When I had finishedHenri III.I read it to a small circle of friends at Madame Waldor's. The play made a great impression; but the unanimous advice was that I ought to haveChristineproduced first. They said thatHenri III.was too daring for a first production. I need hardly say that M. Villenave thought all these new movements in literature monstrous aberrations of the human intellect. It was the period when an entirely fresh generation was springing up around us and with us. Several journals had just been begun by men of our age, full of the new ideas then afloat, in opposition to the views of theConstitutionnel, theCourrier français, theJournal de Parisand theJournal des Débats, which from that time reserved the whole of its praise for Victor Hugo.
These journals were theFigaroand theSylphe.They were edited by Nestor Roqueplan, Alphonse Royer, Louis Desnoyers, Alphonse Karr, Vaillant, Dovalle and a dozen other bold champions of the Romantic school. I invited them all to meet in Nestor Roqueplan's rooms, also asking Lassagne and Firmin to join us. In those days Nestor Roqueplan was not magnificently lodged in his apartments at the Opéra; his salons were not ornamented by Boule, nor were the corner-stones from Coromandel. He had a small room on the fifth floor, with a chimneypiece ornamented with a washhand basin, in lieu of a clock, and duelling pistols instead of candlesticks. Nearly a score of us were packed in this room; we laid out the mattresses from the bed on the floor to form divans; we transformed the bedstead into a sofa. I stood before a table lit by plain candles; the kettle was put on the fire so that each act could be divided by a cup of tea—and I began. This time, I was dealing with men of daring opinions, and their advice was therefore exactly the opposite: they all declared with one accord that I ought to abandonChristineto her unhappy lot and to push forwardHenri III.Firmin was enchanted; he could understand the part of Saint-Mégrin much better than he had been able to enter into that of Monaldeschi. He undertook to ask for a reading for me andto hurry one forward. In the meantime, if I were willing, he would gather his fellow-actors together at his own house, so that I could read my play to them before the definitive reading at the Théâtre-Français. I felt beside myself with my success; I would have read it fifty times had I been asked to do so. I placed myself in his hands and told him to do whatever he wished. As I was going away, Lassagne caught me by the arm.
"My friend," he said, "you were only half right in the matter ofChristine; you are altogether right inHenri III."
Firmin fixed the reading for the following Thursday; it was necessary that Béranger should be present at it. You must understand the import of those few words, "It was necessary that Béranger should be present at it!" Béranger was the hero of the hour; of him Benjamin Constant had just said, "Good old Béranger! he thinks he is writing chansons and really he is composing odes!" Thismothad gone round, it hit the mark so deliciously, and the whole of the Liberal party had pronounced Béranger to be the greatest poet of his age. This partisanship had roused some opposition, but the only effect was to carry enthusiasm to the utmost pitch. Please, let me make it clear that I do not wish to convey the impression that Béranger was overrated, but I think it was rather unjust on the others; and by the others I mean Lamartine and Hugo. They also composed odes, admirables odes, too, and no one went so far as to say that they could not also compose chansons. The explanation was that Lamartine and Hugo were both out-and-out members of the Royalist party, and the Royalist party was far from representing the opinion of the majority. Now, this popular enthusiasm was not on account of Béranger as a poet pure and simple; it was for Béranger as a national poet, for Béranger as the author of theVieux Drapeau, theDieu des bonnes gens, theGrand'mère.Here the instincts of the masses were not at fault; they fully realised that Béranger was a fiery socialist, that each of his political chansons was the blow of a pickaxe aimed to undermine the foundations of the throne, and they applauded with hands and with voices the bold pioneer whodug the trench by which the people were, one day, to gain access to the Tuileries. Therefore, Béranger enjoyed an immense influence; all parties vied with each other as to who should gain Béranger to their side. They offered him the Cross and he refused it; they offered him a pension and he refused it; they offered him membership in the Academy and he refused it; no one became possessed of Béranger, but, on the contrary, Béranger gained the confidence of everybody in general and of Laffitte in particular.
Laffitte's friendship with Béranger and Béranger's influence on Laffitte displayed itself in a singular way in 1830. France owed the reign of Louis-Philippe to these two men; that is to say, the indispensable transition as I deem it from aristocratic royalism to democratic rule—that intermediate stage which has been termedla royauté bourgeoise.We shall have some strange details to relate when we reach the proper time and place; for, throughout that great week, we were closely associated with makers and unmakers of kings. But, for the moment, the Béranger that Firmin promised me was not the man of politics, but Béranger the poet, the author ofLisette, theDeux Sœurs de CharitéandFrétillon.We were, besides, to have such authorities as MM. Taylor, Michelot and Samson; Mlle. Leverd and Mlle. Mars.
I wished my mother to have the pleasure of being present at this reading, as I felt quite certain of a successful issue, so I persuaded her to accompany me.
Alas! poor mother! I might have had a presentiment that she would not be present at its performance!
The reading created a great impression on everybody. Although, in the nature of things, Béranger could not thoroughly enter into the spirit of dramatic form, he, too, was moved to enthusiasm along with the rest, by the third and fifth acts and did not hesitate to predict that I should have a great success.
From that night dates a friendship between Béranger and me—a friendship which has never failed. This friendship often took a sardonic, almost bitter form of expression, for Bérangeris not at all the good-humoured man people imagine, he has too much genius to be genial; but this friendship was always sincere and ready to be put to the proof by deeds and tokens.
The reading, as I have said, had a marked effect upon all present; but especially were the five Comedians impressed by it—Firmin, Michelot, Samson, Mlle. Mars and Mlle. Leverd. It was settled that when the Committee met two days hence, a special reading should be asked for and that, making use of the guarantee which was given me with regard toChristine, special favour should be sought on my account so that the piece might be played as soon as possible. The play was read on 17 September 1828 and received with acclamation. After the reading, I was called into the director's office, which was vacant, for the time being. There I found Taylor, Mademoiselle Mars, Michelot and Firmin. Mademoiselle Mars began the subject with her usual frankness, I was going to say with her usual brutal frankness. I was not to allowHenri III.to be put aside as I had in the case ofChristine; everything must be settled at once, while the Committee was in the mood—the distribution of rôles, the signing of the contract; and, taking advantage of the eager enthusiasm of the Committee, steps were immediately to be taken to obtain themise en scènefrom the Administration. Moreover, my generous patron Taylor was about to quit the theatre to travel in the East; he had kept his promise to the author ofHécubeand was setting out, not only for Alexandria and Cairo, but even as far as Luxor. Advantage might be taken of his absence to do me a bad turn. I endowed Mlle. Mars, Firmin and Michelot with plenary powers, and they undertook my affairs, constituting themselves my tutelary guardians, and declaring that I was incapable of carrying out the necessary negotiations myself.
When the question of the distribution of rôles was discussed, Mlle. Mars met with great opposition. She wished Armand to undertake the part of Henri III. and Madame Menjaud to be the page. Now, I wanted Louise Despréaux to be thepage and Michelot to be Henri III. The discussion was protracted, lasting for a week. This struggle was the beginning of a series of battles between Mlle. Mars and myself which, in spite of our real friendliness, lasted first with regard to one subject and then another, until the death of that estimable actress. But I stood firm. I had profited by the reproaches of Mlle. Mars and I turned the tables against her. Madame Menjaud was a very talented woman, but she was neither young enough nor pretty enough for a page boy, and it was just precisely on this account that Mlle. Mars could not get rid of that egoism which is the defect of even the most eminent of artistes, objecting to the contrast of a young and fresh face by the side of her own, she being at that time fifty-one years of age. I had to be satisfied with retorting that as Louise Despréaux was a pupil of Firmin I was bound to have her. My reason for declining to let Armand play the part of Henri III. was more difficult to divulge. Although Armand was five or six years the senior of Mlle. Mars, he was still good-looking, looked quite young and was the most presentable of the French Comedians, but nobody save Armand himself would ever have dreamt of his taking the part of Henri III.! I was obliged to tell Armand that his acting of the part was too realistic, and that I did not wish him to take it. This answer made Armand my enemy for life, and very nearly caused me to fall out with Mlle. Mars.
Such were my worries at the theatre—there were plenty more for me at the offices.
As in the case ofChristine, the papers immediately published the news of my reception, and as in the case ofChristinethere was a great commotion about it in the offices. However, nothing was said to me at first. Thanks to the easy means of communication between the Committee and my little office, Firmin called on me several times, and my subsequent absences after his calls, which had reference to various difficulties that arose about distribution of parts or themise en scène, having been noted, an accusation was concocted against me of a sufficiently grave nature to constitute a charge of insubordination.Consequently, I received one morning, through the agency of Féresse, a request to step upstairs and appear before the director-general. M. de Broval received me with a severe look that boded a storm. I was at once reminded of M. Lefèvre and his discourse on the well organised machine, and the wheel, which, small though it was, prevented the whole from working. Alas! for the last six years I had not grown into a much larger wheel, and I felt as small before M. de Broval as I had done before M. Lefèvre. But there was something stirring in the depths of my being that was growing, and that was a self-confidence which six years of work had given me and the reception of my two playsChristineandHenri III.So I awaited the tempest with a calmness that surprised and almost disconcerted M. de Broval.
At length, in dulcet tones, he explained to me that literature and official work were incompatible and that, knowing how, in spite of the natural antipathy between them, I had been endeavouring to combine them, he requested me to make my choice between the two.
M. de Broval was a fine talker, for he had been a third-class clerk in the diplomatic service. On great days he wore, as I believe I have mentioned, a coat with a braided collar, and on this coat the medal of Saint-Janvier, which he had received on the marriage of the Duc d'Orléans with the daughter of Ferdinand of Sicily; on ordinary days, he dressed like everybody else. One of his shoulders was higher than the other and he had a big red nose. I was always unlucky with deformed persons. I knew that the time had come when I must stake my last throw; I let M. de Broval proceed with the rounding off of his sentences, and his greatly beloved climaxes, until he had finished, and then I said—
"Monsieur le Baron, as far as I have been able to follow your discourse, I gather you leave me the choice between my place as copying clerk and my vocation as a literary man."
"That is so, Dumas," the baron replied.
"My place was obtained from the Duc d'Orléans by GeneralFoy; it was accorded me by the Duc d'Orléans through his influence; now, before I can believe that the first prince of the blood royal, a man whom everybody declares to be a patron of letters—and who justified this title by receiving into his library M. Casimir Delavigne, dismissed from his office for the crime of making poetry—before, I say, I can credit that such a man could dismiss me from his administration for the same crime as that committed by M. Casimir Delavigne, which, in the case of M. Casimir Delavigne, was a title to favour, I must receive myexeat, whether verbal or in writing, either from the lips or the hand of M. le Duc d'Orléans. I will neither resign nor accept dismissal. As for my salary, as M. le Baron has given me to understand that the one hundred and twenty-five francs payment I draw monthly is an exorbitant tax upon His Royal Highness's budget, I am willing to renounce it on the spot."
"Ah! ah!" M. de Broval exclaimed in surprise; "and how do you and your mother propose to live, monsieur?"
"That is my own business, monsieur"; and I bowed and prepared to take my leave.
"Take notice, Monsieur Dumas," said M. de Broval, "from the end of next month you shall not receive any further salary."
"From this present one, monsieur, if you wish it. This will enable you to save one hundred and twenty-five francs on His Highness's account, and I have no doubt that His Highness will be duly grateful to you for this economy."
Whereupon I again bowed and withdrew.
M. de Broval kept his word. When I returned to my office, I was officially informed that in future I could dispose of my time as I thought proper, since from that daymy salary was suspended.It seems incredible and yet it is a fact. Furthermore, the salaries in the prince's offices were as a general rule so poor they were not enough for us to live on. So each had recourse to some particular industry to ameliorate his constant state of penury: some had married sempstresses who kept little shops; others had shares in livery stables;there were even some who ran thirty-two sous restaurants in the Latin Quarter, who laid down the ducal pens at five o'clock to take up the serviette of a waiter in a cheap eating-house. Ah well! nothing was said to these, they were not reproached with lowering his princely dignity in the eyes of others; no, their industry was extolled and it was looked upon as quite natural and quite ordinary; whilst I, who felt no vocation to marry a shopkeeper; who did not possess any capital to invest in the cab trade; who was accustomed to put a serviette on my knees and not over my arm, was looked upon as a criminal because I sought a way of salvation in literature! They suspended my salary because I had a tragedy and a drama accepted by the Comédie-Française!
Well, I had prepared my plans beforehand, and these plans had fortified me. I had decided that I would lay my case before Béranger, and ask him to obtain for me an interview with Laffitte. It was just possible that Laffitte might do for me what he had done for Théaulon, under similar circumstances. Laffitte might, perhaps, lend me a thousand crowns. I went and told Firmin all my difficulties, and he took me to Béranger. And Béranger took me to Laffitte. I should misrepresent the truth if I said that M. Laffitte jumped at the opportunity of rendering me this service; but I should also misrepresent it if I did not hasten to add that he did render it me. I signed a promissory note for three thousand francs, I deposited a copy of my manuscript ofHenri III.with the cashier, and I pledged my word of honour to return the three thousand francs upon the sale of the manuscript. There' was no question of interest.
I left Laffitte's house with my three notes of a thousand francs each in my pocket, I shook hands warmly with Béranger and I ran home to my mother. I found her in despair; she had already heard what had happened. I drew the three notes of a thousand francs from my pocket and put them into her hands. They represented my salary for two years. I explained to her how I had come by the money, but she could not realise it. Nevertheless, my poor mother began to believe that I wasnot altogether out of my senses for writing plays, since I could borrow a thousand crowns on the bare manuscript of one of these plays—a sum equivalent to two years of my salary. That night, I related at M. Villenave's what had happened. M. Villenave blamed me, but everyone else said I had done right.
A fortnight after Béranger had rendered me this service he was sentenced by thetribunal de police correctionnelle de la Seineto pay a fine of ten thousand francs and to nine months' imprisonment, as author of theAnge gardien, of theGérontocratieand of theSacre de Charles le Simple.Béranger did not appeal against the judgment and he was a prisoner at the beginning of the year 1829. A month after his entry into prison, M. Viennet visited him.
"Well, my noble songster," began the author of thePhilippide, "how many chansons have you already composed under lock and key?"
"Not one yet," replied Béranger; "do you suppose chansons are written as easily as epic poems?"
The Duc d'Orléans has my salary stopped—A scribbler (folliculaire)—Henri III.and the Censorship—My mother is seized with paralysis—Cazal—Edmond Halphen—A call on the Duc d'Orléans—First night ofHenri III.—Effect it produced on M. Deviolaine—M. de Broval's congratulations
The Duc d'Orléans has my salary stopped—A scribbler (folliculaire)—Henri III.and the Censorship—My mother is seized with paralysis—Cazal—Edmond Halphen—A call on the Duc d'Orléans—First night ofHenri III.—Effect it produced on M. Deviolaine—M. de Broval's congratulations
It was under these conditions that the year 1829 broke upon me—the year in which was to take place the grand duel between my past and my future. My intimate intercourse with the Villenave family had been the means of opening to me several of the salons of the day, and among these that of the Princess de Salm. Here it was that I met Lady Morgan, Cooper and Humboldt.
Meanwhile,Henri III.was causing a great sensation. Nothing was talked of save the revolution which its representation meant. I attended the rehearsals with great assiduity, attracted, so I asserted, by my interest in the work; but, according to Mlle. Mars, the real reason was the interest I took in an exceedingly pretty and charming lady, named Mlle. Virginie Bourbier, who played a trifling part in my drama. Since the month of October I had not put foot inside the office. Now, although I had worked hard for nine months of the year and, consequently, was entitled to three-quarters of my bonus, everyone save myself seemed to have had share in the distribution of funds, and in the munificence of His Royal Highness. It was not a simple oversight, as I might have hoped, although that would have been humiliating enough—no, the fact had been debated, considered and decided, and His Royal Highness had condescended to write beside my name, in his own hand—
"The gratuities of M. Alexandre Dumas are to be withheld, as he is engaged in literary work."
The Administration was divided into two camps over my position. Some had bravely dared to take the side of literature against bureaucracy. Among the number of my partisans was little old Bichet, whose head being turned by M. Pieyre and M. Parseval de Grandmaison maintained that I should do great things ... not so great, of course, as Piron; but still, I should make my name known. The others were Lassagne, Lamy, secretary of Mlle. Adélaïde, the son of the director of thecomptabilité Jamet, whose admiration for the English actors, and specially for a charming English actress, had brought him over to the Romantic school, and some others, who were too dependent on their positions to dare to manifest their sympathy with me openly. Oudard remained neutral. M. Deviolaine wavered; all this talk there had been about me had shaken his opinion. Was I right, in spite of the whole world, and, in spite of my education at three francs per month, should I succeed where scores of others had failed? He expressed his doubt, from time to time, nearly always winding up his hesitation by the following words:—
"The —— is crazy enough to do it!"
As is usual in theatrical matters, the production was postponed from day to day but at last it was fixed to take place on 11 February. A grave anxiety, however, hovered over everybody and myself in particular, like a black cloud. The Censor had not yet given his final decision upon the play. A wretched creature occupied the office at that time, who lived on scandal, making capital of others' self-esteem or their weakness, beside whom Geoffroi was honesty itself and a conscientious critic. The following lines on theFolliculaireby Laville might have been written about him:—
"Un vase de vermeil, une bague de prix,Du vin surtout, voilà ses cadeaux favoris.On assure—je crois que, sur ce fait probable,Pour le vrai, la chronique a pris le vraisemblable—Qu'au jour où nos amis viennent du vieux NestorNous souhaiter les ans, et bien d'autres encor;Au jour où les filleuls aiment tant leurs marraines;Jour de munificence où, sous le nom d'étrennes,Chacun de son voisin attend quelques tributs,Et d'une honnête aumône accroît ses revenus,Il revend au rabais, ou plutôt à l'enchère,Le superflu des vins et de la bonne chèreDont l'accable le zèle ou l'effroi des acteurs;Et que Follicula, pour qui les directeursDe schalls et de chapeaux renouvellent l'emplette,Se fait, pendant deux mois, marchande à la toilette!"
The entire theatrical world paid tribute to this man. Mademoiselle Mars gave him a pension; he received subsidies from the Théâtre-Français, the Odéon, the Opéra and the Opéra-Comique. They came to him as to the open market: he sold eulogy to one, calumny to others; he sold everything, even his silence.
Mademoiselle Mars, Firmin, the company of the Comédie-Française, and even Taylor himself had urged me to pay this man a call; but I had obstinately refused. So, one morning, someone brought me his paper, which contained the following lines:—
"In the play that has just been accepted by the Comédie-Française, the work of an author who, we are told, possesses great merit, there appear characters who had a disgraceful connection with the subject (the Court of Henri III.), whose new appearance on the stage may possibly serve to prove the author's talent, but whose presence, it cannot be denied, create an impropriety impossible to tolerate. History has preserved the names of these miserable heroes, those infamous personages, who took part in a debauch as dissolute as it was inexcusable; we will venture to call them by their true names, and to signify our detestation of the representatives of these rôles ofmignons, on account of the scandalous mischief they will do to the masses. If the information we have received upon this subject be correct, the authority which honours the theatre with its guardian vigilance will not permit an innovation of this nature, for it knows that its first duty is only to authorise those plays concerning the representation of which a son or a daughter can be innocently satisfied when they ask of their parents, 'What does that mean?'"
"In the play that has just been accepted by the Comédie-Française, the work of an author who, we are told, possesses great merit, there appear characters who had a disgraceful connection with the subject (the Court of Henri III.), whose new appearance on the stage may possibly serve to prove the author's talent, but whose presence, it cannot be denied, create an impropriety impossible to tolerate. History has preserved the names of these miserable heroes, those infamous personages, who took part in a debauch as dissolute as it was inexcusable; we will venture to call them by their true names, and to signify our detestation of the representatives of these rôles ofmignons, on account of the scandalous mischief they will do to the masses. If the information we have received upon this subject be correct, the authority which honours the theatre with its guardian vigilance will not permit an innovation of this nature, for it knows that its first duty is only to authorise those plays concerning the representation of which a son or a daughter can be innocently satisfied when they ask of their parents, 'What does that mean?'"
I had expected this and was prepared to meet it. I hadhardly read the above paragraph before I had armed myself with a substantial cane and had reappeared at the offices.
"De la Ponce," I said, in scriptural phrase, "take up your cloak and your hat."
I set off in search of the critic with all the more satisfaction in that I knew there were days when he was no coward: if a duel would serve his purpose he would fight one. I sent in my name.
He had been expecting me, he said, when he heard my name; but he probably did not expect me to come to him in the frame of mind in which I presented myself before him.
Was I going to be lucky or unlucky? I could not tell, but thefolliculairewas not in one of his brave moods: he beat about the bush, spoke of his influence with the Government, tried to show us his last New Year's presents and ended up, in short, by offering to use his influence on my behalf with M. de Martignac,who was a friend of his and owed him some money.
I quote this sentence especially, as an example of the man's impudence.
I told him I had not come to solicit his influence but to request him to withdraw as quickly as possible and in the fullest manner his article in that day's papers. Next day, his paper contained the following apology:—
"We are exceedingly sorry to find our brief article onHenri III., recently accepted by the Comédie-Français, in yesterday's issue contained imputations which were far from our intention. We had not received the accurate information on the subject which is now in our possession, and we can satisfy our readers concerning the taste, the delicacy and the tact with which the scenes and personages to which we referred are handled. This method of treating romance is too closely akin to classic traditions to admit of objection on our part."
"We are exceedingly sorry to find our brief article onHenri III., recently accepted by the Comédie-Français, in yesterday's issue contained imputations which were far from our intention. We had not received the accurate information on the subject which is now in our possession, and we can satisfy our readers concerning the taste, the delicacy and the tact with which the scenes and personages to which we referred are handled. This method of treating romance is too closely akin to classic traditions to admit of objection on our part."
My readers may, perhaps, be surprised that I should have had one moment's uneasiness in connection with such a man, but—I must repeat it to be believed—despicable and despised though this man was, he had his influence. Insteadof his expressions of opinion being torn up before his eyes by those to whom they referred, they received due attention in the eyes of critics, and I knew intimately one director of the Beaux-Arts who paid him, for many years, a pension of a thousand francs. For the rest, whether this apology influenced the Commission of Examiners or not, the day after the appearance of the apology the piece was returned less cut about and lacerated and mauled than it would have been to-day! True, M. de Martignac, who had heard much about the play, desired to be its censor, and M. de Martignac, as everyone knew, was so clever a man that, while he was in the Government, even Charles X. showed signs of cleverness.
I was at the theatre, full of delight at this unexpected escape of my play, which was now to be produced the following Saturday, when one of M. Deviolaine's servants came hurriedly to me, looking very scared, to tell me that my mother had fallen ill as she was going down the stairs after visiting M. Deviolaine, and that they could not bring her back to consciousness. M. Deviolaine lived on the fourth floor of the house of one Chaulin, a stationer, at the corner of the rue Saint-Honoré and the rue de Richelieu. I rushed away from the theatre, sending the property-lad to tell M. Florence, the doctor belonging to the theatre, that my mother needed his assistance. In a few seconds I was with my mother: she was seated in a large arm-chair; her eyes were open and she had regained consciousness, but she could hardly speak. The whole of one side of her body was quite paralysed. She had been to call on Madame Deviolaine; as usual, I had been the subject of conversation; as usual, they had been telling her I was a wilful blockhead, unworthy the clemency the House of Orléans had shown me; that my play would be a failure and would not even produce enough to pay back M. Laffitte his thousand crowns, and that then I should find myself out of a berth and with no future before me. My poor mother had wept copiously, going away in great distress of mind, and as she was about to step downstairs she was seized with faintness, absolutely lost all power and fell down in aheap, her legs on the stairs and her body on the landing. A lodger found her in this position as he came upstairs; he rang M. Deviolaine's door-bell, and they carried her in and put her in a chair. My poor mother had somewhat regained consciousness by the time I reached her. I felt her pulse, and held up her arm, which fell inert; I pinched her to find the extent of her insensibility, and I came to the conclusion that she had just had a stroke of apoplexy, serious enough at any rate to cause paralysis of her left side. I sent for some mustard and put her feet in hot water till the doctor came. Then, as he was a long while in coming, I sent, to an instrument maker, who lived nearly opposite, for a lancet, and decided to bleed her myself in the foot if Florence did not come. But he came, and performed this operation himself; a slight improvement at once manifested itself, and, her tongue feeling freer, she was able to pronounce a few words. Meanwhile my sister had hastened there; fortunately, she was in Paris, having come up to see the first performance of my play. Fortunately, too, there was an empty room in the house—on the third floor, I think—and we took it for a quarter. Madame Deviolaine sent a bed down to it for my mother; we carried mattresses for ourselves from the rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis; we put the mattresses on the floor of my mother's room; and both my sister and I were determined not to leave her alone for a single moment.
Unluckily, Thibaut was away from Paris. Madame de Celles, daughter of General Gérard, was suffering from consumption and had required a doctor to accompany her to Italy. Madame de Leuven had recommended Thibaut, and he had gone with her. As we only knew Florence slightly, he thoughtfully withdrew of his own accord after he had rendered first aid to our invalid. So I called in another of my friends, named Cazal. He was an extremely clever fellow who, when he found that, in spite of his medical skill, his practice did not increase, invented a new kind of umbrella and parasol, took out a patent for them and made a fortune. Cazal spent the whole night with us by my mother's side; and next day, as theimprovement continued, he believed he might look for her recovery if she had no relapse.
How I rejoiced that the idea had come to me of applying to M. Laffitte! how I rejoiced that M. Laffitte had lent me the thousand crowns! We could at least be certain of one thing, that, no matter how things turned out, our mother would want for nothing during her illness. Furthermore, on learning this news, one of my friends, son of a celebrated diamond merchant, Edmond Halphen, not knowing I was as rich as Ali Baba, sent me a small purse containing twenty louis. I returned him the louis, but I kept the purse, in remembrance of that delicate kindness which so few have shown to me, and I recall the act with gratitude, for it touched me deeply. I have, however, sometimes met with the same spontaneous generosity elsewhere, but among mywomenfriends, not among mymenfriends.
Deeply troubled as I was,—God alone knew how deeply this blow had struck me!—I was obliged to leave my mother, for a few hours; my drama was so novel, even to those who were rehearsing it, that, unless I was present, their confidence took flight. I returned and found everyone greatly concerned by the misfortune that had overtaken me in such an unexpected manner. Taylor was present to prompt in my place in case I was unable to turn up. The play was ready or all but ready, and there was no doubt it would be performed the following Saturday. When I returned home, I found the whole of the Villenave family awaiting me, from Théodore to Élisa. They had missed me the night before, I who never missed going to their house a day, and, when the letter arrived that told my kind friends what had happened, they came off to see me at once. No one can have any idea of the strain of the next two or three days—the profound grief at watching my mother's dying condition, and the terrible labour of preparing a first drama for its public ordeal.
The night before the representation, I took a step that I had decided upon for some time previously. I presented myself at the Palais-Royal and asked to see M. le Duc d'Orléans. Therequest was so unusual and so audacious that, no doubt, the attendants expected I had an audience. They informed the Duc d'Orléans of my presence and of my request to speak to him. The Duc d'Orléans repeated my name over to himself twice and gave orders to admit me. "Ah! ah! is it you, M. Dumas?" he said. "What good wind blows you hither or, rather, blows you back again?"
"Monseigneur," I said to him, "to-morrow they playHenri III."
"Yes," he said, "I know that."
"Well, monseigneur, I have come to ask a favour of you, or rather an act of justice."
"What is it?"
"To give me your presence at my first representation.... A year ago, your Highness was informed that I was an empty-headed, vain fool; for a year I have been working as a humble poet; without giving me a hearing, monseigneur, you have sided with those of your retinue who have been my accusers—perhaps your Highness should have waited, but your Highness thought otherwise and did not wait. To-morrow things will be put to public trial; all I come to beg of you, monseigneur, is that you will be present at the sentence."
The duke looked at me for a moment, and, seeing how calmly I met his scrutiny, he replied—
"I would have granted your request with great pleasure, M. Dumas, for various people have told me that if you were not a model of industry you were an example of perseverance; but, unfortunately, it is impossible."
"Your Highness probably means that a man who aspires to talk with people in high places should know better than to interrogate a prince; but, monseigneur, I have come to you in such exceptional circumstances that I will venture to ask whence arises that impossibility, for I must confess it disappoints me greatly."
"You shall judge for yourself: to-morrow I expect twenty to thirty princes and princesses to dinner."
"Would it not be a novel entertainment, monseigneur, to take these princes and princesses to seeHenri III.?"
"How could I take them to see it when dinner begins at six andHenri III.begins at seven?"
"Let monseigneur advance his dinner one hour and I will delayHenri III.for an hour; that would allow monseigneur three hours wherein to assuage the hunger of his august guests."
"Well, that is not a bad idea.... Do you think the Théâtre-Français would consent to the delay?"
"They would be only too delighted to accommodate your Highness."
"But where should I seat them? I only have three boxes."
"I asked the Administration not to dispose of the first circle until I had seen your Highness."
"You presumed, then, to think that I should consent to see your play?"
"I relied upon your sense of justice.... You see, monseigneur, I appeal to Philippe awakened."
"Very well. Go and tell M. Taylor that, if the Comédie-Français consents to put back the representation an hour, I will be present at it, and in order to carry this out I will engage the whole circle."
"I will hasten there immediately, monseigneur."
"Are you satisfied?"
"Enchanted! I trust also that your Highness will not have reason to repent of this kindness."
"I hope so too.... Away with you, and good luck!"
I bowed and left.
Ten minutes later, the theatre had been told; twenty minutes later, the Duc d'Orléans had received an answer in the affirmative. That very evening letters were sent to the guests informing them of the change of hour.
The long-expected day came at last! On that day there was neither rehearsal nor any other meeting: I could remain by my mother's side until the evening. They had given me a certain number of theatre tickets, especially tickets for thepit; theclaque,i.e.hired applause, was not a recognised thing in those days as it is now, and the post ofentrepreneur de succèswas almost a sinecure: it was left to the care of one's friends and to the impartiality of the public. The generosity of the theatre allowed me to sign a pit ticket for each of my old office companions. Porcher and his wife had each a balcony ticket. I had a little box on the stage itself which held two persons. My sister had one of the boxes in the first row, where she entertained Boulanger, de Vigny and Victor Hugo. I did not know either Hugo or de Vigny, and they introduced themselves to me in despair of getting a chance otherwise. I made the acquaintance of both of them that night. M. Deviolaine had an orchestra ticket. The whole of the remaining seats in the house had been taken for a week past, and the exorbitant price of twenty louis was given for one box.
At a quarter to eight I kissed my mother, who, in the clouded state of her brain, scarcely realised what a battle I was on the eve of fighting. I met M. Deviolaine in the corridor.
"Well, you young rip!..." he said, "so you have got your way at last!"
"What did I tell you?"
"Yes, but we have yet to see what the public thinks of your prose."
"You will see, since you are here."
"I shall see, I shall see," growled M. Deviolaine. "It is highly probable that I shall see...."
I moved away from him, not knowing what he meant by his words, and I reached my box, which, as I have said, was on the stage. I could see the whole house from my box perfectly. Those who were present at that performance will recollect what a splendid sight it was: the first circle was filled with princes smothered under the orders of five or six nations; the whole of the aristocracy crowded into the first and second rows of the boxes; ladies sparkled with diamonds.
The curtain rose. I have never experienced such a sensationas that which a breath of air from the theatre caused me as it passed across my feverish brow. The first act was listened to with patience, although the narrative was long, cold and tiresome. The curtain fell. The words of the Duc de Guise, "Saint Paul! if I can only hunt out the men who assassinated Dugast!" were heartily applauded, and this warmed up both audience and actors.
I ran off to see how my mother was. On my return to the theatre I met M. Deviolaine in the corridor; but, as soon as I appeared, he quickly retired into a small antechamber, on purpose, as I imagined, to avoid me. I did the poor dear man injustice! he had quite other intentions in his thoughts.
The second act began; it was an amusing one; the scene of the pea-shooter concerning which I was much afraid, passed without any signs of objection, and the curtain fell amidst pretty general applause.
The third act was the one to decide the success of the play. In this act comes the scene between the page and the duchess, and the scene between the duchess and the duke—the scene where M. de Guise compels his wife to appoint a meeting with Saint-Mégrin. If the strong situations in that scene found favour with the public, the battle was won. The scene roused cries of horror, but, at the same time, peals of applause; it was the first time any dramatic scenes had been presented with great freedom—I might even call it with brutal frankness.
I went out; I was very anxious to see my poor mother and to embrace her, although she was then hardly in a condition to understand who it was that was embracing her.
How happy I should have been if she had been in the theatre, instead of on her bed! She was sleeping quite peacefully; I kissed her without waking her, and returned to the theatre. Under the porch I again met M. Deviolaine, who was going away.
"What!" I said, "are you not going to stay to the end?"
"How can I stay to the end, you brute?"
"Why can you not stay?..."
"Because I am thoroughly upset! Because I am turned inside out.. an attack of colic."
"Ah!" I exclaimed, laughing; "so that was why I saw you going to the lavatory?"
"Yes, that was the reason, monsieur.... You have already cost me fifty sous! at two sous each time it is ... Why, you will ruin me!"
"Bah! you exaggerate. Whatever could you do at the twenty-fifth time?"
"Nothing, you young puppy! And the last time, if I had not been stopped by the hair of my head, I should have disappeared entirely! Ah! what a business!... Oh dear! I am horribly ill!" and M. Deviolaine laid both hands on his stomach and began running towards the Rue Saint-Honoré.
I went into the theatre; as I had indeed foreseen, from the fourth act to the end it was more than a success, it was an increasing delirium: all hands applauded, even those of the ladies. Madame Malibran, who had only been able to find a seat on the third row, leant right out of her box, holding on to a pillar to keep herself from falling. Then, when Firmin appeared to give the name of the author, the enthusiasm was so universal that even the Duc d'Orléans himself stood up and called out the name of his employé, the success of whose work—if not the most merited, at least the most striking of the epoch—had just caused him to be greeted as a poet.
That very night, when I returned home, I found a letter from M. le Baron de Broval, which I will give word for word:—
"I cannot sleep without first telling you, my dear young friend, how very happy I am at your splendid triumph, without congratulating you and, above all, your estimable mother most heartily, for I know you felt more anxious on her behalf than on your own. My sister and I and all at the office sympathised deeply with you; and now we rejoice at a triumph justly deserved both on account of your very great and persevering talent and your filial devotion. I am very sure that your laurels, and the success in wait for you in the future nowlaid open before you, will not stand in the way of your friendships, and I assure you that my feelings towards you are very warm.BARON DE BROVAL""10February1829"
"I cannot sleep without first telling you, my dear young friend, how very happy I am at your splendid triumph, without congratulating you and, above all, your estimable mother most heartily, for I know you felt more anxious on her behalf than on your own. My sister and I and all at the office sympathised deeply with you; and now we rejoice at a triumph justly deserved both on account of your very great and persevering talent and your filial devotion. I am very sure that your laurels, and the success in wait for you in the future nowlaid open before you, will not stand in the way of your friendships, and I assure you that my feelings towards you are very warm.
BARON DE BROVAL"
"10February1829"
This was the man who, five months before, had compelled me to renounce my salary!
The day following my victory—Henri III.is interdicted—I obtain an audience with M. de Martignac—He removes the interdiction—Les hommes-obstacles—The Duc d'Orléans sends for me into his box—His talk with Charles X. on the subject of my drama—Another scribbler—Visit to Carrel—Gosset's shooting-box and pistols No. 5—An impossible duel
The day following my victory—Henri III.is interdicted—I obtain an audience with M. de Martignac—He removes the interdiction—Les hommes-obstacles—The Duc d'Orléans sends for me into his box—His talk with Charles X. on the subject of my drama—Another scribbler—Visit to Carrel—Gosset's shooting-box and pistols No. 5—An impossible duel
To few men has it been given to see such a rapid change take place in their lives as took place in mine during those four hours of the representation ofHenri III.I was totally unknown until that night, and, next day, whether for good or for evil, I was the talk of all Paris. From that night dated the hatreds of people whom I had never seen—hatreds roused by the unwelcome fame attached to my name. But friendships also dated from that epoch. What multitudes of people envied me that night, who had no idea that I spent it on a mattress on the floor by the side of my dying mother! Next day, the room was filled with bouquets; I covered my mother's bed with them, and she touched them with the hand that was left unparalysed, pulling them nearer to her or pushing them away, unconscious what all these flowers meant—and, possibly, even unconscious that they were flowers at all. By two o'clock in the afternoon, the day after the performance, my manuscript had sold for six thousand francs. These six thousand francs were paid me in six bank-notes; and I went to show them to M. Deviolaine.
"What are those?" he asked.
"They are the price of my manuscript," I replied. "You see it amounts to M. Laffitte's three thousand francs and three thousand francs besides."
"What!" cried M. Deviolaine; "are there idiots who have bought it of you?"
"You see for yourself."
"Well, they are brainless idiots!"
Then, handing me back the notes, and shrugging his shoulders, he said—
"You do not inquire how I am!"
"I did not dare.... How are you?"
"A little better, happily."
"Were you able to return to the theatre?"
"Yes, I was there for the conclusion."
"Were you there when my name was given out?"
"The deuce I was!"
"And did it not give you a little gratification?"
"A little! Why, you rascal, I wept like a baby!"
"Come now! it cost you a lot to acknowledge that.... Let us shake hands."
"Ah!" said M. Deviolaine, "if only your poor father could have been there!"
"My mother could have been there if people had not made her so unhappy."
"Come, come! you are not going to tell me that it is my fault your mother is in bed, are you? Good gracious me! it tormented me sufficiently during your representation. I could not think of anything else; I believe it was that which gave me the beastly colic.... By the bye, what are they saying in the office?"
I showed him M. de Broval's letter. He read it through twice over.
"Well, I never!..." he said, as he handed it me back, shrugging his shoulders. "Shall you return to the office?"
"I? Dear me no!"
"Well, I think you are right. Shall you go and see M. Fossier?".
"No, indeed."
"He likes you, nevertheless."
"Then why did he not write me a letter of congratulation, too?"
"Well, but he might have expected tickets for his daughter."
"That reminds me. Shall I save you a box for the second performance? You hadn't a good place for the first ... you were close to the door."
"You scoundrel! I was right where I was, near the door.... Do you believe this mad prank you have just played is going to bring you in any more than what you have just shown me?"
"Certainly I do."
"About how much?"
"Fifteen thousand francs."
"What!"
"About fifteen thousand francs."
"And how long will it run to gain that?"
"Perhaps two months."
"So in two months, you will have earned the whole year's salary of three chief clerks, including bonuses?"
"Call in your three chief clerks and tell them to do as much for themselves."
"Get out! I am afraid the very ceiling will fall on our heads while you are saying such monstrous things!"
"To-morrow night, then?"
"Yes, to-morrow night, if I have nothing better to do."
I was quite easy. M. Deviolaine would not have anything better to do, nor would he have accepted a year of his salary to be kept away.
From M. Deviolaine's house I ran to M. Laffitte's. I was proud to be able to pay him what I owed him so promptly. I gave him his thousand crowns, and he returned me my promissory note and my manuscript. But I always remembered the service rendered me, which, coming when my mother was taken ill, was of priceless value. Still, I had not reached the conclusion of my worries. When I returned to my temporary dwelling-place, I found a letter from the Théâtre-Français asking me to go to the office there immediately. I rushed there, and found the Committee in a state of consternation from Taylor downwards. They had received aletter from the Home Minister suspendingHenri III.This was a far more serious matter than the suspension of my salary. Luckily, Taylor had made up his mind what should be done. He proposed I should urgently demand an audience of M. de Martignac. He himself undertook to take the letter and see that it was conveyed to him. I sat down and wrote at once, asking for an audience for the next day. I received an answer two hours later. M. de Martignac would see me at seven next morning. By seven next morning I was at his house. Oh! what a blessing it is to find a Minister who is both polished and cultivated, like M. de Martignac!rara avis, as Juvenal would call it, and, worse still, a bird of passage! We remained together for an hour, not talking of the play, but of all sorts of subjects; in ten minutes, we came to an understanding over the play, and I carried my manuscript back, saved, this time not from Annihilation, but from Limbo. Oh! poor M. de Martignac! how well he understood Art! How thoroughly well he knew that type of human being who obstructs all progress he meets with on the way, with a view rather of hindering others from advancing than of advancing himself! It was not under M. de Martignac's administration that Art, wherever it turned, encountered the notice, "This road is closed by order of the authorities." And to think that for twenty years the same men blocked the same avenues; that, from being old men, they grew into being decrepit ones, whilst we young men grew old; that, by dint of ill-will and persecution, they managed to drive both Lamartine and Hugo into politics, Soulié and Balzac into their graves; that I stood almost alone, in my struggle against them; that they set their mark on things, like the seal of Solomon which enclosed the genii of theThousand and One Nightsin clay vases; and that all this political and literary compression will one day burst in their faces, killing and overturning all around it without injuring itself—wrinkled dwarfs who everlastingly stir up the glowing fires of revolutions! Some things, at least, are very clear; that, for twenty years, these rulers were petty, paltry, contemptible; that they left behind thema sad and shameful memory amongst the Germans, Hungarians, Italians, along the banks of the Nile as well as on the shores of the Bosphorus, at Mogador even as at Montevideo, in the old World as well as the New; that, during the whole of the time which transpired between the day on which M. Sébastiani made his announcement at the Tribune that "Order reigned at Warsaw," and that on which M. Barrot wrote in theMoniteurthat "The French have entered Rome," they gave the lie not only with respect to every promise made by man—whether these promises came through M. de la Fayette or M. de Lamartine—but still, more, with respect to everything hoped of God, who destined France to be the Pole Star to other nations, who said to the peoples, "You wish to sail towards the unknown world, towards the Promised Land called Liberty; there is your compass. Spread your sails and follow boldly!" Instead of keeping faith with men and fulfilling God's will, what did you do, you poor slaves of passion, and miserable servants of blindness? You made the sea rough and the winds contrary for every noble vessel that set sail under divine inspiration. You know it is so, I am not telling you anything fresh; you know that whatever is young and noble and pure, that has not been dragged through the mud of the past, and reaches forth to ethereal regions in the future, is against you; you know that those whom you allowed to be murdered by Austrian rods, those whom you left shut up in pontifical dungeons, those whom you suffered to be shot down by Neapolitan cannon, were martyrs. You are aware that, whilst people hail you, you tyrants, as you go to your places of entertainment, we shall have their devotion; you are aware, in short, that we, the torchbearers, are loved, whilst you, the workers of darkness, are detested; you know that should you ever be forgiven your deeds, it will be because of what we have said on your behalf; and hence come your persecutions—powerless, thank God, like all things that come from below and seek to harm what is above.... Yes, what is above, for he who can say "I have just written this page, and you could not write it," is above you!
Let us return toHenri III., which had nothing to do with all this, and which suddenly and unexpectedly found itself raised sky-high. My return was awaited with impatience, for they dared not advertise without the minister's permission. I brought them that permission, and they advertised. M. le Duc d'Orléans announced that he would be present at the second performance. When I reached the theatre that night, I was told that he had already arrived and had asked me to go to his box. I did as I was bidden, between the first and second acts. The densely packed theatre bore witness to the genuine strength of my success. The Duc d'Orléans received me most graciously.
"Now, M. Dumas," he said, "are you not satisfied? You have gained your case against everybody—the public and myself included. Even Broval, Deviolaine and Oudard are enchanted."
I bowed.
"But for all that, do you know," he continued laughingly, "you have very nearly got me into serious trouble?"
"You, monseigneur?"
"Yes, I."
"How is that?"
"The king sent for me yesterday."
"The king?"
"Yes, indeed."
"And what about, monseigneur?"
"About your drama."
"AboutHenri III.?"
"'Are you aware of what I have been informed,cousin?' he said, laying emphasis upon the last word. 'I have been told that you have a youth in your offices who has written a play in which both you and I figure—I as Henri III., and you as the Duc de Guise?'"
"Monseigneur, you could of course have replied that the king was mistaken and that the young man was no longer in your employ."
"No; I much preferred to reply otherwise, and not to lie, since I mean to keep you on."
"Then what did your Highness say?..."
"I said, 'Sire, people have misinformed you, and for three reasons:—First, I do not beat my wife; secondly, Madame la Duchesse d'Orléans has not made me a cuckold; thirdly, your Majesty has not a more faithful subject than myself.' Do you think my reply was equal to anything you would have advised me to make?"
"Indeed, monseigneur, it is infinitely more witty."
"And nearer the truth, monsieur.... Ah! the curtain is rising: go about your business; mine is to listen to you."
I bowed.
"By the bye," said the duke, "Madame la Duchesse d'Orléans desires to see you to-morrow morning, to inquire how your mother is."
I bowed and withdrew.
Oh! what a power is success, with its notoriety and fuss over a name; with its calm and serene supremacy of mind over matter! M. de Broval, M. Deviolaine and M. Oudard were enchanted; the Duc d'Orléans had called me to his box to repeat a wittymothe had said to the king; and, finally, Madame la Duchesse d'Orléans would see me on the morrow to ask me news of my mother! Birth, it would seem, only bestows principalities; talent gives the dignity of princehood.
Next day, I paid my visit to the Duchesse d'Orléans, who was as gracious to me as could be; but, alas! why did all this kindness come so late? When I returned, I found in an envelope a newspaper, the name of which I have forgotten;—some friend who was sensitive concerning my reputation had sent it me. It announced the success ofHenri III.,and added—
"That success, great though it be, is not surprising to those who know how these literary and political jobs are put up by the House of Orléans. The author is an underling in His Royal Highness'spay."
"That success, great though it be, is not surprising to those who know how these literary and political jobs are put up by the House of Orléans. The author is an underling in His Royal Highness'spay."
The article was painful as well as untruthful; a lie, because the House of Orléans, as was well known, had not schemed to help me in any way; and painful, because the writer by theuse of the word "pay"(gages)had evidently intended to imply that I was only a common servant. I looked at my poor sick mother, who, unaware of what I was reading, was trying to express the first desires of returning consciousness by smiles of tender affection; and at such a moment as this I was compelled, by an individual whom I had never set eyes upon, whose very existence was unknown to me and who had no reason for hating me, to leave her in order to demand an apology for a gross and gratuitous insult! I went to de la Ponce. I begged him to go to the office of the paper and arrange there and then, with the writer of the article, the conditions of a duel for the following morning. Such a long time has elapsed since then and I have so short a memory for injuries, that I have completely forgotten both the name of the paper and the name of the writer with whom I had the quarrel. I regret the latter, for he bore himself so well in the whole affair that I am still of opinion he took upon himself the responsibility for an article that was not his. As I cannot recollect his name, allow me to speak of him as M. X——. De la Ponce returned in about an hour's time. The duel had been accepted for the next day but one, as M. X——, who acknowledged himself the author of the article, had a duel on the day between with Carrel. I went to call on Carrel, whom I had known for a long time, having met him at M. de Leuven's and also with Méry. Like myself, he, too, had been gratuitously insulted; like me, he had demanded satisfaction, and he was to meet my future adversary in a pistol duel at eight o'clock next morning. Carrel complimented me on my success, and promised to do his utmost so that M. X—— would not be able to fight with me the day after. It was a sad fact that scarcely had I begun my dramatic career before, in less than a week, I was compelled to demand satisfaction from two men, not on account of criticisms passed upon my talent, but for injury done to my personal character. A few words de la Ponce dropped led me to believe that pistols would be the weapons chosen, and Carrel confirmed me in this opinion; so, when I met Adolphe, I told him what had happened andbegged him to come and practise shooting with me next day. Although I could not afford to squander money, I still had sufficient to permit myself a turn once a month at Gosset's. I had become a habitué there. We reached the place about ten o'clock.
"Philippe!" I shouted to the lad attendant as I passed in, "pistols No. 5 and twenty-five balls."
Philippe came up.
"You can have twenty-five balls," he said, "but not pistols No. 5, unless you are going to practise alone."
"Why so?"
"Because they were lent this morning to a gentleman who had a duel, and you should see the state in which he brought them back."
And, indeed, the second No. 5 pistol had the trigger-guard broken and the butt end blown off.
"What did that?"
"Why! a bullet," said Philippe.
"Quite so, but what about the gentleman who held it?"
"He had two of his fingers cut."
"Cut?"
"Yes, cut!"
"So he had to pay the price of two of his fingers?"
"And also for the mending of the pistol."
"What was this gentleman's name?"
"I do not recollect his name; he was fighting with M. Carrel."
"Stuff and nonsense!"
"It's true."
"Are you certain?"
"Of course I am. M. Carrel's seconds brought back the pistols."
"See," I said to Adolphe, "this will postpone my duel of to-morrow and no mistake."
And then I related to him that my adversary had arranged to fight a duel with Carrel that very day, and that it was probably he who had had his two fingers injured.
"It is very easy to find out," said Adolphe; "let us go and inquire."
We went to M. X——'s house, and found that it was really he who had been fighting; he had had two fingers blown off—his third and little fingers. I sent up my visiting-card by his man-servant, and we took our departure. We had not gone more than two storeys downstairs when we heard the man running after us. M. X—— begged me to go in. I found him smiling in spite of his wounds, and very courteous in spite of his attack.
"Pray excuse me, monsieur," he said, "for the liberty I took in asking you to come back and see me; I use the privilege of a wounded person."
"Is your injury a serious one, monsieur?" I asked.
"No—I escaped with the loss of two fingers from my right hand; and since I still have three left with which to write and tell you how sorry I am for having made myself unpleasant towards you, I have all I need."
"You still have the use of your left to shake hands with me, monsieur," I said, "and that would be better than tiring your right over anything imaginable."
We shook hands; conversed on indifferent topics; and then, ten minutes later, we took leave of one another. We have never seen each other since, and, as I have said, I have totally forgotten his name. I bear my memory a grudge, for I shall ever remember him with pleasure.
Singular freak of chance! If this man had not had a quarrel with Carrel, and if Carrel had not deprived him of his two fingers, he would have fought with me, and he might have killed me or been killed by me. And for what reason, I ask you?
The Arsenal—Nodier's house—The master's profile—The congress of bibliophiles—The three candles—Debureau—Mademoiselle Mars and Merlin—Nodier's family—His friends—In which houses I am at my best—The salon of the Arsenal—Nodier as a teller of tales—The ball and the warming-pan
The Arsenal—Nodier's house—The master's profile—The congress of bibliophiles—The three candles—Debureau—Mademoiselle Mars and Merlin—Nodier's family—His friends—In which houses I am at my best—The salon of the Arsenal—Nodier as a teller of tales—The ball and the warming-pan
I promised I would return to Nodier, and I will keep my word. After the service Nodier rendered me by opening the doors of the Théâtre-Français to me, I went to thank him. Nodier did better for me on my second visit than he did on the first—he opened the doors of the Arsenal to me. And, lest my readers should be frightened at the word, and think that I mean a collection of arms, a museum of artillery, let me hasten to add that the doors of the Arsenal were the doors of Charles Nodier's house. Everybody knows the large, gloomy-looking building called the Arsenal, in a line with the quai des Célestins, at the back of the rue de Morland, looking over the river. This was where Nodier lived. In these unpretentious Memoirs it would take us too far afield to relate how, once upon a time, when Paris was preparing for war, this heavy building was raised upon a piece of ground called the Champ-au-Plâtre; how, when the heavy-looking building was raised, François I. had the cannon cast there which did much unlucky work at Pavia; how, requiring a plot of ground, he borrowed a farm from his good town of Paris, promising to return it; how, having borrowed this first farm, he borrowed a second from it, and a third; how, in short, on the principle ofthe axiom "What is good to take is good to keep," he kept the three borrowed farms—we will relate these matters when, at the end of our impressions of Europe, Asia and Africa, we set about putting down our impressions of rambles in Paris. These farms, together with the great building of which we have spoken, were used to store cannon and powder. One day, in the reign of Henri II., a spark, coming from nobody knew where,—who knows whence terrible fires spring!—set fire to the powder-magazine and exploded it. Paris shook as Naples and Catana shake when Vesuvius or Etna are in a state of eruption; the fish perished in the river; at the unexpected concussion the neighbouring houses swayed and then collapsed one upon another. Melun, a dozen leagues off, shuddered at the noise of the explosion; thirty persons blown into the air by this volcano fell down in fragments, a hundred and fifty were wounded and, unacquainted with the cause of the accident, attributed it to the Protestants, against whom they were not slow to pick a grievance. It will be readily understood that the buildings erected by François I. and the three farms of the city of Paris disappeared in this commotion. Charles IX., who was a great hand at building, and was responsible for the sculpturing in the Louvre and the carving of the fountain of the Innocents, paid a visit to the ruins with his architect. He designed the plan of a new building, began the fresh erection and, as he was both a great artist and a great poet, it is probable that he would have made a good piece of work of it. But Queen Catherine of Medici, having already got rid of one son, was not sorry to be rid of Charles IX., after the fashion of François II., in order to hasten the coming of Henri III. In case this accusation against Catherine de Medici should strike our readers as rather too strong, who may prefer to look upon the death of Charles IX. as the judgment of God (an act which, indeed, might quite possibly go hand in hand with the poisoning of Charles IX. by his mother), we will here reproduce a dialogue recorded by Bassompierre; it is short, but instructive.
"Sire," Bassompierre said to King Louis XIII., who wasseated in the embrasure of a window of the old Louvre, fiercely blowing a horn,—"sire, you ought not to blow with all your strength like that; you are weak in the lungs, and the same thing might happen to you as happened to King Charles IX."
"My dear Bassompierre," Louis XIII. replied, "King Charles IX. did not die from blowing his horn too long and too frequently; he died from being so imprudent as to become reconciled to his mother, after he had had the prudence to quarrel with Catherine of Medici."
Let us return to the Arsenal, and to another king who was so imprudent as to quarrel with his wife—or, rather, with the House of Austria to which she belonged—to Henri IV. He it was, in fact, who finished the Arsenal and laid out the beautiful garden, which we can still see in pictures of the period of Louis XIII. He gave it to Sully, wherein to carry on his ministry of finance; and here it was that the parsimonious minister amassed the millions with which Henri III. intended to carry on his war with Flanders, when the poignard of Ravaillac put an end to that strange dream of the seventeenth century, which was to become a reality in the nineteenth, namely, the union of the seven elective republics and of the six hereditary monarchies, under one supreme head, established under the title of theCongrès de la Paix.
Ah! my dear Mr. Cobden, you with whom I once spent several dull days and shared some melancholy dinners in Spain, the idea of this Peace Congress did not originate with you; it came from our unfortunate King Henri IV.,-"Let us render to Cæsar the things that are Cæsar's."
And so all you who visit the Arsenal should know that those beautiful rooms which now form the library were decorated by Sully with Henri IV.'s money.
In 1823, Charles Nodier was appointed librarian of this library, and left the rue de Choiseul, where he lived, to establish himself in his new habitation. But the building that was often the subject of illustrations was not a very magnificent place to live in! On the first landing of a flight of steps with massive balustrades, you came upon a badly fitting door on the leftwhich led to a bricked corridor; the dining-room and the office were paved with bricks like the corridor. Three other rooms completed the suite—three luxurious rooms, with parquetried floors and panelled walls: one was Madame Nodier's bedroom; the other the salon; and the third the workroom, library and bedchamber of Charles. Charles led two separate existences: his week's existence was that of a worker and bibliophile; his Sunday existence was that of a society man and host. Nodier was an adorable personality; I have never met nor ever known anyone so learned, so much of an artist and yet so kindly in disposition as he, save, perhaps, Méry. And though he possessed plenty of faults he hadn't a vice, and his winning faults sprang from the originality of the man of genius. Nodier was extravagant, careless, dilatory; but his was the delightful idleness of a Figaro. He might, perhaps, have been accused of being rather too worldly; but that, too, sprang from his carelessness, in not taking the trouble to examine into his feelings. It was rather the whole community of martyrs, so to speak, that Nodier loved after this fashion; he had an inner circle of privileged friends whom he loved with all his heart; others, he liked only intellectually. Nodier waspar excellencea man of learning: he knew everything and a host of things besides; for he exercised the prerogative of men of genius: if he did not know a thing he invented his knowledge of it, and it must be confessed his invention was generally far more likely, far more ingenious and romantic and specious and, I will venture to say, far nearer the truth than the reality itself. It will be readily guessed that, with this gift of invention, Nodier was a veritable mine of paradoxes. But he never tried to force you to accept these paradoxes; he created three-fourths of his paradoxes for his own diversion.