I will put down an exact account of the proceedings of that strange cross-examination, without putting the least faith in any of the predictions the child uttered; they were predictions, I confess, which I should be extremely sorry to see fulfilled, and I can only attribute them to the feverish state into which the hypnotic sleep had thrown her brain.
I will devote the following pages to the dialogue and give the exact terms in which it was conducted.
"In what social State are we at the present time, my child?"
"We are a Republic, monsieur."
"Can you explain to me what a Republic is?"
"It is the sharing of rights equally between every class of people of which the nation is composed, without distinction of rank or birth or circumstances."
We all stared at one another, amazed at this beginning; the answers had come without any hesitation and as though she had learnt them beforehand. I turned to her mother.
"Shall we proceed any further, madame?" I asked.
She was almost struck dumb with astonishment.
"Oh! Heavens!" she said, "I am afraid it will exhaust the poor child too much to answer such questions as those; they are far beyond the range of her age and understanding. The way she answers them," added the mother, "terrifies me."
I turned again to the child.
"Does the hypnotic sleep tire you, Marie?"
"Not in the slightest, monsieur."
"You think, then, that you can answer my questions easily?"
"Certainly."
"Yet they are not the usual questions that are addressed to a child of your age."
"God is willing that I should understand them."
We again looked at each other.
"Continue," said the mother.
"Go on," all the rest of the company exclaimed, in eager curiosity.
"Will the present form of government continue?"
"Yes, monsieur; it will last for several years."
"Will Lamartine or Ledru-Rollin be its bulwark?"
"Neither the one nor the other."
"Then we shall have a president?"
"Yes."
"And after this president whom shall we have?"
"Henri V."
"Henri V.?... But you know quite well, my child, that he is in exile!"
"Yes, but he will return to France."
"How will he return to France? By force?"
"No; by the consent of the French people."
"And where will he re-enter France?"
"At Grenoble."
"Will he have to fight to gain an entry?"
"No; he will come by way of Italy; from Italy he will enter Dauphiné, and one morning it will be reported, 'Henri V. is in the citadel of Grenoble.'"
"So there is a citadel at Grenoble?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Can you see it?"
"Yes, on a height."
"And the town?"
"The town is low down, in the valley."
"Is there a river in the town?"
"There are two."
"Are their waters of the same colour?"
"No; one is white and the other is green."
We looked at each other in still greater astonishment than at first. Marie had never been to Grenoble and they did not think she even knew the name of the capital of Dauphiné when she was in her ordinary senses.
"But are you quite sure that the Duc de Bordeaux will be at Grenoble?"
"As sure as though his name were written here"; and she pointed to her forehead.
"What does he look like? Come, give us a description of him."
"He is of medium height, rather stout; he is auburn; his eyes are blue and his hair is fashioned in the same way as that of the angels drawn by Mademoiselle Marie Dumas."
"Well, as he passes before your eyes, do you notice anything peculiar about his gait?"
"He limps."
"And where will he go from Grenoble?"
"To Lyons."
"Will they not oppose his entrance at Lyons?"
"They will try to do so at first, but I can see a number of workpeople going before him, leading him in."
"Are there no shots fired?"
"Oh yes, monsieur, several; but not much harm is done."
"Where are those shots fired?"
"On the road from Lyons to Paris."
"By which suburb will he enter Paris?"
"By Saint-Martin."
"But, my child, what will be the good of Henri V. becoming King of France, since he has no children...." I added hesitatingly, "and they say that he cannot have any?"
"Oh! that is not his fault, monsieur; it is his wife's."
"It comes to the same thing, my dear Marie, since divorce is not permitted."
"Oh yes! but something will happen that is now only known to God and myself."
"What is it?"
"His wife will die of consumption."
"And whom will he marry? Some Russian or German princess, I suppose?"
"No; he will say, 'I have returned by the will of the French people, so I will marry a daughter of the People.'"
We laughed: divination was beginning to intermingle with prophecy.
"And where will he find this daughter of the People, my child?"
"He will say, 'Seek the young girl I saw at No. 42 in the faubourg Saint-Martin, where she had climbed up on a street-post ; she was clad in a white dress and was waving a green bough in her hand.'"
"Well, will they go to the faubourg Saint-Martin?"
"Certainly."
"Will they find the young girl?"
"Yes, at No. 42."
"To what family does she belong?"
"Her father is a joiner."
"Do you know the name of this future queen?"
"Léontine."
"And the prince will marry this young girl?"
"Yes."
"He will have a son by her?"
"He will have two."
"What will the eldest be called—Henri or Charles?"
"Neither. Henri V. will say that these two names have brought too much misfortune to those who have borne them: they will call the boy Léon."
"How long will Henri V. reign?"
"Between ten and eleven years."
"How will he meet his death?"
"He will die of pleurisy, contracted from drinking cold water from a fountain, one day, when he is out hunting in the forest of Saint-Germain."
"But remember, my child, that you are making this prophecy before twelve to fifteen people: one of us here may warn the prince and then, if he is told that he will die if he drinks cold water, he will refrain from drinking it."
"He will be warned, but he will drink it, all the same; for he will say he has eaten many an ice when he was hot, so he can surely drink cold water."
"Who will warn him?"
"Your son, who will be one of his intimate friends."
"What! my son one of the intimate friends of the prince?"
"Yes, you are well aware that your son's opinions differ from yours."
My daughter and I exchanged glances and burst out laughing, for Alexandre and I are eternally squabbling over politics.
"And when Henri V. is dead Léon I. will succeed to the throne?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"What will happen during his reign?"
"I cannot see any further: wake me."
I made haste to awake her, but she did not remember anything when she was awakened; I asked her a few questions about Lamartine, Ledru-Rollin, Grenoble, Henri V. and Léon I., and she burst out laughing. I passed two thumbs across her forehead to will her to remember, and she remembered instantly; I begged her to begin the story over again, and she repeated it faithfully, in exactly the same terms, so that the person who had written down my questions and her answers while she uttered them was able to correct the first narration by the second.
I have since, upon several occasions, carried out other experiments on this child; there seemed to be no limits to the power which mesmerism had in or, rather, upon her; I could make her dumb, blind, or deaf at will; and, by a word, I could give her back all her faculties and excite them to a degree of perfection which seemed to exceed the limits of mortal knowledge. For instance, if I sent her to the piano—asleep or awake, it mattered little—she would begin a sonata; some person present would hum in a low voice to me an air that the child was desired to play, instead of the sonata; the sonata would instantly cease, and directly I stretched out my hand towards her the child would play the required tune. We tried this experiment a score of times before the most incredulous people, and she never failed.
Marie's father's house was built on the site of an old cemetery; several burial inscriptions could be deciphered even on the stones of the garden wall; and, because of these,when night fell, the poor child dared not stir out, but trembled with fear. The night I left, Madame D—— spoke to me of this terror, and so great was my influence over the child, that she asked me if I could not do anything in the matter. I was so accustomed to working miracles that I replied that nothing could be easier and that we would at once make the experiment. So I called the child, and, putting both my hands on her head, willing that all fear should be taken away from her, I said—
"Marie, your mother has just given me some peaches for my journey; go and fetch me a few vine leaves from the garden to wrap them in."
It was nine o'clock at night, and very dark. The child went out and returned singing; she brought back the vine leaves which she had gathered from the very spot where the tombstones were which caused her such terror by day. From that hour, she showed no hesitation in going into the garden or to any other part of the house, at any time of the night and even without a light.
I returned to Auxerre three months later; I had not announced my journey to anyone. Two days before my arrival, they wanted little Marie to have a tooth drawn.
"No, mother dear," she said, "wait; M. Dumas will be here the day after to-morrow: he will take hold of my little finger, while they take out my tooth, and then I shall not feel the pain."
I came on the day she said; I held the child's hand in mine during the operation, which was accomplished without her feeling the least pang of pain.
If I am asked for an explanation of the phenomena I have just related I cannot give any. I simply state what has happened. I am not an advocate of magnetism, I only use it when people compel me to do so, and it always fatigues me excessively. I believe a dishonourable person might put magnetism to evil uses, and I doubt whether a well-intentioned person does the least good by the practice of it. Magnetism is a pastime, it has not yet become a science.
Fresh trials of newspaper editors—TheMouton enragé—Fontan—Harel's witticism concerning him—TheFils de l'Hommebefore the Police Court—The author pleads his cause in verse—M. Guillebert's prose—Prison charges at Sainte-Pélagie—Embarrassment of the Duc d'Orléans about a historical portrait—The two usurpations
Fresh trials of newspaper editors—TheMouton enragé—Fontan—Harel's witticism concerning him—TheFils de l'Hommebefore the Police Court—The author pleads his cause in verse—M. Guillebert's prose—Prison charges at Sainte-Pélagie—Embarrassment of the Duc d'Orléans about a historical portrait—The two usurpations
We left the Government busy imprisoning Béranger for nine months, about the close of the year 1828; we now find it in July 1829 prosecuting theCorsaireat the Police Court, and sentencing M. Vremiot, its manager, to fifteen days' imprisonment and to a fine of 300 francs, for an article entitledSottise des deux parts.The same month it prosecuted Fontan for an article in theAlbumcalled theMouton enragé; and Barthélemy for his poemFils de l'Homme.As both these trials made a great sensation, and as it was the general opinion that, by making it unpopular, they took part in the fall of the Government, we will go into the matter more fully.
On 20 June 1829, Fontan, who had had a tragedy calledPerkin Warbeckacted at the Odéon a year or two before, published in the oldAlbum, edited by Magallon, an article entitled theMouton enragé.The Public Minister believed this article was meant as an insult to the person of the king and referred the matter to the Police Court.
The following passages are those particularly specified in the accusation:—
"Picture to your imaginations, a pretty white sheep, combed, curled and washed every morning; with goggle-eyes, long ears, spindle-shanked legs, the lower jaw (or, in other words, the lower lip) heavy and hanging down; in short, a true Berrysheep. He walks at the head of the flock of which he is pretty nearly the monarch; an immense meadow is his pasture-land and that of his fellow-sheep; some of the acres of this meadow devolved upon him by right. And here grew the tenderest grass, and he waxed fat upon it, which delighted his soul! What a nice thing it is to inherit an estate! Our sheep is called Robin; he responds with gracious salutations to the compliments paid him; and shows his teeth as evidence of his pleasure. In spite of his gentle appearance, he can be disagreeable when roused; he can then bite like any other animal. I have been told that a ewe which was related to him bit him every time she met him, because she considered he did not govern his flock with sufficient despotism. I tell you this under the seal of secrecy,—poor Robin-Mouton is mad! His madness is not apparent; on the contrary, he strives his utmost to conceal it; if he feels a fit approaching, and a longing to satisfy an evil thought, he takes good care to look first to see if anybody is watching him; for Mouton-Robin knows the lot that is destined for animals touched with this malady—he lives in dread of bullets does our Robin-Mouton! And besides, he is conscious of his weakness. If only he were a bull, ah! how he would use his horns! he would soon let you see. How he would insist upon his prerogatives among the sheep-folk of his acquaintance! He might possibly even be brave enough to declare war against a neighbouring flock. But, alas! he comes of a stock that is not very fond of fighting, and however alluring the amenities of conquest may be to him, he arrives at the bitter conclusion that he has but the blood of a sheep running through his veins. This fatal idea makes him desperate.—Never mind, Robin, you have not much to complain of; all you have to do is to lead a luxurious life of idleness. What have you to do from morning to night? Nothing. You eat, you drink, and you sleep: your sheep faithfully carry out your commands and satisfy your smallest caprices; they leap to do your bidding; what more can you desire? Believe what I tell you and do not attempt to quit your state of animal tranquillity; crush these vast ideas of glory, which are too great for that narrow brain of yours; vegetate in the same way your fathers have vegetated before you; Heaven made you a sheep, die a sheep! I tell you frankly you would be quite a charming quadruped if,in petto, you were only sane!"
"Picture to your imaginations, a pretty white sheep, combed, curled and washed every morning; with goggle-eyes, long ears, spindle-shanked legs, the lower jaw (or, in other words, the lower lip) heavy and hanging down; in short, a true Berrysheep. He walks at the head of the flock of which he is pretty nearly the monarch; an immense meadow is his pasture-land and that of his fellow-sheep; some of the acres of this meadow devolved upon him by right. And here grew the tenderest grass, and he waxed fat upon it, which delighted his soul! What a nice thing it is to inherit an estate! Our sheep is called Robin; he responds with gracious salutations to the compliments paid him; and shows his teeth as evidence of his pleasure. In spite of his gentle appearance, he can be disagreeable when roused; he can then bite like any other animal. I have been told that a ewe which was related to him bit him every time she met him, because she considered he did not govern his flock with sufficient despotism. I tell you this under the seal of secrecy,—poor Robin-Mouton is mad! His madness is not apparent; on the contrary, he strives his utmost to conceal it; if he feels a fit approaching, and a longing to satisfy an evil thought, he takes good care to look first to see if anybody is watching him; for Mouton-Robin knows the lot that is destined for animals touched with this malady—he lives in dread of bullets does our Robin-Mouton! And besides, he is conscious of his weakness. If only he were a bull, ah! how he would use his horns! he would soon let you see. How he would insist upon his prerogatives among the sheep-folk of his acquaintance! He might possibly even be brave enough to declare war against a neighbouring flock. But, alas! he comes of a stock that is not very fond of fighting, and however alluring the amenities of conquest may be to him, he arrives at the bitter conclusion that he has but the blood of a sheep running through his veins. This fatal idea makes him desperate.—Never mind, Robin, you have not much to complain of; all you have to do is to lead a luxurious life of idleness. What have you to do from morning to night? Nothing. You eat, you drink, and you sleep: your sheep faithfully carry out your commands and satisfy your smallest caprices; they leap to do your bidding; what more can you desire? Believe what I tell you and do not attempt to quit your state of animal tranquillity; crush these vast ideas of glory, which are too great for that narrow brain of yours; vegetate in the same way your fathers have vegetated before you; Heaven made you a sheep, die a sheep! I tell you frankly you would be quite a charming quadruped if,in petto, you were only sane!"
Fontan was condemned to ten years' imprisonment and a fine of 10,000 francs. The sentence was rather too severe, and it caused a great outcry. It will be admitted that the article was not good enough to deserve this severe treatment. The result was to raise Fontan to the height of a martyr. And Fontan, who was of an energetic and headstrong character, made no attempt to justify himself before his judges.
"Messieurs," he said simply, "whether or not I intended my article to bear the interpretation you put upon it, I have the right of withholding any explanation of the subject; I allow no man to examine the inner sanctuary of my conscience. I wished to write an article about a mad sheep and I did it; that is the only explanation I ought or desire to give you."
I used to know Fontan very well at M. Villenave's house—he was a great friend of Théodore—an unpolished sort of man, who nevertheless did not lack some poetic feeling. He was unclean to the point of cynicism, and less aristocratic than Schaunard in theVie de bohème; instead of having one pipe for continual smoking and a finer one when he went out, he had but one cutty pipe which never left his mouth, which smelt vilely when alight and between his teeth, but which smelt far worse when it was extinguished and in his pocket.
This condemnation made Fontan's name notorious. I believe the revolution of July found him at Poissy. He reappeared amidst a certain measure of popularity, but it was only the transient popularity of persecution.
Harel, who was the manager of the Odéon, quickly conceived the notion of turning this popularity to account by asking Fontan to write a play for him. Fontan complied, and wroteJeanne la Folle, but it was a failure, or, at any rate, only a partial success. Harel came up to me after the representation and said—
"Unmistakably I have been deceived in Fontan. There is more of the prison about him than of talent!"
This was, unfortunately, true. Poor Fontan died quite young and left nothing remarkable behind him; he published a volume of poetry and saw two or three dramas or tragedies put on the stage.
Barthélemy's sentence was less severe; he had three months' imprisonment and was fined 1000 francs.
We will give the reasons that led to his trial. We have already entertained our readers with the débuts of Barthélemy and Méry. They are aware how these two poets came together and how theVilléliade, thePeyronnéide, theCorbiéréideand a host of other pieces were concocted which kept public attention spell-bound for a couple of years. The most important of these poems wasNapoléon en Égypte. It took tremendously, and ran into ten editions in less than six months' time.
Méry, who had pined for sunshine, had gone to find warmth and sea breezes, those two opposing elements which are, however, admirably combined at Marseilles. Barthélemy, left alone, conceived the idea of going to Vienna to offer a copy of a poem to the young Duke of Reichstadt, wherein his father figured as the hero. To use Benjamin Constant's words, as the father had beenallowedto die of political cancer, so the son was by way of beingallowedto die of a disease of the chest. A charming dancer and a beautiful archduchess were the two strange doctors that Austria deputed to follow the progress of the prince's malady, which, three years later, became simply a matter of history.
Barthélemy's journey was, of course, useless: he was not allowed to approach the prince, and he brought back his poem without having been suffered to offer it to him. But Barthélemy's Odyssey had furnished him with the subject of a new poem entitled theFils de l'Homme,and this was the poem that was denounced by the law. Barthélemy proclaimed beforehand his intention of defending himself in verse. Of course, such a proclamation as this filled the Police Court where this poetical trial was to be held, from eight o'clock in the morning. Barthélemy kept his word. Here are some of thelines of that singular pleading which is without precedent the annals of justice.
"Messieurs," he began,—
"Voilà donc mon délit! sur un faible poëmeLa critique en simarre appelle l'anathème;Et ces vers, ennemis de la France et du roi,Témoins accusateurs, se dressent contre moi!Hélas! durant les nuits dont la paix me conseille,Quand je forçais mes yeux à soutenir la veille,Et que seul, aux lueurs de deux mourants flambeaux,De ce pénible écrit j'assemblais les lambeaux,Qui m'eût dit que cette œuvre, en naissant étouffée,D'un greffe criminel déplorable trophée,Appellerait un jour sur ces bancs ennemisMa muse, vierge encor des arrêts de Thémis?Peut-être ai-je failli; mais, crédule victime,Moi-même, j'ai bien pu m'aveugler sur mon crime,Puisque des magistrats, vieux au métier des loisM'ont jugé non coupable une première fois.Aussi, je l'avoûrai, la foudre inattendue,Du haut du firmament à mes pieds descendue,D'une moindre stupeur eût frappé mon esprit,Que le soir si funeste à mon livre proscritOù d'un pouvoir jaloux les sombres émissairesSe montraient en écharpe à mes pâles libraires,Et, craignant d'ajourner leur gloire au lendemain,Cherchaientle Fils de l'homme, un mandat à la main.Toutefois, je rends grâce au hasard tutélaireQui, sauvant un ami de mes torts solidaire,Sur moi seul de la loi suspend l'arrêt fatal.Triste plus que moi-même, au rivage natalIl attend aujourd'hui l'heure de la justice.S'il eût été présent, il serait mon complice.Éternels compagnons dans les mêmes travaux,Forts de notre union, frères et non rivaux,Jusqu'ici, dans l'arène à nos forces permise,Nos deux noms enlacés n'eurent qu'une devise,Et jamais l'un de nous, reniant son appui,N'eût voulu d'un laurier qui n'eût été qu'à lui.Trois ans, on entendit notre voix populaireHarceler les géants assis au ministère;Trois ans, sur les élus du conseil souverainNos bras ont agité le fouet alexandrin;Et jamais l'ennemi, froissé de nos victoires,N'arrêta nos élans par des réquisitoires.Mais, dès le jour vengeur où, captive longtemps,La foudre du Château gronda sur les titans,Suspendant tout à coup ses longues philippiques,Notre muse plus fière, osant des chants épiques,Évoqua du milieu des sables africainsLes soldats hasardeux des temps républicains,Et montra réunis en faisceau militaire,Les drapeaux lumineux du Thabor et du Caire;De nos cœurs citoyens là fut le dernier cri;Notre muse se tut, et, tandis que MéryAllait sous le soleil de la vieille PhocéeRessusciter un corps usé par la pensée,'J'osai, vers le Danube égarant mon essor,A la cour de Pyrrhus chercher le fils d'Hector.'Je portais avec soin, dans mes humbles tablettes,Ces dons qu'aux pieds des rois déposent les poëtes,Et, poëte, j'allais pour redire à son filsL'histoire d'un soldat, aux plaines de Memphis.Voilà tout le complot d'un long pèlerinage.Un pouvoir soupçonneux repoussa mon hommage,Et, moi, loin d'un argus que rien n'avait fléchi,Je repassai le Rhin, imprudemment franchi."
The above was his defence as regarded facts. When he had defended its theme Barthélemy went on to its form; he complained of the method of interpretation which judges of all times have pushed to extremes, so that they persecute whether under the elder or the younger branch of the Bourbons, whether under M. Cavaignac or under M. Louis-Bonaparte; he said—
"Pourtant, voilà mon crime! Un songe, une élégieMe condamne moi-même à mon apologie!Partout, sur ce vélin, je frissonne de voirDes vers séditieux soulignés d'un trait noir;Le doigt accusateur laisse partout sa trace,Et je suis criminel jusque dans ma préface;Ah! du moins, il fallait, moins prompt à me jugerPour me juger, tout lire et tout interroger;Il fallait, surmontant les ennuis de l'ouvrage,Jusqu'au dernier feuillet forcer votre courage,Et, traversant mon livre un scalpel à la main,Avancer hardiment jusqu'au bout du chemin.Certes, si comme vous on dépeçait un livre,Combien peu d'écrivains seraient dignes de vivre!Qu'on pourrait aisément trouver de noirs desseinsJusque dans l'Évangile et les ouvrages saints!Ma prose est toujours prête à disculper ma muse;La note me défend quand le texte m'accuse;D'un tissu régulier pourquoi rompre le fil?De quel droit venez-vous, annotateur subtil,Dédaignant mon histoire, attaquer mon poëme,Prendre comme mon tout la moitié de moi-même,Et, fort de ma pensée arrêtée au milieu,Diviser contre moi l'indivisible aveu?Mais j'ose plus encor, fort de mon innocence,Armé du texte seul, j'accepte la défense;Seulement, n'allez pas, envenimant mes vers,D'un sens clair et précis extraire un sens pervers!Gardez-vous de chercher, trop savant interprète,Sous ma lucide phrase une énigme secrète!Ainsi, quand vous lirez: 'qu'à mes yeux éblouis,La gloire a dérobé les fils de saint Louis;Qu'aveuglément soumis aux droits de la puissance,Je ne me doutais pas, dans mon adolescence,Que l'héritier des lys, exilé de Mittau,Régnait chez les Anglais dans un humble château,Et que, depuis vingt ans, sa bonté paternelle!Rédigeait pour son peuple une charte éternelle!'Lisez de bonne foi comme chacun me lit.Pourquoi vous tourmenter à flairer un délit,A tourner ma franchise en coupable ironie,A voir un seul côté de mon double génie?Voulez-vous donc me lire aux lueurs du fanalDont la sainteGazetteescorte son journal,Et, serrant vos deux mains à nuire intéressées,Exprimer du poison en tordant mes pensées?"
Those are certainly the well-turned lines of a very clever versifier if not of a great poet. At Athens, before the Areopagitica where Æschylus pleaded his cause, M. Barthélemy would have been acquitted! But what could he expect? We are not Athenians, and our judges are by no means archons.
The poet proceeded, nevertheless, although it was easy to read, in the frowning faces of the judges, their want of sympathy with the defence of the accused.
Again let us listen to Barthélemy:—
"Jusqu'ici, l'on m'a vu, d'un tranquille visage,Conquérir pour ma cause un facile avantage.J'ai vengé sans effort, dans mon livre semés,Quelques vers, quelques mots par Thémis décimés.Redoublons de courage: un grand effort nous reste;Abordons sans pâlir ce passage funeste,De l'un à l'autre bout chargé de sombres croix!Là, sapant par mes vœux le palais de nos rois,Ébranlant de l'État la base légitime,D'un sang usurpateur j'appelle le régime,J'invoque la Discorde aux bras ensanglantés!Est-il vrai? Suis-je donc si coupable?... Écoutez!'Il sait donc désormais, il n'a plus à connaîtreCe qu'il est, ce qu'il fut et ce qu'il pouvait être.Oh! que tu dois souvent te dire et repasserDans quel large avenir tu devais te lancer!Combien dans ton berceau fut court ton premier rêveDoublement protégé par le droit et le glaive,Des peuples rassurés espoir consolateur,Petit-fils d'un César, et fils d'un empereur,Légataire du monde, en naissant roi de Rome,Tu n'es plus aujourdhui rien que lefils de l'homme!Pourtant, quel fils de roi contre ce nom obscurN'échangerait son titre et son sceptre futur?Mais quoi! content d'un nom qui vaut un diadème,Ne veux-tu rien, un jour, conquérir par toi-même?La nuit, quand douze fois ta pendule a frémi,Qu'aucun bruit ne sort plus du palais endormi,Et que, seul au milieu d'un appartement vide,Tu veilles, obsédé par ta pensée avide,Sans doute que parfois sur ton sort à venirUn démon familier te vient entretenir.Oui, tant que ton aïeul, sur ton adolescence,De sa noble tutelle étendra la puissance,Les jaloux archiducs, comprimant leur orgueil,Du vieillard tout-puissant imiteront l'accueil;Mais qui peut garantir cette paix fraternelle?Peut-être en ce moment la mort lève son aile;Tôt ou tard, au milieu de ses gardes hongrois,Elle mettra la faulx sur le doyen des rois.Alors, il sera temps d'expliquer ce problèmeD'un sort mystérieux ignoré de toi-même.Fils de Napoléon, petit-fils de François,Entre deux avenirs il faudra faire un choix.Puisses-tu, dominé par le sang de ta mère,Bannir de ta pensée une vaine chimère,Et de l'ambition éteindre le flambeau!Le destin qui te reste est encore assez beau;Les rois ont grandement consolé ton jeune âge;Le duché de Reichstadt est un riche apanage,Et tu pourras, un jour, colonel allemand,Conduire à la parade un noble régiment!Qu'à ce but désormais ton jeune cœur aspire;Borne là tes désirs, ta gloire et ton empire.Des règnes imprévus ne gardons plus l'espoir,Ce qu'on vit une fois ne doit plus se revoir!'"
Not so, O poet! We shall never see again what we have seen; the phantom child which you have invoked from its premature grave was only to be seen by history as a pale spectre held up to view in a dim poetic distance, as Astyanax or Britannicus; the days that have been we shall know no more. But the future was reserving a still more extraordinary vision for us, which was to confirm the words Dr. Schlegel said to me in 1838: "History has been invented to prove the futility of the examples she sets before us."
Meanwhile Barthélemy was being sentenced to three months' imprisonment and a fine of 1000 francs, in spite of, or perhaps because of, his pleading. But if the prisoner had not done with Justice, neither had Justice done with the prisoner. Barthélemy was hardly inside the prison before he received the following letter from M. Guillebert, Registrar:—
"PARIS, 6May1830"MONSIEUR,—I had the honour of asking you in my letter of 22 March last, to settle the fines and expenses which you were sentenced to pay by order of the Royal Court on 7 January last, amounting to:—
"PARIS, 6May1830
"MONSIEUR,—I had the honour of asking you in my letter of 22 March last, to settle the fines and expenses which you were sentenced to pay by order of the Royal Court on 7 January last, amounting to:—
InvoicefrancsFine 1,000 00Ten per cent 100 00Legal expenses and appeal ditto 81 45Total, 1,181 45
"I repeat my request, as I made a mistake in my first application, for 1208 francs 95 centimes. I beg you to discharge these payments by the 10th instant, to avoid the putting into execution of legal methods according to Article 52 of theCode pénal."I have the honour to remain"GUILLEBERT,Registrar"
"I repeat my request, as I made a mistake in my first application, for 1208 francs 95 centimes. I beg you to discharge these payments by the 10th instant, to avoid the putting into execution of legal methods according to Article 52 of theCode pénal.
"I have the honour to remain
"GUILLEBERT,Registrar"
And M. Guillebert, who would have been as polite to any prisoner but would, undoubtedly, not have been so punctilious with him if he had not been a poet, had the complaisance to put that 52nd Article of theCode pénal, to which he alluded so delicately, in a postscript. This is the article which, I suppose, has remained unaltered under the government of King Louis-Philippe I., and under that of M. Bonaparte:—
Article52"Distraining for fines, restitutions, damages and interest, and for costs, can be enforced by means of imprisonment."
Article52
"Distraining for fines, restitutions, damages and interest, and for costs, can be enforced by means of imprisonment."
To this letter Barthélemy replied, on 9 May 1830, by an epistle entitledLa Bourse ou la Prison.But in comparison with Fontan and Magallon, Barthélemy had nothing to complain of: he was lodged in a palace. The palace was rent free, but he gives us the tariff for the cost of furnishing it:—
francsOrdinary bed, two mattresses, sheets, one blanket andbolster 4 50For every extra blanket 6 50One pillow 9 50One chair 6 50One table 6 50Total, 33 50
And it was by these actions that the Government was alienating itself from the people by the scandalous trials of Carbonneau, Pleignies and Tolleron successively; from the army by the executions of Bories, Raoul, Goubin and Pommier; from the high military aristocracy by the assassinationof Brune, Ramel, Ney and Mouton-Duverney; from the middle classes by the dissolution of the National Guard; and was alienating a race far more dangerous still, namely poets, journalists and men of letters, by the sentences which struck successively such men as Paul-Louis Courier, Cauchois-Lemaire, Magallon, Béranger, Fontan and Barthélemy.
Now, a Government which has the people, the army, the middle classes and literature opposed to it is in a very bad way, and this Government was therefore in a very bad way on 31 July 1829, on which day it pronounced its sentence on Barthélemy; exactly a year later, to the day, it was defunct.
Finally, an anecdote I am just about to relate will prove that I partially foresaw the trend of coming events. My new position in the library of the Duc d'Orléans (a post which, as I have already pointed out to my readers, was more honorary than lucrative) possessed the great advantage to me of affording me an immense office, where I could carry on my literary and historical researches nearly as well as, and far more comfortably than, in the Bibliothèque royale. So I was more regular in my attendance than either of my two confrères, Vatout and Casimir Delavigne. Accordingly, one day, when the Duc d'Orléans came in, humming a tune from one of the masses—a habit of his when he was in a good temper, which, I must say, he nearly always was—he remarked:
"So! are you by yourself, M. Dumas?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
The Duc d'Orléans took two or three turns round the library, still continuing his singing. Then he went on, a moment later—
"Neither Vatout, nor Casimir, nor Tallencourt?..."
"MM. Vatout and Casimir have not come, monseigneur, and Tallencourt has gone out."
Twice again he perambulated round the library, still humming to himself. He evidently wished to enter into conversation, so I ventured to ask him—
"Does monseigneur want anything I can do in the absence of the other gentlemen?"
"No; I wanted to show Vatout an historic portrait and to ask his opinion."
"Unhappily, as monseigneur needs advice, I am afraid I am no substitute for M. Vatout."
"Come with me, nevertheless," said the duke.
I bowed and followed the prince from the library to the picture gallery.
Upon an easel rested a portrait that had just been brought back from the framer; it was waiting for the name of the original to be painted on the frame. It was a portrait of the emperor, painted by Manzaisse. To find, in 1829, a portrait of the emperor in the palace of the first prince of the blood royal was such a novel species of boldness that I could do nothing but wonder at it.
"What do you think of that portrait?" asked the Duc d'Orléans.
"I am "not very fond of the paintings of M. Mauzaisse, monseigneur."
"Ah, true, I forgot you were a romanticist in painting and in literature. You admire the painting of M. Delacroix?"
"Yes, monseigneur; also of M. Delacroix, M. Scheffer, M. Granet, M. Decamps, M. Boulanger, M. Eugène Devéria—oh! we allow a wide margin!"
"Excellent! I am aware you know all about these gentlemen—but that is not to my present purpose. This is a portrait which I have just had painted for my gallery; and there is nothing wanting, as you see, except the insertion of the name. Ought I to putBonaparte?It would look like affectation only to recognise the First Consul. Ought I to putNapoléon?It would seem an affectation to call him emperor; that was the point on which I wished to consult Vatout."
"But," I replied, "it seems a very simple matter to me; putNapoléon Bonaparte, monseigneur."
"Yes; but that still implies the emperor.... Napoleon, if my memory serves me correctly, was unjust to your family and you have no love for him, I believe."
"Monseigneur, I must confess that where that great man isconcerned I share Madame Turenne's opinion of him, that of admiration."
"He was a great man; but there were two terrible blots on his character—one was a crime, the other a fault—his assassination of the Duc d'Enghien, and his marriage with Marie-Louise."
"Does monseigneur pardon his usurpation?"
"I did not say so."
"Monseigneur knows theMédecin malgré lui?"
"Yes, I admire it immensely."
"Well, in theMédecin malgré luiSganarille remarks that there are fagotsandfagots."
"Meaning, I presume ...?"
"That there are usurpations and usurpations."
"Bah!"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"I do not understand your meaning."
"I mean to say—and you who are so fair-minded, monseigneur, will readily understand me—that there is a usurpation which substitutes one dynasty for another dynasty by the instrumentality of violence, breaking up all the roots of the old dynasty throughout the country, all the interests connected with it, leaving raw open wounds for long enough among the aristocracy and the middle and lower classes, which are slow to heal; and there is the usurpation which purely and simply substitutes one man for another, a green bough for a withered branch, and popularity for unpopularity—that is what I mean, monseigneur, by my two usurpations."
The Duc d'Orléans laughingly lifted up his hand, as though to stop me; but he let me finish, all the same.
"M. Dumas," he said to me, "that is a somewhat subtle question, and one which, if you must have it answered, should be referred to a council and not to a prince of the blood. However, you are right about the portrait; I will putNapoléon Bonaparte."
I bowed and withdrew to the library.
The duke remained in the picture gallery lost in thought.
The things that are the greatest enemies to the success of a play—The honesty of Mademoiselle Mars' as an actress—Her dressing-room—The habitués at her supper-parties—Vatout—Denniée—Becquet—Mornay—Mademoiselle Mars in her own home—Her last days on the stage—Material result of the success ofHenri III.—My first speculation—The recasting ofChristine—Where I looked for my inspiration—Two other ideas
The things that are the greatest enemies to the success of a play—The honesty of Mademoiselle Mars' as an actress—Her dressing-room—The habitués at her supper-parties—Vatout—Denniée—Becquet—Mornay—Mademoiselle Mars in her own home—Her last days on the stage—Material result of the success ofHenri III.—My first speculation—The recasting ofChristine—Where I looked for my inspiration—Two other ideas
At the thirty-fifth representation ofHenri III.Mademoiselle Mars was obliged to take her holiday. She did her utmost to persuade the Comédie-Française to compensate her for this holiday; she gave them every possible facility, but the Comédie-Française would not listen to anything. The success ofHenri III.served certain interests but wounded certainamour-propres.At the Comédie-Française one suffers from a peculiarity unknown, or very nearly so, in any other theatre. The author whose piece is being acted makes enemies of all the actors who are not taking part in it.
Towards the close of the run ofHenri III.I noticed Monrose, an excellent comedian whose talents should have raised him above the paltry jealousies of those of lesser genius, come into the green-room, rubbing his hands together and exclaiming gleefully—
"Ah! we have taken five hundred francs less to-night than at the last representation!"
I was present—he had not perceived me at first, and, when he caught sight of me, he pretended not to have seen me, and went away.
Mademoiselle Mars was on the point of renouncing her holiday, so reluctant was she to interrupt the success of the run.
Mademoiselle Mars was an exceedingly straightforward, honest actress, I nearly said an honestman, and punctiliously accurate; everyone did his duty when connected with her, because she did hers as carefully as a pupil during her first year at a boarding-school. Once only was she a few minutes late at a rehearsal.
"I beg your pardon for being a quarter of an hour late," she said as she came in; "but I have just lost forty thousand francs.... Let us be quick and begin." And she rehearsed as though nothing had happened.
Once, when she was going on the stage, she had a sort of apoplectic fit; but, instead of interrupting the play, as any other actress would have done, she sent for leeches, and between the first and third acts she took advantage of the second act, in which she did not have to appear, to apply them to her chest. When I entered her dressing-room after the play, she was covered with blood down to her slippers.
Mademoiselle Mars had a very large room—the same that Mademoiselle Rachel now has. At the end of each performance the room was always filled with people. Mademoiselle Mars did not trouble herself in the least about her visitors being present; she would undress and take off her paint and rouge with a modest dexterity quite remarkable: she had in particular a way of changing her chemise while talking, without showing anything of her person beyond her finger tips, that was atour de force.When her toilet was complete, those who wished to accompany her home went with her and found a supper ready. The regular attenders at these suppers were Vatout, Romieu, Denniée, Becquet and myself, among men, and Julienne, her lady-companion—a character—the beautiful Amigo, the fair Madame Mira, and sometimes an old lady named Fusil.
Mornay called every evening to conduct Mademoiselle Mars to the theatre, or saw her safely home.
My readers are acquainted with Romieu; I introduced him in company with his friend Rousseau. So as I have nothing fresh to tell about him, I will pass him over.
But I have hardly as yet described Vatout; Madame Valmore took him off well when she dubbed him a "butterfly in top-boots." Vatout was full of small defects and great qualities. He would superciliously hold out a finger to you if you offered to shake hands with him, and he put on the airs of a grand seigneur without ever succeeding in being mistaken for a grand seigneur. He had a good heart in spite of his uppish manners; and a charming mind behind his awkward appearance. He had a way of saying certain things that did not sit at all well on him. One of his monstrous affectations was to try and resemble the Duc D'Orléans; I have even been assured that, in confidence, he let people draw conclusions about this resemblance. The Duc d'Orléans was very fond of him and, when king, maintained his friendship with him. At theCour Citoyennethey quoted his quips and sang his chansons. There was one in particular about the Mayor of Eu, which became the rage. Will our modest readers allow us to insert it here? for, to our way of thinking, it constituted his worthiest claim to the Académie. Do not let us do injustice to poor Vatout.
LE MAIRE D'EUAIR—à faire"L'ambition, c'est des bêtises;Ça vous rend triste et soucieux;Mais, dans le vieux manoir des Guises.Qui ne serait ambitieux?...Tourmenté du besoin de faireQuelque chose dans ce beau lieu,J'ai brigué l'honneur d'être maire,Et l'on m'a nommé maire d'Eu!Notre origine n'est pas claire ...Rollon nous gouverna jadis;Mais César fut-il notre père,Où descendons-nous, de Smerdis?Dans l'embarras de ma pensée,Un mot peut tout concilier:Nous sommes issus de Persée;Voyez plutôt mon mobilier!Je ne suis pas fort à mon aise:Ma mairie est un petit coin,Et mon trône une simple chaiseQui me sert en cas de besoin;Mes habits ne sentent pas l'ambre:Mon équipage brille peu;Mais que m'importe! un pot de chambreSuffit bien pour un maire d'Eu!On vante partout ma police;Ce qu'on fait ne m'échappe pas.A tous je rends bonne justice;J'observe avec soin tous, les cas.On ne peut ni manger ni boireSans que tout passe sous mes yeux;Mais c'est surtout les jours de foireQu'on me voit souvent sur les lieux.Grâce aux roses que l'on recueilleDans mon laborieux emploi,Je préfère mon portefeuilleA celui des agents du roi.Je brave les ordres sinistresQui brise leur pouvoir tout net;Et, plus puissant que les ministres,J'entre, en tout temps, au cabinet.Je me complais dans mon empire;Il ne me cause aucun souci;Moi, j'aime l'air que l'on y respire;On voit, on sent la mer d'ici!Partout l'aisance et le bien-être;Ma vie est un bouquet de fleurs..Aussi j'aime beaucoup mieux êtreMaire d'Eu que maire d'ailleurs!Beau château bâti par les Guises,Mer d'azur baignant le Tréport,Lieux où Lauzun fit des bêtises,Je suis à vous jusqu'à la mort;Je veux, sous l'écharpe française,Mourir en sénateur romain,Calme et tranquille sur ma chaiseTenant mes papiers à la main!'
Vatout was also the author of the famousmotsaid to an official who, accompanying the king down a by-street which the latter was determined to penetrate, made excuses at each step for the obstructions they encountered. Many hens had laid there, of the type of which Henri IV. had remarked, "Stop, stop, mother! I much prefer to see the hen than the egg!"
"Oh, sire," said the poor fellow,—"oh, sire, had I only known your Majesty intended passing this way, I would have had them all cleared away."
"You would not have had the right to do that, M. le maire," Vatout gravely remarked; "they have their papers!"
Between 1821 and 1822 Vatout wrote a book which was an enormous success. It was about the adventures of la Charte and was entitledHistoire de la fille d'un Roi.Later, he wroteIdée fixe, which was scarcely read; then, some sort of a novel called theConspiration de Cellamare; finally, various publications about the royal châteaux. In all, nothing very striking; but nevertheless he was consumed with the desire to become an Academician, Scribe urging him to it. He reached his goal, poor fellow; but in the interval between his nomination and his reception, being as faithful to the royal cause during its exile as he had been in the heyday of its powerfulness, he went to pay a visit to the exiles at Claremont, where he was taken ill after dinner, and died twenty-four hours later! He died without having had the joy of sitting once in the Académie! Poor Vatout! No one, I am sure, did him greater justice or regretted him more than I did. I obtained Hugo's vote for him with much difficulty.
The whole of Parisian society knew Denniée, ex-ordonnateur-general, who, man of wit and pleasure-seeker as he was, talked as though his mouth were full of nutshells, and told a host of stories and anecdotes, each more strange and amusing than the last, with such a defective pronunciation that they acquired a convincing air of originality. He worshipped Mademoiselle Mars, who was very fond of him in return. If three days went Dy without Denniée being seen at her house,one asked what had become of him; for nothing but illness or an accident could, it was supposed, account for so long an absence.
Becquet was as well known as Denniée: perhaps he was even better known. He was one of the weekly contributors to theJournal des Débâts.He was exceedingly clever; but, as he got drunk regularly once a day, his intellect gradually became dulled. Two often quoted sayings of his will serve to illustrate the sort of respect and filial affection he had for his father. Once when Becquet the elder took his son to task concerning his unfortunate habit of drunkenness, saying to him.
"See, you wretch, how it is ageing you; you will be taken for my father, and I shall outlive you by ten years!"
"Ah!" Becquet languidly retorted, "why do you always say such disagreeable things to me?"
Becquet possessed another habit, that of contracting debts. He owed money to everybody, and this widespread indebtedness reduced his father to despair.
"Wretch!" he said to him, on another occasion,—this was old Becquet's usual term for his son, sometimes used as an adjective, at others as a substantive,—"Wretch!" he said, "by God and the devil, I cannot conceive how you can live like this."
"Stay, father," Becquet replied, "you have just mentioned the only two powers to whom I do not owe anything."
The day his father died—it is sad to relate that it was a festival-day for Becquet, who made merry in heart and purse—he dined at thecafé de Parisand ordered his menu like a man who is regardless of cost; but, when it came to the wine, he called the waiter; some doubt had probably arisen in his mind, and he wished the opinion of an expert.
"Waiter," he asked, "is the Bordeaux in mourning?"
Two hours later, they carried Becquet home.
One night, I met Becquet in one of those marvellous states of intoxication that he alone could carry off in such lordly style. It was on the 21st of January.
"What!" said I to him, "drunk on this day of all days, Becquet?"
"May I ask if there is, perchance, any day on which a man may not be drunk if he likes?" asked the author ofMouchoir bleuin amazement.
"Certainly, I should have thought there was, especially for you who are a Royalist, it being the anniversary of the death of Louis XVI."
Becquet seemed to reflect for an instant over the gravity of my observation; then, placing a hand on my shoulder—
"If they had not cut off the head of good King Louis XVI., do you suppose he would be dead now?"
"It is more than probable."
"Well, then," said Becquet, carelessly snapping his fingers, "how can you say anything to me?"
And off he went with the aplomb of the drunkard, who, from long practice, has learnt to be superior to the general run of drinkers in being always able to walk straight when intoxicated.
It was when dead-drunk, after having left the house of Mademoiselle Mars, that Becquet wrote the famous article for theJournal des Débatswhich concluded with the following words, and which overthrew the monarchy:—
"Malheureuse France! Malheureux roi!" "Unfortunate France! Unfortunate King!"
Becquet died of drink and died whilst drinking. For the last six months of his life he was never sober: his eyes became dull and expressionless; his actions were involuntary and instinctive; his hand mechanically felt for the bottle to pour wine into his glass, which he had not sufficient strength to empty. To the last moment, Mademoiselle Mars received him with the whole-hearted friendship that was one of her finest virtues. When Becquet died, she had not the heart to regret him although she shed tears at the news.
Mornay formed a singular contrast to all those of whom I have been speaking. Mornay was elegant and aristocratic, hewas thegentrypersonified, and, in addition to all these qualifications, he had as much wit as all the rest of us put together. When Mornay was appointed plenipotentiary, and left first for the grand-duchy of Baden, and afterwards for Sweden, Mademoiselle Mars lost the brightest star of her salon. There are minds which possess the qualities of well-seasoned tinder, and set fire to all around with whom they come in contact; Mornay was one of these; the rest of us served him for flint. When, perchance, he happened to be too fatigued to use his own wits, he counted on our supplying his deficiency. Mornay had no fortune; but Mademoiselle Mars left him an income of 40,000 livres per annum at her death. He took down a portrait of her, which he carried away with him, remarking, "That is the only thing to which I have a right here," and he left the 40,000 livres per annum to the heirs of Mademoiselle Mars.
Mademoiselle Mars at the theatre, and Mademoiselle Mars in her private home, were two quite different beings. On the stage, her voice was entrancing, almost like a song, and her looks were endearing and soft, full of bewitching charm. At home, her voice was harsh, she looked almost hard and her movements were brusque and impatient. Her theatrical voice was acquired, an instrument on which she had been taught to play and which she played marvellously well, but she rightly mistrusted it when she had to express great crises of passion, or to give effect to great heights of poesy; she was afraid then of straining her gentle notes, and she almost envied Madame Dorval her hoarse, raucous voice which enabled her to utter piteous cries that went straight to the heart. I never knew anyone who was more modest about her talents than was Mademoiselle Mars: she never spoke of herself, her triumphs, or her creations; she admired her father, Mouvel, profoundly; she was his pupil, and it gave her evident pleasure to talk of him. She was also a great admirer of Mademoiselle Contat, and it was odd to hear her confessing her inferiority to this great actress, in regard to certain points of art. I cannot say if all the tales told about the age of MademoiselleMars be true, but I know she never concealed a week of it from her friends. She had a marble sculpture by Boule, in her salon, which had been given by Queen Marie-Antoinette to her mother because they had both been confined on the same day. Therefore, Mademoiselle Mars must have been exactly the same age as the Duchesse d'Angoulême, who was born on 19 December 1778. When Mademoiselle Mars liked, she could be charming, for she possessed a great fund of humour; her voice was just the voice that could imitate, and when she criticised the members of the Comédie-Française, from Mademoiselle Plessy to Ligier, it was tersely but capitally done. She showed much kindness towards and interest in persons whom she thought to possess talent, and would help them with her advice, her talent and her influence. She once rescued a clown who was performing in the square at Metz and never rested until she had found a small position for him. She recommended him to me in 1833 or 1834, but I had no opportunity of giving him a part for fifteen or eighteen years, when I entrusted him with the rôle of Lorrain in theBarrière de Clichy.The man's name was Patonnelle and he was one of the best riders at the Cirque.
In common with Talma, Mademoiselle Mars saw her reputation go on increasing to the very day on which she finally left the stage. Her last creation, Mademoiselle de Belle-Isle, was one of her happiest performances. I was her latest supporter at the theatre and, in all probability, I had the good fortune of prolonging her career for two or three years.
The latter days of her period at the Comédie-Française were tinged with bitterness. One day, at an extra performance, someone threw a crown of immortelles at her feet, such as are placed upon tombs. It had been put together in one of the very boxes of the theatre, and I could, if I chose, mention in whose. When she left the stage the same thing occurred as after the loss of Talma. Everyone believed himself capable of replacing Talma, and everyone hoped to replace Mademoiselle Mars: they attempted it in their old rôles; they invented new ones. Managers and papers didtheir part by puffing and praising budding reputations. They had Turenne's money;—had they even the money of Mademoiselle Mars?...
AlthoughHenri III.did not bring any very great wealth to our household, it had, nevertheless, produced a considerable change: first and foremost it had freed us from debt; it had repaid Porcher and M. Laffitte; it had permitted us to quit our humble lodgings in the rue Saint-Denis and to hire for my mother a set of rooms on the ground floor, with a garden, at No. 7 rue Madame. She had been recommended to have air and exercise, and I chose that street and quarter so as to be close to Mesdames Villenave and Waldor, who from family reasons had left their house in the rue de Vaugirard and taken a suite of apartments at No. 11 rue Madame. I had hired a separate room for myself, on the fourth floor, at the corner of rue de l'Université and the rue du Bac, and, as my new position brought me visitors from among the ladies and gentlemen of the Théâtre-Français, I made this room as pretty as I could afford.
As I had learnt from past experience never to trust too much to the future, I had compounded for my food for one year, paying 1800 francs in advance; or, to be more exact, I paid for 365 breakfast coupons and 365 dinner tickets, wine not included. Unluckily, a month after I had made this arrangement, the Café Desmares went bankrupt, and I lost my year's payment and meals. It was my first speculation, and it turned out badly, it will be seen.
Meanwhile, I had been receiving reproaches from an exceedingly charming young lady at the Théâtre-Français, who grumbled because, after having had an insignificant part inHenri III.there was none at all for her inChristine—for I still flattered myself with the hope that myChristinewould yet be played at the Théâtre-Français, in spite of the delay owing to M. Brault, who had died meanwhile; and now the Comédie-Française was not in a hurry to take up either. Her reproaches went home, as they were deserved, and I felt I owed her a double reparation. I therefore replied—
"Set your mind at rest: I will recastChristinein order to make it more dramatic and up to date, and something shall come out of the transformation that will, I hope, satisfy you."
The mind of a worker is often full of singular prejudices, which are sometimes odd enough to border upon mania: at times he imagines he can only conceive his schemes in such and such a place; at others, that he can only write his play on some special kind of paper. I got it into my head that I could only evolve a freshChristineout of my oldChristineif I took a short journey, and was rocked by the motion of a carriage. As I was not yet rich enough to go in a carriage, I chose a diligence; it did not matter where the diligence was going, provided I had thecoupé, the inside or therotondeto myself. I went to the cour des Messageries and, after a couple of hours' waiting, I found what I wanted, a coach with no passenger in thecoupé.The diligence was bound for Havre. This was, indeed, a chance for me, for I had never been to a seaport, and I should be killing two birds with one stone. In those days it took fully twenty hours to go from Paris to Havre; this, again, suited me well enough. Inspiration would have plenty of time to work, or it would never come at all. I set off and, as imagination, naturally, plays a principal part in works of art, when my imagination had what it wanted in the way of external conditions for working, it began to work. By the time I reached Havre, my play was recast; I had divided the scenes between Stockholm, Fontainebleau and Rome, and the character of Paula rose out of this fresh genesis. It meant a complete overhauling and rewriting of the entire play, and very little was left of the original one. Although I was in great haste to set to work, I did not start back again to Paris before I had seen the sea. I stayed at Havre just long enough to eat some oysters, to have a sail on the sea, and to buy a couple of china vases which I could have got cheaper in Paris, and then I got into the diligence. In seventy-two hours I had been my journey and reconstructed my play.
I have spoken of the strange prejudices which imperiouslyimpose certain conditions under which work shall be fulfilled. No one is less of a maniac than myself; nobody who acquires the habit of working incessantly, as I did, could work with greater ease than I, and yet, three times, I have felt absolutely compelled to obey a caprice. The first occasion I have just related; the second was over the composition ofDon Juan de Marana, and the third was connected withCapitaine Paul.I was possessed with the notion that I could only conceive my fantastic drama to the sound of some music. I asked for tickets from my friend Zimmermann, for the Conservatoire, and, in the corner of a box together with three strangers, my eyes closed as though I were asleep, soothed into semi-unconsciousness by Beethoven and Weber, I composed the principal scenes of my drama in two hours.
It was different in the case ofCapitaine Paul: I needed sea, a wide horizon, clouds scudding across the sky, and breezes whistling through the rigging and masts of ships. I went a voyage to Sicily and anchored my little boat for a couple of hours at the entrance to the Straits of Messina. In two days' timeCapitaine Paulwas finished.
On my return, I found a letter from Hugo. The success ofHenri III.had inspired him with the desire to write a drama, and he invited me to go and hear it read at the house of Devéria. That drama wasMarion Delorme.
Victor Hugo—His birth—His mother—Les Chassebœuf and les Comet—Captain Hugo—The signification of his name—Victor's godfather—The Hugo family in Corsica—M. Hugo is called to Naples by Joseph Bonaparte—He is appointed colonel and governor of the province of Avellino—Recollections of the poet's early childhood—Fra Diavolo—Joseph, King of Spain—Colonel Hugo is made a general, count, marquis and major-domo—The Archbishop of Tarragona—Madame Hugo and her children in Paris—The convent of Feuillantines
Victor Hugo—His birth—His mother—Les Chassebœuf and les Comet—Captain Hugo—The signification of his name—Victor's godfather—The Hugo family in Corsica—M. Hugo is called to Naples by Joseph Bonaparte—He is appointed colonel and governor of the province of Avellino—Recollections of the poet's early childhood—Fra Diavolo—Joseph, King of Spain—Colonel Hugo is made a general, count, marquis and major-domo—The Archbishop of Tarragona—Madame Hugo and her children in Paris—The convent of Feuillantines
We will now devote a few pages to the author ofMarion Delorme,Notre-Dame de ParisandOrientales; for we deem he is well worth the digression.
Victor Hugo was born on 26 March 1803. Where and under what conditions the poet himself tells us on the first page of hisFeuilles d'Automne:—
"Ce siècle avait deux ans; Rome remplaçait Sparte;Déjà Napoléon perçait sous Bonaparte,Et du premier consul, trop gêné par le droit,Le front de l'empereur brisait le masque étroit.Alors, dans Besançon, vieille ville espagnole,Jeté comme la graine au gré de l'air qui vole,Naquit, d'un sang breton et lorrain à la fois,Un enfant sans couleur, sans regard et sans voix;Si débile, qu'il fut, ainsi qu'une chimère,Abandonné de tous, excepté de sa mère,Et que son cou, ployé comme un frêle roseau,Fit faire, en même temps, sa bière et son berceau.Cet enfant que la vie effaçait de son livre,Et qui n'avait pas même un lendemain à vivre,C'est moi...."
The child was, indeed, so weak that, fifteen months after his birth, he could not even hold up his head on his shoulders,but, as though it were already weighted with all the thoughts of which it only possessed the germ, it persistently fell forward on his breast.
The poet continues:—
Je vous dirai peut-être, quelque jour,Quel lait pur, que de soins, que de vœux, que d'amour,Prodigués pour ma vie, en naissant condamnée,M'ont fait deux fois le fils de ma mère obstinée."
His mother, of Breton blood, who persevered in battling with death for the life of her child, like a true mother and a Bretonne, was the daughter of a rich ship-owner of Nantes, and granddaughter of one of the leaders of thebourgeoisiein that land of opposition. Furthermore, she was cousin-german to Constantin François, Count of Chassebœuf, who renounced that grand feudal name, reminiscent of thebarons pasteursof the Middle Ages, for that of Volney, which would merely remind one of the name of a provincial comedian, if the gentleman who had the strange fancy of taking that name had not made it famous by putting it at the beginning of hisVoyage en Égypte, and at the end of hisRuines; she was, besides, cousin of another imperial celebrity, Comte Cornet, who was less literary in his tastes than political. Comte Cornet, whose name is now, perhaps, forgotten, was deputy for Nantes and one of the Conseil des Cinq-Cents; he took part in the doings of the famous 18 brumaire, which changed the aspect of France for half a century. Instead of defending the privileges of the Assembly, he supported Bonaparte's pretensions; and Napoleon, ont of gratitude, made him senator—the usual reward for such services—then count; and so that he should possess everything—in quantity if not in quality—that the members of the old nobility possessed, who had rallied round the Empire, he gave him a coat of arms; but, through one of those pleasantries which a crowned soldier sometimes permits himself, this coat of arms, which recalled the somewhat plebeian origin of the person whom it was intended to ennoble, was azure with three cornets argent.
Madame Hugo's name was Sophie Trébuchet. She had, as we have seen, two peerages in her family, that of Comte Volney and that of Comte Cornet. Please remember this fact, for we shall have occasion again to refer to it. The Lorraine blood of which the poet sings came from his father, Joseph-Léopold-Sigisbert Hugo. From this side noble descent was quite undoubted; it sprang from an ancient German source.
His grandfather, Georges Hugo, was captain of the guards to some duke of Lorraine, and had been ennobled in 1531, by letters patent dated at Lillebonne, in Normandy, by this duke, who bestowed on him as coat of arms, on a field azure,au chef d'argent, two martlets in sable. Three martlets are, as is well known, the arms of the House of Lorraine. So the duke could not have done more for his captain; another martlet, and he would have put him on the same level with himself. But those who wish for fuller details than we give on this subject, and a greater authority, should consult Hozier, register IV., under the heading ofHugo.However, as we believe in the magic of names, we will give some information that Hozier does not give—namely, that the old German wordhugois equivalent to the Latin wordspiritus, and means breath, soul, spirit!