He was the envoy sent by our friend the Bey of Tunis—who was then on not quite such amicable terms with us as he is to-day—to congratulate Charles X. on his accession to the throne. Sidi Mahmoud was received in state on 5 May at the Foreign Office, by M. le Baron de Damas, surrounded by peers, deputies and general officers. When the usher announced the ambassador, everybody rose with the exception of M. de Damas, who, representing the King of France, remained seated and covered. M. de Damas saluted the ambassador with a wave of his hand, and signed to him to be seated. The ambassador then delivered his letters and sat down, and it was left to an Arabian interpreter to translate them. Paris, having nothing special at that moment with which to occupy its attention, gave itself wholly and entirely to Sidi Mahmoud: his thirty years, his fine dark face, his white dolman embroidered in sky-blue silk and fastened with gold hooks, the two shawls that formed his turban and the cashmir robe flung over his shoulder. Méry was perfectly right; Barthélemy saw at once, as he had, that the plan was excellent. Unfortunately he had to go to London.
"Compose your epistle alone," he said to Méry, "and on my return we will talk again about the satire."
Barthélemy left for London, and Méry composed his epistle. When the epistle was composed, the worst part of his task was not over, for the question now was how to get it published.
Méry took his epistle to Ponthieu, who declared that nobody was reading poetry then! Méry naturally retorted by pointing to the twenty editions of Casimir Delavigne, to the fifteen editions of Béranger, to the twelve editions of Lamartine, to the ten editions of Victor Hugo; at each name Méry uttered, Ponthieu said—
"Oh! M. Casimir Delavigne, that is a different matter! Oh! M. Béranger, that is a different matter! Oh! M. Victor Hugo, that is a different matter! Oh! M. Lamartine, that is a different matter!"
Or, to translate it into the language of a publisher—
"My dear sir, all those gentlemen of whom you remind me are celebrated and possess talent, while you have neither of these qualifications."
Méry beat a retreat, his epistle in his hand, feeling defeated, repulsed, routed.
He had heard of another printer named Bérand; but, unfortunately, this man held views, he was a supporter of the Government. Méry decided to show him his ode as a piece of poetry written in M. de Villèle's honour. The printer's business instincts would do the rest.
Méry had made no mistake. The printer read the epistle to Sidi Mahmoud, quite approved of it and offered to print it on condition he should repay his own costs out of the proceeds of the first copies sold. They printed two thousand copies, and the two thousand disappeared in less than a week.
Meanwhile, Barthélemy had returned from London. On reaching Paris, he heard of the success of the epistle, and, taking time by the forelock, he composed another epistle entitledAdieux à Sidi Mahmoud, which was almost as popular as the first. Méry and Barthélemy had at that time an intimate friend who was one of the leading powers on theNain jaune. His name was Soulé, and he had just been sentenced to two months' imprisonment for an article on St. Domingo. Soulé had no inclination to spend his two months in prison, and, as he and Barthélemy happened to be very much alike in looks, sufficiently so for him to be able to use Barthélemy's passport, it was lent him; he set out for London, from London took passage to the United States, and he is to-day the foremost lawyer in New Orleans, where he is making an income of a hundred thousand francs per annum. Meanwhile, Méry was writing alone his epistle to M. de Villèle. These publications being in opposition to the Government, and full of satirical humour and the spirit of the hour, caught the public taste, and met with great success. Two more poets had now inscribed their names amongst those of the votaries of the poetic muse. And, as they were running on similar lines, they decided to combine and publish their works under the joint title ofVilléliade.Inthe end it ran through fifteen editions. But when theVilléliadewas finished there still remained, as in the case of theÉpître à Sidi Mahmoud, the great question as to what publisher would be bold enough to publish it. Publishers had three dangers to fear: fine, imprisonment or withdrawal of their licenses. The monarchy of 1826 did not treat such conduct as a trifling matter any more than does the Republic of 1852. Méry and Barthélemy went round to every publisher of their acquaintance offering their poem; one and all made as though they would accept it at first, but handed the MS. back after reading a verse or two, shook their heads and said—
"Let who will publish your poem, it certainly shall not be I!"
The two collaborators picked up their manuscript and went forth to make a fresh attempt on another publisher, with the same result. When they had exhausted the list of well-known publishing firms, they began to approach printers with whom they had had dealings. Printers were in the same situation as publishers, and were afraid of fine, imprisonment and the withdrawal of their licenses, just in the same way: they refused.
It is sad work to be left with five or six thousand lines of poetry on one's hands. And such lines! Lines which, a month later, the whole of France was to know by heart. Méry proposed to make a last attempt with a totally unknown printer. It was a desperate remedy, but desperate remedies sometimes save a patient's life. They opened thealmanack de la librairie, to find the name of a printer which, from the succession of letters in his name, its signification, or its sound, might give some hope either to the eyes or the ears of the two poets. There was a printer called Auguste Barthélemy, who lived at No. 10 rue des Grands-Augustins. The name struck the two authors as auguring good luck to them. They took up their MS. and went to M. Barthélemy's. They found a tall young man, with an intelligent face, a firm but pleasing expression and an honest, kindly air about him. They laid their difficulties before him.
"Your work, then, is antagonistic to the Government?" he asked.
"Yes, monsieur."
"Is it very strong?"
"Too strong, it would seem."
"And there is risk in printing it?"
"So we are told."
"All right I will print your work and run the risk...."
The two poets both held out their hands to M. Barthélemy, who reciprocated their greeting.
Ten days later theVilléliade, for which he had advanced the cost of printing, paper, binding, etc., made its appearance, and, as we have said, ran through fifteen editions! This printer, who favoured the Opposition in the time of the Bourbons and also under Louis-Philippe, was our good and brave friend Auguste Barthélemy, since representative for Eure-et-Loir, both to theConstituanteand to theLégislative.He was obliged to flee the country after 2 December, and he stayed five months in Brussels; now, having returned to France and having refused to take oath asconseiller généralhe lives in his château of Lévéville, a league from Chartres. Let us hasten to state that it was not out of his savings as a printer that he bought this château; no, alas! his commercial loyalty, of which we have just had an instance, cost him, on the contrary, something like a hundred and fifty to two hundred thousand francs! That is the history of theVilléliade.I have only to add that in the notes to the Sixth Song of theÉnéideBarthélemy stated that the poem was written by Méry alone.
I did not know Barthélemy well; I scarcely met him more than once or twice in my life; but I knew Méry very well. He has been, he is and he always will be, probably, one of my closest friends. And I can easily count the number of these friends: I have had but two or three at the most; I might, perhaps, say four. You see, therefore, that, however small my house, even supposing I had a house, it would never be filled.
Nothing was stranger than the physical and moral differences between Méry and Barthélemy. Barthélemy wasexceptionally tall, Méry of ordinary stature; Barthélemy was as cold as ice, while Méry was as hot as fire; Barthélemy was self-contained and quiet, Méry loquacious and as open as the day; Barthélemy lacked wit in conversation, while Méry poured forth a perfect cascade of smart sayings, a shower of sparks, a display of fireworks. Méry—and here I give up comparison—knew everything, or almost everything, it is possible for a man to know. He knew Greek like Plato, Rome like Vitruvius, India like Herodotus; he spoke Latin like Cicero, Italian like Dante, English like Lord Palmerston. Passionately fond of music, he was once arguing with Rossini, and he said to the composer ofMosesandWilliam Tell—
"Stay! you need say no more, you know nothing whatever about music!"
"True enough," replied Rossini.
Even the most highly gifted of men have their good and their bad days, their moments of heaviness and of gaiety. Méry was never tired, Méry was never barren. When, by chance, he did not talk, it was not that he was resting, but simply because he was listening; it was never because he was tired, it was simply that he held his tongue. If you wanted Méry to hold forth, you had just to put a match to his wick and set him on fire, and off he would go. And if you let him have free play and did not interfere with him, no matter whether the conversation were upon ethics, or literature, or politics, or travels, on Socrates or M. Cousin, Homer or M. Viennet, Napoleon or the president, Herodotus or M. Cottu, you would have the most extraordinary improvisation you ever heard. Then—still more incredible!—added to all this, he never said anything slanderous, or bitter, or carping, about a friend! If Méry had but once held the tips of a man's fingers in his clasp, the rest of the body was sacred in his eyes. And, indeed, what is it that makes men wicked? Envy! But what is there for Méry to be envious about? He is as learned as Nodier; as much a poet as all the rest of us put together; he is as idle as Figaro, as witty as—as Méry; a very fine position, it seems to me, in the literary world. As for Méry'saptitude, it became proverbial. I will give two examples of it. One evening, it was 31 December, a group of us were discussing this facile gift, and some literary Saint Thomas, whose name I forget, called it in question. Méry retorted by suggesting that he should be supplied with a certain number ofbouts-rimés, which he undertook to complete instantly. We set our heads together, and by a supreme effort of imagination we put together the following rhymes:—
"Choufleur,Trouble,Souffleur,Rouble.Clairon,Dune,Perron,Lune.Fusil,Coude,Grésil,Boude.Nacarat,Conque,Baccarat,Quelconque.Argo,Jongle,Camargo,Ongle."
In less time than it had taken us to find the rhymes Méry composed the following verses:—
VŒUX DE LA NOUVELLE ANNÉE——
Another evening, at the house of Madame de Girardin there was a heated discussion on Ponsard'sLucrèce.The Academy, spiteful and driven to bay, was, just because of its malice, obliged to simulate some show of good feeling. So, although it was not acquainted with a single word ofLucrèce, the Academy puffed it up, praised it, extolled it to the skies. The work became the adopted daughter of all those impotent beings who, having never begot offspring, are reduced to pet the children of others; it was, in short, a work which was going to compete withMarion DelormeandLucrèce Borgia, theMaréchale d'AncreandChatterton,AnthonyandMademoiselle de Belle-Isle.So there was mirth at the palais Mazarin.
Whilst waiting for the appearance of thechef-d'œuvre, we aired our own views on the subject. I was acquainted with and had heardLucrèce.I knew that it was an estimable tragedy of the schoolboy type, conscientiously put together by its author, who, perhaps slightly ignorant of the Roman eras, seemed to me to have confused the Rome of the kings with that of the emperors, Sextus Tarquin with Caligula, Tully with Messalina; but, nevertheless, I maintained that thework, devoid though it was of imagination and dramatic power, deserved a hearing because of its style, when Méry said—
"I mean to write aLucrèce, and to get it played before Ponsard'sLucrèceitself appears. It is advertised for the 25th of the month; it is now the 14th—it will not be played till the 30th. There is more than time enough to compose two thousand lines, to get them read, distributed, rehearsed and played."
"How long will it take you to complete your tragedy?" I said to Méry.
"Why! four hundred lines an act, five acts in five days——"
"So, to-morrow night you can give us the first Act?"
"To-morrow night, yes."
We arranged to meet again the next evening, not in the least counting on the first Act of Méry'sLucrèce. Next day we were all at the appointed place, punctual to the minute. We turned ourselves into an audience to listen to his reading. A glass of water was brought to Méry. He sat down at the table, and we made a circle round about. He drew his manuscript from his pocket, coughed, just moistened his lips with the water and read the following scenes.
He had not finished the Act because he had been interrupted, but as we entered thesalle à mangerhe offered to finish what was wanting before the end of the evening.
TRAGÉDIE
SCÈNE PREMIÈRE
La maison de l'aruspice Faustus, c'est-à-dire une vaste treille à mi-côte du mont Quirinal. A gauche, la façade d'une maison en briques rouges; devant la porte, un autel supportant un dieu pénate en argile; au pied du Quirinal, dans un fond lumineux, le Champ de Mars bordé par le Tibre
La maison de l'aruspice Faustus, c'est-à-dire une vaste treille à mi-côte du mont Quirinal. A gauche, la façade d'une maison en briques rouges; devant la porte, un autel supportant un dieu pénate en argile; au pied du Quirinal, dans un fond lumineux, le Champ de Mars bordé par le Tibre
FAUSTUS,seul, à l'autel de ses dieuxDieu pénate d'argile, ô mon dieu domestique!Un jour, tu seras d'or, sous un riche portique,Tel que Rome en prepare à nos dieux immortelsEt le sang des taureaux rougira tes autels.Mais, aujourd'hui, reçois avec un œil propiceLa prière et le don du pieux aruspice;Ces fruits qu'une vestale a cueillis, ce matin,Dans le verger du temple, au pied de l'Aventin,Et ce lait pur qui vient de la haute collineOù, la nuit, on entend une voix sibylline,Quand le berger craintif suspend aux verts rameauxLa flûte qu'un dieu fit avec sept chalumeaux.L'aube sur le Soracte annonce sa lumière;Si j'apporte déjà mon offrande première,C'est qu'une grande voix a retenti dans l'air;C'est que la foudre, à gauche, a grondé sans éclair,Et que, dans cette nuit sombre et mystérieuse,A gémi l'oiseau noir aux branches de l'yeuse.O dieu lare! dis-moi quel forfait odieuxDoit punir aujourd'hui la colère des dieux,Afin que le flamine et la blanche vestaleOuvrent du temple saint la porte orientale,Et qu'au maître des dieux, dans les rayons naissants,Montent avec le jour la prière et l'encens.SCÈNE IIFAUSTUS, BRUTUS,en tunique de couleur brune, comme unlaboureur suburbainBRUTUSQue les dieux te soient doux, vieillard, et que CybèleJamais dans tes jardins n'ait un sillon rebelle!La fatigue m'oppresse; à l'étoile du soir,Hier, je vins à la ville ...FAUSTUSIci, tu peux t'asseoir.Modeste est ma maison, étroite est son enceinte.Mais j'y vénère encor l'hospitalité sainte,Et j'apaise toujours la faim de l'indigent,Comme si mon dieu lare était d'or ou d'argent.BRUTUSJe le sais.FAUSTUSQuelle rive, étranger, t'a vu naître?BRUTUSQuand les dieux parleront, je me ferai connaître.Ma mère est de Capène; elle m'accoutuma,Tout enfant, à servir les grands dieux de Numa.Du haut du Quirinal, on voit ma bergerieSous le bois saint aimé de la nymphe Égérie,Et jamais le loup fauve, autour de ma maison,Ne souilla de ses dents une molle toison.FAUSTUSEt quel secret dessein à la ville t'amène?BRUTUSLa liberté!... Jadis Rome était son domaine,Lorsque les rois pasteurs, sur le coteau voisin,Pauvres, se couronnaient de pampre et de raisin;Lorsque le vieux Évandre arrivait dans la plaine,Pour présider aux jeux, sous un sayon de laine,Et que partout le Tibre admirait sur ses bordsDes vertus au dedans et du chaume au dehors ...Mais ces temps sont bien loin! Tout dégénère et tombeLe puissant Romulus doit frémir dans sa tombe,En écoutant passer sur son marbre divinDes rois ivres d'orgueil, de luxure et de vin!FAUSTUSJeune homme, la sagesse a parlé par ta bouche.Ton regard est serein; ta voix rude me touche.Non, tu n'es pas de ceux qui vont à nous, rampantSous l'herbe des jardins, comme fait le serpent;Infâmes délateurs qui touchent un salaireEn révélant au roi la plainte populaire,Et livrent au bourreau, sous l'arbre du chemin,Tout citoyen encor fier du nom de Romain ...BRUTUSPrêtre, écoute ton fils.—Tu te souviens, sans doute,D'un nom sacré, d'un nom que le tyran redoute,D'un nom qui flamboyait sur le front d'un mortel,Comme un feu de Cybèle allumé sur l'autel,De Brutus?FAUSTUSSa mémoire est-elle ensevelie?Ce nom est-il de ceux que le Romain oublie?Il vivra tant qu'un prêtre en tunique de linDira l'hymme de Rome au dieu capitolin!Je l'ai connu! J'ai vu s'incliner, comme l'herbe,Ce héros sous le fer de Tarquin le Superbe!..Il est mort! Morts aussi tous ses nobles parents,Hécatombe de gloire immolée aux tyrans!BRUTUSPrêtre, il lui reste un fils.FAUSTUSJe le sais: corps sans âme!Noble front que le ciel a privé de sa flamme!Ombre errante qui va demander sa raisonAu sang liquide encore au seuil de sa maison!BRUTUSC'est un faux bruit: sa main à la vengeance est prête;Minerve a conservé sa raison dans sa tête.Son père lui légua son visage, sa voix,Sa vertu ...FAUSTUS,s'écriantDieux, je veux l'embrasser!BRUTUSTu le vois.FAUSTUSOh!...(Serrant Brutus dans ses bras)Les dieux quelquefois jettent sur la paupièreUn voile, comme ils font aux images de pierre;La vieillesse est aveugle! Oh! je te reconnais!Je rentre dans la vie ... Oui, mon fils, je renais!O dieu lare, pourquoi ton funèbre présage?Oui, voilà bien son pas, son regard, son visage,Son maintien de héros, son geste triomphant!Brutus, mort sous mes yeux, revit en son enfant!Mes pleurs réjouiront ma paupière ridée!...Dis, quel heurteux distin t'a conduit?BRUTUSUne idée.Le temps est précieux; le premier rayon d'orLuit sur le fronton blanc de Jupiter Stator.Il faut agir! Apprends que, dans Rome, j'épieLes cyniques projets de cette race impie,Et qu'elle nous prépare un crime de l'enfer,Rêvé par l'Euménide en sa couche de fer.La ville de nos dieux par le crime est gardée;Le sénat dort; Tarquin fait le siège d'Ardée;La justice se voile et marche d'un pas lent;Sextus règne au palais! Sextus!... un insolent!Entouré nuit et jour de ses amis infâmes,Braves comme Ixion pour insulter les femmes!Ne laissant, sous le chaume ou le lambris doré,Dans une alcôve en deuil, qu'un lit déshonoré!Ce matin, éveillé, l'aube luisant à peine,J'ai vu Sextus assis sous la porte Capène.Il parlait, l'imprudent! et ne se doutait pasDu fantôme éternel qui brûle tous ses pas!Donc, j'ai su qu'il attend que Rome tout entièreS'éveille, et qu'un esclave apporte sa litière.Je ne puis en douter: un obscène souci,Avant le grand soleil, doit le conduire ici.FAUSTUSIci?BRUTUSDans ta maison quel dieu jaloux amène,Par ce sentier désert, une dame romaine?FAUSTUSUne seule ... elle vient aux heures du matin.BRUTUSQuel est son nom?FAUSTUSL'hymen l'unit à Collatin.BRUTUSLucrèce!... Dieux, le lys de notre gynécée!Sainte pudeur, défends ta fille menacée!FAUSTUSSon époux est absent, et, quand le jour a lui,Elle vient consulter les augures pour lui.BRUTUSOh! qu'aujourd'hui des dieux la puissance immortelleL'écarte!FAUSTUSUn bruit de pas!...BRUTUSSainte pudeur! c'est elle!...
Now we certainly wanted our joke, but we did not wish to commit a murder; and to have played this piece at the Théâtre-Français or at the Porte-Saint-Martin, before M. Ponsard'sLucrèce, would assuredly have killed the latter. Méry, therefore, pulled himself up half-way through the first Act.
One last word about 1828.
At this period, Méry lived at 29 rue du Harlay, in the same rooms with Carrel. Their evening gatherings generally consisted of Rabbe, Raffenel and Reboul.
Of these five friends, who were well-nigh inseparable, four were carried off cruelly in the prime of their life. Rabbe, by a terrible disease that brought him to his grave as disfigured as though his features had been gnawed by a tiger. Carrel and Reboul were killed in duels, the one at Saint-Mandé, the other at Martinique. Raffenel was blown to pieces on the Acropolis by a Turkish cannon-ball.
I pass from the Secretarial Department to the Record Office—M. Bichet—Wherein I resemble Piron—My spare time—M. Pieyre and M. Parseval de Grandmaison—A scene missing inDistrait—La Peyrouse—A success all to myself
I pass from the Secretarial Department to the Record Office—M. Bichet—Wherein I resemble Piron—My spare time—M. Pieyre and M. Parseval de Grandmaison—A scene missing inDistrait—La Peyrouse—A success all to myself
It was in the Luxembourg Gardens that I first made the acquaintance of Méry. I was introduced to him there. We drew together like iron and magnet; and, although I really could not say which of us was iron and which magnet, we became inseparable. I was already well forward with my dramaChristine.I repeated about two or three hundred lines to him, and he encouraged me greatly. I stood in much need of this encouragement.
I had just undergone a change of position. When Oudard saw that I was incorrigible, and found out that I was working at a drama, he moved me from the Secretarial Department to the Record Offices. And this was equivalent to disgracing me. I was put there with a tiny old man of eighty years, called M. Bichet, who since 1788 had always dressed in a pair of satin breeches, variegated stockings, a black cloth coat and a waistcoat of flowered silk. This costume was finished off with ruffles and frills. His face, which was surrounded by a halo of snow-white hair ending in a little queue, was ruddy and honest and kindly in expression. He tried to receive me rudely, but did not manage to succeed. My extreme politeness to him disarmed him. He showed me my place, and loaded my table with all the accumulated arrears of work that lack of a clerk for a month had brought about. I finished the work by the end of three days. I carried it to him in his office, and asked him for something else.
"What! something else already?" he exclaimed.
"Certainly."
"Why?"
"Because I have done what you gave me."
"Completely finished it?"
"Completely."
"Oh! oh! oh!" gasped M. Bichet.
And he picked up my work with the air of a man who says to himself, "It must have been pretty badly scamped!"
M. Bichet was mistaken: my mettle had been roused. Each report, each despatch, each copy drew from him an exclamation of delight.
"Really," he said, "really this is very good! Excellent, monsieur, excellent!... Your writing is the same style as Piron's, monsieur."
"The deuce! That is a fine compliment for me."
"You know Piron's handwriting? He was a copying clerk for five years in this Record Office, monsieur."
"Oh, indeed!... So my handwriting is like his?"
"You have another point in common with him, I hear."
"What is that, monsieur?"
"You write poetry."
"Alas!..."
He came up to me and said roguishly—
"Are the poems you compose the same style of thing as his?"
"No, monsieur."
"Ah! I thought not. Piron was a gay young dog!... I saw him at Madame de Montesson's.... I suppose you never knew Madame de Montesson, did you?"
"Yes, I did, monsieur; my father took me to her house when I was quite a child."
"She was a charming woman, monsieur, a charming woman, and she entertained the best society of Paris."
"Now, monsieur," I asked, "will you please give me some fresh work?"
"What work?"
"Why! any work."
"But there is no more to do!"
"What! nothing else to do?"
"No, since you have finished everything."
"But what, then, am I to do?"
"Whatever you like, monsieur."
"Do you mean I am to do what I like?"
"Yes ... until fresh work comes, when I will put it on your desk, and you can then set to work on it."
"And in my spare moments?..."
"Young man, young man! at your age you ought not to waste a single moment."
"I am quite of your opinion, monsieur, and you will be convinced of my industry if you will let me finish...."
"Ah! ah!"
"I want to know if I may work at my tragedy in my spare time?"
Notice that I saidtragedyinstead ofdrama; I did not wish to frighten M. Bichet.
"Are you composing a tragedy, then?" he said.
"Hum!... I do not know whether I ought to tell you."
"Why not? I see no harm in it. My old friend Pieyre has written a comedy."
"Yes, monsieur, and a very striking one it is:l'École des Pères."
"You know it?"
"I have read it."
"Good.... Then, too, another old friend of mine, Parseval de Grandmaison, writes epic poetry."
"Yes—Philippe-Auguste, for instance."
"You have read it?"
"No, I confess I have not."
"Well then, let me say that although the one writes comedies and the other epic poems, they are none the less worthy men for all that."
"On the contrary, monsieur, they are both excellent fellows."
"Have you met them?"
"Never."
"Hum ... Hum...."
And M. Bichet seemed to be thinking over something to himself.
"Good!..." he said, after a moment's silence.
"Then, monsieur, you have nothing more to say to me at present?"
"Nothing."
"Of course I shall be at my desk, and if you want me...."
"Certainly; you can go."
I resumed my seat with delight. Except for losing Lassagne and Ernest, my disgrace resolved itself into a privilege. The office-boy warned me that if I arrived before eleven o'clock, I should not find him there, and if I stayed past four he would lock me in when he went. So, no more portfolios to make up, all my evenings to myself, and a chief who did not prevent me from writing tragedies! And, forthwith, I set to work onChristine.I cannot say how long I had been working when the office-boy came to tell me that M. Bichet wanted me in his office. I went in at once. M. Bichet was not alone this time; on his right stood a short old man, and on his left a tall old man. As they stood there, the three judges, before whom I seemed about to be arraigned, looked not unlike Minis, Æacus and Rhadamanthus. I bowed, feeling considerably surprised.
"See, there he is," said M. Bichet. "Upon my word, his handwriting is beautiful, it is exactly like Piron's, and he has done fifteen days' work in three."
"What did you tell me monsieur did besides?" asked the tall old man.
"Why, he writes poetry!"
"Ah! yes, quite so, poetry...."
A light dawned on me.
"Have I the honour of addressing M. Parseval de Grandmaison?" I asked.
"Yes, monsieur," he replied.
Then, turning to the other old gentleman, he said—
"Only think, my dear Pieyre, I am so absent-minded, that the most extraordinary thing happened to me the other day."
"What was it?"
"Just imagine! I forgot my own name."
"Bah!" exclaimed M. Bichet.
"Your own name? Not your own name?" queried M. Pieyre.
"Yes, my name, my very own name! It was at the marriage contract of ... what's his name ... you know, who married the daughter of so and so...?"
"How can I assist you on such slight information as that?"
"Oh! dear, dear! the daughter of so and so ... who is my colleague at the Academy?... who writes comedies ... who wrote ... I cannot remember what it was.... A play that Mercier had already done; you know well enough?"
"Alexandre Duval?..."
"Yes, yes; it was at the signing of the contract of what's his name ... who married his daughter ... an architect ... who wrote a work on something ... that was burned ... in the eruption of Vesuvius, where somebody or other died...."
"Oh, yes! Marois, who wrote a work onPompeii, where Pliny died?" I hazarded timidly.
"That is exactly it!... Thanks, monsieur."
And he quietly stretched himself back in his arm-chair, after having first made me a gracious bow.
"Well then," said M. Bichet, "come, now finish your story, my dear friend."
"What story?"
"Why, the story you were telling."
"Was I telling a story?"
"Of course," said M. Pieyre; "you were relating, my dear friend, that at the signing of the marriage contract of Marois, who has married the daughter of Alexandre Duval, you had forgotten your name."
"Oh yes, true.... Well then, this was it. Everybodysigned: then I said to myself, 'Now comes my turn to sign,' and I prepared to do so. I began to think what my name was and—the deuce! I couldn't remember it any longer! I thought I should be obliged to ask my neighbour what I was called, and how humiliating that would be to me. It was on the ground floor, and the door opened out on the garden. I hurried into the garden, striking my forehead and saying to myself, 'You rascal! you rascal! what is your name?' Yes, indeed, if I had but had to remember my name to save myself from being hanged I should have been hanged, right enough. Meanwhile my turn to sign had come, and people were searching for me. Alexandre Duval caught sight of me in the garden. 'Well, this is fine,' he said; 'there is that devil of a Parseval de Grandmaison overcome by a poetic seizure, just when he ought to be signing.... Here! Parseval de Grandmaison!' 'That is it,' I exclaimed, 'that is it: Parseval de Grandmaison! Parseval de Grandmaison! Parseval de Grandmaison!' and I went up to the table and signed."
"That is just the scene needed in theDistrait," I said, smiling.
"Yes, monsieur, you are quite right, it does need it; and if you wrote poetry I should say to you 'Add it.'"
"But," M. Bichet interpolated, "he does write poetry, that was the very reason why you had him called in."
"Ah, true, true!... Well then, young man, come, recite some of your lines to us."
"Something out of your tragedy."
"Ah! you are writing a tragedy?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"What is your subject?" asked M. Parseval de Grandmaison.
"Christine...."
"A good subject! Somebody has written one on the same theme.... Very poor! ah! very poor!"
"Pardon me, messieurs, I would much rather recite you something other than lines out of my tragedy." The lines of my tragedy were dramatic lines, which would probably not be very much to the taste of these gentlemen. "I would far rather," I added, "recite you an ode."
"Oh! oh! an ode!" said M. Parseval de Grandmaison."
"Oh! oh! an ode!" said M. Pieyre.
"Oh! oh! an ode!" said M. Bichet.
"Well, then, now for the ode," said M. Parseval. "What is it on, young man?"
"You may remember that, for some time past, people have been much taken up with la Peyrouse? The papers have even lately been announcing that traces of the shipwreck have been found...."
"Is that so?" asked M. Bichet.
"Yes, it is," said M. Pieyre.
"I knew la Peyrouse well," said M. Parseval de Grandmaison.
"I, too," said M. Pieyre.
"I did not know her," said M. Bichet, "but I knew Piron."
"That is not the same thing," said M. Parseval.
"Let us have your ode, young man," said M. Pieyre.
"This is it, monsieur, since you would like to hear it."
"Come, come, don't be afraid," said old Bichet.
I rallied all my powers, and in fairly confident tones I repeated the following lines, which I think may indicate that I had made some progress:—
LA PEYROUSELe ciel est pur, la mer est belle!Un vaisseau, près de fuir le port,Tourmente son ancre rebelle,Fixée au sable, qu'elle mord.Il est impatient d'une ondePlus agitée et plus profonde;Le géant voudrait respirer!Il lui faut pour air les tempêtes;Il lui faut les combats pour fêtes,Et l'Océan pour s'égarer.Silencieux et solitaire,Un homme est debout sur le pont,Son regard, fixé vers la terre,Trouve un regard qui lui répond.Sur le rivage en vain la foule,Comme un torrent, s'amasse et roule,Il y suit des yeux de l'amourCelle qui, du monde exilée,Doit désormais, triste et voilée,Attendre l'heure du retour.[1]Son œil se trouble sous ses larmes,Et, pourtant, ce fils des dangersA vu de lointaines alarmes,A vu des mondes étrangers:Deux fois le cercle de la terre,Découvrant pour lui son mystère,Des bords glacés aux bords brûlants,Sentit, comme un fer qui déchire,La carène de son navireSillonner ses robustes flancs.Et la fortune enchanteresseNe l'entraînait pas sur les flots;L'espoir de la douce paresseNe berçait pas ses matelots.Dédaigneux des biens des deux mondes,Il ne fatiguait pas les ondesPour aller ravir, tour à tour,L'or que voit germer le PotoseL'émeraude à Golconde éclose,Et les perles de Visapour.C'est une plus noble espéranceQui soutient ses travaux divers.Sa parole, au nom de la France,Court interroger l'univers.Il faut que l'univers réponde!Dans son immensité féconde,Peut-être cherche-t-il encorQuelque désert âpre et sauvage,Quelque délicieux rivage,Que garde un autre Adamastor.Il le trouvera! Mais silence!Du canon le bruit a roulé;Au haut du mât, qui se balance,Un pavillon s'est déroulé.Comme un coursier dans la carrièreTraîne un nuage de poussièreQue double sa rapidité,Le vaisseau s'élance avec grâce,A sa suite laissant pour traceUn large sillon argenté.Bientôt ses mâtures puissantesNe sont plus qu'un léger roseau;Ses voiles flottent, blanchissantes,Comme les ailes d'un oiseau.Puis, sur la mouvante surface,C'est un nuage qui s'efface,Un point que devinent les yeux,Qui s'éloigne, s'éloigne encore,Ainsi qu'une ombre s'évapore ...Et la mer se confond aux cieux.Alors, lentement dans la foule,Meurt le dernier cri du départ;Silencieuse, elle s'écouleEn s'interrogeant du regard.Puis l'ombre, à son tour descendue,Occupe seule l'étendue.Rien sur la mer, rien sur le port;Au bruit monotone de l'onde,Pas un bruit humain qui réponde:L'univers fatigué s'endort!Les ans passent, et leur silenceN'est interrompu quelquefoisQue par un long cri qui s'élance,Proféré par cent mille voix.On a, sur un lointain rivage,Trouvé les débris d'un naufrage ...Vaisseaux, volez sur cet écueil!Les vaisseaux ont revu la FranceMais les signes de l'espéranceSont changés en signes de deuil!Hélas!... combien de fois, trompée,La France reprit son espoir!Tantôt, c'est un tronçon d'épéeQu'aux mains d'un sauvage on crut voir;Tantôt, c'est un vieil insulaireSéduit par l'appât du salaire,Qui se souvient, avec effort,Que d'étrangers d'une autre raceJadis il aperçut la traceDans une île ... là-bas ... au nord.Que fais-tu loin de ta patrie,Qui t'aimait entre ses enfants,Lorsque, pour ta tête chérie,Elle a des lauriers triomphants?Pour toi, la mer s'est-elle ouverte?Dors-tu sur un lit d'algues vertes?Ou, par un destin plus fatal,Sens-tu tes pesantes journéesRouler sur ton front des annéesQu'ignore le pays natal?Et, pourtant, te dictant ta route,Un roi t'a tracé ton chemin;Mais du ciel le pouvoir, sans doute,A heurté le pouvoir humain.Et, tandis qu'à leur ignoranceDu retour sourit l'espérance,Dieu, sur les tables de la loi,A deux différentes tempêtesA déjà voué les deux têtesDu navigateur et du roi!..."
I had followed with the closest attention the effect produced upon my hearers. M. Parseval blinked his eyelids and simply twirled his thumbs one round the other; M. Pieyre opened his eyes very wide and smiled, his mouth also wide open. Old Bichet, as curious as I was as to the impression I was making on his two friends, seeing that this impression was favourable, shook his head delightedly, saying under his breath—
"Just like Piron! Just like Piron!
When I had finished, they burst out into applause, which was followed by all sorts of encouraging advice.
I did not know whether I stood on my head or my heels. Imagine the feelings of Ovid, exiled among the Thracians, when he found a sun more radiant than that at Rome, and on carpets of flowers more fragrant than those of Pæstum, under trees that lent a cooler shade than those by the Tiber, listened to the applause given hisTristiaand hisMetamorphoses.I gave thanks to the gods who, unsolicited, had granted me this moment of peace. We shall see that it was to be of but short duration.