"The lad is doomed."
I cannot describe the grief and dismay this curtly expressed declaration caused me. Félix had never been particularly friendly towards me; he was of a somewhat jealous disposition, and had rather repelled than drawn me in to share the enjoyments which, thanks to his father's social position, he could have obtained for me, especially with regard to shooting, which I loved above all else. But, nevertheless, his was one of the tender friendships of my early days, and if this prophecy were fulfilled it would be the first leaf that death would tear from the golden branch of my childish recollections.
I did not want to announce this sad news to M. Deviolaine,so I sought out Oudard and told him what had transpired. Oudard utterly declined to believe it; for Félix had seemed, until now, the most unlikely subject to die of pulmonary consumption; but I sent for Thibaut himself, and Thibaut repeated to him the fatal verdict he had told me. Without telling the whole truth to M. Deviolaine, Oudard gave him to understand that Félix required great care, and, as Félix did not wish to have any other doctor than Thibaut, it was arranged that Thibaut should pay him daily visits. It was then that I made the special study of pulmonary consumption which I later turned to account in my romance,Amaury.I have already stated that, just as Thibaut's prediction was on the point of being realised, and all hopes were given up—even in his mother's heart, that last sanctuary of hope—Félix Deviolaine was miraculously saved by articular rheumatism, which drew off the inflammation, and did what no other remedies had been able to effect.
Whilst these events were happening, the representation of the drama ofLouis XI. à Péronne, in which Talma was to have acted, took place at the Théâtre-Français. It was a great event for all of us young writers who were aspiring to produce some novel creation; Taylor had urged its production, had seen that the costumes were accurate and the staging perfect. The play owed its success partly to the astonishment it evoked, and partly to its intrinsic worth. I did not see it at the first presentation, because I was unable to procure a ticket and was too poor to afford to buy one at the doors; but Soulié joined us afterwards at the café des Variétés and told us all about it. He was most enthusiastic over it. This inspired us with courage, and we tried to take up ourPuritains d'Écosseonce more.
Talma's dramatic succession at the Théâtre-Français had been divided: Michelot took Tiberius and Louis XI.; Firmin took Tasso; Joanny was prepared to undertake the whole of the illustrious dead actor's repertory; Lafond had become boththe oneandthe other[1]; everybody regarded Talma as an obstacle, and now that this obstacle was removed, each stroveto acquire for himself the reputation of the man who had eclipsed all other reputations. In order not to lose any chance of success, they divided his costumes among themselves, as they divided his rôles. A public sale of Talma's wardrobe was announced for 27 April. Here are some of the prices that the different costumes fetched. The actors who hoped to buy his talent with his clothes, did not pay dear for them.
FrancsCharles VI. et sa perruque 205Ladislas 230Le Cid 62Mithridate 100Richard III 120Les deux Néron 412La couronne de Néron. 132Othello, une fois joué à l'Opéra 131Léonidas 200Clovis 97Joad 120Nicomède 60Le Maire du palais 115Philoctète 40Typpo-Saëb 96Leicester 321Meynau 45Falkland 42Danville 130Le Misanthrope 400Bayard 51Le grand maître des Templiers 40Jean de Bourgogne 79Manlius 80Sylla, avec la perruque. 160Hamlet, avec le poignard. 236L'Oreste d'Andromaque. 100L'Oreste deClytemnestre. 80fr. 3,884
Two items may be noted in the above: one,Les deux Néron, and the other,Othello, une fois joué à l'Opéra.These twodescriptions show how conscientiously Talma hunted up particulars about his costumes. Once he discovered in Suetonius that Nero had entered the Senate in a blue mantle embroidered with gold stars; he instantly had a costume made after the same pattern, and came on to the stage in just such a blue mantle with gold stars as Nero had worn on entering the Senate. But, next day, some critic, who had not bothered his head to read Suetonius, and who took this costume to be a freak of the actor, said in one of the papers that Talma looked like Night in the prologue toAmphitryon.This was quite enough to prevent Talma from wearing the star-spangled robe. On another occasion, before playingOthelloat the Opéra for a benefit, he reflected that as the Moor had become a Venetian general he must necessarily have discarded his Oriental costume and adopted the Venetian dress. So he wore a very exact copy of a Venetian costume of the fifteenth century. But, in casting aside the turban, the girdle and the baggy ornamental pantaloons, half the picturesque effect had fled and not even all Talma's genius was able to make up for it, so, disappointed himself, and thinking that the change of costume had had a damaging effect on his play, he went back to the traditional costume for the remainder of the performances and never used the other again. The costume for the Misanthrope, found in Talma's wardrobe, indicated the lifelong desire he had cherished to play the part of Alceste, but it was a wish he had never dared to satisfy. The person who bought it was not afflicted with like modesty.
Whilst these events were occurring, that were of such secondary importance to France, but so vitally interesting to ourselves, the Government was slyly attempting to re-establish the Censorship that it had abolished. In the king's speech to the Chamber, he had said—
"I should have preferred, had it been possible, not to pay any attention to the press; but, since the habit of publishing political articles has developed, it has produced fresh abuses which require more efficacious and extensive means of repression. It is time to put a stop to painful scandals, andto preserve the liberty of the press itself from the danger of its own excesses; a project will be submitted to you with this object in view."
This paragraph was nothing more nor less than a threat, which translated itself into a Bill presented to the Chamber under the title ofProjet de loi sur la police de la presse.The reading of this Act was interrupted by the Opposition a score of times and ended in a scene of terrible agitation. Casimir Périer jumped up from his seat, exclaiming—
"You might just as well bring forward a Bill consisting of the single clause, 'Printing is suppressed in France to the benefit of Belgium'!"
M. de Chateaubriand called this law alaw of Vandalism.And to the outcry in the capital, the whole of France responded, sending joint and separate petitions to implore the Chamber to reject the Bill as destructive of all public liberties, disastrous to commerce and an attack on the sacred rights of property. In the midst of that terrible manifestation which, in 1827, predicted the armed opposition of 1830, theMoniteurhad either the cleverness or the perfidiousness—one never can quite fathom theMoniteur'sreal sentiments—to insert in an article in favour of the law the phrase characterising it as alaw of justice and of love.Oh! what an opportunity this gave for the weapon of sarcasm, always powerful in France! It fastened upon this phrase and used it as a weapon with which, on every possible occasion, to prick the heart of M. de Peyronnet. Everybody exclaimed against this Act, even the Academy itself. It was M. de Lacretelle who ventured to take the hazardous and difficult step of attempting to awake the Forty Immortals in their chairs. He read a rousing discourse to them on 4 January, on the disadvantages of the projected law, and the fetters it would put upon thought; he repudiated this fresh Censorship, which was to make printers judges of authors, and demanded that the Academy should make use of its prerogative and petition the king to accede to the entreaties of the Forty by withdrawing the Bill. After an hour's discussion, it was decided almost unanimously that this petition should bepresented to the king, and MM. de Chateaubriand, Lacretelle and Villemain were deputed to draw it up. On 21 January, the following notice appeared in theMoniteur:—
"ART. I.The appointment of Sieur Villemain,maître des requêtesto the Council of State, is revoked.."
"ART. I.The appointment of Sieur Villemain,maître des requêtesto the Council of State, is revoked.."
Then, lower down:—
"By order of the King, M. Michaud of the French Academy will no longer be one of His Majesty's readers."By command of His Excellency the Minister of the Interior, dated to-day, M. de Lacretelle has been dismissed from the post of Dramatic Censor."
"By order of the King, M. Michaud of the French Academy will no longer be one of His Majesty's readers.
"By command of His Excellency the Minister of the Interior, dated to-day, M. de Lacretelle has been dismissed from the post of Dramatic Censor."
This persecution was received by a burst of indignation against the Government and with demonstrative sympathy towards the victims of Ministerial cruelty. Finally, the chorus of opposition rose to such a threatening pitch that the Government grew frightened and withdrew on 18 April the Act that it had introduced on 29 November. A furore of delight then broke out in Paris: houses poured forth their inhabitants into the streets, and every face glowed with joy; hands were held out in greeting, and journeymen printers ran through the boulevards shouting, "Vive le roi!" waving white flags; and a general illumination took place all over Paris that night. But the mortified Government sent out troops, shots were fired and wounds received, and the withdrawal of the famousloi de justice et d'amourshould be accredited not to the king's intelligence, but to his fear.
When Charles X.—poor, blind, deaf monarch—believing that the enthusiasm aroused by his accession to the throne would last for ever, commanded a review of the National Guard to be held on 29 April, on the Champ de Mars, he heard, to his vast surprise, mingled with those cries of "Vive le roi!" with which sovereigns are intoxicated, and thrill on their thrones, the bitter and raucous cries of "A bas les ministres!" and "A bas les Jésuits!" These cries came particularly from the ranks of the second, third, fifth, seventhand eighth legions, those, namely, belonging to the financial aristocracy and the lower middle classes. Astounded by such a reception, Charles X. drew up for an instant; then, spurring his horse to the front ranks of the legion that had uttered the bitterest of these invectives, he exclaimed—
"Messieurs, I have come here to receive homage and not lectures."
Alas! the kings of 1827, like those of 1848, should have known that homage blinds and lectures enlighten.
By six o'clock next morning every post of the National Guard was relieved by troops of the line, and by seven o'clock, instead of a leading article in theMoniteuron the review, there appeared the order to disband. From that moment there was a breach between the Elder Branch, and the middle class. The former possessed its king, elected by divine right, to reign over it and to die with it. But from that hour far-seeing eyes could discern the approaching clouds that were bringing on their wings the tempest of 1830.
[1]See vol. ii. p. 442.
[1]See vol. ii. p. 442.
English actors in Paris—Literary importations—Trente Ans, orla Vie d'un Joueur—TheHamletof Kemble and Miss Smithson—A bas-relief of Mademoiselle de Fauveau—Visit to Frédéric Soulié—He declines to writeChristinewith me—A night attack—I come across Adèle d'Alvin once more—I spend the nightau violon
English actors in Paris—Literary importations—Trente Ans, orla Vie d'un Joueur—TheHamletof Kemble and Miss Smithson—A bas-relief of Mademoiselle de Fauveau—Visit to Frédéric Soulié—He declines to writeChristinewith me—A night attack—I come across Adèle d'Alvin once more—I spend the nightau violon
Somewhere about 1822 or '23, I believe, a company of English actors attempted to give a series of representations in the theatre of the Porte-Saint-Martin, but they were received with so much opposition and hooting, and so many apples and oranges had been flung at the unfortunate actors from the pit, that they were compelled to abandon the field of battle under the heavy firing of projectiles. And that was how the national spirit expressed itself in 1822. But then, in 1822, it was considered degrading for any theatre where the productions of MM. Caignez and Pixérécourt were performed (not to mention those of Corneille and Molière) to lend its boards to such a barbarian as Shakespeare, and to the train ofœuvres immondeswhich followed in his wake.
Only five years had gone by since that period, and now the second Théâtre-Français greatly astonished everybody by advertising that a company of English actors was going to act the chief plays of Shakespeare. So quickly did ideas mature in the burning sun of the nineteenth century that only five years were necessary to bring about such an enlightenment of public opinion as this. However, the example of courtesy had been set us by our neighbours across the Channel. Mademoiselle Georges had just succeeded—thanks, no doubt, to the political reminiscences that surrounded her—in obtaining what Talma never obtained, in spite of his Anglo-Frenchdescent, namely, a public non-subsidised performance of a French play.
On 28 June 1827, Mademoiselle Georges gave a most successful representation ofSémiramis, under the patronage of the Duke of Devonshire. The receipts amounted to eight hundred pounds sterling (20,000 francs). A few days later, again with similar success, she playedMérope.This twofold triumph suggested to the director of the Odéon the idea of inviting a company of English actors over, and a series of performances, announced for the beginning of September, was looked forward to eagerly. In fact, opinion had changed from complete disdain of English literature to enthusiastic admiration of it. M. Guizot, who did not then know a word of English—and who has known it but too well since—had re-translated Shakespeare with the help of Letourneur. Walter Scott, Cooper and Byron were in everybody's hands. M. Lemercier had made a tragedy out ofRichard III.; M. Liadière had produced another onJane Shore. Kenilworth Castlehad been played at the Porte-Saint-Martin;Louis XI. à Péronneat the Théâtre-Français;Macbethat the Opéra. People talked of Frédéric Soulié'sJulietteand of Alfred de Vigny'sOthello.Assuredly, the wind had veered round to the west and pointed to a literary revolution. Nor was this all: a play was produced at the Porte-Saint-Martin, with a denouement borrowed from Werner'sVingt-Quatre Février, which had brought about a revolution both by its style and its execution.
We should like to say a few words with reference toTrente Ans, orla Vie d'un Joueur, by MM. Victor Ducange and Goubaux. Besides the dramatic importance of this work, it brought to light two eminent artistes, Frédérick and Madame Dorval. It is rarely one finds two actors so highly endowed, the one as good as the other. He, as a matter of fact, was the wretched tragedian who, three years before, had played one of the brothers Macchabée at the Odéon! She was the little girl, forgotten as soon as she had played the thankless part of Malvina, in theVampire!
Popular drama had its Talma, and boulevard tragedy itsMademoiselle Mars. Everybody has become familiar withTrente Ans; everybody has seen it played by the two artistes I have just named. But not everybody witnessed the fever of excitement that mastered both actors and spectators during those first representations.
So the English artistes found Parisian playgoers warmly enthusiastic, eagerly demanding new emotions to take the place of those they had just experienced. Such moments as these are experienced at various times and seasons when everything is quiet outside the realms of imagination. As physical life is in no danger, minds sigh after imaginary dangers; human sympathy must exercise itself on something. Twelve years of calm caused everyone to cry out for emotion; ten years of laughter called aloud for tears. With a national spirit restless and adventurous by nature, we must ever express ourselves dramatically, whether on the stage or in real life.
In 1827 the theatre had things all its own way. On 7 September the English actors gave their first performance. Abbott opened the proceedings with a short speech in very carefully pronounced French, and they playedThe Rivalsby poor Sheridan, who had just been buried amidst financial difficulties; then Allingham'sCaprice of Fortune.The comic actors of the company carried off the honours of the first night, and, although one noticed a comic actor called Liston, and a sweetheart played by Miss Smithson, we felt quite certain that the much longed for company had not been brought across the Channel just for this exhibition of its powers. I had made up my mind to attend these English performances with some assiduity, and as Porcher had nearly got back the advances he had lent me, I asked him for two hundred francs, a hundred and fifty of which went towards our housekeeping expenses, and fifty were intended to initiate me into the beauties revealed in the English drama. I already nearly knew Shakespeare by heart at this period; but plays, according to the Germans, are meant to be seen and not read. So I resisted the temptation of going to the first representation, and waited to see the English company in Shakespeare.
They announcedHamlet.There was no fear of my missing it this time. Fortunately, it was Ernest's week to make up the portfolio. I left the office at four o'clock and went to take my position in the queue, rather better informed, this time, than I had been on my first visit to Paris. I knewHamletso well that I did not need to buy the words; I could follow the actors, translating the words as soon as they were uttered. I must admit that the impression made upon me far exceeded my expectations: Kemble was wonderful as Hamlet, and Miss Smithson made a divine Ophelia. The stage scene, the screen scene and that of the two portraits, the mad scene and that in the graveyard electrified me. Only then did I realise what the drama could be, and from the ruins of my past feeble attempts, which the shock of this revelation brought about, I saw what was needed to create a new world.
"And darkness was upon the face of the deep, and the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters"; as the Bible puts it.
This was the first time that I had seen real passions on the stage, inspiring men and women of real flesh and blood. Now I understood Talma's moans over each fresh part he created; I understood that everlasting aspiration for a literature that could give him the chance of depicting a hero who should be a living being; I understood his despair at dying before he had given expression to that side of his genius which perished unknown within him and with him. The present generation will not understand what I am saying; for its childish studies have made it as familiar with Walter Scott as with Lesage, with Shakespeare as with Molière. Our century, which has become pre-eminently a century of appreciation, smiles incredulously when it hears that a comedian could be hissed because he was an Englishman, or a play hooted because it was by Shakespeare.
These representations continued with increasing popularity. AfterHamletcameRomeo and Juliet, thenOthello; then, finally, one after the other, all the masterpieces of the English stage. To Kemble and Miss Smithson belonged all thehonours of these representations. It is impossible to describe the scene of Ophelia's madness, the balcony scene inJuliet, the poisoning scene in the vault among the dead, Othello's jealousy and the death of Desdemona, as played by those two great artistes. Abbott, also, showed himself a graceful comedian in the parts he played. His Mercutio, among the rest, was a real masterpiece of delightful acting.
And now let us notice how strange it is that events which are to influence a man's life seem to link themselves together. On the 10th, the English actors gave the last of their series of representations, leaving me palpitating with fresh impressions, and my mind flooded with fresh light. On the 4th, six days before, the Salon Exhibition had just opened. At this Salon, Mademoiselle de Fauveau exhibited two small bas-reliefs, round which all artists congregated.
One of these bas-reliefs represented a scene from theAbbé; the other, the assassination of Monaldeschi. I came up to look at these bas-reliefs with the crowd, and I probably appreciated more than most of the gazers the power and delicacy of the work thus cleverly handled by a woman's fingers. I had read theAbbé, so I knew all about one of these bas-reliefs; but I was so ignorant on some portions of history that I not only did not know the incident the other piece of sculpture depicted, but I was also ignorant who were either Monaldeschi or Christine; and I left the Musée without venturing to ask anyone to tell me. As it was Sunday, and as I had not seen Soulié for several days, I decided to go and spend part of the evening with him at la Gare.
At nine o'clock—after telling my mother that I should probably not be home until very late—I sweetened a cup of tea in front of a capital fire (for wood is plentiful in a saw-mill) and began a discussion with Soulié concerning the alterations hisJuliettewould need to undergo since the English acting had come under notice. All at once, I recollected the bas-relief of the death of Monaldeschi, and, not daring to ask Soulié for particulars for fear he would make fun of me because of my ignorance, I asked him if he possessed aBiographie universelle.He had one, and I read the two articles onMonaldeschiand onChristine.Then, after a few moments' reflection, in the depths of which I seemed to see all sorts of tragic characters moving amid the glitter of swords, I said to Soulié, as though he had been following my thoughts—
"Do you know, there is a terrible drama in all that?"
"In what?"
"In the assassination of Monaldeschi by Christine."
"I should just think so."
"Shall we do it together?"
"No," Soulié replied emphatically; "I do not mean to work any more with others."
"Why?"
"Because David has promised me the Cross, through the influence of M. Portalis, when I write my first important work alone."
I looked at Soulié in utter amazement. I do not think that even he himself quite realised the nature of his brusque outbursts.
"Therefore," he added, "I intend to use that subject for a tragedy myself."
"Oh!" I said, laying the volumes down.
"That need not prevent you writing your own drama, you understand, if you mean to stick to the idea."
"On the same subject as you?"
"There are more theatres than one in Paris; and a dozen ways of treating a subject."
"But which of us will read it at the Théâtre-Français?"
"Whichever shall finish first."
"Would it not annoy you?"
"What the devil do you think it would do to me?"
"You are not very amiable to-night."
"I am not in a good temper."
"What is the matter with you?"
"This is the matter. If only I had seen the English actors before I had constructed myJulietteI should either not have done it at all, or done it differently."
"Will you take my advice?"
"In what way?"
"As the sincere advice of a friend.... Leave yourJulietteon one side as I have left myFiesque, and dream of something else."
"Bah! when it is finished!"
I saw Soulié had made up his mind to go on with it, and I dropped the subject. Then, as I could not afford to buy theBiographie universelle, I asked Soulié if I might copy out the two articles, and he let me do so. It was evident my writing on the same subject did not inspire him with much terror. We separated at midnight; and, as I went along the boulevard, I dreamt already of my futureChristine.It was a dark, rainy night, and the boulevard was almost deserted. When I reached the gate of Saint-Denis, just as I was leaving the boulevard to re-enter the street, I heard cries thirty steps ahead of me; then, in the midst of the darkness, I could see what looked like a group of people struggling violently on the boulevard, and I ran in the direction of the cries. Two fellows were attacking a man and woman. The man attacked was trying to defend himself with a cane, the woman had been thrown down and the thief was trying to snatch a chain that hung round her neck. I leapt on the thief, and the next moment he was on the ground in his turn, and I was kneeling on him. When the second thief saw this, he left off attacking the man and ran away. It would seem that, unwittingly, I had been squeezing the throat of my thief unmercifully; for suddenly, to my great surprise, he yelled out—
"Help, help, help!"
This shout, together with those already uttered by the man and woman assaulted, brought several soldiers from the military station of Bonne-Nouvelle. I had not loosened my hold of the thief, and the soldiers dragged him out of my hands. Then only was I able to respond to the thanks of those whom I had rescued. The woman's voice struck me strangely. It was Adèle d'Alvin, whom I had not seen since I left Villers-Cotterets,and the man was her husband. There had been a special performance at the Porte-Saint-Martin at whichla Noce et l'Enterrementhad been played, and knowing I had had a hand in that masterpiece, they had wanted to see it. The performance had not finished until late, as is usual in the case of special representations, and Adèle was hungry. When they came out, they went to the theatre café for supper, and this had delayed them. Just as they reached Charlard's chemist's shop they were attacked by the two ruffians of whom I had rid them, and of whom one had been arrested by the defenders of the country. Unluckily, these defenders of the country were not as intelligent as they were brave. They could not distinguish between robbers and robbed, between thieves and honest folk, and they took us all to the guard-room, informing us we must stop there till the morning. At daybreak they sent for a police-officer, who separated the wheat from the tares.
We tried to explain ourselves, and asked that they should examine carefully our persons, our countenances, our appearances, and compare them with those of the man whom I had arrested, and that they should not keep us till next day before rendering us the justice that was our due. But to all this the defenders of the country replied imperturbably thatby night all cats look grey; and, consequently, one might easily be deceived, whereas, on the morrow, there would bedaylighton the matter.
The decision was neither logical nor eloquent; but we were the weaker party. They made us, assaulted and assaulter alike, go into that part of the guard-house that is called theviolon, and there was no help for it but to await the good pleasure of M.le chef du poste.
We all leant up one against another, as people do in a carriage, and tried to sleep. As Adèle and her husband had taken one corner of the camp bed for themselves, there was one left for me. I gazed sadly at the woman for a long time; she was associated with the earliest recollections of my life, and now, apparently perfectly happy, she was falling asleepon the shoulder of another, to whom she spoke in accents of familiar intercourse. She had two children: motherhood had consoled her for her lost love. They both fell asleep; but neither the thief nor I slept at all. Soon my eyes tore themselves away from watching Adèle and her husband; my thoughts retraced their steps and I resumed my dream where it had been interrupted. I saw, in my mind's eye, the bas-relief of Mademoiselle de Fauveau as it hung fastened against the wall, and, in the guard-room of the boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle, by the side of that woman and her husband, face to face with the thief who was to get three years' imprisonment at the next assizes, my imagination conjured up the first scenes ofChristine.At eight next morning the police-officer entered, took down our depositions and addresses and then set us at liberty; whilst our friend the thief was immediately hustled off to the police station. I returned home to find my poor mother terribly upset. She, like myself, had never closed her eyes all night. I saw Adèle again once or twice during her stay in Paris; but, since that time, my imagination, if not my heart, has been the slave of a mistress who has supplanted all my past mistresses, and even done injury to those of later years. That mistress, or rather that master, was Art.
Future landmarks—Compliments to the Duc de Bordeaux—Vates—Cauchois-Lemaire's Orléaniste brochure—The lake of Enghien—Colonel Bro's parrot—Doctor Ferrus—Morrisel—A tip-top funeral cortège—Hunting in full cry—An autopsy—Explanation of the death of the parrot
Future landmarks—Compliments to the Duc de Bordeaux—Vates—Cauchois-Lemaire's Orléaniste brochure—The lake of Enghien—Colonel Bro's parrot—Doctor Ferrus—Morrisel—A tip-top funeral cortège—Hunting in full cry—An autopsy—Explanation of the death of the parrot
It is most instructive to every philosophic mind to review a past period of time, and to recall that once it was looked forward to as a future. It can then be seen how gradually changes came about; landmarks are recognised, and it is realised that there is nothing sudden or inexplicable in the evolution of things; that which in the present we look upon as all-powerful chance, when investigated in the light of the past, is seen to be Providence. Thus, Charles X., the last representative of a dying aristocracy, was destined to fall; thus Louis-Philippe, the representative of the people at its strongest moment, was destined to ascend the throne; and, from 1827 and 1828, everything was being prepared so that people were ready for the great catastrophe of 1830. And yet no one can clearly read the signs of an immediate future.
All the country's hopes seemed centred in the "phenomenal child" (l'enfant du miracle), as they called the Duc de Bordeaux, and, on I January, M. de Barbé-Marbois, first president of thecours des Comptes, addressed to him the following delightful little speech, entirely suited to the young prince's years and intelligence:—
"Monseigneur, you will to-day receive the customary gifts: mine shall be a short story. Once upon a time, the prince whose name you bear, who was then as young as you are, returned to the Court of Navarre after being away. Whilehe was still seated on his horse, he was surrounded by children of the countryside, who, delighted to see him back again, kept repeating, 'Caye nostre Henry!' which means 'Here is our Henri!' just as though the young prince belonged to them. Queen Jeanne, his mother—an excellent princess—who had seen and heard everything from the palace balcony, well pleased by the welcome they gave the young prince, said to him, 'Those children, my son, have just given you a lesson, the sweetest you can ever receive; by calling you "our Henry," they are teaching you that princes belong to their country just as much as to their own family.' The prince remembered the lesson, and that is why for more than two centuries the French have continued to call him 'our Henry' and will always so speak of him."
M. le Duc de Bordeaux listened attentively, then replied—
"I will not forget."
Already the previous year it had been said to him, "And you, monseigneur, who are yet very young and upon whose head rests the future happiness of France, always remember that this fine kingdom also needs a good king—a king who loves truth and wishes it to be spoken to him; a king who despises flattery and who will banish from his presence those who deceive him. You will remember, monseigneur, that this advice has been given you by an aged white-haired man?"
M. le Duc de Bordeaux had replied—
"Yes."
"YourYes, monseigneur," added the first president, "shall be registered in our annals, where you will find it when you reach your majority,"
Alas; all these counsels were to be wasted. The white-haired veteran who had learnt so much by reflection on the past, could not foresee the future. God only endows poets with the gift of clairvoyance. It was a poet, monseigneur, who addressed these words to you—
"Salut, petit cousin germain!D'un lieu d'exil, j'ose t'écrire.La fortune te tend la main;Ta naissance la fait sourire.Mon premier jour aussi fut beau,Point de Français qui n'en convienne:Les rois m'adoraient au berceau ...Et, cependant, je suis à Vienne!"
It was a poet, sire, who addressed these words to you:—
"O rois, veillez, veillez! tâchez d'avoir régné.Ne nous reprenez pas ce qu'on avait gagné;Ne faites point, des coups d'une bride rebelle,Cabrer la liberté, qui vous porte avec elle;Soyez de votre temps, écoutez ce qu'on dit,Et tâchez d'être grands, car le peuple grandit!Écoutez, écoutez! à l'horizon immense,Ce bruit qui parfois tombe et soudain recommence,Ce murmure confus, ce sourd frémissementQui roule et qui s'accroît de moment en moment!C'est le peuple qui vient! c'est la haute maréeQui monte, incessamment par son astre attirée!Chaque siècle, à son tour, qu'il soit d'or ou de fer,Dévoré comme un cap sur qui monte la mer,Avec ses lois, ses mœurs, les monuments qu'il fonde,Vains obstacles qui font à peine écumer l'onde,Avec tout ce qu'on vit et qu'on ne verra plus,Disparaît sous ce flot qui n'a pas de reflux!Le sol toujours s'en va, le flot toujours s'élève;Malheur à qui, le soir, s'attarde sur la grève,Et ne demande pas au pêcheur qui s'enfuitD'où vient qu'à l'horizon l'on entend ce grand bruit!Rois, hâtez-vous! rentrez dans le siècle où nous sommes;Quittez l'ancien rivage!—A cette mer des hommesFaites place, ou voyez si vous voulez périrSur le siècle passé, que son flot doit couvrir!"
Again it was a poet who uttered these words:—
"Mais bientôt, aux regards de ce nouveau ministre,La nuit vint révéler au avenir sinistre;Des signes éclatants, au fond des cieux écrits,De ces partis vainqueurs glacèrent les esprits;Et la France espéra!—L'immortelle déesseQui prête son épée aux martyrs de la Grèce,Sur le fronton aigu du sénat plébéien,Parut, en agitant son bonnet phrygien!Panthéon, la croix d'or s'éclipsa de ton dôme!Sous les marbres sacrés de la place Vendôme,La terre tressaillit, et l'oiseau souverainS'agita radieux sur sa base d'airain!..
It was a poet, too, who uttered the following threat:—
"Il est amer et triste, à l'heure où le cœur prie,Et dans l'effusion des plus secrets moments,D'entendre à ses côtés les pleurs de la patrie,Des clameurs de colère et des gémissements.Il est dur que toujours un destin nous entraîneAux civiques combats qu'on croyait achevés;De voir aux passions s'ouvrir encore l'arène,Et s'enfuir la concorde et le bonheur rêvés.Rien qu'à ce seul penser, tout ce qu'en moi j'apaise!Est prêt à s'irriter; la haine me reprend;Et, pour qui vent guérir toute haine est mauvaise,Et, pourtant, je ne puis rester indifférent.Oh! meurent les soupçons! oh! Dieu nous garde encoreDe ces duels armés entre un peuple et son roi!Sous le soleil d'août, dont la chaleur dévore,Le sang bouillonne vite, et nul n'est sûr de soi."
True, as we have stated, the action of the Government really helped the public cause. Trial after trial was brought against the press unceasingly, but liberty always comes out triumphant from these encounters, no matter what happens, and, by succeeding, kills those who try to suppress it. Monarchies are not overturned, they undermine themselves and begin to totter; then, some day, the people seeing them shake, shout with a loud voice and down they fall.
The case of theSpectateur religieuxwas taken from court to court, and finally brought before the Court of Orléans. M. de Senancourt, who had been sentenced by thepolice correctionelleto nine months' imprisonment and five hundred francs fine for his résumé ofTraditions morales et religieuses, was acquitted on appeal.
Finally, Cauchois-Lemaire was condemned to fifteen months' imprisonment and to a fine of two thousand francs, for havingurged a change of government and a change in the order of succession to the throne in hisLettre à Son Altesse royale M. le Duc d'Orléans, sur la crise actuelle.This letter contained the following incriminating passages. The author laid bare before the prince the situation of France and added:—
"But you will perhaps say to me, 'What can I do? As a peer of the realm, France knows that I submit to an ostracism which forbids me to take any part in public affairs.' That, monseigneur, is just the point at issue. Because you are suspended from your privileges, are you therefore suspended from common law? Is the country circumscribed in the Higher Chamber? Does parliamentary inertia condemn everybody to political lethargy? And, because people do not happen to belong to the aristocracy, are they therefore of no account? 'Dangerous questions,' some will exclaim. 'Unsuitable and at any rate irrelevant,' others will say. Such questions, I would reply, are both natural and useful under a constitutional form of government."
"But you will perhaps say to me, 'What can I do? As a peer of the realm, France knows that I submit to an ostracism which forbids me to take any part in public affairs.' That, monseigneur, is just the point at issue. Because you are suspended from your privileges, are you therefore suspended from common law? Is the country circumscribed in the Higher Chamber? Does parliamentary inertia condemn everybody to political lethargy? And, because people do not happen to belong to the aristocracy, are they therefore of no account? 'Dangerous questions,' some will exclaim. 'Unsuitable and at any rate irrelevant,' others will say. Such questions, I would reply, are both natural and useful under a constitutional form of government."
After that paragraph came the following:—
"Instead of going to Gand, he went to England, thus saving himself from association with the system that marked the epoch of 1815 and from following in the wake of 1815."
"Instead of going to Gand, he went to England, thus saving himself from association with the system that marked the epoch of 1815 and from following in the wake of 1815."
Then, passing on from politics to advice, he added:—
"And in order not to depart from his custom of offering advice, the writer of this letter urges you to exchange your ducal arms for the civic crown. Come, prince, pick up courage; there still remains in our monarchy a fine opening at your disposal, a position such as la Fayette might occupy in a Republic, that of the first citizen of France. Your princedom is but a paltry sinecure beside that moral kingdom!"
"And in order not to depart from his custom of offering advice, the writer of this letter urges you to exchange your ducal arms for the civic crown. Come, prince, pick up courage; there still remains in our monarchy a fine opening at your disposal, a position such as la Fayette might occupy in a Republic, that of the first citizen of France. Your princedom is but a paltry sinecure beside that moral kingdom!"
Then, on the following page:—
"The French people is like a big baby in need of teaching. Let us pray it fall not into wicked hands."
"The French people is like a big baby in need of teaching. Let us pray it fall not into wicked hands."
Again:—
"An eager patriotism cannot hold out against a great and noble example, an eminent position and immense wealth—three qualifications all united in your Highness's person. With these you have but to stoop to pick up the jewel lying at your feet, which many are striving for, but cannot obtain for want of the qualifications you have been endowed with by the grace of God."
"An eager patriotism cannot hold out against a great and noble example, an eminent position and immense wealth—three qualifications all united in your Highness's person. With these you have but to stoop to pick up the jewel lying at your feet, which many are striving for, but cannot obtain for want of the qualifications you have been endowed with by the grace of God."
Then:—
"Furthermore, a prince who saw the State in peril would not be content to fold his arms lest the chariot, lacking direction, should overturn. We, on our part, have done all in our power; it is for you to try, and to seize hold of the wheel ere it go over the precipice."
"Furthermore, a prince who saw the State in peril would not be content to fold his arms lest the chariot, lacking direction, should overturn. We, on our part, have done all in our power; it is for you to try, and to seize hold of the wheel ere it go over the precipice."
And finally:—
"Whilst we are declining," said the writer of that letter, "the Duc de Bordeaux, the Duc de Chartres and even the Duc de Reichstadt are growing up...."
"Whilst we are declining," said the writer of that letter, "the Duc de Bordeaux, the Duc de Chartres and even the Duc de Reichstadt are growing up...."
Of the three princes specified by Cauchois-Lemaire as growing up at that period, only one survives.
The Duc de Reichstadt disappeared in 1832, as a shadow vanishes with the body that has thrown it. The Duc de Chartres was violently withdrawn from society in 1842, because, by his popularity, he was a substantial obstacle in the way of plans that were developing towards their accomplishment in 1848. Finally, the Duc de Bordeaux, whom Béranger had greeted in the name of his small cousin-german, the Duc de Reichstadt, was to join that duke in his exile two years before his death. What a melancholy yet eloquent spectacle for the populace was that of all those children, born with crowns on their heads or within their grasp, who were to cling weeping to the door-posts when the storm of revolution came to tear them away, one after the other, from the royal hostel which passes by the name of the palace of the Tuileries!
I gradually became acquainted with all the men of the Opposition party, who were beginning the work of undermining the monarchy at the commencement of the nineteenthcentury—the uncompleted task of the end of the eighteenth century. I met Carrel at M. de Leuven's house, where he often came, as he wrote for theCourrier, of which paper M. de Leuven was one of the chief editors. I met Manuel, Benjamin Constant and Béranger at Colonel Bro's; but Béranger was the only one of the three with whom I had time to become intimately acquainted or who had himself leisure to gauge me: the other two were to die, one before I became known, and the other when I was but little known. Bro was much attached to me. I have previously recorded how, thanks to him, I had seen Géricault upon his dying bed. He had one son, at that time a charming boy named Olivier, who became one of our bravest officers in the new army, as his father had been one of the bravest in the oldgrande armée.It was his life that was so miraculously saved by General Lamoricière when a Bedouin's yataghan was already at his throat. I have not seen him since 1829, and I am going to relate a story that will bring back recollections of childhood to him wherever he may be.
Colonel Bro used to procure Adolphe and me all the enjoyments he possibly could, and among them the sport of shooting. By some means or other, I know not how, he owned, at that time, the Lake of Enghien. In 1827 and '28 the Lake of Enghien was not a pretty little smooth, trim, well-kept lake as it is now; it had then no public gardens on its banks filled with roses, dahlias and jessamine; no Gothic châteaux, Italian villas and Swiss châlets all round it; nor, indeed, upon its surface had it a flotilla of swans, as now, begging for cakes from the people who hired boats at three francs fifty centimes the hour, furrowing the surface of its waters, which were as clear as the water in a basin, and as smooth as the glass of a mirror. No, the Lake of Enghien was, at that period, a simple, natural lake, too muddy to be called a lake, and not muddy enough to be called a pond. It was covered with reeds and water-lilies, amongst which diver birds played, water-hens cackled and wild ducks dabbled, in quite sufficient quantities to give sport to a score of guns.
So Colonel Bro had arranged for a day's shooting at Adolphe's and my entreaty and had fixed a Sunday, as on that day Adolphe and I were free from our desks and could take part. The rendezvous was to be at Colonel Bro's house at seven o'clock. We left the rue des Martyrs in three carriages and were at Enghien by nine. Here a breakfast, worthy of a Saxon thane, awaited the guests. At ten o'clock we began our sport; by five we again found a good meal served, and by eleven at night we were all back in our various homes. I was always ready before other people if it were a question of shooting, so I turned up at Colonel Bro's house by half-past six in the morning. I was shown into a little boudoir, where I found myself tête-à-tête with an immense blue-and-red Carolina parroquet. The parroquet was on its stand and I sat down on a sofa. Now I have always felt the greatest respect for men with large noses and animals with big beaks; not because I think them pretty, but because I believe Nature has her reasons when she produces a monstrosity. And on these grounds, Colonel Bro's parrot was fully entitled to my most profound respect. So I addressed a few polite words to it, as I sat down, as I have said, on a couch opposite its perch. The parroquet looked me over for a minute with that melancholy expression peculiar to parroquets; then, with that precaution which never deserts them, it slowly climbed down each branch of its perch, by the help of its claws and beak; then, finally, down the main pole of the perch itself, until it reached the ground. Then it came across to me, waddling, stopping, looking round it on all sides, and uttering a cry at every step it took, until it had reached the toe of my boot, when it began to try to climb my leg. Touched by this mark of confidence on the bird's part, I stretched out my hand to spare it the trouble of the climb; but, whether it was under a misapprehension as to the friendliness of my intentions, or whether it disguised a premeditated attack behind a benevolent exterior, it had scarcely caught sight of my hand within reach when it seized my fore-finger and gave me a double bite above the first joint right throughto the bone. The pain was all the more violent because it was unexpected. I uttered a shriek, and, by a convulsive movement, my leg stiffened with the elasticity of a steel spring, and I kicked the parrot spinning with the end of my hunting-boot, in the centre of its breast, sending it flat against the wall. It fell to the floor, and lay there without a movement. Was its death caused by the kick or by the blow that followed? Was it caused by my boot or by contact with the wall? I never found out, and I made no attempt to ascertain, for I heard footsteps in the next room. I seized hold of the bird, which was still motionless, I raised the cover of the couch, I pushed it with my foot underneath into the dark depths, I let fall the cover again and I sat down as though nothing extraordinary had happened. Next, I bound up my finger I with my handkerchief, and then Colonel Bro entered. We exchanged greetings and, as I kept my hand in my pocket, nothing was noticed.
Everyone came, and we set out without a single cry or movement, or sign of existence from the parroquet buried under the couch.
When we reached Enghien, one of our party seemed to have his hand bandaged up like mine, and fellow-feeling opened up a current of sympathy between us. I asked him how he had met with his accident. A door had been violently shut by the wind just as he had his hand between it and the doorpost, and his fingers had been caught. As for myself, I simply told him I had cut myself with the flint of my gun; for in those days I still used a flint-gun for shooting. This sportsman who was maimed in the same hand as I was turned out to be the celebrated Doctor Ferrus. Directly he heard my name he asked me if I was the son of General Alexandre Dumas, and, on my replying in the affirmative, he related the story of the lifting of the four muskets with four fingers, that I gave on his authority in the early portion of these Memoirs.
We had with us, too, among the shooters, a friend of Telleville Arnault—a man who was certainly one of thebravest, wittiest and most original people who ever breathed—Colonel Morrisel. He wore spectacles and looked anything but a colonel. He had just fought an unsuccessful duel which made more sensation than if it had come off successfully.
In those days, there was a café called the caféFrançaisin the rue Lafitte, which was the rallying-place of fashionable young men. The head waiter was a great billiard player named Changeur, and one night he was playing with a very young man, who found it necessary to take lessons at three francs the game, when M. le Baron de B——, accompanied by one of his friends, entered the establishment. M. le Baron de B was somewhat of a tricky character, and notorious, besides, because of two or three lucky or unlucky duels (according to the degree of philanthropy with which the reader may be endowed, and whether he think it fortunate or unfortunate to wound or kill his neighbour); he came up to the billiard-table and, without even addressing the young man, he said—
"Changeur, get us some coffee, and let us have the billiard-table."
"Excuse me, Monsieur le Baron," said Changeur, in amazement, pointing to the young man, "but I am engaged in a game."
"Well, then, you will stop the game, that's all."
"Monsieur," said the young man timidly and politely, "we have only a few points more to make; in ten minutes the billiard-table will be at your service."
"I am not asking for it in ten minutes, but at once.... Come, Changeur, come, my lad, give me your cue."
Morrisel, who was already old, grey, thin, feeble, mean-looking and poverty-stricken in appearance, was taking a cup of coffee in a corner.
"Changeur," he said, without rising, and in dulcet tones, that contrasted oddly with the words he uttered,—"Changeur, my lad, I forbid you to give up the billiard-table."
"But, monsieur," replied Changeur, in great embarrassment, "if indeed M. le Baron de B—— wishes me to give him my cue...."
"If you give your cue to M. le Baron, Changeur, I shall take it out of the hands of M. le Baron and break it across your head!"
M. le Baron de B—— saw clearly enough that Changeur was merely being used as a spark to kindle the flame. The thrust had, in fact, been aimed at him and he returned the stroke in the direction whence it came.
"It seems to me, monsieur," he said, "you are very anxious to pick a quarrel with me."
"I am charmed, monsieur, that you see things so plainly!"
"And what is your excuse for picking a quarrel with me?"
"Why, because you have abused your position with respect to that young fellow, and all misuse of power, no matter what it is, appears to me odious."
"Do you know who I am, monsieur?" said the Baron de B——, striding towards Morrisel with a threatening air.
"Yes, monsieur," replied the latter, calmly lifting his spectacles; "you are M. le Baron de B——. You killed M.—— in one duel and wounded M.—— in another. I know that much about you."
"And yet you insist I shall not have the billiard-table given up to me?"
"I insist more pertinaciously than ever!"
"Very well, monsieur; but you understand that I look upon your remarks as an insult."
"I offer no objection, monsieur."
"Therefore, we shall meet to-morrow morning at six o'clock, if you please, in the bois de Vincennes, or in the bois de Boulogne."
"Monsieur, I am twenty-five years your senior, and I need more sleep; besides, I am a player, and I generally play all night long, therefore I do not go to bed before five and I rarely rise before noon. Then, when I get up, I have my toilet to make—a habit I have maintained too long to break through now. When my toilet is finished, my servant gets ready mydéjeuner.After I have had lunch, I come here for my coffee, as you perceive; I am extremely methodical. Now,all this takes me till two o'clock. Therefore, to-morrow, if that will be convenient to you, I shall be at your disposal by half-past two, but not until half-past two."
"At half-past two so be it, monsieur; here is my card."
Morrisel examined it with attention, bowed in acknowledgment, put it in his pocket, drew forth two cards bearing his address, presented one to M. le Baron de B—— and wrapped the other in a five-hundred franc note. Then he called to Changeur, M. le Baron de B—— watching what he was doing.
"Changeur," he said, "here is a five-hundred franc note."
"Does Monsieur wish to settle his account?" asked Changeur.
"No, no, my lad."
"What am I to do, then, with this five-hundred franc note?"
"First of all take Monsieur's measurements."
Changeur looked at the Baron de B——, frightened out of his wits.
"Do you hear?" said Morrisel, "and when you have taken his measure you can go with it to the undertaker's."
"To the undertaker ...?"
"Yes, Changeur; and there you can order in my name—in the name of Colonel Morrisel, you quite understand?—a first-rate funeral equipage for M. le Baron de B——. You understand, it is to be of the very best!—I know it will come to more; but the five hundred francs will do on account;—you understand, Changeur? it is to be a thoroughly good funeral."
M. le Baron de B—— tried to take it as a joke.
"Monsieur," he said, "I should have thought you could have left my family to make these arrangements."
"Not so, M. le Baron; your family is ruined—so people say—and the thing would be shabbily done. Think of carrying M. le Baron de B—— to the cemetery in a second-rate hearse, or with a third-rate pall! Fie! I have killed twenty-two menin duels during my life, M. le Baron, and I have always borne the cost of their burials. Rely upon me, you shall be handsomely buried. When strangers see your cortège pass by, I mean them to ask, 'Dear me! whose is that magnificent funeral?' Then, as it passes along the boulevard, Changeur will reply, 'It is that of M. le Baron de B——, the famous duellist, you know. He rudely forced a quarrel on a young fellow who could not defend himself; Colonel Morrisel happened to be present, took up cudgels for the young man and, upon my word, if he didn't kill the Baron de B—— at the first thrust! It will be an excellent example for all impertinent people and duellists ...' Au revoir, M. le Baron de B——, that is to say, until to-morrow. You know my address, send me the names of your seconds; yours is the choice of arms."
Then, turning towards the waiter: "And now, Changeur, my lad, you understand, a first-class turn out—the very best that can be had! Nothing shall be too good for M. le Baron de B——!"
And he readjusted his spectacles, took up his umbrella and went out.
The quarrel had made a great commotion, and next day, from noon onwards, the caféFrançaiswas crowded with inquisitive people, anxious to know what had passed and, still more, what was going to happen. At one o'clock Morrisel arrived as usual, his spectacles on his nose, his umbrella in his hand. Everybody made way for him. Morrisel bowed with his accustomed politeness, went to his usual place and called for Changeur, who ran to him and hastened to serve him.
"My coffee, Changeur," said Morrisel; and he phlegmatically melted his sugar into the last atom, and then M. le Baron de B—— entered the café.
He advanced towards Morrisel, who raised his glasses, and returned his adversary's salute with a smile on his lips.
"Monsieur le Comte," said the baron, "when I insulted you yesterday, I was not sober; to-day, I offer you my apologies, will you please accept them? I have made reparation, and Ican therefore address you thus without damage to my honour."
"That is your own concern, M. le Baron," returned Morrisel.
Then he turned to Changeur: "Changeur, go and tell the undertaker that M. le Baron's funeral is indefinitely postponed."
"It is unnecessary," said Changeur; "I took the liberty of waiting. Here is your note, Colonel."
"Then go and ask your master for my bill, my lad."
Changeur went to the desk and returned with an elaborately made out bill.
"Ah!" said Morrisel, lowering his glasses, "nine hundred francs. Stop, Changeur, here is another five-hundred franc note; the change is for the waiter."
Then, having finished his coffee with his accustomed nonchalance, he lowered his spectacles, took up his umbrella and departed amidst the applause of the customers and onlookers. If I remember rightly, Godefroy Cavaignac wrote a charming story on this anecdote.
Morrisel was also a card-player and would play as high as anybody wished. One night at a party at either Madame Regnault de Saint-Jean-d'Angely's or at Madame Davilliers', I forget which, we heard a little discussion being carried on at a card-table on which there were not quite twenty-five louis. We went closer and asked what it was about. Morrisel held the cards; he had passed seven times, and he had won six hundred thousand francs (I purposely express the figures in letters) from M. Hainguerlot. M. Hainguerlot took the cards and wagered to win back the 600,000 francs in a single game. Morrisel was willing to wager 500,000 francsen partie liée, running the risk of retaining only 100,000 francs of the celebrated banker's, for he looked upon himself (and rightly so, too) as a very good player, for when, finally, he rose from the table on makingCharlemagne, he had made for himself the sum of 30,000 livres income by this throw, which was not a bad sum for a retired colonel. When the question was argued out, each had made a concession. M. Hainguerlotagreed to a stake of 500,000 francs, and Morrisel renounced hispartie liée. Two witnesses were appointed for each side, as in the case of a duel. Morrisel lost. He got up with the same coolness as though it was only a question of a half-napoleon. True, he had still won 100,000 francs.
In summer, Morrisel sometimes lived at Madame Hamelin's country house at Val, near Saint-Len-Taverny. One day, at the beginning of the shooting season, he ventured out on the lands of the commune of Frépillon, where, encountering the gamekeeper, he was vigorously threatened with legal proceedings in case of a second offence. Morrisel was invited to dinner on the following Sunday at the château of Madame Regnault de Saint-Jean-d'Angely, situated on the other side of the forbidden territory. When Sunday arrived, so that it should not be said he had skulked across the forbidden land unperceived, Morrisel took with him the beadle, a wind instrument and four chanters, formed a square of six with himself in the centre, and crossed the Frépillon territory, shooting to the accompaniment of Gregorian chants. By the time he reached Madame Régnault de Saint-Jean-d'Angely, he was followed by the whole village, whose curiosity was greatly excited by this unprecedented method of going a hunting.
Poor Morrisel died from the effects of a painful disease. In spite of surgical assistance, in spite of nitrate of silver, in spite of Civiale, Pasquier and Dupuytren, it came about that, being a plentiful drinker, he could not get rid of a single drop of the liquor he had drunk when it was absorbed into his system. They prolonged his life by using means to make him perspire. Finally, one day, as he did not thoroughly understand what the doctors told him about his disease, he asked if, before he himself died, they could not procure him from any hospital the body of a person who had died of the disease of which he himself was to die. The doctors told him it was possible, and set to work to find one. Three or four days later, they told him they had found one. Morrisel bought it at the usual price—six francs, I believe—hadthe body brought close to his bedside, placed it on a table and begged one of the doctors to make a post-mortem examination. When the autopsy was finished, Morrisel had the satisfaction of knowing the exact nature of the malady from which he was suffering, and from henceforth was content to die quietly—an act, it should be recorded, which he accomplished with wonderful courage.
But to return to the parrot of the rue des Martyrs. A fortnight later, on returning to Colonel Bro's for another shooting trip like the former, I was astounded to find it on its perch again. But after a few minutes' gaze its stillness struck me as unusual. I went up to it: it was stuffed!
"Oh!" I said to the colonel, "your poor Jacquot is dead, is it?"
"Ah yes, it is," replied the colonel. "They told me a curious incident in connection with it—a story I had never believed previously, namely, that certain animals hide themselves to die, and that is why their bodies are never recovered...."
"Well?"
"Well, just think of it! that unlucky parroquet went and hid itself to die right underneath the sofa cover; we thought it was lost at first; we searched all over for it, and finally we found it there, the day after our shooting party."
"Did it ever bite people?" I timidly asked General Bro.
"It?Never!" was the colonel's reply.
I thought of showing the colonel my finger, which was still badly marked; but I reflected that it was much better to leave the colonel in ignorance as to his parroquet's defects of character and under the illusion that it had died, as indicated, a noble death. Now that many years have passed by since that event, and probably not a single feather of the unfortunate Jacquot remains, I humbly confess my crime, and ask for forgiveness from all whom it may concern.
Barthélemy and Méry—M. Éliça Gallay—Méry the draught-player and anatomist—L'Épître à Sidi Mahmoud—The Ponthieu library—Soulé—The Villéliade—Barthélemy the printer—Méry the improvisator—TheVœux de la nouvelle année—The pastiche ofLucrèce
Barthélemy and Méry—M. Éliça Gallay—Méry the draught-player and anatomist—L'Épître à Sidi Mahmoud—The Ponthieu library—Soulé—The Villéliade—Barthélemy the printer—Méry the improvisator—TheVœux de la nouvelle année—The pastiche ofLucrèce
At the beginning of the preceding chapter we spoke of poets who were prophets; now let us say a little about poets who fought for their craft. And among these, the most undaunted and persevering were without doubt MM. Barthélemy and Méry, who did the roughest kind of work as sappers, and helped in the toughest assaults in the first line of fighters. Both were Marseillais, but they were hardly acquainted with one another in 1825. M. Méry had never left Marseilles and M. Barthélemy, having left it as a child, had scarcely ever been there again.
M. Barthélemy (whom, if we may, we will call simply Barthélemy for brevity) was educated at the college of Juilly and received there an excellent education in Greek and Latin; he had already composed at Marseilles, after the style of Mathurin Régnier, a satire which had been much talked of, though never printed, when he published an ode to Charles X. at the time of the coronation. It was lost sight of beneath the successes of more famous poetic rivals of the period, even before it became known, and Barthélemy saw his ode pass away unnoticed, although it contained some striking stanzas, among them this one addressed to Camoëns:—
"Et toi, chantre fameux des conquérants de l'Inde,Fier de ton indigence et des lauriers du Pinde,Tu nageais sur les flots de l'abîme irrité,Et du double trépas vainqueur digne d'envie,D'une main tu sauvais ta vie,De l'autre tu sauvais ton immortalité!"
Barthélemy had inherited a certain patrimony from his father, and he lived quietly in the hôtelGrand-Balcon11 rue Traversière. Méry had also made his début at the age of eighteen, and paid for it by eight months' imprisonment. His début took the form of a pamphlet against M. Éliça Gallay.
When, after twenty-five years have flown by, one stops to look back over one's past life, one is surprised to find how many men and events are completely forgotten that in their time occasioned much stir in the world, remembrance of them being obliterated as soon as equilibrium was restored. M. Éliça Gallay was Inspector of the University.
One day he arrived at Marseilles and gave his usual discourse at the royal college. In this speech was the phrase which follows; we give the sense of it if not exactly the actual words:—
"Messieurs, we are obliged to have two scales of weights and measures. When a pupil is loyal and religious anything can be forgiven him; but if he be a Liberal the greatest severity must be exercised towards him."
The use of these two scales ofweightandmeasurementwas much commented upon in the newspapers at the time, and it disgusted Méry to such an extent that he wrote a pamphlet, of a somewhat scathing nature, it would seem, against M. Éliça Gallay; and this pamphlet, as we have said, cost our author eight months' imprisonment. Méry had no means of livelihood in Marseilles, he hated a commercial life, he could write poetry with the greatest facility and he was an adept in the art of draughts-playing. He would not dream of a commercial life, he could not count on poetry, so he resolved to make use of the game which, played as he played it, became an art. Méry left for Paris with the intention of making a living as a draught-player. He was thentwenty-one, and he lodged at Madame Caldairon's, 11 rue des Petits-Augustins, with Achille Vaulabelle, author of theDeux Restaurations, and began an existence divided between the study of geology under Cuvier and perfecting himself at draughts by playing with the best amateurs at the caféManoury.So he played draughts at the caféManouryand studied geology at the Jardin des Plantes. By playing ten sous a game—never more—Méry managed for a year to make an income of ten francs per day. On the other hand, he never missed his lesson in comparative anatomy, and Cuvier had not a more assiduous pupil than he; showing him great friendliness, and predicting that he would make a name in geology. In other ways, too, matters shaped themselves wonderfully to the advantage of the future of our friend from Marseilles. Madame Caldairon, who worshipped him, wanted him to marry a young dressmaker who was very much in the fashion at that time, and whose business, one of the most flourishing in Paris, brought in from twenty-five to thirty thousand francs a year. The marriage was arranged, and Méry was gleefully looking forward to a rosy future, when his young fiancée caught a chill one cold February night in 1826, when she and Méry were obliged to walk across the pont des Arts, as they could not get a cab anywhere, either in the rue Jacob or on the Embankment. The chill developed into pneumonia, she died in three days and Méry was a widower before he had become a husband. He believed himself to be condemned to eternal lamentation; but draughts and geology are powerful consolations, and, without forgetting the poor dear girl, Méry yet found his mind free enough one day to say to Barthélemy—
"My dear fellow, a man who could write satires at the present time would have a fine chance of an opening in politics and in poetry."
"Have you an idea?" asked Barthélemy.
"Yes, certainly."
"What is it?"
"An epistle to Sidi Mahmoud."
You have forgotten who Sidi Mahmoud was, have you not? Well then, I will refresh your memory.