactly!... but when we found the damage was limited we sent for an architect. The architect examined the house from the cellar to the second floor and declared that the accident could only have been caused by too heavy a weight. And, consequently, he asked to be allowed to look at the attics. Alas! this was what I dreaded. Oh! if it had only been a question of myself, I would never have given him the key; but one has to sacrifice oneself for the general good.... He visited the attics, discovered the folios, reckoned that theweight must come to eight thousand pounds, and declared that they must be sold or he would not answer for the consequences.... And they were sold, monsieur!"
"At a loss?"
"No.... Alas! I made a profit of five or six thousand francs on them, because, you know, books increase in value from having been in the possession of a bibliophile; but the poor folios were lost to me—hounded from beneath the roof that had sheltered them.... I shall never come across such a collection again. But pray take a chair."
The chairs were in a similar condition to the easy-chairs and couches—not one was unoccupied. I decided to change the conversation.
"Oh!" I said to M. Villenave, approaching towards his recess, at the back of which an open door leading to the corridor permitted me to see what was there. "Oh! monsieur, what a beautiful pastel you have down there!"
"Yes, yes," replied M. Villenave, with that old-fashioned courtly air that I have only met with in two or three old men who were as vain as he. "Yes, that is the portrait of an old friend of mine—I say old, because I am no longer young, and she, if I remember correctly, was five or six years older than I. We became acquainted in the year 1784; you see that is not yesterday. We have not seen each other again since 1802, but that has not prevented us from writing to one another every week, or from looking forward to the weekly letters with exactly the same pleasure.... Yes, you are right, the pastel is charming, but if you had known the original you would have thought her still more charming!"
And a sweet reflection of youth, like a ray of sunlight, passed over the handsome face of the old man, making it look forty years younger.
Alas! I only entered that sacred tabernacle of the intellect twice: I have described what happened on my first visit, and I will immediately tell what happened at the second. But I ought previously to answer the question as to how M. Villenave managed to collect all these valuabletreasures since he had not a large fortune. It was by patience and perseverance, as la Fontaine would say. This collection had been the work of his whole life. Just as Ghiberti began the gates of the Baptistery at Florence when he was a young man and finished them as an old one, so M. Villenave had given up fifty years to this task. He never burnt a single paper or destroyed a letter. I wrote two or three times to M. Villenave to ask for information; well, my unworthy epistles were put into their wrappers, classified and labelled. Why was I thus honoured? Who can tell? Perhaps he thought even I might some day become a great celebrity. It will readily be imagined that, if he preserved such letters as mine, he would religiously preserve other things. Notices of meetings of learned societies, invitations to marriage ceremonies, funeral cards, all were kept, classified and put in their place. I cannot say what M. Villenave's collection didnotcontain; I saw amongst it a collection of half-burnt volumes which had been snatched out of the fire of the Bastille on 14 July.
M. Villenave employed two aides-de-camp, or, rather, bloodhounds: one named Fontaine, himself the author of a book called theManuel des Autographes; the other an employé in the War Office. Twice a week they went a hunting; they rummaged the shops of the grocers, who, accustomed to these visits, would put aside all the papers that they thought might be rare or curiosities. From amongst these papers the two visitors would make a selection, paying the grocers fifteen sous a pound, M. Villenave paying them at the rate of thirty sous. There also were what might be described as royal hunting-days; on these days M. Villenave hunted in person; every grocer in Paris knew him, and came up to him with his hands full of papers, far more precious to him than roses and lilies.
The reader should have seen M. Villenave when he sallied forth to take his leisure, or, rather, when he went out to accomplish the principal work of his life. He was no vain, becurled dandy on these days, neither did he wear the white cravat or the blue coat with gold buttons; no, he did not wish to look too well-to-do in the presence of the old second-handbooksellers amongst whom he was going to glean; on these days he wore a rather dirty old hat, a black cravat cut away by his beard and an unbrushed coat. Then the indefatigable bibliomaniac proceeded along the quays. Here, with both hands in his trousers' pockets, his big body bent down, his fine intelligent head lit up with desire, he would send his piercing glances right into the depths of the assemblage of wares, looking incessantly for some unknown treasure, a text ofFaustor an Elzevir. Sometimes the hunter would return home empty-handed; then he would be sullen, and silent at dinner, and would grumble that his daughter was pulling his hair while she was curling it; after this he would pick up his candlestick and go upstairs to his room without wishing anyone good-night. On the other hand, if a hunting-day proved to be productive, and M. Villenave returned with a precious volume or a scarce edition, then he would come in with his face radiant with smiles; he would toss Élisa up and down in his arms; he would joke with his son, kiss his daughter, pay his wife compliments on the dinner; and, when dinner was over, he would thank his hairdresser, purring like a contented cat. M. Villenave had but one cause for disquiet: where was the fresh acquisition to be put? The books were squeezed into their shelves so tightly that you could not get a paper knife in between. He would walk from one side to another, turning round, tacking, complaining, lifting up his long arms to the heavens in despair, finally deciding to put the book on a couch or on one of the arm-chairs or chairs, saying with a sigh—
"We must find a place for it later."
That place would never be found, and the book would remain on the couch, the arm-chair or the chair, where it had been placed, a fresh obstacle in the way of any visitor who had to find a seat.
I was too well aware of M. Villenave's dislike to be disturbed, to have ventured on a second visit to his sanctum, until, when recastingChristineafresh, I wished to consult the autograph writing of the daughter of Gustavus-Adolphus; Iwanted to acquaint myself with certain oddities in her character that might possibly, I thought, be reflected in her writing. So I made up my mind to venture to disturb M. Villenave in those intellectual regions wherein he soared far above common humanity. It was in the month of March 1829, about five o'clock in the afternoon, when I rang the bell and the gate was opened. I asked for M. Villenave and was shown in. I had not gone many steps towards the house before Françoise called me back.
"Monsieur!" she said, "monsieur!"
"What is it, Françoise?"
"Does Monsieur want to go up to M. Villenave's rooms?"
"Yes, Françoise."
"I thought Monsieur was visiting the ladies as usual."
"You are wrong, Françoise."
"Then Monsieur will be good enough to spare my poor legs going up two flights of stairs and give M. Villenave this letter for him that has just come."
"Willingly, Françoise."
Françoise gave me the letter, and I took it and went upstairs. I knocked when I reached the door, but there was no answer. I knocked a little louder. Again no answer. I began to feel uncomfortable; the key was in the door, and the presence of that key invariably indicated the presence of M. Villenave in his room. Surely some accident must have happened to him. I knocked a third time, meaning to enter if I was not answered. There was no response, and I entered. M. Villenave was asleep in his arm-chair. The noise I made in entering and, perhaps, the draught that I caused, disturbed some magnetic influences, and M. Villenave uttered a cry, awoke and jumped up.
"Ah! pardon me," I exclaimed. "I beg a thousand pardons! I have disturbed you."
"Who are you? What is your business?" asked M. Villenave quickly.
"Why, upon my word, do you not recognise me?... Alexandre Dumas."
"Oh!" said M. Villenave, with a gasp.
"Really, monsieur," I said, "I am very sorry. I will withdraw."
"No, no; on the contrary, come in," said M. Villenave, as he passed his hand across his forehead; "you will render me a service."
I went in.
"Take a seat," he said, from customary habit.
Eight or ten folios lay tossed about on the floor; I formed a pile of them and sat down on the top.
"Yes," continued M. Villenave, "it was a very singular thing.... I fell asleep, the dusk came on and, in the meantime, my fire went out. You awoke me and found me in the dark, so I could not account for the noise inside my room; it was, no doubt, the draught from the passage that touched my face, but, in waking, I seemed to see something white, like a shroud, dancing before my eyes.... Curious, was it not?" went on M. Villenave, with a shiver, as though he felt cold through and through. "But here you are, so much the better!" And he held out his hand to me.
I responded to his courtesy, transferring to my left hand the letter I had brought him in my right.
"What have you there?" asked M. Villenave.
"Ah! pardon, I was forgetting ... it is a letter which Françoise gave me for you and that is the reason I disturbed you."
"Thanks ... Stop a minute, would you please feel about for a match? I am really quite bewildered still, and if I were superstitious I should believe I had had a presentiment."
He took the match I held out to him and lit it in the red embers on the hearth. Directly the match caught fire, we could distinguish objects in the room by its flickering light, faint though it was.
"Oh! good gracious!" I exclaimed suddenly, "what has happened to your beautiful pastel?"
"As you see, the glass and the frame are broken; I am waiting to send it to the glazier's and picture-framer's ... it was a most incomprehensible thing!"
"What was?"
"The way it fell."
"Did the nail come out, or the ring break?"
"Neither the one nor the other. The day before yesterday I was working all evening; when it reached a quarter to twelve, I was tired, but I still had to correct a proof of a handy little edition of myOvid.I decided to combine rest and work by going to bed and correcting the proofs when I was in bed. So I lay down: I put my candle on the table by the bedside, and the light from it shone on the portrait of my poor friend; my glance followed the candlelight and I said good-night to the picture as usual.... A half-open window let in a little breeze which blew the flame of my candle about so that it seemed to me as though the portrait returned my good-night by bending its head as I had done! You will understand that I looked upon this movement as visionary and foolish; but, whether folly or a vision, my mind persisted in dwelling upon the movement, and the more I pondered over it, the more real the incident seemed; my eyes would stray from myOvid, and fix themselves on that one point, the picture; my wandering thoughts would fly back, in spite of myself, to the days of my youth; and these early days passed before me one by one.... Ah me! I think I have told you that the original of that pastel occupied a good deal of my attention in those early days! So there I was, going at full tilt over old recollections of twenty-five years back; I addressed the copy as though the original could hear me, and my memory answered for her; it seemed as though the lips in the pastel moved; I thought the colours of the painting began to fade, and the expression on the face grew sad and unhappy.... Something like a smile of farewell passed over her lips; a tear came into her eyes ready to moisten the glass. Midnight began to strike; and, in spite of myself, I shivered—why, I could not tell! The wind blew, and, at the last stroke of midnight, while the clock was still vibrating, the half-open window opened wide violently, I heard a sigh like a groan, the eyesof the portrait closed, and the picture fell without either the nail that held it or the cord being broken; and my candle went out. I tried to light it again, but there was no fire in the grate, there were no matches on the chimneypiece; it was midnight, everybody in the house was asleep; so there was no way of obtaining a light. I shut my window again and I went back to bed.... Although I was not afraid, I felt much moved, I was sad, I had a great desire to weep; I thought I heard something pass through my room like the rustle of a silk dress.... I heard this noise three times so distinctly that I asked, 'Is there anyone there?' Finally, I fell asleep, very late, and the first thing I looked at when I woke again was my poor pastel, which I found in the state in which you now see it."
"That is indeed a strange story!" I said. "And have you received your weekly letter as usual?"
"No, and that is what makes me uneasy; that is why I gave Françoise orders to bring or send up any letters that might come for me the moment they arrive."
"Well," said I, "perhaps the one I have just brought you...."
"That is not her style of folding:—still, never mind, as it comes from Angers...."
Then, turning it over to break the envelope he exclaimed, "Ah! my God! it is sealed in black! Poor soul, some misfortune has befallen her!"
And M. Villenave grew pale as he unsealed the letter; it enclosed a second one.
His eyes filled with tears as he read the first lines of the first letter.
"Look," he said, and he held it out to me, "read it"; and, while he silently and sadly opened the second letter, I took the first and read:—
"MONSIEUR,—It is with personal grief, increased by realising what you too will feel, that I have to inform you that Madame——died on Sunday last, at the last stroke of midnight. The day before, while she was writing to you, she was seized byan indisposition which we thought at first was only slight, but it grew worse, until she died. I have the sad duty of sending to you the letter she had begun to write to you, unfinished as it is. This letter will assure you that her affection for you remained unchanged to the end."I remain, Monsieur, in great grief, as you will readily believe, your very humble and very obedient servant,"THÉRÈSE MIRAUD"
"MONSIEUR,—It is with personal grief, increased by realising what you too will feel, that I have to inform you that Madame——died on Sunday last, at the last stroke of midnight. The day before, while she was writing to you, she was seized byan indisposition which we thought at first was only slight, but it grew worse, until she died. I have the sad duty of sending to you the letter she had begun to write to you, unfinished as it is. This letter will assure you that her affection for you remained unchanged to the end.
"I remain, Monsieur, in great grief, as you will readily believe, your very humble and very obedient servant,
"THÉRÈSE MIRAUD"
"So you see," resumed M. Villenave, "it was at the last stroke of midnight that the portrait fell, and it was at the last stroke of midnight that she died."
I felt that his grief needed a solitude peopled only by past recollections and uninterrupted by any poor attempts I could offer at consolation. I picked up my hat, pressed his hand and left.
This incident recalled to me the apparition of my father, on the very night of his death, which woke me up when I was a little child, and I put to myself the question that is so often asked and never answered, "What are the mysterious bonds which bind the dead to the living?" Later, when I lost my mother, whom I loved more than anyone else in the world, and who, on her side, loved me beyond all telling, I remembered these two visions and, kneeling down by the bed on which she had just expired, with my lips on her hand, I implored her, if anything of her had survived, to appear to me just once again; then, when night came, I lay down in a lonely room and waited with a beating heart, hoping to see the beloved vision. I counted in vain nearly all the hours of that night, and not the slightest sound or apparition came to solace my sorrowful watch. After that, I doubted all such experiences, whether my own or others'; for my mother's love for me, and mine for her, were so great that I knew if she had been able to rise once more from her resting-place to bid me a last farewell she would surely have done it. But perhaps it is only children and old people who are privileged—children because they are nearer the cradle, old people because they are nearer the grave.
First representation of Soulié'sRoméo et Juliette—Anaïs and Lockroy—Why French actresses cannot act Juliet—The studies of the Conservatoire—A secondChristineat the Théâtre-Français—M. Évariste Dumoulin and Madame Valmonzey—Conspiracy against me—I give up my turn to have my play produced—How I found the subject ofHenri III.—My opinion of that play
First representation of Soulié'sRoméo et Juliette—Anaïs and Lockroy—Why French actresses cannot act Juliet—The studies of the Conservatoire—A secondChristineat the Théâtre-Français—M. Évariste Dumoulin and Madame Valmonzey—Conspiracy against me—I give up my turn to have my play produced—How I found the subject ofHenri III.—My opinion of that play
Meantime, we had reached the beginning of June 1828, and I was informed by Soulié that the Odéon had accepted hisRoméo, were rehearsing it and were nearly ready to perform it. We had not seen each other since the night when we had agreed each to write our own version ofChristine.But he had not forgotten me, and I received two gallery stall tickets for the first night. As my mother had often heard me talk of Soulié, and as she knew that Soulié was one of my friends, it was by way of preparing her for the first representation of my work that I took her to see the first representation of Soulié's. Poor mother! It was a great treat to her to go out with me. Alas! I had neglected her sadly for months past. We become so accustomed to those guardian angels, our mothers, that we never dream, as we leave them to pursue all the foolish fancies of youth, that a moment will come—a terrible and unanticipated moment—when they, in their turn, will leave us! Then only do we recollect, with tears in our eyes and remorse at our hearts, those many thoughtless and cruel absences and we exclaim, "Good God! why did I so often leave her for this and that, now to be separated from her by you for ever?"
We made our way to the Odéon. A first representation was a great affair in those days—especially when the play tobe acted for the first time was by a man belonging to the new school. Nevertheless, this play of Soulié was not epoch-making: had it been produced before the visit of the English company to Paris, it would have been looked upon as extremely advanced, but, coming after their representations, it was by no means up to date. There was no fear, indeed, of its being an out-and-out failure, but there was no chance, either, of its being a grand success. Observe, too, that it was to be played on the same stage, and, probably, with the samemise-en-scènethat had accompanied Kemble's and Miss Smithson's acting of Shakespeare'schef d'œuvre.Anaïs and Lockroy were entrusted with the principal parts. It was almost Lockroy's first appearance. He was handsome, young, romantic and daring—an actor of whom great things were expected, especially in this particular kind of rôle. But it was otherwise with regard to Anaïs. In comedy she was admirable and delightful, unfailing in taste, in wit, in delicacy of style and of interpretation; but in drama and tragedy she was entirely inadequate. And she was to appear on those same boards, before that same audience, in the same part of Juliet which Miss Smithson had presented with wonderful skill, and with all the qualities that go to the making of a great tragedienne! Besides, there was not a single woman in Paris in those days who could act Juliet, nor, we may add, have we anyone who could do it now. What is the reason for our lack of that charming type, the woman who combines gaiety of spirit with dramatic and poetic faculties? Why have we never produced, and probably never shall until some far distant future, anyone who will recall to both eyes and memory the personalities of Miss Smithson and Miss Faucett? Why was Mademoiselle Mars unequal to the part of Desdemona, and Madame Dorval herself unequal to Juliet? Because the dramatic education of our actresses is only conducted on the lines of three masters, without doubt of great merit, but whose genius does not include, as Shakespeare's did, that happy mixture of natural, dramatic and poetic expression to be found in most of the works of the English poet. Moreover,at the Conservatoire, pupils are only prepared for a single branch of the art, either tragedy or comedy, never for tragedy and comedy combined. Why, again? Because in the masters studied—Molière, Corneille and Racine—these two styles are never found intermingled. It is a fatal mistake to exclude comedy from the education of the tragedienne, and tragedy from the training of the comedienne; it makes the tragedienne heavy in comedy, the comedienne affected in tragedy. Our seventeenth and eighteenth century theatres knew nothing beyond the realism of Molière's women, the boorishness of Corneille's women; the rage or the gentleness of the women of Racine; the Agnès and Célimène of Molière; Corneille's Émilie and Rodogune; Racine's Hermione and Aricie. You will search in vain among them all for anything which resembles the nurse, balcony and tomb scenes, all of which centre round the single character of Juliet. To attain to the standard of the English actors it would be necessary either not to be trained at the Conservatoire—which I, for one, should look upon as a distinct advantage—or that the Conservatoire should allow, combined with the study of the French masters, the study of foreign masters or contemporary authors, whose dramatic works contain the threefold elements of nature, dramatic art and poetic feeling. It would be a very simple matter to arrange; it would, I am quite well aware, annoy MM. Samson and Provost; but what would it matter to an intelligent Minister of the Interior to meet opposition of that kind? It would, of course, rouse MM. Viennet, Lebrun and Jouy; but M. Viennet is no longer a member of the Chamber of Deputies, and M. Lebrun is no longer a member of the Chamber of Peers; M. Jouy no longer belongs to the editorial staff of theConstitutionnel; so what would their remonstrances matter to a Minister of the Interior who does not care whether he belong to the Academy or not? At first blush it would seem to be very easy indeed to discover a clear-headed Minister of the Interior who thinks lightly of belonging to the Academy; ah, well! we are mistaken. We have been trying to find such a man for the last thirty years!We have seen two revolutions without finding such a minister, and we may have to live through two more revolutions before he appears. I have no desire to see two other revolutions before I die, but I should much like to find the minister.
The upshot of all this is that Anaïs, although a charming comedienne (she was probably trained at the Conservatoire), made an inadequate Juliette; and Lockroy, who had studied his part from Kemble and Macready and, above all, had thought about it himself, did marvels in the part of Romeo. One of these marvellous things was a stroke of genius. When he sees Juliette rise from her tomb and walk, he retreats backward, keeping his eyes fixed on her, for fear lest she whom he takes for a ghost should vanish, and feels in the funeral couch she has just left, refraining from uttering his cry of joy until he has assured himself that the bed is empty. The play obtained the literary success it deserved—a success that culminated in the last act, which was almost entirely borrowed from Shakespeare.
I do not think I ever felt so much moved at any of my own representations as I was at this representation of Soulié; I never suffered more than during these first four acts, when I felt that the piece dragged along lifeless and dull, realising that this dulness and lack of life arose from theexcessive good tasteof the poet, who had thought it necessary to improve on Shakespeare. However, it was quite original enough to satisfy the public, and the public was content; but I am very sure that Soulié himself was not.
Meanwhile, the influence of Picard's criticism onChristinewas making itself felt at the Comédie-Française. Mademoiselle Mars, who was at first fired with enthusiasm over the part of Christine, cooled in her study of it; for, incomplete as it then was, she felt it beneath her powers; Firmin, inspired comedian though he was, lacked a sense of composition and was beginning to feel uneasy over the part of Monaldeschi; finally, Ligier, who was to have acted the part of Sentinelli, left the Comédie-Française and went to the Odéon. Something still more serious had happened. The Committee of the Théâtre-Français had received a second play entitledChristine.
This secondChristinehad been written by a M. Brault, formerly a prefect and a friend of M. Decazes, who supported him with all his might. The principal rôle in this new tragedy, namely, that of Christine, had been deputed to Madame Valmonzey. In case you do not know anything about Madame Valmonzey, I will tell you who she was. Madame Valmonzey was not a good actress, but she was a very good-looking woman, the mistress of M. Évariste Dumoulin, editor of theConstitutionnel.It may, perhaps, be asked why I mention this fact. I reply that it is because I must. Heaven forbid I should rake up a scandal needlessly and needlessly speak ill of the dead; but I am writing the history of art and the history of literature and the history of the theatre, and in order that this history may be history the truth must be told.
This was what happened on the receipt of a secondChristineat the Théâtre-Français and in consequence of the amours of M. Évariste Dumoulin and Madame Valmonzey. M. Évariste Dumoulin let it be known that if they did not perform the play of his friend M. Brault before that of M. Alexandre Dumas he would ruin the Théâtre-Français by means of his journal. This declaration of war greatly frightened the Théâtre-Français; nevertheless, as it was a serious and unprecedented thing that M. Évariste Dumoulin demanded of the Committee, they replied that they were quite ready to play M. Brault'sChristine, but that, in order to do so, my consent to cede my turn to him would first have to be obtained. M. Brault, moreover, was ill of an incurable disease, from which he died some time after, and it would be a comfort to the poor dying man to see his play acted before he died. This was the way the request was put to me by his son, in a most polite and affable letter, and by the Duc de Decazes in the most friendly terms, making me also offers of help. On their side, the Comedians of the Théâtre-Français guaranteed, after a Committee meeting, to play my piece after they had performed M. Brault's, upon the first request I should make them to do so.
I have always been easily moved by appeals of this kind. But this postponement was a serious matter to my mother and tome, for we were literally looking to the production of this play for the wherewithal to live. The bonuses of which I had told my mother had been distributed, but my share was fifty francs less than those my fellow-clerks received—a warning that I must behave myself better. Furthermore, I was under M. Deviolaine, who had predicted that my piece would never be played, and who pretty well leapt for joy when he saw that his prophecy was likely to be fulfilled. Finally, this promise to play my piece as soon as I should ask for it was illusory, for after the firstChristinehad been performed I could hardly ask the Comedians to play a second until at least a year had passed by. But, as a matter of fact, I could not do anything save yield, for I was surrounded on all sides by solicitations, even among the Villenave family, and besides, my own instinct fell into line with these solicitations. So I gave way and yielded place to M. Brault.
No reward attended my sacrifice. The very next day, the papers announced that the Committee of the Théâtre-Français, having discerned more chances in M. Brault's play than in mine, had decided that M. Brault's piece should be performed, while mine was to be indefinitely postponed. I could have objected publicly, produced the letter of M. Brault's son and revealed the engagement entered into by the Comédie-Française. I did nothing of the kind, and from that day to this, I have never taken any notice of the petty intrigues of the papers; I can boast with pride, and without fear of contradiction, that I have never soiled my hands either to gain my own ends or to injure other people. Of course, neither M. Brault, the poor dying poet, nor his son, nor M. Decazes, had any hand in all these intriguing announcements. I even believe that M. Brault's son had the decency to write and tell the true version of the facts, and to thank me publicly, as he had thanked me privately. But although I treated these hardships with disdain, they had their annoyances. My mother never read the papers, but the Deviolaine family read them, and everybody in the offices read them, and charitable souls took care to say to my mother—
"Upon my word, your son is getting himself talked about!"
"What about?" my mother would ask, trembling with fright.
And then they hastened to inform her, and saddened her poor heart, for I was her all in all, and she was far more anxious about me than I was about myself.
The rehearsals of M. Brault'sChristinewere pushed on as fast as mine had been delayed—though everybody knows what rapidity means at the Théâtre-Français; M. Brault had ample time in which to die before the representation of his play, which had only an indifferent success. As to Madame Valmonzey, she did not even achieve any success. All the same, my piece was delayed indefinitely.
Soulié had finished hisChristineand got it accepted at the Odéon, with Mademoiselle Georges and Ligier to play the principal parts. And what was happening to me all this time?...
One of those chances which fate deals out only to those marked out by destiny gave me the subject ofHenri III.by just such another accident as had led me toChristine.The only cupboard I had in my office—the office, it will be remembered, that I ardently coveted—I had to share with Féresse: I put my paper in it, he put his bottles there. One day, whether by inadvertence or to play a trick on me, or to show his superior rights over mine, he took away the key of this cupboard when going an errand. During his absence I used up all the paper lying about in my office, and, as I still had three or four reports to copy out, I went to get some more paper. A volume of Anquetil lay open, on a desk: I mechanically cast my eyes on it, and at page 95 I read the following lines:—
"Although attached to the king, and by rank an enemy of the Duc de Guise, Saint-Mégrin was none the less in love with the duchess, Catherine de Clèves, and it was said that she returned his love. The author of this anecdote gives us to understand that the husband was indifferent on the subject of his wife's actual or supposed infidelity. He opposed the entreaties of his relations that he should avenge himself, andonly punished the indiscretion or the crime of the duchess by a joke. One day he entered her room early in the morning, holding a potion in one hand and a dagger in the other; after rudely awaking his wife and reproaching her, he said in tones of fury—"Decide, madame, whether to die by dagger or poison!'"In vain did she ask his forgiveness; he compelled her to make her choice. She drank the concoction and flung herself on her knees, recommending her soul to God and expecting nothing short of death. She spent an hour in fear; and then the duke came back with a serene countenance, and told her that what she had taken for poison was an excellent soup. Doubtless this lesson made her more circumspect afterwards."
"Although attached to the king, and by rank an enemy of the Duc de Guise, Saint-Mégrin was none the less in love with the duchess, Catherine de Clèves, and it was said that she returned his love. The author of this anecdote gives us to understand that the husband was indifferent on the subject of his wife's actual or supposed infidelity. He opposed the entreaties of his relations that he should avenge himself, andonly punished the indiscretion or the crime of the duchess by a joke. One day he entered her room early in the morning, holding a potion in one hand and a dagger in the other; after rudely awaking his wife and reproaching her, he said in tones of fury—
"Decide, madame, whether to die by dagger or poison!'
"In vain did she ask his forgiveness; he compelled her to make her choice. She drank the concoction and flung herself on her knees, recommending her soul to God and expecting nothing short of death. She spent an hour in fear; and then the duke came back with a serene countenance, and told her that what she had taken for poison was an excellent soup. Doubtless this lesson made her more circumspect afterwards."
I gained access to theBiographie; theBiographiereferred me to theMémoires de l'Estoile.I did not know what theMémoires de l'Estoilewere; I asked M. Villenave, who lent me them. TheMémoires de l'Estoile, volume i. page 35, contain these lines—:
"Saint-Mégrin, a young gentleman of Bordeaux, handsome, wealthy and good-hearted, was one of the curled darlings kept by the king. One night when coming away, at eleven o'clock, from the Louvre, where the king was, in the rue du Louvre, near the rue Saint-Honoré, he was set upon by some twenty to thirty unknown men, with pistols, swords and cutlasses, who left him on the pavement for dead; he died, indeed, the next day, and it was a wonder how he could have lived so long, for he had received thirty-four or thirty-five mortal wounds. The king ordered his dead body to be carried to Boisy, near the Bastille, where Quélus, his companion, had died, and buried at Saint-Paul with as much pomp and solemnity as his companions Maugiron and Quélus had been buried there before him. No inquiries were made concerning the assassination, His Majesty having been warned that it had been done through the instrumentality of the Duc de Guise, because of the reports of intimacy between the young mignon and the duke's wife, and that the blow had been dealt by one who bore the beard and features of his brother the Duc du Maine. When the King of Navarre heard the news, he said—"'I am glad to hear that my cousin the Duc de Guise hasnot suffered himself to be cuckolded by amignon de couchettesuch as Saint-Mégrin; I wish all the other gilded youths about court who hang round the princesses ogling them and making love to them could receive the same treatment'...."
"Saint-Mégrin, a young gentleman of Bordeaux, handsome, wealthy and good-hearted, was one of the curled darlings kept by the king. One night when coming away, at eleven o'clock, from the Louvre, where the king was, in the rue du Louvre, near the rue Saint-Honoré, he was set upon by some twenty to thirty unknown men, with pistols, swords and cutlasses, who left him on the pavement for dead; he died, indeed, the next day, and it was a wonder how he could have lived so long, for he had received thirty-four or thirty-five mortal wounds. The king ordered his dead body to be carried to Boisy, near the Bastille, where Quélus, his companion, had died, and buried at Saint-Paul with as much pomp and solemnity as his companions Maugiron and Quélus had been buried there before him. No inquiries were made concerning the assassination, His Majesty having been warned that it had been done through the instrumentality of the Duc de Guise, because of the reports of intimacy between the young mignon and the duke's wife, and that the blow had been dealt by one who bore the beard and features of his brother the Duc du Maine. When the King of Navarre heard the news, he said—
"'I am glad to hear that my cousin the Duc de Guise hasnot suffered himself to be cuckolded by amignon de couchettesuch as Saint-Mégrin; I wish all the other gilded youths about court who hang round the princesses ogling them and making love to them could receive the same treatment'...."
Farther on, in theMémoires de l'Estoile, came this passage, concerning the death of Bussy d'Amboise:—
"On Wednesday, 19 August, Bussy d'Amboise, first gentle-man-in-waiting of M. le Duc, Governor of Anjou, Abbé de Bourgueil, who assumed very high and mighty airs, because of the partiality of his master, and who had done all kinds of evil deeds and robbed the countries of Anjou and Maine, was slain by the Seigneur de Monsoreau, together with the wicked lieutenant of Saumur, in a house belonging to the said Seigneur de Monsoreau, where, at night, the said lieutenant, who was his love messenger, had brought him to sleep that night with the wife of the said Monsoreau, to whom Bussy had for a long time made love; with whom the said lady had purposely made this false assignation in order to have him surprised by her husband, Monsoreau; when he appeared towards midnight, he was immediately surrounded and attacked by ten or a dozen men who accompanied the Seigneur de Monsoreau, and who rushed upon him in fury to massacre him: this gentleman, seeing himself so contemptibly betrayed, and that he was alone (as on such expeditions people usually prefer to be), did not, however, cease to defend himself to the last, proving, as he had often said, thatfear had never found room in his heart;—for so long as an inch of sword remained in his hand, he fought on till only the handle was left him, and then he made use of tables, forms, chairs and stools, with which he disabled three or four of his enemies, until, overpowered by numbers and bereft of all arms and means of defending himself, he was beaten down, close to a window, from which he had tried to fling himself in the hope of escape. Such was the end of Captain Bussy...."
"On Wednesday, 19 August, Bussy d'Amboise, first gentle-man-in-waiting of M. le Duc, Governor of Anjou, Abbé de Bourgueil, who assumed very high and mighty airs, because of the partiality of his master, and who had done all kinds of evil deeds and robbed the countries of Anjou and Maine, was slain by the Seigneur de Monsoreau, together with the wicked lieutenant of Saumur, in a house belonging to the said Seigneur de Monsoreau, where, at night, the said lieutenant, who was his love messenger, had brought him to sleep that night with the wife of the said Monsoreau, to whom Bussy had for a long time made love; with whom the said lady had purposely made this false assignation in order to have him surprised by her husband, Monsoreau; when he appeared towards midnight, he was immediately surrounded and attacked by ten or a dozen men who accompanied the Seigneur de Monsoreau, and who rushed upon him in fury to massacre him: this gentleman, seeing himself so contemptibly betrayed, and that he was alone (as on such expeditions people usually prefer to be), did not, however, cease to defend himself to the last, proving, as he had often said, thatfear had never found room in his heart;—for so long as an inch of sword remained in his hand, he fought on till only the handle was left him, and then he made use of tables, forms, chairs and stools, with which he disabled three or four of his enemies, until, overpowered by numbers and bereft of all arms and means of defending himself, he was beaten down, close to a window, from which he had tried to fling himself in the hope of escape. Such was the end of Captain Bussy...."
It was from these two paragraphs relating to Bussy and to Saint-Mégrin that I built up my drama. M. Villenave told me that I should find details as to manners in two valuable books entitled theConfession de Sancy, and theIle des Hermaphrodites.
In connection withHenri III.it is easy to see that the dramatic gift is born with certain people. I was twenty-five years of age,Henri III.was my second serious piece of work: let any conscientious critic take it and submit it to the most rigorous examination and he will find plenty to blame in the style, but nothing in the plot. I have written fifty dramas sinceHenri III., but not one of them is more cleverly constructed.
The reading ofHenri III.at M. Villenave's and M. Roqueplan's—Another reading at Firmin's—Béranger is present—A few words about his influence and popularity—Effect produced by my drama—Reception by the Comédie-Française—Struggle for the distribution of parts—M. de Broval's ultimatum—Convicted of the crime of poetry I appeal to the Duc d'Orléans—His Royal Highness withholds my salary—M. Laffitte lends me three thousand francs—Condemnation of Béranger
The reading ofHenri III.at M. Villenave's and M. Roqueplan's—Another reading at Firmin's—Béranger is present—A few words about his influence and popularity—Effect produced by my drama—Reception by the Comédie-Française—Struggle for the distribution of parts—M. de Broval's ultimatum—Convicted of the crime of poetry I appeal to the Duc d'Orléans—His Royal Highness withholds my salary—M. Laffitte lends me three thousand francs—Condemnation of Béranger
The execution ofHenri III.was, relatively speaking, rapid; as soon as the plot was completely settled in my mind it scarcely took me two months to finish the work. I recollect that, in the interval between the composition of the plot and the execution of the piece, I went to Villers-Cotterets, to shoot, I believe; on my return, I started before the carriage, and my young friends, Saunier, Labarre and Duez, put me on my way as far as the village of Vauciennes. During our walk I told them the whole ofHenri III.from beginning to end.Henri III.was completed directly the plot was completed. When I am busy working at one of my plays it is a help to me to tell the story; as I tell it I invent, and, at the conclusion of one of these recitals, some fine morning, there the play is, ready finished. But it often happens that this way of composing, namely, by not beginning the composition until I have finished the plot, is very slow. I keptMademoiselle de Belle-Islenearly five years thus in my head, and since 1832 I have had the plot of aJuif errantin my mind, waiting till I can get a moment's leisure to finish it; it will be one of my best pieces of work. I have only one fear, and that is that I shall die before I can get it done.