It will be understood that with such lucid questions and answers the proceedings would be brief. The jury retired to aroom to deliberate and brought in a verdict of not guilty. Did they consider Gallois mad, or were they of his opinion? Gallois was instantly set at liberty. He went straight to the desk on which his knife lay open as damning evidence, picked it up, shut it, put it in his pocket, bowed to the bench and went out. I repeat, those were rough times! A little mad, maybe; but you will recollect Béranger's song aboutLes Fous.
[1]TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.—D =Demande(Question). R =Réponse(Answer).
[1]TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.—D =Demande(Question). R =Réponse(Answer).
The incompatibility of literature with riotings—La Maréchale L'Ancre—My opinion concerning that piece—Farruck le Maure—The début of Henry Monnier at the Vaudeville—I leave Paris—Rouen—Havre—I meditate going to explore Trouville—What is Trouville?—The consumptive English lady—Honfleur—By land or by sea
The incompatibility of literature with riotings—La Maréchale L'Ancre—My opinion concerning that piece—Farruck le Maure—The début of Henry Monnier at the Vaudeville—I leave Paris—Rouen—Havre—I meditate going to explore Trouville—What is Trouville?—The consumptive English lady—Honfleur—By land or by sea
It was a fatiguing life we led: each day brought its emotions, either political or literary.Antonywent on its successful course in the midst of various disturbances. Every night, without any apparent motive whatsoever, a crowd gathered on the boulevard. The rallying-place varied between the Théâtre-Gymnase and that of the Ambigu. At first composed of five or six persons, it grew progressively; policemen would next appear and walk about with an aggressive air along the boulevard; the gutter urchins threw cabbage stumps or carrot ends at them, which was quite sufficient after half an hour or an hour's proceedings to cause a nice little row, which began at five o'clock in the afternoon and lasted till midnight. This daily popular irritation attracted many people to the boulevard and very few to the plays.Antonywas the only piece which defied the disturbances and the heat, and brought in sums of between twelve thousand and fifteen thousand francs. But there was such stagnation in business, and so great was the fear that spread over the book-trade, that the same publishers who had offered me six thousand francs forHenri III., and twelve thousand francs forChristine, hardly dared offer to printAntonyfor half costs and half profits. I had it printed, not at half costs by a publisher, but entirely at my own expense.
There was no way possible for me to remain in Paris any longer: riots swallowed up too much time and money.Antonydid not bring in enough to keep a man going; also, I was being goaded by the demon of poetry, which urged me to do something fresh. But how could one work in Paris, in the midst of gatherings at theGrande-Chaumière, dinners at theVendanges de Bourgogneand lawsuits at the Assize Courts? I conferred with Cavaignac and Bastide. I learnt that there would be nothing serious happening in Paris for six months or a year, and I obtained a holiday for three months. Only two causes kept me still in Paris: the first production of theMaréchale d'Ancreand the début of Henry Monnier. De Vigny, who had not yet ventured anything at the theatre but his version ofOthello, to which I referred in its right place, was about to make his real entry in theMaréchale d'Ancre.It was a fine subject; I had been on the point of treating it, but had renounced it because my good and learned friend Paul Lacroix, better known then under the name of the bibliophile Jacob, had begun a drama on the same subject.
Louis XIII., that inveterate hunter afterla pie-grièche, escaping from the guardianship of his mother by a crime, proclaiming his coming of age to the firing of pistols which killed the favourite of Marie de Médicis, resolving upon that infamous deed whilst playing at chess with his favourite, de Luynes, who was hardly two years older than himself; a monarch timid in council and brave in warfare, a true Valois astray among the Bourbons, lean, melancholy and sickly-looking, with a profile half like that of Henri IV. and half like Louis XIV., without the goodness of the one and the dignity of the other; this Louis XIII. held out to me the promise of a curious royal figure to take as a model, I who had already given birth toHenri III.and was later to bringCharles IX.to the light of day. But, as I have said, I had renounced it. De Vigny, who did not know Paul Lacroix, or hardly knew him, had not the same reason for abstaining, and he had written a five-act drama in prose on this subject, which had been received at the Odéon. Here was yet another battle to fight.
De Vigny, at that time, as I believe he still does, belonged to the Royalist party. He had therefore two things to fight—theenemies which his opinions brought him, and those who were envious of his talent,—a talent cold, sober, charming, more dreamy than virile, more intellectual than passionate, more nervous than strong. The piece was excellently well put on: Mademoiselle Georges took the part of the Maréchale d'Ancre; Frédérick, that of Concini; Ligier, Borgia; and Noblet, Isabelle. The difference between de Vigny's way of treating drama and mine shows itself in the very names of the characters. One looked in vain for Louis XIII. I should have made him my principal personage. Perhaps, though, the absence of Louis XIII. in de Vigny's drama was more from political opinion than literary device. The author being, as I say, a Royalist, may have preferred to leave his royalty behind the wings than to show it in public with a pale and bloodstained face. TheMaréchale d'Ancreis more of a novel than a play; the plot, so to speak, is too complicated in its corners and too simple in its middle spaces. The Maréchale falls without a struggle, without catastrophe, without clinging to anything: she slips and falls to the ground; she is seized; she dies. As to Concini, as the author was much embarrassed to know what to do with him, he makes him spend ten hours at a Jew's, waiting for a young girl whom he has only seen once; and, just when he learns that Borgia is with his wife, and jealousy lends him wings to fly to the Louvre, he loses himself on a staircase. During the whole of the fourth act, whilst his wife is being taken to the Bastille, and they are trying her and condemning her, he is groping about to find the bannisters and seeking the door; when he comes out of Isabelle's room at the end of the third act, he does not reappear again on the stage till the beginning of the fifth, and then only to die in a corner of the rue de la Ferronnerie. That is the principal idea of the drama. According to the author, Concini is the real assassin of Henry IV.; Ravaillac is only the instrument. That is why, instead of being killed within the limits of the court of the Louvre, the Maréchal d'Ancre is killed close to the rue de la Ferronnerie, on the same spot where the assassin waited to give the terrible dagger-stroke of Friday, 14 May 1610. In other respects Iagree with the author; I do not think it at all necessary that a work of art should possess as hall-mark, "un parchemin par crime et un in-folio par passion." For long I have held that, in theatrical matters specially, it seems to me permissible to violate history provided one begets offspring thereby; but to let Concini kill Henri IV. with no other object than that Concini should reign, after the death of Béarnais, by the queen and through the queen, is to give a very small reason for so great a crime. Put Concini behind Ravaillac if you will, but, behind Concini, place the queen and Épernon, and behind the queen and Épernon place Austria, the eternal enemy of France! Austria, who has never put out her hand to France save with a knife in it, the blade of Jacques Clément, the dagger of Ravaillac and the pen-knife of Damiens, knowing well it would be too dangerous to touch her with a sword-point.
It did not meet with much success, in spite of the high order of beauty which characterised the work, beauty of style particularly. An accident contributed to this: after the two first acts, the best in my opinion, I do not know what caprice seized Georges, but she pretended she was ill, and the stage-manager came on in a black coat and white tie to tell the spectators that the remainder of the representation was put off until another day. As a matter of fact, theMaréchale d'Ancrewas not resumed until eight or ten days later. It needs a robust constitution to hold up against such a check! TheMaréchale d'Ancreheld its own and had quite a good run. Between theMaréchale d'Ancreand Henry Monnier's first appearance a three-act drama was played at the Porte-Saint-Martin, patronised by Hugo and myself: this wasFarruck le Maure, by poor Escousse. The piece was not good, but owing to Bocage it had a greater success than one could have expected. It afterwards acquired a certain degree of importance because of the author's suicide, who, in his turn, was better known by the song, or rather, the elegy which Béranger wrote about him, than by the two plays he had had played. We shall return to this unfortunate boy and to Lebras his fellow-suicide.
It was on 5 July that Henry Monnier came out. I doubt if any début ever produced such a literary sensation. He was then about twenty-six or twenty-eight years of age; he was known in the artistic world on three counts. As painter, pupil of Girodet and of Gros, he had, after his return from travel in England, been instrumental in introducing the first wood-engraving executed in Paris, and he publishedMœurs administratives, GrisettesandIllustrations de Béranger.As author, at the instigation of his friend Latouche, he printed hisScènes populaires, thanks to which the renown of the Frenchgendarmeand of the Parisiantiti[1]spread all over the world. Finally, as a private actor in society he had been the delight of supper-parties, acting for us, with the aid of a curtain or a folding-screen, hisHalte d'une diligence, hisÉtudiantand hisGrisette, hisFemme qui a trop chaudand hisAmbassade de M. de Cobentzel.
On the strength of being applauded in drawing-rooms, he thought he would venture on the stage, and he wrote for himself and for his own début, a piece calledLa Famille improvisée, which he took from hisScènes populaires.Two types created by Henry Monnier have lasted and will last: his Joseph Prudhomme, professor of writing, pupil of Brard and Saint-Omer; and Coquerel, lover of la Duthé and of la Briand. I have spoken of the interior of the Théâtre-Français on the day of the first performance ofHenri III.; that of the Vaudeville was not less remarkable on the evening of 5 July; all the literary and artistic celebrities seemed to have arranged to meet in the rue de Chartres. Among artists and sculptors were, Picot, Gérard, Horace Vernet, Carle Vernet, Delacroix, Boulanger, Pradier, Desbœufs, the Isabeys, Thiolier and I know not who else. Of poets there were Chateaubriand, Lamartine, Hugo, the whole of us in fact. For actresses, Mesdemoiselles Mars, Duchesnois, Leverd, Dorval, Perlet and Nourrit, and every actor who was not taking part on the stage that night. Of society notabilities there were Vaublanc, Mornay, Blanc-ménil,Madame de la Bourdonnaie, the witty Madame O'Donnell, the ubiquitous Madame de Pontécoulant, Châteauvillars, who has the prerogative of not growing old either in face or in mind, Madame de Castries, all the faubourg Saint-Germain, the Chaussée-d'Antin and the faubourg Saint-Honoré. The whole of the journalist world was there. It was an immense success. Henry Monnier reappeared twice, being called first as actor then as author. This, as I have said, was on 5 July, and from that day until the end of December the piece was never taken off the bills.
I went away the next day. Where was I going? I did not know. I had flung a feather to the wind; it blew that day from the south, so my feather was carried northwards. I set out therefore, for the north, and should probably go to Havre. There seems to be an invincible attraction leading one back to places one has previously visited. It will be remembered that I was at Havre in 1828 and rewroteChristine, as far as the plot was concerned, in the coach between Paris and Rouen. Then, too, Rouen is such a beautiful town to see with its cathedral, its church of Saint-Ouen, its ancient houses with their wood-carvings, its town-hall and hôtel Bourgtheroude, that one longs to see it all again! I stopped a day there. Next day the boat left at six in the morning. At that time it still took fourteen hours to get from Paris to Rouen by diligence, and ten hours from Rouen to Havre by boat. Now, byexpress trainit only takes three and a half! True, one departs and arrives—when one does arrive—but one does not really travel; you do not see Jumiéges, or la Meilleraie or Tancarville, or all that charming country by Villequier, where, one day, ten years after I was there, the daughter of our great poet met her death in the midst of a pleasure party. Poor Léopoldine! she would be at Jersey now, completing the devout colony which provided a family if not a country for our exiled Dante, dreaming of another inferno! Oh! if only I were that mysterious unknown whose elastic arm could extend from one side of the Guadalquiver to the other, to offer a light to Don Juan's cigar, how I wouldstretch out each morning and evening my arm from Brussels to Jersey to clasp the beloved hand which wrote the finest verse and the most vigorous prose of this century!
We no longer see Honfleur, with its fascinating bell-tower, built by the English; an erection which made some bishop or other, travelling to improve his mind, say, "I feel sure that was not made here!" In short, one goes to Havre and returns the same day, and one can even reach Aix-la-Chapelle the next morning. If you take away distance, you augment the duration of time. Nowadays we do not live so long, but we get through more.
When I reached Havre I went in search of a place where I could spend a month or six weeks; I wanted but a village, a corner, a hole, provided it was close to the sea, and I was recommended to go to Sainte-Adresse and Trouville. For a moment I wavered between the two districts, which were both equally unknown to me; but, upon pursuing my inquiries further, and having learnt that Trouville was even more isolated and hidden and solitary than Sainte-Adresse, I decided upon Trouville. Then I recollected, as one does in a dream, that my good friend Huet, the landscape painter, a painter of marshes and beaches, had told me of a charming village by the sea, where he had been nearly choked with a fish bone, and that the village was called Trouville. But he had forgotten to tell me how to get to it. I therefore had to make inquiries. There were infinitely more opportunities for getting from Havre to Rio-de-Janeiro, Sydney or the coast of Coromandel than there were to Trouville. Its latitude and longitude were, at that time, almost as little known as those of Robinson Crusoe's island. Sailors, going from Honfleur to Cherbourg, had pointed out Trouville in the distance, as a little settlement of fishermen, which, no doubt, traded with la Délivrande and Pont-l'Évêque, its nearest neighbours; but that was all they knew about it. As to the tongue those fisherfolk talked they were completely ignorant, the only relations they had hitherto had with them had been held from afar and by signs. I have always had a passionfor discoveries and explorations; I thereupon decided, if not exactly to discover Trouville, at least to explore it, and to do for the river de la Touque what Levaillant, the beloved traveller of my childhood, had done for the Elephant River. That resolution taken, I jumped into the boat for Honfleur, where fresh directions as to the route I should follow would be given me. We arrived at Honfleur. During that two hours' crossing at flood-tide, everybody was seasick, except a beautiful consumptive English lady, with long streaming hair and cheeks like a peach and a rose, who battled against the scourge with large glasses of brandy! I have never seen a sadder sight than that lovely figure standing up, walking about the deck of the boat, whilst everybody else was either seated or lying down; she, doomed to death, with every appearance of good health, whilst all the other passengers, who looked at the point of death, regained their strength directly they touched the shore again, like many another Antæus before them. If there are spirits, they must walk and look and smile just as that beautiful English woman walked and looked and smiled. When we landed at Honfleur, just as the boat stopped, her mother and a young brother, as fair and as rosy as she seemed, rose up as though from a battlefield and rejoined her with dragging steps. She, on the contrary, whilst we were sorting out our boxes and portmanteaux, lightly cleared the drawbridge which was launched from the landing-stage to the side of the miniature steam-packet, and disappeared round a corner of the rue de Honfleur. I never saw her again and shall never see her again, probably, except in the valley of Jehoshaphat; but, whether I see her again, there or elsewhere—in this world, which seems to me almost impossible, or in the other, which seems to me almost improbable—I will guarantee that I shall recognise her at the first glance.
We were hardly at Honfleur before we were making inquiries as to the best means of being transported to Trouville. There were two ways of going, by land or by sea. By land they offered us a wretched wagon and two bad horses for twentyfrancs, and we should travel along a bad road, taking five hours to reach Trouville. Going by sea, with the outgoing tide, it would take two hours, in a pretty barque rowed by four vigorous oarsmen; a picturesque voyage along the coast, where I should see great quantities of birds, such as sea-mews, gulls and divers, on the right the infinite ocean, on the left immense cliffs. Then if the wind was good—and it could not fail to be favourable, sailors never doubt that!—it would only take two hours to cross. It was true that, if the wind was unfavourable, we should have to take to oars, and should not arrive till goodness knows when. Furthermore, they asked twelve francs instead of twenty. Happily my travelling companion—for I have forgotten to say that I had a travelling companion—was one of the most economical women I have ever met; although she had been very sick in crossing from Havre to Honfleur, this saving of eight francs appealed to her, and as I had gallantly left the choice of the two means of transport to her she decided on the boat. Two hours later we left Honfleur as soon as the tide began to turn.
[1]Young workman of the Parisian faubourgs.
[1]Young workman of the Parisian faubourgs.
Appearance of Trouville—Mother Oseraie—How people are accommodated at Trouville when they are married—The price of painters and of the community of martyrs—Mother Oseraie's acquaintances—How she had saved the life of Huet, the landscape painter—My room and my neighbour's—A twenty-franc dinner for fifty sous—A walk by the sea-shore—Heroic resolution
Appearance of Trouville—Mother Oseraie—How people are accommodated at Trouville when they are married—The price of painters and of the community of martyrs—Mother Oseraie's acquaintances—How she had saved the life of Huet, the landscape painter—My room and my neighbour's—A twenty-franc dinner for fifty sous—A walk by the sea-shore—Heroic resolution
The weather kept faith with our sailors' promise: the sea was calm, the wind in the right quarter and, after a delightful three hours' crossing—following that picturesque coast, on the cliffs of which, sixteen years later, King Louis-Philippe, against whom we were to wage so rude a war, was to stand anxiously scanning the sea for a ship, if it were but a rough barque like that Xerxes found upon which to cross the Hellespont—our sailors pointed out Trouville. It was then composed of a few fishing huts grouped along the right bank of the Touque, at the mouth of that river, between two low ranges of hills enclosing a charming valley as a casket encloses a set of jewels. Along the left bank were great stretches of pasture-land which promised me magnificent snipe-shooting. The tide was out and the sands, as smooth and shining as glass, were dry. Our sailors hoisted us on their backs and we were put down upon the sand.
The sight of the sea, with its bitter smell, its eternal moaning, has an immense fascination for me. When I have not seen it for a long time I long for it as for a beloved mistress, and, no matter what stands in the way, I have to return to it, to breathe in its breath and taste its kisses for the twentieth time. The three happiest months of my life, or at any rate the most pleasing to the senses, were those I spent with my Siciliansailors in asperonare, during my Odyssey in the Tyrrhenian Sea. But, in this instance, I began my maritime career, and it must be conceded that it was not a bad beginning to discover a seaport like Trouville. The beach, moreover, was alive and animated as though on a fair day. Upon our left, in the middle of an archipelago of rocks, a whole collection of children were gathering baskets full of mussels; upon our right, women were digging in the sand with vigorous plying of spades, to extract a small kind of eel which resembled the fibres of the salad calledbarbe de capucin(i.e.wild chicory); and all round our little barque, which, although still afloat, looked as though it would soon be left dry, a crowd of fishermen and fisher-women were shrimping, walking with athletic strides, with the water up to their waists and pushing in front of them long-handled nets into which they reaped their teeming harvest. We stopped at every step; everything on that unknown sea-shore was a novelty to us. Cook, landing on the Friendly Isles, was not more absorbed or happy than was I. The sailors, noticing our enjoyment, told us they would carry our luggage to the inn and tell them of our coming.
"To the inn! But which inn?" I asked.
"There is no fear of mistake," replied the wag of the company, "for there is but one."
"What is its name?"
"It has none. Ask for Mother Oseraie and the first person you meet will direct you to her house."
We were reassured by this information and had no further hesitation about loafing to our heart's content on the beach of Trouville. An hour later, various stretches of sand having been crossed and two or three directions asked in French and answered in Trouvillois, we managed to land at our inn. A woman of about forty—plump, clean and comely, with the quizzical smile of the Norman peasant on her lips—came up to us. This was Mother Oseraie, who probably never suspected the celebrity which one day the Parisian whom she received with an almost sneering air was to give her. Poor Mother Oseraie! had she suspected such a thing, perhaps she wouldhave treated me as Plato in hisRepublicadvises that poets shall be dealt with: crowned with flowers and shown to the door! Instead of this, she advanced to meet me, and after gazing at me with curiosity from head to foot, she said—
"Good! so you have come?"
"What do you mean by that?" I asked.
"Well, your luggage has arrived and two rooms engaged for you."
"Ah! now I understand."
"Why two rooms?"
"One for madame and one for myself."
"Oh! but with us when people are married they sleep together!"
"First of all, who told you that madame and I were married?... Besides, when we are, I shall be of the opinion of one of my friends whose name is Alphonse Karr!"
"Well, what does your friend whose name is Alphonse Karr say?"
"He says that at the end of a certain time, when a man and a woman occupy only one room together, they cease to become lover and mistress and become male and female; that is what he says."
"Ah! I do not understand. However, no matter! you want two rooms?"
"Exactly."
"Well, you shall have them; but I would much rather you only took one [prissiez]."
I will not swear that she saidprissiez, but the reader will forgive me for adding that embellishment to our dialogue.
"Of course, I can see through that," I replied; "you would have made us pay for two and you would have had one room left to let to other travellers."
"Precisely!—I say, you are not very stupid for a Parisian, I declare!"
I bowed to Mother Oseraie.
"I am not altogether a Parisian," I replied; "but that is a mere matter of detail."
"Then you will have the two rooms?"
"I will."
"I warn you they open one out of the other."
"Capital!"
"You shall be taken to them."
She called a fine strapping lass with nose and eyes and petticoats turned up.
"Take madame to her room," I said to the girl; "I will stop here and talk to Mother Oseraie."
"Why?"
"Because I find your conversation pleasant."
"Gammon!"
"Also I want to know what you will take us for per day."
"And the night does not count then?"
"Night and day."
"There are two charges: for artists, it is forty sous."
"What! forty sous ... for what?"
"For board and lodging of course!"
"Ah! forty sous!... And how many meals for that?"
"As many as you like! two, three, four—according to your hunger—of course!"
"Good! you say, then, that it is forty sous per day?"
"For artists—Are you a painter?"
"No."
"Well, then it will be fifty sous for you and fifty for your lady—a hundred sous together."
I could not believe the sum.
"Then it is a hundred sous for two, three or four meals and two rooms?"
"A hundred sous—Do you think it is too dear?"
"No, if you do not raise the price."
"Why should I raise it, pray?"
"Oh well, we shall see."
"No! not here ... If you were a painter it would only be forty sous."
"What is the reason for this reduction in favour of artists?"
"Because they are such nice lads and I am so fond of them. It was they who began to make the reputation of my inn."
"By the way, do you know a painter called Decamps?"
"Decamps? I should think so!"
"And Jadin?"
"Jadin? I do not know that name."
I thought Mother Oseraie was bragging; but I possessed a touch-stone.
"And Huet?" I asked.
"Oh, yes! I knew him."
"You do not remember anything in particular about him, do you?"
"Indeed, yes, I remember that I saved his life."
"Bah! come, how did that happen?"
"One day when he was choking with a sole bone. It doesn't take long to choke one's self with a fish bone!"
"And how did you save his life."
"Oh! only just in time. Why, he was already black in the face."
"What did you do to him?"
"I said to him, 'Be patient and wait for me.'"
"It is not easy to be patient when one is choking."
"Good heavens! what else could I have said? It wasn't my fault. Then I ran as fast as I could into the garden; I tore up a leek, washed it, cut off its stalks and stuffed it right down his throat. It is a sovereign remedy for fish bones!"
"Indeed, I can well believe it."
"Now, he never speaks of me except with tears in his eyes."
"All the more since the leek belongs to the onion family."
"All the same, it vexes me."
"What vexes you? That the poor dear man was not choked?"
"No, no, indeed! I am delighted and I thank you both in his name and in my own: he is a friend of mine, and, besides,a man of great talent. But I am vexed that Trouville has been discovered by three artists before being discovered by a poet."
"Are you a poet, then?"
"Well, I might perhaps venture to say that I am."
"What is a poet? Does it bring in an income?"
"No."
"Well, then, it is a poor sort of business."
I saw I had given Mother Oseraie but an indifferent idea of myself.
"Would you like me to pay you a fortnight in advance?"
"What for?"
"Why! In case you are afraid that as I am a poet I may go without paying you!"
"If you went away without paying me it would be all the worse for you, but not for me."
"How so?"
"For having robbed an honest woman; for I am an honest woman, I am."
"I begin to believe it, Mother Oseraie; but I, too, you see, am not a bad lad."
"Well, I don't mind telling you that you give me that impression. Will you have dinner?"
"Rather! Twice over rather than once."
"Then, go upstairs and leave me to attend to my business."
"But what will you give us for dinner?"
"Ah! that is my business."
"How is it your business?"
"Because, if I do not satisfy you, you will go elsewhere."
"But there is nowhere else to go!"
"Which is as good as to say that you will put up with what I have got, my good friend.... Come, off to your room!"
I began to adapt myself to the manners of Mother Oseraie: it was what is called in themorale en actionand in collections of anecdotes "la franchise villageoise" (country frankness). I should much have preferred "l'urbanité parisienne" (Parisian urbanity); but Mother Oseraie was built on other lines, and Iwas obliged to take her as she was. I went up to my room: it was quadrilateral, with lime-washed walls, a deal floor, a walnut table, a wooden bed painted red, and a chimney-piece with a shaving-glass instead of a looking-glass, and, for ornament, two blue elaborately decorated glass vases; furthermore there was the spray of orange-blossom which Mother Oseraie had had when she was twenty years of age, as fresh as on the day it was plucked, owing to the shade, which kept it from contact with the air. Calico curtains to the window and linen sheets on the bed, both sheets and curtains as white as the snow, completed the furnishings. I went into the adjoining room; it was furnished on the same lines, and had, besides, a convex-shaped chest of drawers inlaid with different coloured woods which savoured of the bygone days of du Barry, and which, if restored, regilded, repaired, would have looked better in the studio of one of the three painters Mother Oseraie had just mentioned. The view from both windows was magnificent. From mine, the valley of the Touque could be seen sinking away towards Pont-l'Évêque, which is surrounded by two wooded hills; from my companion's, the sea, flecked with little fishing-boats, their sails white against the horizon, waiting to return with the tide. Chance had indeed favoured me in giving me the room which looked on to the valley: if I had had the sea, with its waves, and gulls, and boats, its horizon melting into the sky always before me, I should have found it impossible to work. I had completely forgotten the dinner when I heard Mother Oseraie calling me—
"I say, monsieur poet!"
"Well! mother!" I replied.
"Come! dinner is ready."
I offered my arm to my neighbour and we went down. Oh! worthy Mother Oseraie! when I saw your soup, your mutton cutlets, your solesen matelote, your mayonnaise of lobster, your two roast snipe and your shrimp salad, how I regretted I had had doubts of you for an instant! Fifty sous for a dinner which, in Paris, would have cost twenty francs! True, wine would have accounted for some of the difference;but we might drink as much cider as we liked free of charge. My travelling companion suggested taking a lease of three, six, or nine years with Mother Oseraie; during which nine years, in her opinion, we could economise to the extent of a hundred and fifty thousand francs! Perhaps she was right, poor Mélanie! but how was Paris and its revolutions to get on without me? As soon as dinner was finished we went back to the beach. It was high tide, and the barques were coming into the harbour like a flock of sheep to the fold. Women were waiting on the shore with huge baskets to carry off the fish. Each woman recognised her own boat and its rigging from afar; mothers called out to their sons, sisters to their brothers, wives to their husbands. All talked by signs before the boats were near enough to enable them to use their voices, and it was soon known whether the catch had been good or bad. All the while, a hot July sun was sinking below the horizon, surrounded by great clouds which it fringed with purple, and through the gaps between the clouds it darted its golden rays, Apollo's arrows, which disappeared in the sea. I do not know anything more beautiful or grand or magnificent than a sunset over the ocean! We remained on the beach until it was completely dark. I was perfectly well aware that, if I did not from the beginning cut short this desire for contemplation which had taken possession of me, I should spend my days in shooting sea-birds, gathering oysters among the rocks and catching eels in the sand. I therefore resolved to combat this sweet enemy styled idleness, and to set myself to work that very evening if possible.
I was under an agreement with Harel; it had been arranged that I should bring him back a play in verse, of five acts, entitledCharles VII chez ses grands vassaux.M. Granier, otherwise de Cassagnac, published, in 1833, a work on me, since continued by M. Jacquot, otherwise de Mirecourt, a work in which he pointed out the sources whence I had drawn all the plots for my plays, and taken all the ideas for my novels. I intend, as I go on with these Memoirs, to undertake that work myself, and I guarantee that it shall bemore complete and more conscientious than that of my two renowned critics; only, I hope my readers will not demand that it shall be as malicious. But let me relate how the idea of writingCharles VII.came to me, and of what heterogeneous elements that drama was composed.
A reading at Nodier's—The hearers and the readers—Début—Les Marrons du feu—La Camargo and the Abbé Desiderio—Genealogy of a dramatic idea—Orestes and Hermione—Chimène and Don Sancho-Goetz von Berlichingen—Fragments—How I render to Cæsar the things that are Cæsar's
A reading at Nodier's—The hearers and the readers—Début—Les Marrons du feu—La Camargo and the Abbé Desiderio—Genealogy of a dramatic idea—Orestes and Hermione—Chimène and Don Sancho-Goetz von Berlichingen—Fragments—How I render to Cæsar the things that are Cæsar's
Towards the close of 1830, or the beginning of 1831, we were invited to spend an evening with Nodier. A young fellow of twenty-two or twenty-three was to read some portions of a book of poems he was about to publish. This young man's name was then almost unknown in the world of letters, and it was now going to be given to the public for the first time. Nobody ever failed to attend a meeting called by our dear Nodier and our lovely Marie. We were all, therefore, punctual in our appearance. By everybody, I mean our ordinary circle of the Arsenal: Lamartine, Hugo, de Vigny, Jules de Rességuier, Sainte-Beuve, Lefèbvre, Taylor, the two Johannots, Louis Boulanger, Jal, Laverdant, Bixio, Amaury Duval, Francis Wey, etc.; and a crowd of young girls with flowers in their dresses, who have since become the beautiful and devoted mothers of families. About ten o'clock a young man of ordinary height—thin, fair, with budding moustache and long curling hair, thrown back in clusters to the sides of his head, a green, tight-fitting coat and light-coloured trousers—entered, affecting a very easy demeanour which, perhaps, was meant to conceal actual timidity. This was our poet. Very few among us knew him personally, even by sight or name. A table, glass of water and two candles had been put ready for him. He sat down, and, so far as I can remember, heread from a printed book and not from a manuscript. From the very start that assembly of poets trembled with excitement; they felt they had a poet before them, and the volume opened with these lines, which I may be permitted to quote, although they are known by all the world. We have said, and we cannot repeat it too often, that these memoirs are not only Memoirs but recollections of the art, poetry, literature and politics of the first fifty years of the century. When we have attacked, severely, perhaps, but honestly and loyally, things that were base and low and shameful; when we have tracked down hypocrisy, punished treachery, ridiculed mediocrity, it has been both good and sweet to raise our eyes to the sky, to look at, and to worship in spirit, those beautiful golden clouds which, to many people, seem but flimsy vapours, but which to us are planetary worlds wherein we hope our souls will find refuge throughout eternity; and, even though conscious that we may, perhaps, be wrong in so doing, we hail their uncommon outlines with more pride and joy than when setting forth our own works. I am entirely disinterested in the matter of the author of these verses; for I scarcely knew him and we hardly spoke to one another a dozen times. I admire him greatly, although he, I fear, has not a great affection for me. The poet began thus—
"Je n'ai jamais aimé, pour ma part, ces bégueulesQui ne sauraient aller au Prado toutes seules;Qu'une duègne toujours, de quartier en quartier,Talonne, comme fait sa mule un muletier;Qui s'usent, à prier, les genoux et la lèvre,Se courbent sur le grès plus pâles, dans leur fièvre,Qu'un homme qui, pieds nus, marche sur un serpent,Ou qu'un faux monnayeur au moment qu'on le pend.Certes, ces femmes-là, pour mener cette vie,Portent un cœur châtré de tout noble envie;Elles n'ont pas de sang e pas d'entrailles!—Mais,Sur ma télé et mes os, frère, je vous prometsQu'elles valent encor quatre fois mieux que cellesDont le temps se dépense en intrigues nouvelles.Celles-là vont au bal, courent les rendez-vous,Savent dans un manchon cacher un billet doux,Serrar un ruban noir sur un beau flanc qui ploie,Jeter d'un balcon d'or une échelle de soie,Suivre l'imbroglio de ces amours mignonsPoussés dans une nuit comme des champignons;Si charmantes d'ailleurs! Aimant en enragéesLes moustaches, les chiens, la valse et les dragées.Mais, oh! la triste chose et l'étrange malheur,Lorsque dans leurs filets tombe un homme de cœur!Frère, mieux lui vaudrait, comme ce statuaireQui pressait de ses bras son amante de pierre,Réchauffer de baisers un marbre! Mieux vaudraitUne louve enragée en quelque âpre forêt!..."
You see he was not mistaken in his own estimate; these lines were thoughtful and well-constructed; they march with a proud and lusty swing, hand-on-hip, slender-waisted, splendidly draped in their Spanish cloak. They were not like Lamartine, or Hugo or de Vigny: a flower culled from the same garden, it is true; a fruit of the same orchard even; but a flower possessed of its own odour and a fruit with a taste of its own. Good! Here am I, meaning to relate worthless things concerning myself, saying good things about Alfred de Musset. Upon my word, I do not regret it and it is all the better for myself.[1] I have, however, do not let us forget, yet to explain how that dramaticpastichewhich goes by the name ofCharles VII.came to be written. The night went by in a flash. Alfred de Musset read the whole volume instead of a few pieces from it:Don Paez, Porcia,theAndalouse, Madrid,theBallade à la lune, Mardoche, etc., probably about two thousand lines; only, I must admit that the young girls who were present at the reading, whether they were with their mammas or alone, must have had plenty to do to look after their eyelids and their fans. Among these pieces was a kind of comedy entitled theMarrons du feu.La Camargo, that Belgian dancer, celebrated by Voltaire, who was the delight of the opera of 1734 to 1751, is its heroine; but, it must be said, the poor girl is sadly calumniated in the poem. In the firstplace, the poet imagines she was loved to distraction by a handsome Italian named Rafaël Garuci, and that this love was stronger at the end of two years than it had ever been. Calumny number one. Then, he goes on to suppose that Seigneur Garuci, tired of the dancer, gives his clothes to the Abbé Annibal Desiderio, and tells him how he can gain access to the beautiful woman. Calumny number two—but not so serious as the first, Seigneur Rafaël Garuci having probably never existed save in the poet's brain. Finally, he relates that, when she finds herself face to face with the abbé disguised as a gentleman, and finds out that it is Rafaël who has provided him with the means of access to her, whilst he himself is supping at that very hour with la Cydalise, la Camargo is furious against her faithless lover, and says to the abbé—
"Abbé, je veux du sang! j'en suis plus altéréeQu'une corneille au vent d'un cadavre attirée!Il est là-bas, dis-tu? Cours-y donc! coupe-luiLa gorge, et tire-le par les pieds jusqu'ici!Tords-lui le cœur, abbé, de peur qu'il n'en réchappe;Coupe-le en quatre, et mets les morceaux dans la nappe!Tu me l'apporteras; et puisse m'écraserLa foudre, si tu n'as par blessure un baiser!...Tu tressailles, Romain? C'est une faute étrange,Si tu te crois conduit ici par ton bon ange!Le sang te fait-il peur? Pour t'en faire un manteauDe cardinal, il faut la pointe d'un couteau!Me jugeais-tu le cœur si large, que j'y porteDeux amours à la fois, et que pas un n'en sorte?C'est une faute encor: mon cœur n'est pas si grand,Et le dernier venu ronge l'autre en entrant ..."
The abbé has to fight Rafaël on the morrow; he entreats her to wait at least until after that.
"Et s'il te tuDemain? et si j'en meurs? si j'en suis devenueFolle? si le soleil, de prenant à pâlir,De ce sombre horizon ne pouvait plus sortir?On a vu quelquefois de telles nuits au monde!Demain! le vais-je attendre à compter, par seconde,Les heures sur mes doigts, ou sur les battementsDe mon cœur, comme un juif qui calcule le tempsD'un prêt? Demain, ensuite, irai-je, pour te plaire,Jouer à croix ou pile, et mettre ma colère.Au bout d'un pistolet qui tremble avec ta main?Non pas! non! Aujourd'hui est à nous, mais demainEst a Dieu!..."
The abbé ended by giving in to the prayers, caresses and tears of la Camargo, as Orestes yielded to Hermione's promises, transports and threats; urged on by the beautiful, passionate courtesan, he killed Rafaël, as Orestes killed Pyrrhus; and, like Orestes, he returned to demand from la Camargo recompense for his love, the price of blood. Like Hermione, she failed to keep her word to him. Calumny number three.
"Entrez!(L'abbé entre et lui présente son poignard; la Camargo le considère quelque temps, puis se lève.)A-t-il souffert beaucoup?—Bon! c'est l'affaireD'un moment!—Qu'a-t-il dit?—Il a dit que la terreTournait.—Quoi! rien de plus?—Ah! qu'il donnait son bienA son bouffon Pippo.—Quoi! rien de plus?—Non, rien.—Il porte au petit doigt un diamant: de grâce,Allez me le chercher!—Je ne le puis.—La placeOù vous l'avez laissé n'est pas si loin.—Non, maisJe ne le puis.—Abbé, tout ce que je promets,Je le tiens.—Pas ce soir!...—Pourquoi?—Mais...—MisérableTu ne l'as pas tué!—Moi? Que le ciel m'accableSi je ne l'ai pas fait, madame, en vérité!—En ce cas, pourquoi non?—Ma foi, je l'ai jetéDans la mer.—Quoi! ce soir, dans la mer?—Oui, madame.—Alors, c'est un malheur pour vous, car, sur mon âme,Je voulais cet anneau.—Si vous me l'aviez dit,Au moins!—Et sur quoi donc t'en croirai-je, mauditSur quel honneur vas-tu me jurer? sur laquelleDe tes deux mains de sang? oh la marque en est elle?La chose n'est pas sûre, et tu peux te vanter!Il fallait lui couper la main, et l'apporter.—Madame, il fassait nuit, la mer était prochaine ...Je l'ai jeté dedans.—Je n'en suis pas certaine.—Mais, madame, ce fer est chaud, et saigne encor!—Ni le feu ni le sang ne sont rares!—Son corpsN'est pas si loin, madame; il se peut qu'on se charge ...—La nuit est trop épaisse, et l'Océan trop large!—Mais je suis pâle, moi tenez!—Mon cher abbé,L'étais-je pas, ce soir, quand j'ai joué Thisbé,Dans l'opéra?—Madame, au nom du ciel!—Peut-êtreQu'en y regardant bien, vous l'aurez.... Ma fenêtreDonne sur la mer.
(Elle sort.)
—Mais elle est partie!... O Dieu!J'ai tué mon ami, j'ai mérité le feu,J'ai taché mon pourpoint, et l'on me congédie!C'est la moralité de cette comédie."
The framework of this scene, far removed from it though it is by its form, is evidently copied from this scene in Racine'sAndromaque:
"HERMIONE.Je veux qu'à mon départ toute l'Épire pleure!Mais, si vous me vengez, vengez-moi dans une heure.Tous vos retardements sont pour moi des refus.Courez au temple! Il faut immoler ...ORESTE.Qui?HERMIONE.Pyrrhus!—Pyrrhus, madame?—Hé quoi! votre haine chancelle!Ah! courez, et craignez que je ne vous rappelle!
. . . . . . . . . .
Ne vous suffit-il pas que je l'ai condamné?Ne vous suffit-il pas que ma gloire offenséeDemande une victime à moi seule adressée;Qu'Hermione est le prix d'un tyran opprimé;Que je le hais! enfin, seigneur, que je l'aimai?Malgré la juste horreur que son crime me donne,Tant qu'il vivra, craignez que je ne lui pardonne!Doutez jusqu'à sa mort d'un courroux incertain.S'il ne meurt aujourd'hui je peux l'aimer demain!
. . . . . . . . . .
—Mais, madame, songez ...—Ah! c'en est trop, seigneurTant de raisonnements offensent ma colère.J'ai voulu vous donner les moyens de me plaire,Rendre Oreste content; mais, enfin, je vois bienQu'il veut toujours se plaindre, et ne mériter rien.Je m'en vais seule au temple où leur hymen s'apprête,Où vous n'osez aller mériter ma conquête;Là, de mon ennemi je saurai m'approcher;Je percerai le cœur que je n'ai pu toucher,Et mes sanglantes mains, sur moi-même tournées.Aussitôt, malgré lui, joindront nos destinées;Et, tout ingrat qu'il est, il me sera plus douxDe mourir avec lui que de vivre avec vous!—Non, je vous priverai de ce plaisir funeste,Madame, il ne mourra que de la main d'Oreste!Vos ennemis par moi vous vont être immolés,Et vous reconnaîtrez mes soins, si vous voulez!"
And Orestes departs, kills Pyrrhus, then returns with his bloody sword in his hand to find Hermione.
"—Madame, c'en est fait, et vous êtes servie:Pyrrhus rend à l'autel son infidèle vie!—Il est mort?...—Il expire, et nos Grecs, irrités,Ont lavé dans son sang ses infidélités!
. . . . . . . . . .
Mais c'est moi dont l'ardeur leur a servi d'exemple;Je les ai pour vous seule entraînés dans le temple,Madame, et vous pouvez justement vous flatterD'une mort que leurs bras n'ont fait qu'exécuter:Vous seule avez porté les coups!—Tais-toi, perfide!Et n'impute qu'à toi lâche parricide!Va faire chez les Grecs admirer ta fureur,Va! je te désavoue, et tu me fais horreur!...Barbare! qu'as-tu fait? Avec quelle furieAs-tu tranché le cours d'une si belle vie?Avez-vous pu, cruels, l'immoler aujourd'hui,Sans que tout votre sang se soulevât pour lui?Mais parle! De son sort qui t'a rendu l'arbitre?Pourquoi l'assassiner? qu'a-t-il fait? à quel titre?Qui te l'a dit?—O dieux! quoi! ne m'avez-vous pasVous-même, ici, tantôt, ordonné son trépas?—Ah! fallait-il en croire une amante insensé?..."
It is the same passion, we see, in both women: Opera dancer and Spartan princess, they speak differently, but act in the same manner. True, both have copied la Chimène in theCid.Don Sancho enters, sword in hand, and prostrates himself before Chimène.
"—Madame, à vos genoux j'apporte cette épée ...—Quoi! du sang de Rodrigue encor toute trempée?Perfide! oses-tu bien te montrer à mes yeuxAprès m'avoir ôté ce que j'aimais le mieux?Éclate, mon amour! tu n'as plus rien à craindre;Mon père est satisfait; cesse de te contraindre!Un même coup a mis ma gloire en sûreté,Mon âme au désespoir, ma flamme en liberté!—D'un esprit plus rassis ...—Tu me parles encore,Exécrable assassin du héros que j'adore!Va, tu l'as pris en traître! Un guerrier si vaillantN'eût jamais succombé sous un tel assaillant!N'espère rien de moi; tu ne m'as point servie;En croyant me venger, tu m'as ôté la vie!...
True, Corneille borrowed this scene from Guilhem de Castro, who took it from the romancers of theCid.Now, the day I listened to that reading by Alfred de Musset, I had had already, for more than a year, a similar idea in my head. It had been suggested to me by the reading of Goethe's famous dramaGoetz von Berlichingen.Three or four scenes are buried in that titanic drama, each of which seemed to me sufficient of themselves to make separate dramas. There was always the same situation of the woman urging the man she does not love to kill the one she loves, as Chimène in theCid, as Hermione inAndromaque.The analysis ofGoetz von Berlichingenwould carry us too far afield, we will therefore be content to quote these three or four scenes from our friend Marmier's translation:
"ADÉLAÏDE,femme de Weislingen;FRANTZ,page de Weislingen.ADÉLAÏDE.—Ainsi, les deux expéditions sont en marche?FRANTZ.—Oui, madame, et mon maître a la joie de combattre vos ennemis....—Comment va-t-il ton maître?—A merveille! il m'a chargé de vous baiser la main.—La voici ... Tes lèvres sont brûlantes!—C'est ici que je brûle. (Il met la main sur son cœur.) Madame, vos domestiques sont les plus heureux des hommes! ... Adieu! il faut que je reparte. Ne m'oubliez pas!—Mange d'abord quelque chose, et prends un peu repos.—A quoi bon? Je vous ai vue, je ne me sens ni faim ni fatigue.—Je sais que tu es un garçon plein de zèle.—Oh! madame!—Mais tu n'y tiendrais pas ... Repose-toi, te dis-je, et prends quelque nourriture.—Que de soins pour un pauvre jeune homme!—Il a les larmes aux yeux ... Je l'aime de tout mon cœur! Jamais personne ne m'a montré tant d'attachement!ADÉLAÏDE, FRANTZ,entrant une lettre à la main.FRANTZ.—Voici pour vous, madame.ADÉLAÏDE.—Est-ce Charles lui-même qui te l'a remise?—Oui.—Qu'as-tu donc? Tu parais triste!—Vous voulez absolument me faire périr de langueur ... Oui, je mourrai dans l'âge de l'espérance, et c'est vous qui en serez cause!—Il me fait de la peine ... Il m'en coûterait si peu pour le rendre heureux!—Prends courage, jeune homme, je connais ton amour, ta fidélité; je ne serai point ingrate.—Si vous en étiez capable, je mourrais! Mon Dieu! moi qui n'ai pas une goutte de sang qui ne soit à vous! moi qui n'ai de sens que pour vous aimer et pour obéir à ce que vous désirez!—Cher enfant!—Vous me flattez! et tout cela n'aboutit qu'à s'en voir préférer d'autres ... Toutes vos pensées tournées vers Charles!... Aussi, je ne le veux plus ... Non, je ne veux plus servir d'entremetteur!—Frantz, tu t'oublies!—Me sacrifier!... sacrifier mon maître! mon cher maître!—Sortez de ma présence!—Madame....—Va, dénonce-moi a ton cher maître ... J'étais bien folle de te prendre pour ce que tu n'es pas.—Chère noble dame, vous savez que je vous aime!—Je t'aimais bien aussi; tu étais près de mon cœur ... Va, trahis-moi!—Je m'arracherais plutôt le sein!... Pardonnez-moi, madame; mon âme est trop pleine, je ne suis plus maître de moi!—Cher enfant! excellent cœur!(Elle lui prend les mains, l'attire à elle; leurs bouches se rencontrent; il se jette à son you en pleurant.)—Laisse-moi!... Les murs ont des yeux ... Laisse-moi ... (Elle se dégage.) Aime-moi toujours ainsi; sois toujours aussi fidèle; la plus belle récompense t'attend! (Elle sort.)—La plus belle récompense! Dieu, laisse-moi vivre jusque! ... Si mon père me disputait cette place, je le tuerais!WEISLINGEN, FRANTZ.WEISLINGEN.—Frantz!FRANTZ.—Monseigneur!—Exécute ponctuellement mes ordres: tu m'en réponds sur ta vie. Remets-lui cette lettre; il faut qu'elle quitte la cour, et se retire dansmon château à l'instant même. Tu la verras partir, et aussitôt tu reviendras m'annoncer son départ.—Vos ordres seront suivis.—Dis-lui bien qu'il faut qu'elle le veuille ... Va!ADÉLAÏDE, FRANTZ.(Adélaïde tient à la main la lettre de son mari apportée par Frantz.)ADÉLAÏDE.—Lui ou moi!... L'insolent! me menacer! Nous saurons le prévenir ... Mais qui se glisse dans le salon?FRANTZ,se jetant à son you.—Ah! madame! chère madame!...—Écervelé! si quelqu'un t'avait entendu!—Oh! tout dort!... tout le monde dort!—Que veux-tu?—Je n'ai point de sommeil: les menaces de mon maître ... votre sort ... mon cœur ...—Il était bien en colère quand tu l'as quitté?—Comme jamais je ne l'ai vu! 'Il faut qu'elle parte pour mon château! a-t-il dit; il faut qu'elle le veuille!'—Et ... nous obéirons?—Je n'en sais rien, madame.—Pauvre enfant, dupe de ta bonne foi, tu ne vois pas où cela mène! Il sait qu'ici je suis en sûreté ... Ce n'est pas d'aujourd'hui qu'il en veut à mon indépendance ... Il me fait aller dans ses domaines parce que, là, il aura le pouvoir de me traiter au gré de son aversion.—Il ne le fera pas!—Je vois dans l'avenir toute ma misère! Je ne resterai pas longtemps dans son château: il m'en arrachera pour m'enfermer dans un cloître!—O mort! ô enfer!—Me sauveras-tu?—Tout! tout plutôt que cela!—Frantz! (En pleurs et l'embrassant.) Oh! Frantz! pour nous sauver....—Oui, il tombera ... il tombera sous mes coups! je le foulerai aux pieds!—Point d'emportement! Teins, remets-lui plutôt un billet plein de respect, où je l'assure de mon entière soumission à ses ordres ... Et cette fiole ... cette fiole, vide-la dans son verre.—Donnez, vous serez libre!WEISLINGEN,puisFRANTZ.WEISLINGEN.—Je suis si malade, si faible!... mes os sont brisés: une fièvre ardente en a consumé la moelle! Ni paix ni trêve, le jour comme la nuit ... un mauvais sommeil agité de rêves empoisonnés....(Il s'assied.) Je suis faible, faible ... Comme mes ongles sont bleus!...Un froid glaciel circule dans mes veines, engourdit tous mes membres ... Quelle sueur dévorante! tout tourne autour de moi ... Si je pouvais dormir!...FRANTZ,entrant dans la plus grande agitation.—Monseigneur!—Eh bien?—Du poison ... du poison de votre femme ... Moi, c'est moi! (Il s'enfuit, ne pouvant en dire davantage.)—Il est dans le délire ... Oh! oui, je le sens ... le martyre! la mort.... (Voulant se lever.) Dieu! je n'en puis plus! je meurs!... je meurs!... et, pourtant, je ne puis cesser de vivre ... Oh! dans cet affreux combat de la vie et de la mort, il y a tous les supplices de l'enfer!..."
"ADÉLAÏDE,femme de Weislingen;FRANTZ,page de Weislingen.
ADÉLAÏDE.—Ainsi, les deux expéditions sont en marche?
FRANTZ.—Oui, madame, et mon maître a la joie de combattre vos ennemis....
—Comment va-t-il ton maître?
—A merveille! il m'a chargé de vous baiser la main.
—La voici ... Tes lèvres sont brûlantes!
—C'est ici que je brûle. (Il met la main sur son cœur.) Madame, vos domestiques sont les plus heureux des hommes! ... Adieu! il faut que je reparte. Ne m'oubliez pas!
—Mange d'abord quelque chose, et prends un peu repos.
—A quoi bon? Je vous ai vue, je ne me sens ni faim ni fatigue.
—Je sais que tu es un garçon plein de zèle.
—Oh! madame!
—Mais tu n'y tiendrais pas ... Repose-toi, te dis-je, et prends quelque nourriture.
—Que de soins pour un pauvre jeune homme!
—Il a les larmes aux yeux ... Je l'aime de tout mon cœur! Jamais personne ne m'a montré tant d'attachement!
ADÉLAÏDE, FRANTZ,entrant une lettre à la main.
FRANTZ.—Voici pour vous, madame.
ADÉLAÏDE.—Est-ce Charles lui-même qui te l'a remise?
—Oui.
—Qu'as-tu donc? Tu parais triste!
—Vous voulez absolument me faire périr de langueur ... Oui, je mourrai dans l'âge de l'espérance, et c'est vous qui en serez cause!
—Il me fait de la peine ... Il m'en coûterait si peu pour le rendre heureux!—Prends courage, jeune homme, je connais ton amour, ta fidélité; je ne serai point ingrate.
—Si vous en étiez capable, je mourrais! Mon Dieu! moi qui n'ai pas une goutte de sang qui ne soit à vous! moi qui n'ai de sens que pour vous aimer et pour obéir à ce que vous désirez!
—Cher enfant!
—Vous me flattez! et tout cela n'aboutit qu'à s'en voir préférer d'autres ... Toutes vos pensées tournées vers Charles!... Aussi, je ne le veux plus ... Non, je ne veux plus servir d'entremetteur!
—Frantz, tu t'oublies!
—Me sacrifier!... sacrifier mon maître! mon cher maître!
—Sortez de ma présence!
—Madame....
—Va, dénonce-moi a ton cher maître ... J'étais bien folle de te prendre pour ce que tu n'es pas.
—Chère noble dame, vous savez que je vous aime!
—Je t'aimais bien aussi; tu étais près de mon cœur ... Va, trahis-moi!
—Je m'arracherais plutôt le sein!... Pardonnez-moi, madame; mon âme est trop pleine, je ne suis plus maître de moi!
—Cher enfant! excellent cœur!
(Elle lui prend les mains, l'attire à elle; leurs bouches se rencontrent; il se jette à son you en pleurant.)
—Laisse-moi!... Les murs ont des yeux ... Laisse-moi ... (Elle se dégage.) Aime-moi toujours ainsi; sois toujours aussi fidèle; la plus belle récompense t'attend! (Elle sort.)
—La plus belle récompense! Dieu, laisse-moi vivre jusque! ... Si mon père me disputait cette place, je le tuerais!
WEISLINGEN, FRANTZ.
WEISLINGEN.—Frantz!
FRANTZ.—Monseigneur!
—Exécute ponctuellement mes ordres: tu m'en réponds sur ta vie. Remets-lui cette lettre; il faut qu'elle quitte la cour, et se retire dansmon château à l'instant même. Tu la verras partir, et aussitôt tu reviendras m'annoncer son départ.
—Vos ordres seront suivis.
—Dis-lui bien qu'il faut qu'elle le veuille ... Va!
ADÉLAÏDE, FRANTZ.
(Adélaïde tient à la main la lettre de son mari apportée par Frantz.)
ADÉLAÏDE.—Lui ou moi!... L'insolent! me menacer! Nous saurons le prévenir ... Mais qui se glisse dans le salon?
FRANTZ,se jetant à son you.—Ah! madame! chère madame!...
—Écervelé! si quelqu'un t'avait entendu!
—Oh! tout dort!... tout le monde dort!
—Que veux-tu?
—Je n'ai point de sommeil: les menaces de mon maître ... votre sort ... mon cœur ...
—Il était bien en colère quand tu l'as quitté?
—Comme jamais je ne l'ai vu! 'Il faut qu'elle parte pour mon château! a-t-il dit; il faut qu'elle le veuille!'
—Et ... nous obéirons?
—Je n'en sais rien, madame.
—Pauvre enfant, dupe de ta bonne foi, tu ne vois pas où cela mène! Il sait qu'ici je suis en sûreté ... Ce n'est pas d'aujourd'hui qu'il en veut à mon indépendance ... Il me fait aller dans ses domaines parce que, là, il aura le pouvoir de me traiter au gré de son aversion.
—Il ne le fera pas!
—Je vois dans l'avenir toute ma misère! Je ne resterai pas longtemps dans son château: il m'en arrachera pour m'enfermer dans un cloître!
—O mort! ô enfer!
—Me sauveras-tu?
—Tout! tout plutôt que cela!
—Frantz! (En pleurs et l'embrassant.) Oh! Frantz! pour nous sauver....
—Oui, il tombera ... il tombera sous mes coups! je le foulerai aux pieds!
—Point d'emportement! Teins, remets-lui plutôt un billet plein de respect, où je l'assure de mon entière soumission à ses ordres ... Et cette fiole ... cette fiole, vide-la dans son verre.
—Donnez, vous serez libre!
WEISLINGEN,puisFRANTZ.
WEISLINGEN.—Je suis si malade, si faible!... mes os sont brisés: une fièvre ardente en a consumé la moelle! Ni paix ni trêve, le jour comme la nuit ... un mauvais sommeil agité de rêves empoisonnés....(Il s'assied.) Je suis faible, faible ... Comme mes ongles sont bleus!...Un froid glaciel circule dans mes veines, engourdit tous mes membres ... Quelle sueur dévorante! tout tourne autour de moi ... Si je pouvais dormir!...
FRANTZ,entrant dans la plus grande agitation.—Monseigneur!
—Eh bien?
—Du poison ... du poison de votre femme ... Moi, c'est moi! (Il s'enfuit, ne pouvant en dire davantage.)
—Il est dans le délire ... Oh! oui, je le sens ... le martyre! la mort.... (Voulant se lever.) Dieu! je n'en puis plus! je meurs!... je meurs!... et, pourtant, je ne puis cesser de vivre ... Oh! dans cet affreux combat de la vie et de la mort, il y a tous les supplices de l'enfer!..."
Now that the reader has had placed before him all these various fragments fromGoetz von Berlichingen, theCid, Andromaqueand theMarrons du feu, which the genius of four poets—Goethe, Corneille, Racine and Alfred de Musset—have given us, he will understand the analogy, the family likeness which exists between the different scenes; they are not entirely alike, but they are sisters.
Now, as I have said, these few passages fromGoetz von Berlichingenhad lain dormant in my memory; neither theCidnorAndromaquehad aroused them: the irregular, passionate, vivid poetry of Alfred de Musset galvanized them into life, and from that moment I felt I must put them to use.
About the same time, too, I readQuentin Durwardand was much impressed by the character of Maugrabin; I had taken note of several of his phrases full of Oriental poetry. I decided to place my drama in the centre of the Middle Ages and to make my two principal personages, a lovely and austere lady of a manor and an Arab slave who, whilst sighing after his native land, is kept tied to the land of exile by a stronger chain than that of slavery. I therefore set to work to hunt about in chronicles of the fifteenth century to find a peg on which to hang my picture. I have always upheld the admirable adaptibility of history in this respect; it never leaves the poet in the lurch. Accordingly, my way of dealing with history is a curious one. I begin by making up a story; I try to make it romantic, tender and dramatic, and, whensentiment and imagination are duly provided, I hunt through history for a framework in which to set them, and it is invariably the case that history furnishes me with such a setting; a setting so perfect and so exactly suited to the subject, that it seems as though the frame had been made to fit the picture, and not the picture to fit the frame. And, once more, chance favoured me and was more than kind. See what I found on page five of theChronicles of King Charles VII., by Maître Alain Chartier homme très-honorable:
"And at that time, it happened to a knight called Messire Charles de Savoisy that one of his horse-boys, in riding a horse to let him drink at the river, bespattered a scholar, who, with others, was going in procession to Saint Katherine, to such an extent that the scholar struck the said horse-boy; and, then, the servants of the aforesaid knight sallied forth from his castle armed with cudgels, and followed the said scholars right away to Saint Katherine; and one of the servants of the aforesaid knight shot an arrow into the church as far as to the high altar, where the priest was saying Mass; then, for this fact, the University made such a pursuit after the said knight, that the house of the said knight was smitten down, and the said knight was banished from the kingdom of France and excommunicated. He betook himself to the pope, who gave him absolution, and he armed four galleys and went over the seas, making war on the Saracens, and there gained much possessions. Then he returned and made his peace, and rebuilt his house in Paris, in fashion as before; but he was not yet finished, and caused his house of Signelay (Seignelais) in Auxerrois to be beautifully built by the Saracens whom he had brought from across the sea; the which château is three leagues from Auxerre."
"And at that time, it happened to a knight called Messire Charles de Savoisy that one of his horse-boys, in riding a horse to let him drink at the river, bespattered a scholar, who, with others, was going in procession to Saint Katherine, to such an extent that the scholar struck the said horse-boy; and, then, the servants of the aforesaid knight sallied forth from his castle armed with cudgels, and followed the said scholars right away to Saint Katherine; and one of the servants of the aforesaid knight shot an arrow into the church as far as to the high altar, where the priest was saying Mass; then, for this fact, the University made such a pursuit after the said knight, that the house of the said knight was smitten down, and the said knight was banished from the kingdom of France and excommunicated. He betook himself to the pope, who gave him absolution, and he armed four galleys and went over the seas, making war on the Saracens, and there gained much possessions. Then he returned and made his peace, and rebuilt his house in Paris, in fashion as before; but he was not yet finished, and caused his house of Signelay (Seignelais) in Auxerrois to be beautifully built by the Saracens whom he had brought from across the sea; the which château is three leagues from Auxerre."
It will be seen that history had thought of everything for me, and provided me with a frame which had been waiting for its picture for four hundred years.
It was to this event, related in theChronicleof Maître Alain Chartier, that Yaqoub alludes when he says to Bérengère:
"Malheureux?... malheureux, en effet;Car, pour souffrir ainsi, dites-moi, qu'ai-je fait?...Est-ce ma faute, à moi, si votre époux et maître,Poursuivant un vassal, malgré les cris du prêtre,Entra dans une église, et, là, d'un coup mortel,Le frappa? Si le sang jaillit jusqu'à l'autel,Est-ce ma faute? Si sa colère imbécile,Oublia que l'église était un lieu d'asile,Est-ce ma faute? Et si, par l'Université,A venger ce forfait le saint-père excité,Dit que, pour désarmer le céleste colère,Il fallait que le comte armât une galère,Et, portant sur nos bords la désolation,Nous fît esclaves, nous, en expiation,Est-ce ma faute encore? et puis-je pas me plaindreQu'au fond de mon désert son crime aille m'atteindre?..."
This skeleton found, and my drama now having, so to speak, in the characters of Savoisy, Bérengère and Yaqoub, its head, heart and legs, it was necessary to provide arms, muscles, flesh and the rest of its anatomy. Hence the need of history; and history had in reserve Charles VII., Agnes and Dunois; and the whole of the great struggle of France against England was made to turn on the love of an Arab for the wife of the man who had made him captive and transported him from Africa to France. I think I have exposed, with sufficient clearness, what I borrowed as my foundation, from Goethe, Corneille, Racine and Alfred de Musset; I will make them more palpable still by quotations; for, as I have got on the subject of self-criticism, I may as well proceed to the end, rather than remain before my readers,solus, pauper et nudus, as Adam in the Earthly Paradise, or as Noah under his vine-tree!
"BÉRENGÈRE, YAQOUB.
—Yaqoub, si vos parolesNe vous échappent point comme des sons frivoles,Vous m'avez dit ces mots: 'S'il était, par hasard,Un homme dont l'aspect blessât votre regard;Si ses jours sur vos jours avaient cette influenceQue son trépas pût seul finir votre souffrance;De Mahomet lui-même eût-il reçu ce droit,Quand il passe, il faudrait me le montrer du doigtVous avez dit cela?—Je l'ai dit ... Je frissonneMais un homme par moi fut excepté.—Personne.—Un homme à ma vengeance a le droit d'échapper...—Si c'était celui-là qu'il te fallût frapper?S'il fallait que sur lui la vengeance fût prompte?...—Son nom?—Le comte.—Enfer? je m'en doutais; le comte?—Entendez-vous? le comte!... Eh bien?—Je ne le puis!—Adieu donc pour toujours!—Restez, ou je vous suis.—J'avais cru jusqu'ici, quelle croyance folle!Que les chrétiens eux seuls manquaient à leur parole.Je me trompais, c'est tout.—Madame ...—Laissez-moi?Oh! mais vous mentiez donc?—Vous savez bien pourquoiMa vengeance ne peut s'allier à la vôtre:Il m'a sauvé la vie ... Oh! nommez-moi tout autre!
. . . . . . . . . .
Un instant, Bérengère, écoutez-moi!—J'écoute:Dites vite.—J'ai cru, je me trompais sans doute,Qu'ici vous m'aviez dit, ici même ... Pardon! —Quoi?—Que vous m'aimiez!—Oui, je l'ai dit.—Eh bien, donc,Puisque même destin, même amour nous rassemble,Bérengère, ce soir ...—Eh bien?—Fuyons ensemble!—Sans frapper?—Ses remords vous vengeront-ils pas?—Esclave, me crois-tu le cœur placé si has,Que je puisse souffrir qu'en ce monde où nous sommes,J'aie été tour à tour l'amante de deux hommes,Dont le premier m'insulte, et que tous deux vivront,Sans que de celui-là m'ait vengé le second?Crois-tu que, dans un cœur ardent comme le nôtre,Un amour puisse entrer sans qu'il dévore l'autre?Si tu l'as espéré, l'espoir est insultant!—Bérengère!—Entre nous, tout est fini ... Va-t'en!—Grâce!...—Je saurai bien trouver, pour cette tâche,Quelque main moins timide et quelque âme moins lâche,Qui fera pour de l'or ce que, toi, dans ce jour,Tu n'auras pas osé faire pour de l'amour!Et, s'il n'en était pas, je saurais bien moi-même,De cet assassinat affrontant l'anathème,Me glisser an milieu des femmes, des valets,Qui flattent les époux de leurs nouveaux souhaits,Et les faire avorter, ces souhaits trop précoces,En vidant ce flacon dans la coupe des noces!—Du poison?—Du poison! Mais ne viens plus, après,Esclave, me parler d'amour et de regrets!Refuses-tu toujours?... Il te reste un quart d'heure.C'est encore plus de temps qu'il n'en faut pour qu'il meure,Un quart d'heure!... Réponds, mourra-t-il de ta main?Es-tu prêt? Réponds-moi, car j'y vais. Dis!—Demain!—Demain! Et, cette nuit, dans cette chambre même,Ainsi qu'il me l'a dit, il lui dira: Je t'aime!Demain! Et, d'ici là, que ferai-je? Ah! tu veux,Cette nuit, qu'à deux mains j'arrache mes cheveux;Que je brise mon front à toutes les murailles;Que je devienne folle? Ah! demain! mais tu railles!Et si ce jour était le dernier de nos jours?Si cette nuit d'enfer allait durer toujours?Dieu le peut ordonner, si c'est sa fantaisie.Demain? Et si je suis morte de jalousie?Tu n'es donc pas jaloux, toi? tu ne l'es donc pas?"
I refrain from quoting the rest of the scene, the methods employed being, I believe, those peculiar to myself. Yaqoub yields: he dashes into the Comte's chamber; Bérengère flings herself behind a prie-Dieu; the Comte passes by with his new wife; he enters his room; a shriek is heard.