[1]I resolutely stuck to this decision until the time when my great friendship with Maquet determined me to spring the surprise upon him of putting forth his name with mine as the author of the drama ofLes Mousquetaires.This was but fair, however, since we did not only the drama, but also the romance, in collaboration. I am delighted to be able to add, that, although we have not worked together now for a couple of years, the friendship is just the same, at all events on my side.
[1]I resolutely stuck to this decision until the time when my great friendship with Maquet determined me to spring the surprise upon him of putting forth his name with mine as the author of the drama ofLes Mousquetaires.This was but fair, however, since we did not only the drama, but also the romance, in collaboration. I am delighted to be able to add, that, although we have not worked together now for a couple of years, the friendship is just the same, at all events on my side.
Marion Delorme
I fell into meditation. What was the reason the public was not of my way of thinking aboutMarion Delorme? I had remarked to Taylor on the night of the reading at Devéria's—
"If Hugo makes as much dramatic progress as is usual in ordinary dramatic development, we shall all be done for!"
The first act ofMarion, in style and argument, is one of the cleverest and most fascinating ever seen on the stage. All the characters take part in it: Marion, Didier and Saverny. The last six lines forecast the whole play, even including the conversion of the courtesan. Marion remains in a reverie for a while, then she calls out—
"MARION.Dame Rose(Montrant la fenêtre.)Fermez ...DAME ROSE,à part.On dirait qu'elle pleure!(Haut.)Il est temps de dormir, madame.MARION.Oui, c'est votre heure,A vous autres ...(Défaisant ses cheveux.)Venez m'accommoder.DAME ROSE(la désabillant).Eh bien,Madame, le monsieur de ce soir est-il bien?...Riche?...MARION.Non.DAME ROSE.Galant?MARION.Non, Rose: il ne m'a pas mêmeBaisé la main!DAME ROSE.Alors, qu'en faites-vous?MARION,pensive.Je l'aime!..."
The second act scintillates with wit and poetry. The very original character of Langely, which is unfolded in the fourth act, is inserted as neatly as possible.
As regards poetry I know none in any other language constructed like this—
"Monsieur vient de Paris? Dit-on quelques nouvelles?—Point! Corneille toujours met en l'air les cervelles;Guiche a l'Ordre, Ast est duc. Puis des riens à foisson:De trente huguenots on a fait pendaison.Toujours nombre de duels. Le trois, c'était AugennesContre Arquien, pout avoir porté du point de Gênes.Lavardin avec Pons s'est rencontré le dix,Pour avoir pris a Pons la femme de Sourdis;Sourdis avec d'Ailly, pour une du théâtreDe Mondori; le neuf, Nogent avec la Châtre,Pour avoir mal écrit trois vers a Colletet;Gorde avec Margaillan, pour l'heure qu'il était;D'Humière avec Gondi, pour le pas à l'église;Et puis tous les Brissac contre tous les Soubise,A propos du pari d'un cheval contre un chien;Enfin, Caussade avec la Tournelle, pour rien,Poir le plaisir! Caussade a tué la Tournelle.. . . . . . . . .—Refais nous donc la listeDe tous ces duels ... Qu'en dit le roi?—Le cardinalEst furieux, et veux un prompt remède au mal!—Point de courrier du camp?—Je crois que, par surprise,Nous avons pris Figuière ... ou bien qu'on nous l'à prise ...C'est a nous qu'on l'a prise!—Et que dit de ce coupLe roi?—Le cardinal n'est pas content du tout!—Que fait la cour? le roi se porte bien, sans doute?—Non pas: le cardinal a la fièvre et la goutte,Et ne va qu'en litière.—Étrange original!Quand nous te parlons roi, tu réponds cardinal!—Ah! c'est la mode!"
In order to understand the value of the second act, we must quote line after line. The whole play, in fact, has but one defect: its dazzling poetry blinds the actors; players of the first order are necessary for the acting of the very smallest parts. There is a M. de Bouchavannes who says four lines, I think; the first two upon Corneille—
"Famille de robins, de petits avocats,Qui se sont fait des sous en rognant des ducats!"
And the other two upon Richelieu—
"Meure le Richelieu, qui déchire et qui flatte!L'homme a la main sanglante, à la robe écarlate!"
If you can get those four lines said properly by a supernumerary you will indeed be a great teacher! Or if you can get them said by an artiste, you will indeed be a clever manager! Then all the discussion upon Corneille and Gamier, which I imitated inChristine, is excellently appropriate. It had, in fact, come to open fighting from the moment they accused us of offending against good taste the theme supported by M. Étienne, M. Viennet and M. Onésime Leroy, and of placing before the public the opinion held about Corneille, when Cardinal Richelieu influenced the Academy to censure theCidin the same way that we in our turn hadcensured it! When I saythe same way, I mean the same as regards sequence of time and not of affiliation: Academicians do not reproduce; as is well-known, it is only with difficulty that they even manage to produce. In conclusion, the second act is admirably summed up in this line of Langely—
"Ça! qui dirait qu'ici c'est moi qui suis le fou?"
Then comes the third act, full of imagination, in which Laffemas, Richelieu's black servant, affords contrast to the grey figure of His Eminence; where Didier and Marion come to ask hospitality from the Marquis de Nangis, lost in the midst of a troop of mountebanks; when Didier learns from Saverny that Marie and Marion are one and the same woman, and where, his heart broken by one of the greatest sorrows that can wring man's soul, he gives himself up to the guilty lieutenant.
The fourth act is a masterpiece. It has been objected that this act no more belongs to the play than a drawer does to a chest of drawers; granted! But in that drawer the author has enclosed the very gem of the whole play: the character of Louis XIII., the wearied, melancholy, ill, weak, cruel and superstitious king, who has nobody but a clown to distract his thoughts, and who only talks with him of scaffolds and of beheadings and of tombs, not daring to complain to anyone else of the state of dependence in which the terrible Cardinal holds him.
Listen to this—
"LANGELY.—Votre Majesté donc souffre bien?LE ROI.—Je m'ennuie!"Moi, le premier de France, en être le dernier!Je changerais mon sort au sort d'un braconnier.Oh! chasser tout le jour en vos allures franches;N'avoir rien qui vous gêne, et dormir sous les branches;Rire des gens du roi, chanter pendant l'éclair,Et vivre libre au bois, comme l'oiseau dans l'air!Le manant est, du moins, maître et roi dans son bouge.Mais toujours sous les yeux avoir cet homme rouge;Toujours là, grave et dur, me disant à toisir:'Sire, il faut que ceci soit votre bon plaisir.'Dérision! cet homme au peuple me dérobe;Comme on fait d'un enfant, il me met dans sa robe;Et, lorsqu'un passant dit: 'Qu'est-ce donc que je voisDessous le cardinal?' on répond: 'C'est le roi!'Puis ce sont, tous les jours, quelques nouvelles listes:Hier, des huguenots, aujourd'hui, des duellistes,Dont il lui faut la tête ... Un duel! le grand forfait!Mais des têtes, toujours! qu'est-ce donc qu'il en fait?..."
In a moment of spite you hear him say to Langely—
"Crois-tu, si je voulais, que je serais le maître?"
And Langely, ever faithful, replies by this line, which has passed into a proverb—
"Montaigne dit: 'Que sais-je?' Et Rabelais: 'Peut-être!'"
At last he breaks his chain for a second, picks up a pen; and when on the point of signing a pardon for Didier and Saverny, to his jester, who says to him—
"Toute grâce est un poids qu'un roi du cœur s'enlève!"
he replies—
"Tu dis vrai: j'ai toujours souffert, les jours de Grève!Nangis avait raison, un mort jamais ne sert,Et Montfaucon peuplé rend le Louvre désert.C'est une trahison que de venir, en face,Au fils du roi Henri nier son droit de grâce!Que fais-je ainsi, déchu, détrôné, désarmé,Comme dans un sépulcre en cet homme enfermé?Sa robe est mon linceul, et mes peuples me pleurent ...Non! non! je ne veux pas que ces deux enfants meurent!Vivre est un don du ciel trop visible et trop beau!Dieu, qui sait où l'on va, peut ouvrir un tombeau;Un roi, non ... Je les rends tous deux à leur famille;Us vivront ... Ce vieillard et cette jeune filleMe béniront! C'est dit.(Il signe.)J'ai signé, moi, le roi!Le cardinal sera furieux; mais, ma foi!Tant pis! cela fera plaisir à Bellegarde."
And Langely says half aloud—
"On peut bien, une fois, être roi, par mégarde!"
What a masterpiece is that act! And then one remembers that because M. Crosnier was closely pressed, and had to change his spectacle, he suppressed that act, which, in the words of the critic,faisait longueur!...
Ah well!...
In the fifth act the pardon is revoked. The young people must die. They are led out into the courtyard of the prison for a few minutes' fresh air. Didier converses with the spectre of death visible only to himself; Saverny sleeps his last sleep. By prostituting herself to Laffemas, Marion has secured from the judge the life of her lover, and as she enters, bruised still from the judge's mauling, she says—
"Sa lèvre est un fer rouge, et m'a toute marquée!"
Suppose Mademoiselle Mars, who did not want to say—
"Vous êtes, mon lion, superbe et généreux!"
had had such a line as that to say, think what a struggle there would have been between her and the author. But Dorval found it easy enough, and she said the line with admirable expression.
As for Bocage, the hatred, pride and scorn which he displayed were truely superb, when, not able to contain himself longer, he lets the secret escape, which until then had been gnawing his entrails as the fox the young Spartan's, he exclaimed—
"Marie ... ou Marion?—Didier, soyez clément!—Madame, on n'entre pas ici facilement;Les bastilles d'État sont nuit et jour gardées;Les portes sont de fer, les murs ont vingt coudées!Pour que devant vos pas la porte s'ouvre ainsi,A qui vous êtes-vous prostituée ici?—Didier, qui vous a dit?—Personne ... Je devine!—Didier, j'en jure ici par la bonté divine,C'était pour vous sauver, vous arracher d'ici,Pour fléchir les bourreaux, pour vous sauver ...—Merci!Ah! qu'on soit jusque-là sans pudeur et sans âme,C'est véritablement une honte, madame!Où donc est le marchand d'opprobre et de méprisQui se fait acheter ma tête à de tels prix?Où donc est le geôlier, le juge? où donc est l'homme?Que je le broie ici! qui je l'écrase ... commeCeci!(Il brise le portrait de Marion.)Le juge! Allez, messieurs, faites des lois,Et jugez! Que m'importe, à moi, que le faux poidsQui fait toujours pencher votre balance infâmeSoit la tête d'un homme ou l'honneur d'une femme!"
I challenge anyone to find a more powerful or affecting passage in any language that has been written since the day when the lips of man uttered a first cry, a first complaint. Finally, Didier forgives Marion for being Marion, and, for a moment, the redeemed courtesan again becomes the lover. It is then that she speaks these two charming lines, which were suppressed at the performance and even, I believe, in the printed play—
"De l'autre Marion rien en moi n'est resté,Ton amour m'a refait une virginité!"
Then the executioner enters, the two young people walk to the scaffold, the wall falls, Richelieu passes through the breach in his litter, and Marion Delorme, laid on the ground, half-fainting, recognises Didier's executioner, rises, exclaiming with a gesture of menace and of despair—
"Regardez tous! voici l'homme rouge qui passe!"
It is twenty-two years ago since I meditated thus in the coupé of my diligence, going over in memory the whole play ofMarion Delorme.After twenty-two years I have just re-readit in order to write this chapter; my appreciation of it has not changed; if anything, I think the drama even more beautiful now than I did then. Now, what was the reason that it was less successful thanHernanior thanLucrèce Borgia?This is one of those mysteries which neither the sibyl of Cumæ nor the pythoness of Delphi will ever explain,—northe soul of the earth, which speaks to M. Hennequin. Well, I say it boldly, there is one thing of which I am as happy now as I was then: in reading that beautiful drama again, for each act of which I would give a year of my life, were it possible, I have felt a greater admiration for my dear Victor, a more fervent friendship towards him and not one atom of envy. Only, I repeat at my desk in Brussels what I said in the Rouen diligence: "Ah! if only I could write such lines as these since I know so well how to construct a play!..." I reached Paris without having thought of anything else butMarion Delorme.I had completely forgottenCharles VII.I went to pay my greetings to Bocage and Dorval the very evening of my arrival. They promised to act for me, and I took my place in the theatre. Exactly what I expected had happened to spoil the play; except for Bocage, who played Didier; Dorval, Marion; and Chéri, Saverny; the rest of the play was ruined. The result of course was that all the marvellous poetry was extinguished, as a breath extinguishes the clearness of a mirror. I left the theatre with a heavy heart.
Collaboration
I had to let a few days go by before I had the courage to return to my own verses after having heard and re-read those of Hugo. I felt inclined to do toCharles VII.what Harel had asked me to do toChristine: to put it into prose. Finally, I gathered together some friends at my house, and read them my new drama. But, whether I read badly or whether they came to me with biased minds, the reading did not have the effect upon them that I expected. This want of success discouraged me. Two days later, I had to read to Harel, who had already sent me my premium of a thousand francs, and also to Georges, to whom the part of Bérengère was allotted. I wrote to Harel not to count on the play and I sent him back his thousand francs. I decided not to have my drama played. Harel believed neither in my abnegation nor in my honesty. He came rushing to me in alarm. I laid my reasons before him, taking as many pains to depreciate my work as another would have done to exalt his. But to everything I said Harel took exception, repeating—
"It is not that ... it is not that ... it is not that!"
"What, then, is it?" I exclaimed.
"The Théâtre-Français had offered you five thousand francs premium!"
"Me?"
"I know it."
"Me, five thousand francs premium?"
"I tell you I know it, and in proof ..." He drew five one-thousand franc notes from his pocket.
"The proof lies here in the five thousand francs I bring you." And he held out the five notes to me.
I took one of them.
"All right," I said, "there is nothing to change in the programme; I will read it the day after to-morrow. Only, tell Lockroy to be at the reading."
"Well, what about the remaining four thousand francs?"
"They do not belong to me, my dear fellow; therefore you must take them back."
Harel scratched his ear and looked at me sideways. It was evident he did not understand.
Poor Harel! how sharp he was!
Two days later, before Harel, Georges, Janin and Lockroy I read the play with immense success. It was at once put in rehearsal and was to appear soon after a drama ofMirabeau, which was being studied. I would fain say what the drama ofMirabeauwas like, but I cannot now remember. All I know is that the principal part was for Frédérick, and that they thought a great deal of the work.
Charles VII.was distributed as follows:—Savoisy, Ligier; Bérengère, Georges; Yaqoub, Lockroy; Charles VII., Delafosse: Agnes Sorel, Noblet. This business of the distribution done, I immediately turned toRichard; its wholly modern colouring, political theme, vivid and rather coarse treatment was more in accord with my own age and special tastes than studies of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Let me hasten to say that I was then not anything like as familiar with those periods as I am now.
I wrote to Goubaux that I was at his disposition if it pleased him to come, either next day to breakfast at my house, or at his own if he preferred. We had become neighbours; I had left my lodgings in the rue de l'Université and had taken a third floor in the square d'Orléans, a very fine house just built in the rue Saint-Lazare, 42, where several of my friends already lived, Zimmermann, Étienne Arago, Robert Fleury and Gué. I believe Zimmermann and Robert Fleury still live there: Gué is dead and Étienne Arago is in exile.Goubaux, who lived at No. 19 rue Blanche, fixed a rendez-vous there for six in the evening. We were to dine first and talk ofRichard Darlingtonafterwards. I saytalk, because, at the time of reading, it was found that hardly anything had been written. However, Goubaux had found several guide-posts to serve as beacons for our three acts. There were, pre-eminently, traits of character to suit ambitious actors. One of the principal was where Dr. Grey recalls to Richard and Mawbray, when Richard is about to marry Jenny, the circumstances of the famous night which formed the subject of the prologue, relating how a carriage stopped at the door. "Had that carriage acoat of arms?" asked Richard. Another item, still more remarkable, was given me to make what I liked of it: the daughter of Da Sylva, Caroline, Richard's mother, has married a Lord Wilmor; it is his daughter who is to marry Richard, led away by the king determined to divorce Jenny. Only, Caroline, who sees no more in Richard than an influential Member of Parliament, one day destined to become a minister, demands an interview with Richard to reveal a great secret to him; the secret is the existence of a boy who was lost in the little village of Darlington, and who, being her son, has the right to her fortune. Richard listens with growing attention; then, at one particular passage, Wilmor's recital coincides so remarkably with that of Mawbray as to leave no room for doubt in his mind; but, instead of revealing himself, instead of flinging himself into the arms of the woman who confesses her shame and weeps, asking for her child back again, he gently disengages himself from her in order to say to himself in a whisper, "She is my mother!" and to ask himself, still in a whisper, "Who can my father be?" Finally, Richard accepts the king's proposals; he must get rid of his wife, no matter at what price, even were it that of a crime. This is about as far as the work had progressed at our first talk with Goubaux. I kept my word and brought the prologue entirely finished. I had done it exactly as Goubaux had imagined it should be written; I had, therefore, but to take courage and to continue. While Goubaux talked, my mind was gathering upall the threads he held, and, like an active weaver, in less than an hour, I had almost entirely sketched out the plan on my canvas. I shared my mental travail with him, all unformed as it was. The divorce scene between Richard and his wife, in especial, delighted me immensely. A scene of Schiller had returned to my memory, a scene of marvellous beauty and vigour. I saw how I could apply the scene between Philip II. and Elizabeth, to Richard and Jenny. I will give the two scenes in due course. All this preparatory work was settled between us;—in addition to this, it was decided that Goubaux and Beudin should write the election scene together, for which I had not the necessary data, while Beudin had been present at scenes of this nature in London. Then Goubaux looked at me.
"Only one thing troubles me now," he said.
"Only one?"
"Yes; I see all the rest of the play, which cannot fail to turn out all right in your hands."
"Then what is the thing that troubles you?"
"Thedénoûment."
"Why thedénoûment?We have got that already."
Mawbray comes forward as witness and says to Richard, who is about to sign: 'You are my son, and I am the executioner!' Richard falls to the ground and a fit of apoplexy sends him to the devil, which is the right place for him."
"No, that is not it at all," said Goubaux, shaking his head.
"What is it then?"
"It is the way in which he gets rid of his wife."
"Ah!" I said. "And you have no idea how that is to be done?"
"I had indeed some idea of making him put poison in her tea."
It was now my turn to shake my head.
"The death of Jenny must be caused by something in the situation, an act of frenzy, not by premeditation."
"Oh, yes! I am well aware of that ... but think of adagger thrust ... Richard is not an Antony, he does not carry daggers about in his coat pockets!"
"Then," said I, "he shall not stab her."
"But if he does not poison her or stab her what shall he do?"
"Chuck her out of the window!"
"What?"
I repeated my phrase.
"I must have misunderstood you," said Goubaux.
"No."
"But, my dear friend, you must be out of your mind."
"Leave it to me."
"But it is impossible!"
"I see the scene ... just when Richard thinks Jenny has been carried off by Tompson, he finds her hidden in the cupboard of the very room where they are going to sign the contract; at the same moment he hears the steps of Da Sylva and his daughter on the staircase. In order not to be surprised with Jenny, there is but one way out of the difficulty—to throw her out of the window. So he throws her out of the window."
"I must confess you frighten me with your methods of procedure! In the second act, he breaks Jenny's head against the furniture; in the third act he flings her out of the window. . . . Oh! come, come!"
"Listen, let me finish the thing as I like—then, if it is absurd, we will alter it."
"Will you listen to reason?"
"I? Set your mind at rest; when I am convinced, I will, if necessary, reconstruct the whole play from beginning to end."
"When will the first act be ready?"
"What day of the week is this?"
"Monday."
"Come and dine with me on Thursday: it will be done."
"But your rehearsals at the Odéon?"
"Bah! The parts are being collated to-day; for a fortnight they will read round a table or rehearse with the parts in their hands. By the end of the fortnight Richard will be finished."
"Amen!"
"Adieu."
"Are you going already?"
"I must get to work."
"At what?"
"Why atRichard, of course! Do you think I have too much time? Our first act is not an easy one to begin."
"Don't forget the part of Tompson!"
"You needn't be anxious, I have it ... When we come to the scene where Mawbray kills him we will give him a Shakespearian death!"
"Mawbray kills him then?"
"Yes ... Did I not tell you that?"
"No."
"The deuce! does it displease you, then, that Mawbray kills Tompson?"
"I? Not the slightest."
"You will leave it to me? Tompson?"
"Certainly."
"Then he is a dead man. Adieu."
I ran off and got into bed. At that time I still maintained the habit of writing my dramas in bed. Whilst I wrote the first scene of the first act, Goubaux and Beudin did the election scene, a lively, animated scene, full of character. When Goubaux came to dine with me, on the following Thursday, everything was ready and the two scenes could be fitted together. I then began on the second act, that is to say, upon the vital part of the drama. Richard's talent has caused him to reach the front rank of the Opposition, and he refuses all offers made him by the ministers; but he is cleverly brought in contact with an unknown benefactor, who makes him such offers and promises that Richard sells his conscience to become the son-in-law of Lord Wilmor and to be a minister. It is in the second scene of that act that the divorce incident takes place between Richard and Jenny, which was imitated from Schiller. On the Tuesday following we had a fresh meeting. All went swimmingly, except the scene between the king andRichard. I had completely failed in this, and so Goubaux undertook to remould it, and he made it what it is, that is to say, one of the best and cleverest in the work. Here is the scene imitated from Schiller—
"ACTE IV.—SCENE IX.LE ROI.—Je ne me connais plus moi-même! je ne respecte plus aucune voix, aucune loi de la nature, aucun droit des nations!LA REINE.—Combien je plains Votre Majesté!LE ROI.—Me plaindre? La pitié d'une impudique!L'INFANTE,se jetant tout effrayée dans les bras de sa mère.—Le roi est en colère, et ma mère chérie pleure! (Le roi arrache l'infante des bras de sa mère.)LA REINE,avec douceur et dignité mais à une voix tremblante.—Je dois pourtant garantir cette enfant des mauvais traitements!... Viens avec moi, ma fille! (Elle la prend dans ses bras.) Si le roi ne veut pas te reconnaîtra, je ferai venir de l'autre côté des Pyrénées des protecteurs pour défendre notre cause!(Elle veut sortir.)LE ROI,trouble.—Madame!LA REINE.—Je ne puis plus supporter ... C'en est trop! (Elle s'avance vers la porte, mais s'évanouit et tombe avec l'infante.)LE ROI,courant a elle avec effroi.—Dieu! qu'est-ce donc?L'INFANTE,avec des cris de frayeur.—Hélas! ma mère saigne! (Elle s'enfuit en pleurant.)LE ROI,avec anxiété.—Quel terrible accident! Du sang! ... Ai-je mérité que vous me punissiez si cruellement?... Levez-vous! remettez-vous ... On vient ... levez-vous ... On vous surprendra ... levez-vous!... Faut-il que toute ma cour se repaisse de ce spectacle? Faut-il donc vous prier de vous lever?..."
"ACTE IV.—SCENE IX.
LE ROI.—Je ne me connais plus moi-même! je ne respecte plus aucune voix, aucune loi de la nature, aucun droit des nations!
LA REINE.—Combien je plains Votre Majesté!
LE ROI.—Me plaindre? La pitié d'une impudique!
L'INFANTE,se jetant tout effrayée dans les bras de sa mère.—Le roi est en colère, et ma mère chérie pleure! (Le roi arrache l'infante des bras de sa mère.)
LA REINE,avec douceur et dignité mais à une voix tremblante.—Je dois pourtant garantir cette enfant des mauvais traitements!... Viens avec moi, ma fille! (Elle la prend dans ses bras.) Si le roi ne veut pas te reconnaîtra, je ferai venir de l'autre côté des Pyrénées des protecteurs pour défendre notre cause!
(Elle veut sortir.)
LE ROI,trouble.—Madame!
LA REINE.—Je ne puis plus supporter ... C'en est trop! (Elle s'avance vers la porte, mais s'évanouit et tombe avec l'infante.)
LE ROI,courant a elle avec effroi.—Dieu! qu'est-ce donc?
L'INFANTE,avec des cris de frayeur.—Hélas! ma mère saigne! (Elle s'enfuit en pleurant.)
LE ROI,avec anxiété.—Quel terrible accident! Du sang! ... Ai-je mérité que vous me punissiez si cruellement?... Levez-vous! remettez-vous ... On vient ... levez-vous ... On vous surprendra ... levez-vous!... Faut-il que toute ma cour se repaisse de ce spectacle? Faut-il donc vous prier de vous lever?..."
Now toRichard.Richard wants to force Jenny to sign the act of divorce and she refuses.
"JENNY.—Mais que voulez-vous donc, alors? Expliquez-vous clairement; car tantôt je comprends trop, et tantôt pas assez.RICHARD.—Pour vous et pour moi, mieux vaut un consentement mutuel.JENNY.—Vous m'avez donc crue bien lâche? Que, moi, j'aille devant un juge, sans y être traînée par les cheveux, déclarer de ma voix, signer de ma main que je ne suis pas digne d'être l'épouse de sir Richard? Vous ne me connaissez donc pas, vous qui croyez que je ne suis bonne qu'aux soins d'un ménage dédaigné; que me croyez anéantie par l'absence;qui pensez que je ploierai parce que vous appuierez le poing sur ma tête; Dans le temps de mon bonheur, oui, cela aurait pu être; mais mes larmes ont retrempé mon cœur; mes nuits d'insomnie ont affermi mon courage? le malheur enfin m'a fait une volonté! Ce que je suis, je vous le dois, Richard; c'est votre faute; ne vous en prenez donc qu'a vous ... Maintenant, voyons! à qui aura le plus de courage, du faible ou du fort. Sir Richard, je ne veux pas!RICHARD.—Madame, jusqu'ici, je n'ai fait entendre que des paroles de conciliation.JENNY.—Essayez d'avoir recours à d'autres!RICHARD,marchant à elle.—Jenny!JENNY,froidement.—Richard!RICHARD.—Malheureuse! savez-vous ce dont je suis capable?JENNY.—Je le devine.RICHARD.—Et vous ne tremblez pas?JENNY.—Voyez.RICHARD,lui prenant les mains.—Femme!JENNY,tombant à genoux de la secousse.—Ah!...RICHARD.—A genoux!JENNY,les mains au ciel.—Mon Dieu, ayez pitié de lui! (Elle se relève.)RICHARD.—Ah! c'est de vous qu'il a pitié, car je m'en vais ... Adieu, Jenny; demandez au ciel que ce soit pour toujours!JENNY,courant à lui, et lui jetant les bras autour du you.—Richard! Richard! ne t'en va pas!RICHARD.—Laissez-moi partir.JENNY.—Si tu savais comme je t'aime!RICHARD.—Prouvez-le-moi.JENNY.—Ma mère! ma mère!RICHARD—Voulez-vous?JENNY.—-Tu me l'avais bien dit!RICHARD.—Un dernier mot.JENNY.—Ne le dis pas.RICHARD.—Consens-tu?JENNY.—Écoute-moi.RICHARD.—Consens-tu? (Jenny se tait.) C'est bien. Mais plus de messages, plus de lettres ... Que rien ne vous rappelle à moi, que je ne sache même pas que vous existez! Je vous laisse une jeunesse sans époux, une vieillesse sans enfant.JENNY.—Pas d'imprécations! pas d'imprécations!RICHARD.—Adieu!JENNY.—Vous ne partirez pas!RICHARD.—Damnation!JENNY.—Vous me tuerez plutôt!RICHARD.—Ah! laissez-moi! (Jenny, repoussée, va tomber la tête sur l'angle d'un meuble.)JENNY.—Ah!... (Elle se relève tout ensanglantée.) Ah! Richard!... (Elle chancelle en étendant les bras de son côté, et retombe.) Il faut que je vous aime bien! (Elle Évanouit.)RICHARD.—Évanouie!... blessée!... du sang!... Malédiction!... Jenny!... Jenny! (Il la porte sur un fauteuil.) Et ce sang qui ne s'arrête pas ... (Il l'étanche avec son mouchoir.) Je ne peux cependant pas rester éternellement ici. (Il se rapproche d'elle.) Jenny, finissons ... Je me retire ... Tu ne veux pas répondre?... Adieu donc!..."
"JENNY.—Mais que voulez-vous donc, alors? Expliquez-vous clairement; car tantôt je comprends trop, et tantôt pas assez.
RICHARD.—Pour vous et pour moi, mieux vaut un consentement mutuel.
JENNY.—Vous m'avez donc crue bien lâche? Que, moi, j'aille devant un juge, sans y être traînée par les cheveux, déclarer de ma voix, signer de ma main que je ne suis pas digne d'être l'épouse de sir Richard? Vous ne me connaissez donc pas, vous qui croyez que je ne suis bonne qu'aux soins d'un ménage dédaigné; que me croyez anéantie par l'absence;qui pensez que je ploierai parce que vous appuierez le poing sur ma tête; Dans le temps de mon bonheur, oui, cela aurait pu être; mais mes larmes ont retrempé mon cœur; mes nuits d'insomnie ont affermi mon courage? le malheur enfin m'a fait une volonté! Ce que je suis, je vous le dois, Richard; c'est votre faute; ne vous en prenez donc qu'a vous ... Maintenant, voyons! à qui aura le plus de courage, du faible ou du fort. Sir Richard, je ne veux pas!
RICHARD.—Madame, jusqu'ici, je n'ai fait entendre que des paroles de conciliation.
JENNY.—Essayez d'avoir recours à d'autres!
RICHARD,marchant à elle.—Jenny!
JENNY,froidement.—Richard!
RICHARD.—Malheureuse! savez-vous ce dont je suis capable?
JENNY.—Je le devine.
RICHARD.—Et vous ne tremblez pas?
JENNY.—Voyez.
RICHARD,lui prenant les mains.—Femme!
JENNY,tombant à genoux de la secousse.—Ah!...
RICHARD.—A genoux!
JENNY,les mains au ciel.—Mon Dieu, ayez pitié de lui! (Elle se relève.)
RICHARD.—Ah! c'est de vous qu'il a pitié, car je m'en vais ... Adieu, Jenny; demandez au ciel que ce soit pour toujours!
JENNY,courant à lui, et lui jetant les bras autour du you.—Richard! Richard! ne t'en va pas!
RICHARD.—Laissez-moi partir.
JENNY.—Si tu savais comme je t'aime!
RICHARD.—Prouvez-le-moi.
JENNY.—Ma mère! ma mère!
RICHARD—Voulez-vous?
JENNY.—-Tu me l'avais bien dit!
RICHARD.—Un dernier mot.
JENNY.—Ne le dis pas.
RICHARD.—Consens-tu?
JENNY.—Écoute-moi.
RICHARD.—Consens-tu? (Jenny se tait.) C'est bien. Mais plus de messages, plus de lettres ... Que rien ne vous rappelle à moi, que je ne sache même pas que vous existez! Je vous laisse une jeunesse sans époux, une vieillesse sans enfant.
JENNY.—Pas d'imprécations! pas d'imprécations!
RICHARD.—Adieu!
JENNY.—Vous ne partirez pas!
RICHARD.—Damnation!
JENNY.—Vous me tuerez plutôt!
RICHARD.—Ah! laissez-moi! (Jenny, repoussée, va tomber la tête sur l'angle d'un meuble.)
JENNY.—Ah!... (Elle se relève tout ensanglantée.) Ah! Richard!... (Elle chancelle en étendant les bras de son côté, et retombe.) Il faut que je vous aime bien! (Elle Évanouit.)
RICHARD.—Évanouie!... blessée!... du sang!... Malédiction!... Jenny!... Jenny! (Il la porte sur un fauteuil.) Et ce sang qui ne s'arrête pas ... (Il l'étanche avec son mouchoir.) Je ne peux cependant pas rester éternellement ici. (Il se rapproche d'elle.) Jenny, finissons ... Je me retire ... Tu ne veux pas répondre?... Adieu donc!..."
There remained the last act; it was composed of three scenes: the first takes place in Richard's house in London, the second in a forest, the third in Jenny's chamber. My reader knows the engagement I had undertaken, to have Jenny thrown out of the window. Very well, I boldly prepared myself to keep it, and I wrote the scene in my bed, as usual. This is the situation: Mawbray has killed Tompson, who carried Jenny off, and has brought her into the room where in the second act the scene between her and her husband took place. This room has only two doors: one leading to the stairs, the other into a cupboard, and one window, the view from which looks deep down into a precipice. Scarcely is Jenny left alone with her terror,—for she has no doubt that it is her husband who has had her carried off,—than she hears and recognises Richard's step. Not able to flee she takes refuge in the cabinet. Richard enters.
"RICHARD.—J'arrive à temps! À peine si je dois avoir, sur le marquis et sa famille, une demi-heure d'avance.—James, apportez des flambeaux, et tenez-vous à la porte pour conduire ici les personnes qui arriveront dans un instant ... Bien ... Allez! (Tirant sa montre.) Huit heures! Tompson doit être maintenant à Douvres, et, demain matin, il sera à Calais. Dieu le conduise!... Voyons si rien n'indique que cet appartement a été habité par une femme. (Apercevant le chapeau et le châle que Jenny vient de déposer sur une chaise.) La précaution n'était pas inutile ... Que faire de cela? Je n'ai pas la clef des armoires ... Les jeter par la fenêtre: on les retrouvera demain ... Ah! des lumières sur le haut de la montagne ... C'est sans doute le marquis; il est exact ... Mais où diable mettre ces chiffons? Ah! ce cabinet ...j'en retirerai la clef. (Il ouvre le cabinet.)JENNY.—Ah!RICHARD,la saisissant par le bras.—Qui est là?JENNY.—Moi, moi, Richard ... Ne me faites point de mal!RICHARD,l'attirant sur le théâtre.—Jenny! mais c'est donc un démon qui me la jette à la face toutes les fois que je crois être débarrassé d'elle?... Que faites-vous ici? qui vous y ramène? Parlez vite ...JENNY.—Mawbray!RICHARD.—Mawbray! toujours Mawbray! Où est-il, que je ma venge enfin sur un homme?JENNY.—Il est loin ... bien loin ... reparti pour Londres ... Grâce pour lui!RICHARD.—Eh bien?JENNY.—Il a arrêté la voiture.RICHARD.—Après?... Ne voyez-vous pas que je brûle?JENNY.—Et moi, que je ...RICHARD.—Après? vous dis-je?JENNY.—Ils se sont battus.RICHARD.—Et?...JENNY.—Et Mawbray a tué Tompson.RICHARD.—Enfer!... Alors, il vous a ramenée ici?JENNY.—Oui ... oui.. pardon!RICHARD.—Jenny, écoutez!JENNY.—C'est le roulement d'une voiture.RICHARD.—Cette voiture ...JENNY.—Eh bien?RICHARD.—Elle amène ma femme et sa famille.JENNY.—Votre femme et sa famille!... Et moi, moi, que suis-je donc?RICHARD.—Vous, Jenny? vous?... Vous êtes mon mauvais génie! vous êtes l'abîme où vont s'engloutir toutes mes espérances! vous êtes le démon qui me pousse à l'échafaud, car je ferai un crime!JENNY.—Oh! mon Dieu!RICHARD.—C'est qu'il n'y à plus a reculer, voyez-vous! vous n'avez pas voulu signer le divorce, vous n'avez pas voulu quitter l'Angleterre ...JENNY.—Oh! maintenant, maintenant, je veux tout ce que vous voudrez.RICHARD.—Eh! maintenant, il est trop tard!JENNY.—Qu'allez-vous donc faire alors?RICHARD.—Je ne sais ... mais priez Dieu!JENNY.—Richard!RICHARD,lui mettant la main sur la bouche.—Silence! ne les entendez-vous pas? ne les entendez-vous pas? Ils montent!... ils montent!... ils vont trouver une femme ici!"
"RICHARD.—J'arrive à temps! À peine si je dois avoir, sur le marquis et sa famille, une demi-heure d'avance.—James, apportez des flambeaux, et tenez-vous à la porte pour conduire ici les personnes qui arriveront dans un instant ... Bien ... Allez! (Tirant sa montre.) Huit heures! Tompson doit être maintenant à Douvres, et, demain matin, il sera à Calais. Dieu le conduise!... Voyons si rien n'indique que cet appartement a été habité par une femme. (Apercevant le chapeau et le châle que Jenny vient de déposer sur une chaise.) La précaution n'était pas inutile ... Que faire de cela? Je n'ai pas la clef des armoires ... Les jeter par la fenêtre: on les retrouvera demain ... Ah! des lumières sur le haut de la montagne ... C'est sans doute le marquis; il est exact ... Mais où diable mettre ces chiffons? Ah! ce cabinet ...j'en retirerai la clef. (Il ouvre le cabinet.)
JENNY.—Ah!
RICHARD,la saisissant par le bras.—Qui est là?
JENNY.—Moi, moi, Richard ... Ne me faites point de mal!
RICHARD,l'attirant sur le théâtre.—Jenny! mais c'est donc un démon qui me la jette à la face toutes les fois que je crois être débarrassé d'elle?... Que faites-vous ici? qui vous y ramène? Parlez vite ...
JENNY.—Mawbray!
RICHARD.—Mawbray! toujours Mawbray! Où est-il, que je ma venge enfin sur un homme?
JENNY.—Il est loin ... bien loin ... reparti pour Londres ... Grâce pour lui!
RICHARD.—Eh bien?
JENNY.—Il a arrêté la voiture.
RICHARD.—Après?... Ne voyez-vous pas que je brûle?
JENNY.—Et moi, que je ...
RICHARD.—Après? vous dis-je?
JENNY.—Ils se sont battus.
RICHARD.—Et?...
JENNY.—Et Mawbray a tué Tompson.
RICHARD.—Enfer!... Alors, il vous a ramenée ici?
JENNY.—Oui ... oui.. pardon!
RICHARD.—Jenny, écoutez!
JENNY.—C'est le roulement d'une voiture.
RICHARD.—Cette voiture ...
JENNY.—Eh bien?
RICHARD.—Elle amène ma femme et sa famille.
JENNY.—Votre femme et sa famille!... Et moi, moi, que suis-je donc?
RICHARD.—Vous, Jenny? vous?... Vous êtes mon mauvais génie! vous êtes l'abîme où vont s'engloutir toutes mes espérances! vous êtes le démon qui me pousse à l'échafaud, car je ferai un crime!
JENNY.—Oh! mon Dieu!
RICHARD.—C'est qu'il n'y à plus a reculer, voyez-vous! vous n'avez pas voulu signer le divorce, vous n'avez pas voulu quitter l'Angleterre ...
JENNY.—Oh! maintenant, maintenant, je veux tout ce que vous voudrez.
RICHARD.—Eh! maintenant, il est trop tard!
JENNY.—Qu'allez-vous donc faire alors?
RICHARD.—Je ne sais ... mais priez Dieu!
JENNY.—Richard!
RICHARD,lui mettant la main sur la bouche.—Silence! ne les entendez-vous pas? ne les entendez-vous pas? Ils montent!... ils montent!... ils vont trouver une femme ici!"
Here I stopped short. I had gone as far as I could go. But there was the question of keeping my promise to Goubaux.I leapt out of my bed. It is impossible! I cried out to myself, and Goubaux said well. Richard is to be forced to take his wife, and drag her towards the window; she will defend herself; the public will not bear the sight of that struggle and it will be perfectly right ... Besides, when he lifts her up over the balcony, Richard will give the spectators a view of his wife's legs: the spectators will laugh, which is much worse than if they hissed ... Decidedly I am a fool. There must be some way out of the difficulty!... But it was not easy to find means. I racked my brains for a fortnight all in vain. Goubaux had no notion of the time it took me to compose the third act. He wrote me letter after letter. I did not wish to tell him the real cause of my delay; I made all sorts of excuses: I was busy with my rehearsals; I had gone to see my daughter at her nurse's house; I had a shooting party and all sorts of other things;—all pretexts nearly as valid as those which Pierre Schlemihl gave in excuse for not having a shadow. Finally, one fine night, I woke up with a start, crying like Archimedes Ευρηκα! and in the same costume as he, I ran, not through the streets of Syracuse, but into the corners and recesses of my bedroom to find a tinder-box. When the candles were lit, I got back into bed and took hold of my pencil and manuscript, shrugging my shoulders in disgust at myself. Good Heavens! said I, it is as simple as Christopher Columbus's egg; only, one must break the end off! The end was broken; there was no more difficulty, Jenny no longer would have to risk showing her ankles and Richard would still throw his wife out of the window. Behold the mechanism thereof! After the words: "Ils vont trouver une femme ici!" Richard ran to the door, closed it and double-locked it. Meanwhile, Jenny ran to the window and cried from the balcony, "Help! help!" Richard followed her precipitately; Jenny fell on her knees. A noise was heard on the stairs; Richard closed the two shutters of the window on himself, shutting himself out with Jenny on the balcony. A cry was heard. Richard, pale and wiping his brow, reopened the two shutters with a blow of his fist; hewas alone on the balcony; Jenny had disappeared! The trick was taken.
By eight o'clock next morning I was writing the last line of the third act ofRichard, and, by nine, I was with Goubaux; by ten, he had acknowledged that the window was, indeed, Jenny's only way of exit.
The feudal edifice and the industrial—The workmen of Lyons—M. Bouvier-Dumolard—General Roguet—Discussion and signing of the tariff regulating the price of the workmanship of fabrics—The makers refuse to submit to it—Artificial pricesfor silk-workers—Insurrection of Lyons—Eighteen millions on the civil list—Timon's calculations—An unlucky saying of M. de Montalivet
The feudal edifice and the industrial—The workmen of Lyons—M. Bouvier-Dumolard—General Roguet—Discussion and signing of the tariff regulating the price of the workmanship of fabrics—The makers refuse to submit to it—Artificial pricesfor silk-workers—Insurrection of Lyons—Eighteen millions on the civil list—Timon's calculations—An unlucky saying of M. de Montalivet
During this time three political events of the gravest importance took place: Lyons broke into insurrection ; the civil list was debated; the Chamber passed the law abolishing the heredity of the peerage. We will pass these three events in review as rapidly as possible, but we owe it to the scheme of these Memoirs to make a note of the principal details. It must be clear that every time the country has been in trouble we have listened to its cry. Let us begin with Lyons.
Everybody knows Lyons, a poor, dirty town with a canopy of smoke and a jumble of wealth and misery, where people dare not drive through the streets in carriages, not for fear of running over the passengers but for fear of being insulted; where for forty thousand unfortunate human beings the twenty-four hours of the day contain eighteen hours of work, noise and agony. You remember Hugo's beautiful comparison in the fourth act ofHernani—
"Un édifice avec deux hommes au sommet,Deux chefs élus auxquels tout roi-né se soumet.. . . . . Être ce qui commence,Seul, debout au plus haut de la spirale immense,D'une foule d'États l'un sur l'autre étagésÊtre la clef de voûte, et voir sous soi rangésLes rois, et sur leurs fronts essuyer ses sandales,Voir, au-dessous des rois, les maisons féodales,Margraves, cardinaux, doges, ducs à fleurons;Puis évêques, abbés, chefs de clans, hauts barons;Puis clercs et soldats; puis, loin du faite où nous sommes,Dans l'ombre, tout au fond de l'abîme, les hommes."
Well, in comparison with this aristocratie pyramid, crowned bythose two halves of God, the Pope and the Emperor, resplendent with gold and diamonds on everyone of its stages, put the popular pyramid, by the aid of which we are going to try to make you understand what Lyons is like, and you will have, not an exact pendant to it but, on the contrary, a terrible contrast. So, imagine a spiral composed of three stages: at the top, eight hundred manufacturers; in the middle, ten thousand foremen; at the base, supporting this immense weight which rests entirely on them, forty thousand workmen. Then, buzzing, gleaning, picking about this spiral like hornets round a hive, are the commissionaires, the parasites of the manufacturers, and those who supply raw materials to the trade. Now, the commercial mechanism of this immense machine is easy to understand. These commissionaires live on the manufacturers; the manufacturers live on the foremen; the foremen live on the workpeople. Add to this the Lyonnais industry, the only one by which these fifty to sixty thousand souls live, attacked at all points by competition—England producing and striking a double blow at Lyons, first because she has ceased to supply herself from there, and, secondly, because she is producing on her own account—Zurich, Bâle, Cologne and Berne, all setting up looms, and becoming rivals of the second town of France. Forty years ago, when the continental system of 1810 compelled the whole of France to supply itself from Lyons, the workman earned from four to six francs a day. Then he could easily provide for his wife and the numerous family which nearly always results from the improvidence of the working-man. But, since the fall of the Empire, for the pastseventeen years wages have been on the decline, from four francs to forty sous, then to thirty-five, then to thirty, then to twenty-five. Finally, at the time we have now reached, the ordinary weaving operative only earns eighteen sous per day for eighteen hours work. One son per hour!... It is a starvation wage.
The unfortunate workmen struggled in silence for a long time, trying, as each quarter came round, to move into smaller rooms, to more noxious quarters; trying, day by day, to economise something in the shape of their meals and those of their children. But, at last, when they came face to face with the deadening effect of bad air and of starvation for want of bread, there went up from the Croix-Rousse,—appropriate names, are they not?—that is to say, from the working portion of the city—a great sob, like that which Dante heard when he was passing through the first circle of the Inferno. It was the cry of one hundred thousand sufferers. Two men were in command at Lyons, one representing the civil power, the other the military: a préfet and a general. The préfet was called Bouvier-Dumolard; the general's name was Roguet. The first, in his administrative capacity, came in contact with all classes of society, and was able to study that dark and profound misery; a misery, all the more terrible, because no remedy could be found for it, and because it went on increasing every day. As for the general, since he knew his soldiers had five sous per day, and that each of them had a ration sufficiently ample for acanut(silk-weaver) to feed his wife and children upon, he never troubled his head about anything else. The cry of misery of the poor famished creatures therefore affected the general and the préfet very differently. They made their separate inquiries as to the cause of this cry of misery. The workpeople demanded a tariff. General Roguet called a business meeting and demanded repressive measures. M. Bouvier-Dumolard, on the contrary, seeing the tradespeople in council, asked them for an increase of salary. On 11 October this council issued the following minute:—
"As it is a matter of public notoriety that many of the manufacturers actually pay for their fabrics at too low a rate, it is advisable thata minimumtariff be fixed for the price of fabrics."
"As it is a matter of public notoriety that many of the manufacturers actually pay for their fabrics at too low a rate, it is advisable thata minimumtariff be fixed for the price of fabrics."
Consequently, a meeting was held at the Hôtel de la Préfecture on 15 October. The tariff was discussed on both sides by twenty-two workmen appointed by their comrades, and twenty-two manufacturers who were appointed by the Chamber of Commerce.
That measure, presuming that it needed a precedent before it could be legalised, had been authorised in 1789, by the Constituent Assembly, in 1793 by the Convention and, finally, in 1811 by the Empire. Nothing was settled at the first meeting. On 21 October a new assembly was convoked at the same place, and with the same object. The manufacturers were less pressing than the workmen: that is conceivable enough: they have to give and the workmen to receive; they have to lose and the workmen to gain. The manufacturers said that having been officially appointed they could not bind their confrères. A third meeting was arranged to give them time to obtain a power of attorney. Meanwhile workpeople died of hunger. This meeting was fixed for 25 October. The life or death of forty thousand operatives, that of their fathers and mothers, their wives and their children, the very existence of over one hundred thousand persons was to be discussed at that sitting. So, the unusual, lamentable and fearful spectacle was to be seen, at ten in the morning, of this unfortunate people waiting outside in the place de la Préfecture to hear their sentence. But there was not a single weapon to be seen among those thousands of supplicants! A weapon would have prevented them from joining their hands together, and they only wanted to pray.
The préfet, terrified by that multitude, terrified of its very silence, came forward. Amongst all that sixty to eighty thousand persons of all ages and of both sexes, there were nearly thirty thousand men.
"My good people," said the préfet to them, "I beg you to withdraw—it will be to your own interests to do so. If you stay there the tariff will seem to have been imposed by your presence. Now, in order to be valid, the deliberations must be doubly free: free in reality and free in appearance."
All these famished voices with laboured breathings summoned strength to shout, "Vive le préfet!" Then they humbly retired without complaint or comment.
The tariff was signed: the result was an increase of twenty-five per cent—not quite five sous per day. But five sous per day meant the lives of two children. So there was great joy throughout that poor multitude: the workmen illuminated their windows, and sang and danced far into the night. Their joy was very innocent, but the manufacturers thought the songs were songs of triumph and the Carmagnole dances meant a second '93. And they were made the means of refusing the tariff. A week had not gone before there were ten or a dozen refusals to carry it out. The Trades Council censured those who refused. The manufacturers met and decided that instead of a partial refusal they would all protest. And so a hundred and four manufacturers protested, declaring that they did not think themselves compelled to come to the assistance of men who were bolstered up byartificial prices(des besoins factices).Artificial prices, at eighteen sous per day! what sybarites! The préfet, who was a goodhearted fellow but vacillating, drew back before that protest. The Trades Council in turn drew back when they saw that the préfet had given way. Both Trades Council and préfet declared that the tariff was not at all obligatory, and that those of the manufacturers who wished to avoid the increase of wage imposed had the right to do it. Six to seven hundred, out of the eight hundred manufacturers, took advantage of the permission. The unfortunate weavers then decided to go on strike for a week, during which time they walked the town as unarmed suppliants, making no demonstration beyond affectionate and grateful salutations to those of the manufacturers who were more humane than the others and hadobserved the tariff. This humble attitude only hardened the hearts of the manufacturers: one of them received a deputation of workmen with pistols on his table; another, when the wretched men said to him, "For two days we have not had a morsel of bread in our stomachs," replied, "—Well then, we must thrust bayonets into them!" General Roguet, also, who was ill and, consequently, in a bad temper, placarded the Riot Act. The préfet realised all the evils that would accrue from putting such a measure into force, and went to General Roguet to try to get him to withdraw it. General Roguet declined to receive him. There are strange cases of blindness, and military leaders are especially liable to such fits.
Thirty thousand workpeople—unarmed, it is true, but one knows how rapidly thirty thousand men can arm themselves—were moving about the streets of Lyons; General Roguet had under his command only the 66th regiment of the line, three squadrons of dragoons, one battalion of the 13th and some companies of engineers: barely three thousand soldiers in all. He persisted in his policy of provocation. It was 19 November; the general, under the pretext of a reception for General Ordomont, commanded a review on the place Bellecour to be held on the following day. It was difficult not to see an underlying menace in that order. Unfortunately, those threatened had begun to come to the end of their patience. What one of their number had said was no poetic metaphor—many had not tasted food for forty-eight hours. Two or three more days of patience on the part of the military authority, and they need have had no more fear: the people would be dead. On 21 November—it was a Monday—four hundred silk-workers gathered at the Croix-Rousse. They proceeded to march, headed by their syndics, and with no other arms but sticks. They realised things had come to a crisis and they resolved to go from workshop to workshop, and to persuade their comrades to come out on strike with them until the tariff should be adopted in a serious and definitive manner. Suddenly, as they turned the corner of a street, theyfound themselves face to face with sixty or so of the National Guard on patrol. An officer, carried away by a war-like impulse, shouted when he saw them, "Lads, let us sweep away all thatcanaille." And, drawing his sword, he sprang upon the workmen, the sixty National Guards following him with fixed bayonets. Twenty-five of the sixty National Guards were disarmed in a trice; the rest took to flight. Then, satisfied with their first victory, without changing the wholly peaceful nature of their demonstration, the workmen took each other's arms again and, marching four abreast, began to descend what is known as la Grante-Côte. But the fugitives had given the alarm. A column of the National Guard of the first legion, entirely composed of manufacturers, took up arms in hot haste, and advanced resolutely to encounter the workmen. These were two clouds, charged with electricity, hurled against each other by contrary currents and the collision meant lightning.
The column of the National Guard fired; eight workmen fell. After that, it was a species of extermination—blood had flowed. At Paris, in 1830, the people had fought for an idea, and they had fought well; at Lyons, in 1831, they were going to fight for bread and they would fight better still. A terrible, formidable, great cry went up throughout the whole of the labour quarter of the city: To arms! They are murdering our brothers!
Then anger set that vast hive buzzing which hunger had turned dumb. Each household turned into the streets every man that it contained old enough to fight; all had arms of one sort or another: one had a stick, another a fork, some had guns. In the twinkling of an eye barricades were constructed by the women and children; a group of insurgents, amidst loud cheers, carried off two pieces of cannon belonging to the National Guard of the Croix-Rousse; the National Guard not only let the cannon be taken but actually offered them. If it did not pursue the operatives into their intrenchments it would remain neutral; but if the barricades were attacked it would defend them with guns and cartridge. Next evening, fortythousand men were armed ready, hugging the banners which bore these words, the most ominous, probably, ever traced by the bloody hand of civil war—
VIVRE EN TRAVAILLANTOUMOURIR EN COMBATTANT!
They killed each other through the whole of the night of the 21st, and the whole day of the 22nd. Oh! how fiercely do compatriots, fellow-citizens and brothers kill one another! Fifty years hence civil war will be the only warfare possible. By seven o'clock at night all was over, and the troops beat a retreat before the people, vanquished at every point. At midnight, General Roguet, lifted up bodily on horseback, where he shook with fever, left the town, which he found impossible to hold any longer. He withdrew by way of the faubourg Saint-Clair, under a canopy of fire, through a hail of bullets. The smell of powder revived the strength of the old soldier: he sat up on his horse, and rose in his stirrups—
"Ah!" he said, "now I can breathe once more! I feel better here than in the Hôtel de Ville drawing-rooms."
Meantime, the people were knocking at the doors of that same Hôtel de Ville which the préfet and members of the municipality had abandoned. When at the Hôtel de Ville, that palace of the people, the people felt they were the masters. But they scarcely realised this before they were afraid of their power. This power was deputed to eight persons: Lachapelle, Frédéric, Charpentier, Perenon, Rosset, Garnier, Dervieux and Filliol. The three first were workmen whose only thought was to maintain the tariff; the five others were Republicans who thought of political questions and not merely of pecuniary. The next day after that on which the eight delegates of the people had established a provisional administration, the provisional administrators were at the point of killing one another. Some wanted boldly to follow the path of insurrection; others wanted to join the party of civil authority. The latter carriedthe day, and M. Bouvier-Dumolard was reinstalled. On 3 December, at noon, the Prince Royal and Maréchal Soult took possession once more of the second capital of the kingdom, and re-entered with drums beating and torches lit. The workpeople were disarmed and fell back to confront their necessities and thebesoins facticesthey had created, at eighteen sous per diem. The National Guard was disbanded and the town placed in a state of siege. M. Bouvier-Dumolard was dismissed.
What was the king doing during this time? His ministers, at his dictation, were preparing a minute in which he asked the Chamber for eighteen million francs for the civil list, fifteen hundred thousand francs per month, fifty thousand francs per day; without reckoning his private income of five millions, and two or three millions in dividends from special investments.
M. Laffitte had already, a year before, submitted to the committee of the Budget a minute proposing to fix the king's civil list at eighteen million francs. The committee had read the minute, and this degree of justice should be given to it: it had been afraid to bring it forward. Even that minute had left a very bad impression, so disturbing, that it had been agreed between the minister and the king, that the king should write a confidential letter to the minister, saying he had never thought of so high a sum as eighteen millions, and that the demand should be attributed to too hasty courtiers, whose devotion compromised the royal power they thought to serve. That confidential letter had been shown in confidence and had produced an excellent effect. But when it was learnt at court that the revolt at Lyons was not political, and that thecanutswere only rising because they could not live on eighteen sous per twenty-four hours, it was deemed that the right moment had come to give the king his fifty thousand francs per day. They asked for one single man that which, a hundred and twenty leagues away, was sufficient to keep fifty-four thousand men. It was thirty-seven times more than Bonaparte had asked as First Consul, and a hundred and forty-eight times more thanthe President of the United States handled. The time was all the more ill chosen in that, on 1 January 1832,—we are anticipating events by three months,—the Board of Charity of the 12th Arrondissement published the following circular—
"Twenty-four thousand persons are inscribed on the registers of the 12th Arrondissement of Paris as in need of food and clothing. Many are asking for a few trusses of straw on which to sleep."
"Twenty-four thousand persons are inscribed on the registers of the 12th Arrondissement of Paris as in need of food and clothing. Many are asking for a few trusses of straw on which to sleep."
True, the request for eighteen millions of Civil List were stated to be for royal necessities,—people's necessities differ. Thus, whilst five or six thousand wretched people of the 12th Arrondissement were asking for a few trusses of straw on which to sleep, the kingwas in need offorty-eight thousand francs for the medicaments necessary to his health; the kingwas in need ofthree million seven hundred and seventy-three thousand five hundred francs for his personal service; the kingwas in need ofa million two hundred thousand francs to provide fuel for the kitchen fires of the royal household.
It must be admitted that these were a fair number of remedies for a king whose health had become proverbial, and who knew enough about medicine to pass a doctor's degree, in his ordinary indispositions; it was a great luxury for a king who had suppressed the offices of chief equerry, master of the hounds, master of ceremonies and all the great state expenses, and who had set forth the programme, new to France, of a small court half-bourgeois and half-military; also it was a good deal of wood and coal to allow a king who possessed the finest forests in the state, either by right of inheritance or as appanage. True, it was calculated that the sale of wood annually made by the king, which would be sufficient to warm a tenth part of France, was not sufficient to warm the underground kitchen fires of the Palais-Royal. People calculated differently. It was the time of calculations. There was, at that period, a great calculator, since dead, called Timon the misanthrope. Ah! if only he were still alive!... He reckoned that eighteen millions of Civil List amounted to the fiftieth part ofthe Budget of France; the contribution of three of our most densely populated departments,—Seine, Seine-Inférieure and Nord; the land tax paid to the state by eighteen other departments; four times more than flowed into the state coffers from Calais, Boulonnais, Artois and their six hundred and forty thousand inhabitants, by way of contributions of every kind in a year; three times more than the salt tax brought in; twice more than the government winnings from its lottery; half what the monopoly of the sale of tobacco produced; half what is annually granted for the upkeep of our bridges, roads, harbours and canals—an expenditure which gives work to over fifteen thousand persons; nine times more than the whole budget for public education, including its support, subsidies, national scholarships; double the cost of the foreign office, which pays thirty ambassadors and ministers-plenipotentiary, fifty secretaries to the embassies and legations, one hundred and fifty consuls-general, consuls, vice-consuls, dragomans and consular agents; ninety head clerks and office clerks, under-clerks, employees, copyists, translators and servants; the pay of an army of fifty-five thousand men, officers of all ranks, non-commissioned officers, corporals and soldiers, a third more than the cost of the whole staff of the administration of justice;—note that in saying that justice is paid for, we do not mean to say that it ought to be given up. In short, a sum sufficient to provide work for a whole year to sixty-one thousand six hundred and forty-three workmen belonging to the country!... Although the bourgeoisie were so enthusiastic over their king, this calculation none the less made them reflect.
Then, as if it seemed that every misfortune were to be piled up because of that fatal Civil List of 1832, M. de Montalivet must needs take upon himself to find good reasons for making the contributors support the Budget by saying in the open Chamber—
"If luxury is banished from the king's palace, it will soon be banished from the homes of hissubjects!"
At these words there was a prompt and loud explosion, as though the powder magazine at Grenelle had been set on fire.
"Men who make kings are not the subjects of the kings they create!" exclaims M. Marchal.
"There are no more subjects in France."
"There is a king, nevertheless," insinuates M. Dupin, who held a salary direct from that king.
"There are no more subjects," repeats M. Leclerc-Lasalle. "Order! order! order!"
"I do not understand the importance of the interruption," replies M. de Montalivet.
"It is an insult to the chamber," cries M. Labôissière.
"Order! order! order!" The president rings his bell.—"Order!! order!! order!!"
The president puts his hat on. "Order!!! order!!! order!!!"
The president breaks up the sitting. The deputies go out, crying "Order! order! order!"
The whole thing was more serious than one would have supposed at the first glance: it was a slur on the bourgeois reputation which had made Louis-Philippe King of France. On the same day, under the presidency of Odilon Barrot, a hundred and sixty-seven members of the Chamber signed a protest against the wordsubject.The Civil List was reduced to fourteen millions. A settlement was made on the queen in case of the decease of the king; an annual allowance of a million francs was granted to M. le duc d'Orléans. This was a triumph, but a humiliating triumph; the debates of the Chamber upon the wordsubject, M. de Cor's letters—Heavens! what were we going to do? We were confusing Timon the misanthrope with M. de Cormenin!—the letters of Timon, Dupont (de l'Eure's) condemnation, the jests of the Republican papers, all these had in an important degree taken the place of the voice of the slave of old who cried behind the triumphant emperors, "Cæsar, remember that thou art mortal!" At the same time a voice cried, "Peerage, remember that thou art mortal!" It was the voice of theMoniteurproclaiming the abolition of heredity in the peerage.
Death ofMirabeau—The accessories ofCharles VII.—A shooting party—Montereau—A temptation I cannot resist—Critical position in which my shooting companions and I find ourselves—We introduce ourselves into an empty house by breaking into it at night—Inspection of the premises—Improvised supper—As one makes one's bed, so one lies on it—I go to see the dawn rise—Fowl and duck shooting—Preparations for breakfast—Mother Galop
Death ofMirabeau—The accessories ofCharles VII.—A shooting party—Montereau—A temptation I cannot resist—Critical position in which my shooting companions and I find ourselves—We introduce ourselves into an empty house by breaking into it at night—Inspection of the premises—Improvised supper—As one makes one's bed, so one lies on it—I go to see the dawn rise—Fowl and duck shooting—Preparations for breakfast—Mother Galop
It will be seen the times were not at all encouraging for literature. But there was through that highly strung period such a vital turgescence that enough force remained in the youth of the day, who had just been making a political disturbance on the boulevard Saint-Denis or the place Vendôme, to create a literary disturbance at the Théâtre Porte-Saint-Martin or the Odéon. I think I have said thatMirabeauhad been played, and had passed like a shadow without even being able, when dying, to bequeathe the name of its author to the public: the company of the Odéon, therefore, was entirely at the disposal ofCharles VII.
Whether Harel had returned to my opinion, that the play would not make money, or whether he had a fit of niggardliness, a rare happening, I must confess, when Mademoiselle Georges was taking part in a play, he would not risk any expense, not even to the extent of the stag that kills Raymond in the first act, not even for the armour which clothes Charles VII. in the fourth. The result was that I was obliged to go to Raincy myself to kill a stag, and to get it stuffed at my own expense; then I had to go and borrow a complete set of armour from the Artillery Museum, which they obligingly lent me in remembrance of the servicethat I had rendered their establishment on 29 July 1830, by saving a portion of the armour of Francis I. However, the rehearsals proceeded with such energy that, on 5 September, the opening day of the shooting season having arrived, I had no hesitation about leavingCharles VII.to the strength of the impetus that I had given it, and, as M. Étienne would say, I went to woo Diana at the expense of the Muses. True, our Muses, if the illustrious Academician is to be believed, were but sorry ones!
I had decided to undertake this cynegetic jollification because of an unlimited permission from Bixio. That permission had been given to us by our common friend Dupont-Delporte, who, by virtue of our discretionary powers, we had just made sub-lieutenant in the army, together with a delightful lad called Vaillant, who, with Louis Desnoyers, managed a paper called theJournal Rose, and also the son of Mademoiselle Duchesnois, who, I believe, died bravely in Algeria. As to Vaillant, I know not what became of him, or whether he followed up his military career; but, if he be still living, no matter where he may be, I offer him greeting, although a quarter of a century has rolled by. Now this permission was indeed calculated to tempt a sportsman. Dupont-Delporte introduced us to his father, and begged him to place his château and estates at our disposition. The château was situated three-quarters of a league from Montigny, a little village which itself was three leagues from Montereau. We left by diligence at six o'clock on the morning of 4 September, and we reached Montereau about four in the afternoon. I was not yet acquainted with Montereau, doubly interesting, historically, by reason of the assassination of the Duke of Burgundy Jean Sans-Peur, and from the victory which, in the desperate struggle of 1814, Napoléon won there over the Austrians and the Würtemburgers. Our caravan was made up of Viardot, author of theHistoire des Arabes en Espagne, and, later, husband of that adorable and all round actress called Pauline Garcia; of Bessas-Lamégie, then deputy-mayor of the 10th arrondissement; of Bixio,and of Louis Boulanger. Whilst Bixio, who knew the town, went in search of a carriage to take us to Montigny, Boulanger, Bessas-Lamégie, Viardot and I set to work to turn over the two important pages of history embedded in the little town, written four centuries ago. The position of the bridge perfectly explained the scene of the assassination of the Duke of Burgundy. Boulanger drew for me on the spot a rough sketch, which served me later in my romance ofIsabeau de Bavière, and in my legend of theSire de Giac.Then we went to see the sword of the terrible duke, which hung in the crypt of the church. If one formed an idea of the man by the sword one would be greatly deceived: imagine the ball swords of Francis II. or of Henri III.! When we had visited the church we had finished with the memories of 1417, and we passed on to those of 1814. We rapidly climbed the ascent of Surville, and found ourselves on the plateau where Napoléon, once more an artilleryman, thundered, with pieces of cannon directed by himself, against the Würtemburgers fighting in the town. It was there that, in getting off his horse and whipping his boot with his horse-whip, he uttered this remarkable sentence, an appeal from Imperial doubt to Republican genius—