"Come, Bonaparte, let us save Napoléon!"
Napoléon was victor, but was not saved: the modern Sisyphus had the rock of the whole of Europe incessantly falling back upon him.
It was five o'clock. We had three long leagues of country to cover; three leagues of country, no matter in what department, were it even in that of Seine-et-Marne, always means five leagues of posting. Now, five leagues of posting in a country stage-waggon is at least a four hours' journey. We should only arrive at M. Dupont-Delporte's house, whom not one of us knew, at nine or half-past nine at night. Was he a loving enough father to forgive us such an invasion, planting ourselves on him at unawares? Bixio replied that, with the son's letter, we were sure to be made welcome by the father, no matter at what hour of the day or night we knocked at his door.
We started in that belief, ourselves and our dogs all heaped together in the famous stage-waggon in question, which very soon gave us a sample of its powers by taking an hour and a quarter to drive the first league. We were just entering upon the second when, in passing by a field of lucerne, I was seized with the temptation to go into it with the dog of one of my fellow-sportsmen. I do not know by what misfortune I had not my own. My companions sang out to me that shooting had not yet begun; but my sole reply was that that was but one reason more for finding game there. And I added that, if I succeeded in killing a brace of partridges or a hare, it would add some sauce to the supper which M. Dupont-Delporte would be obliged to give us. This argument won over my companions. The waggon was stopped; I took Viardot's dog and entered the field of lucerne. If any sort of gamekeeper appeared, the waggon was to proceed on its way, and I undertook to outdistance the above-mentioned gamekeeper. Those who knew my style of walking had no uneasiness on this score. The journey I made there and back from Crépy to Paris, shooting by the way with my friend Paillet, will be recalled to mind. Scarcely had I taken twenty steps in the field of lucerne before a great leveret, three-quarters face, started under the dog's nose. It goes without saying that that leveret was killed. As no gamekeeper had appeared on the scene at the noise of my firing, I took my leveret by its hind legs and quietly remounted the stage-waggon. What a fine thing is success! Everybody congratulated me, even the most timorous. Three-quarters of a league farther on was a second field of lucerne. A fresh temptation, fresh argument, and fresh yielding. At the very entrance into the field the dog came across game, and stopped, pointing. A covey of a dozen or so of partridges started up; I fired my first shot into the very middle of the covey: two fell, and a third fell down at my second shot. This would make us a roast which, if not quite sufficient, would at least be presentable. Again I climbed into the coach in the midst of the cheering of the travellers. You will see directly that these details, trivial asthey may appear at the first glance, are not without their importance. I had a good mind to continue a hunt which seemed like becoming the parallel to the miraculous draught of fishes; but night was falling, and compelled me to content myself with my leveret and three partridges. We drove on for another couple of hours, until we found ourselves opposite a perfectly black mass. This was the château of M. Dupont-Delporte.
"Ah!" said the driver, "here we are."
"What, have we arrived?"
"Yes."
"Is this the château d'Esgligny?"
"That is the château d'Esgligny."
We looked at one another.
"But everybody is asleep," said Bessas.
"We will create a revolution," added Viardot.
"Messieurs," suggested Boulanger, "I think we should do well to sleep in the carriage, and only present ourselves to-morrow morning."
"Why! M. Dupont-Delporte would never forgive us," said Bixio, and, jumping down from the carriage, he resolutely advanced towards the door and rang.
Meanwhile the driver, who was paid in advance, and who had shuddered at Boulanger's suggestion of using his stage-waggon for a tent, quietly turned his horse's head towards Montigny, and suddenly departed at a trot which proved that his horse felt much relieved at getting rid of his load. For a moment we thought of stopping him, but before the debate that began upon this question was ended, driver, horse and vehicle had disappeared in the darkness. Our boats were burned behind us! The situation became all the more precarious in that Bixio had rung, knocked, flung stones at the door, all in vain, for nobody answered. A terrifying idea began to pass through our minds: the château, instead of containing sleeping people, seemed to contain nobody at all. This was a melancholy prospect for travellers not one of whom knew the country, and all of whom had the appetites of ship-wreckedmen. Bixio ceased ringing, ceased knocking, ceased throwing stones; the assault had lasted a quarter of an hour, and had not produced any effect: it was evident that the château was deserted. We put our heads together in council, and each advanced his own view. Bixio persisted in his of entering, even if it meant scaling the walls; he answered for M. Dupont-Delporte's approval of everything he did.
"Look here," I said to him, "will you take the responsibility on yourself?"
"Entirely."
"Will you guarantee us, if not judicial impunity, at all events civil absolution?"
"Yes."
"Very well; will somebody light a bit of paper to give me light?"
A smoker (alas! from about that period there were smokers to be found everywhere) drew a match—box from his pocket, twisted up half a newspaper, and lighted me with his improvised beacon. In a trice I had pulled off the lock, by the help of my screw—driver. The door opened by itself when the lock was off. We found ourselves inside the park. Before going farther we thought we ought to put back the lock in its place. Then, feeling our way through the tortuous walks, we attained the main entrance. By chance the emigrants, probably counting on the first door to be a sufficient obstacle, had not shut that of the château. So we entered the château and wandered about among the salons, bedrooms and kitchens. Everywhere we found traces of a hasty departure, and that it had been incomplete owing to the haste with which it had been undertaken. In the kitchen the turnspit was in position, and there were two or three saucepans and a stove. In the dining-room were a dozen chairs and a table; eighteen mattresses were in the linen-room; and, in the cupboard of one room thirty pots of jam! Each fresh discovery led to shouts of joy equal to those uttered by Robinson Crusoe on his various visits to the wrecked vessel. We had the wherewithal to cook a meal, to sit down and to sleep;furthermore, there were thirty pots of jam for our dessert. It is true we had nothing for our supper. But at that moment I drew my hare and the partridges from my pocket, announcing that I was prepared to skin the hare if the others would pluck the partridges. When hare and partridges were skinned and plucked I undertook to put them all in the spit. We only wanted bread. Here Boulanger came on the scene with a shout of joy. In order to draw the view of the bridge of Montereau, or, rather, in order to rub out the incorrect lines in his sketch, he had sent an urchin to fetch some crumbly bread. The lad had brought him a two-pound loaf. The loaf had been stuffed into someone or other's game bag. We searched all the game bags, and the loaf of bread was found in Bessas-Lamégie's bag. At this sight we all echoed Boulanger's shout of joy. The two pounds of bread were placed under an honourable embargo; but, for greater security, Bixio put in his pocket the key of the sideboard in which the bread was enclosed. After this I began to skin my hare, and my scullion-knaves began to pluck the partridges.
Bessas-Lamégie, who had announced that he had no culinary proclivities, was sent with a lantern to find any available kind of fuel. He brought back two logs, stating that the wood-house was abundantly stocked, and that consequently we need not be afraid of making a good fire. The hearth-place flamed with joy after this assurance. In a kitchen table drawer we found a few old iron forks. We were not so particular as to insist upon silver ones. The table was laid as daintily as possible. We each had our knife, and, what was more, a flask full of wine or brandy or kirsch. I, who drink but little wine and am not fond of either brandy or kirsch, had gooseberry syrup. I was therefore the only one who could not contribute to the general stock of beverages; but they forgave me in virtue of the talents I showed as cook. They saw clearly that I was a man of resource, and they praised my adroitness in killing the game and my skill in roasting it. It was nearly one in the morning when we lay down in our clothes on the mattresses. The Spartans took only onemattress; the Sybarites took two. I was the first to wake, when it was scarcely daylight. In the few moments that elapsed between the extinction of the light and the coming of sleep I had reflected about the future, and promised myself as soon as I waked to look about for a village or hamlet where we could supply ourselves with provisions. Therefore, like Lady Malbrouck, I climbed up as high as I could get, not, however, to a tower, but to the attics. A belfry tower was just visible in the distance, through the trees, probably belonging to the village of Montigny. The distance at which it was situated inspired me with extremely sad reflections, but just then, dropping my eyes, melancholy-wise towards the earth, I saw a fowl picking about in a pathway; then, in another path, another fowl; then a duck dabbling in a kind of pond. It was evident that this was the rear-guard of a poultry yard which had escaped death by some intelligent subterfuge. I went downstairs into the kitchen, got my gun, put two charges of cartridges in my pocket, and ran out into the garden. Three shots gave me possession of the duck and fowls, and we had food for breakfast. Furthermore, we would dispatch two of our party to a village for eggs and bread, wine and butter. At the sound of my three shots the windows opened, and I saw a row of heads appear which looked like so many notes of interrogation. I showed my two fowls in one hand and my duck in the other. The result was immediate. At the sight of my simple gesture shouts of admiration rose from the spectators. At supper the night before, we had had roast meats; at breakfast, we were going to have both roast and stew. I thought I would stew the duck with turnips, as it seemed of a ripe age. Enthusiasm produces great devotion: when I suggested drawing lots as to who should go to the village of Montigny to find butter, eggs, bread and wine, two men of goodwill volunteered from the ranks. These were Boulanger and Bixio, who, not being either shooters or cooks, desired to make themselves useful to society according to their limited means. Their services were accepted; an old basket was discovered, the bottom of which was made strongwith twine! Bixio set the example of humility by taking the empty basket,—Boulanger undertook to carry back the full basket. I set the rest of my people to work to pluck the fowls and the duck, and I undertook a voyage of discovery. It was impossible that a château so well provisioned, even in the absence of its owners, should not include among its appurtenances an orchard and a kitchen-garden. It was necessary to discover both. I was without a compass, but, by the aid of the rising sun, I could make out the south from the north. Therefore the orchard and the kitchen-garden would, naturally, be situated to the south of the park. When I had gone about a hundred yards I was walking about among quantities of fruit and vegetables. I had but to make my choice. Carrots and turnips and salads for vegetables—pears, apples, currants for fruit. I returned loaded with a double harvest. Bessas-Lamégie, who saw me coming from afar, took me for Vertumnus, the god of gardens. Ten minutes later the god of gardens had made room for the god of cooking. An apron found by Viardot round my body, a paper cap constructed by Bessas on my head, I looked like Cornus or Vatel. I possessed a great advantage over the latter in that, not expecting any fish, I did not inflict on myself the punishment of severing my carotid artery because the fishmonger was late. To conclude, my scullion lads had not lost anytime; the fowls and the duck were plucked, and a brazier of Homeric proportions blazed in the fireplace.
Suddenly, just at the moment when I was spitting my two fowls, loud cries were heard in the courtyard, then in the ante-chamber, then on the stairs, and a furious old woman, bonnet-less and thoroughly scared, ran into the kitchen. It was Mother Galop.
Who Mother Galop was—Why M. Dupont-Delporte was absent—How I quarrelled with Viardot—Rabelais's quarter of an hour—Providence No. 1.—The punishment of Tantalus—A waiter who had not read Socrates—Providence No. 2—A breakfast for four—Return to Paris
Who Mother Galop was—Why M. Dupont-Delporte was absent—How I quarrelled with Viardot—Rabelais's quarter of an hour—Providence No. 1.—The punishment of Tantalus—A waiter who had not read Socrates—Providence No. 2—A breakfast for four—Return to Paris
Mother Galop was M. Dupont-Delporte's kitchen-maid; she was specially employed to go errands between the château and the village, and they called her Mother Galop because of the proverbial rapidity with which she accomplished this kind of commission. I never knew her other name, and never had the curiosity to inquire what it was. Mother Galop had seen a column of smoke coming out of the chimney in comparison with which the column that led the children of Israel in the desert was but as a vapour, and she had come at a run, never doubting that her master's château was invaded by a band of incendiaries. Great was her astonishment when she saw a cook and two or three kitchen-lads spitting and plucking chickens. She naturally asked us who we were and what we were doing inher kitchen.We replied that M. Dupont-Delporte's son, being on the eve of marrying, and intending to celebrate his nuptials at the château, had sent us on in advance to take possession of the culinary departments. She could believe what she liked of the story; my opinion is that she did not believe very much of it; but what did that matter to us? She was not able to prevent us; we could, indeed, have shown her Dupont-Delporte's letter, but two reasons prevented us from doing so. In the first place, because Bixio had it in his pocket and had carried it off to the market; secondly, because Mother Galop did not know how to read! We in our turn interrogated MotherGalop, with all the tact of which we were capable, concerning the absence of all the family, and the desertion of the château.
M. Dupont-Delporte, senior, had been appointed préfet of Seine-Inférieure, and he had moved house rapidly a week ago, leaving his château and what remained therein under the surveillance of Mother Galop. As has been seen, Mother Galop fulfilled her orders scrupulously. The arrival of Mother Galop had its good side as well as its bad: it was a censorship; but, at the same time, it meant a housekeeper for us. The upshot of it was that, in consideration of a five-franc piece which was generously granted her by myself, we had both plates and serviettes at our dejeuner. Bixio and Boulanger arrived as the fowls were accomplishing their final turn on the spit, and as Mother Galop was serving up the stewed duck. An omelette of twenty-four eggs completed the meal. Then, admirably fortified, we set off on our shooting expedition. We had not fired four shots before we saw the gamekeeper running up in hot haste. This was just what we hoped would happen; he could read: he accepted our sub-lieutenant's letter as bona-fide, undertook to take us all over the estate, and to reassure Mother Galop, whom our metamorphoses from cooks to sportsmen had inspired with various fresh fears in addition to those which had troubled her at first, and which had never been entirely allayed. A sportsman minus a dog (it will be recollected that this was my social position) is a very disagreeable being, seeing that, if he wants to kill anything, he must be a Pollux or a Pylades or a Pythias to some shooter who has a dog. I began by giving the dubious advantage of my proximity to Bessas-Lamégie, the shooting companion with whom I was the most intimately connected. Unluckily, Bessas had a new dog which was making its first début, and which was in its first season. Generally, dogs—ordinary ones at least—hunt with their noses down and their tails in the air. Bessas's dog had adopted the opposite system. The result was that he looked as though he had come from between the legs of a riding-master, and not from the hands of a keeper; to such an extent that, at the end of an hour's time, I advisedBessas to saddle his dog or harness him, but not to shoot with him any more. Viardot, on the other hand, had a delightful little bitch who pointed under the muzzle of the gun, standing like a stock and returning at the first call of the whistle. I abandoned Bessas and began to play with Viardot, whom I knew least, the scene between Don Juan and M. Dimanche! In the very middle of the scene a covey of partridges started up. Viardot fired two shots after them and killed one. I did the same; only, I killed two. We continued to shoot and to kill in this proportion. But soon I made a mistake. A hare started in front of Viardot's dog. I ought to have given him time to fire his two shots, and not to have fired until he had missed. I drew first and the hare rolled over before Viardot had had time to put his gun to his shoulder. Viardot looked askance at me; and with good reason. We entered a field of clover. I fired my two shots at a couple of partridges, both of which fell disabled. The services of a dog were absolutely necessary. I called Viardot's; but Viardot also called her, and Diane, like a well-trained animal, followed her master and took no notice of me and my two partridges. No one is so ready to risk his soul being sent to perdition as a sportsman who loses a head of game: with still greater reason when he loses two. I called the dog belonging to Bessas-Lamégie, and Romeo came; that was his name, and no doubt it was given him because he held his head up, searching for his Juliet on every balcony. Romeo then came, pawed, pranced about and jumped, but did not deign for an instant to trouble himself about my two partridges. I swore by all the saints of Paradise,—my two partridges were lost, and I had fallen out with Viardot! Viardot, indeed, left us next day, pretending he had an appointment to keep in Paris which he had forgotten. I have never had the chance of making it up with him since that day, and twenty years have now passed by. Therefore, as he is a charming person with whom I do not wish any longer to remain estranged, I here tender him my very humble apologies and my very sincere regards. Next day it was Bessas who left us. He had no need to search foran excuse; his dog provided him with a most plausible one. I again advised him to have Romeo trained for the next steeple-chase, and to bet on him at Croix-de-Berny, but to renounce working him as a shooting dog. I do not know if he took my advice. I remained the only shooter, and consequently the only purveyor to the party, which did me the justice to say that, if they ran any risk of dying of hunger, it would not be at the château d'Esgligny. But it was at Montereau that this misfortune nearly happened to us all. We had settled up our accounts with Mother Galop; we had liquidated our debt with the gamekeeper; we had paid the peasants the thousand and one contributions which they levy on the innocent sportsman, for a dog having crossed a potato field, or for a hare which has spoiled a patch of beetroot; we had returned to Montereau: here we had supped abundantly; finally, we had slept soundly in excellent beds, when, next day, in making up our accounts, we perceived that we were fifteen francs short, even if the waiter was not tipped, to be even with our host. Great was our consternation when this deficit was realised. Not one of us had a watch, or possessed the smallest pin, or could lay hands on the most ordinary bit of jewellery. We gazed at one another dumbfounded; each of us knew well that he had come to the end of his own resources, but he had reckoned upon his neighbour. The waiter came to bring us the bill, and wandered about the room expecting his money. We withdrew to the balcony as though to take the air. We were stopping at theGrand Monarque!—a magnificent sign-board represented a huge red head surmounted by a turban. We had not even the chance, seized by Gérard, at Montmorency, of proposing to our host to paint a sign for him! I was on the point of frankly confessing our embarrassment to the hotel-keeper, and of offering him my rifle as a deposit, when Bixio, whose eyes were mechanically scanning the opposite house, uttered a cry. He had just read these words, above three hoops from which dangled wooden candles—
CARRÉ, DEALER IN GROCERIES
In desperate situations everything may be of importance. We crowded round Bixio, asking him what was the matter with him.
"Listen," he said, "I do not wish to raise false hopes; but I was at school with a Carré who came from Montereau. If, by good fortune, the Carré of that sign happens to be the same as my Carré, I shall not hesitate to ask him to lend me the fifteen francs we need."
"Whilst you are about it," I said to Bixio, "ask him for thirty."
"Why thirty?"
"I presume—you have not reckoned that we must go on foot?"
"Ah! good gracious! that is true! Here goes for thirty, then! Gentlemen, pray that he may be my Carré; I will go and see."
Bixio went downstairs, and we stayed behind upon the balcony, full of anxiety; the waiter still hanging round. Bixio went out of the hotel, passed two or three times up and down in front of the shop unostentatiously; then, suddenly, he rushed into it! And, through the transparent window-panes, we saw him clasp a fat youth in his arms, who wore a round jacket and an otter-skin cap. The sight was so touching that tears came into our eyes. Then we saw no more; the two old school-fellows disappeared into the back of the shop. Ten minutes later both came out of the shop, crossed the street and entered the hotel. It was evident that Bixio had succeeded in his borrowing; otherwise, had he been refused, we presumed that the Rothschild of Montereau would not have had the face to show himself. We were not mistaken.
"Gentlemen," said Bixio, entering, "let me introduce to you M. Carré, my school friend, who not only is so kind as to get us out of our difficulty by lending us thirty francs, but also invites us to take a glass of cognac or of curaçao at his house, according to your several tastes."
The school friend was greeted enthusiastically. Boulanger, whom we had elected our banker, who for half an hourenjoyed a sinecure, settled accounts with the waiter, generously giving him fifty centimes for himself, and put fourteen francs ten sous into his pocket in reserve for the boat. Then we hurried down the steps, extremely happy at having extricated ourselves even more cleverly than M. Alexandre Duval'sHenri V.The service which we had just received from our friend Carré—he had asked for our friendship, and we had hastened to respond—did not prevent us from doing justice to his cognac, his black-currant cordial and his curaçao; they were excellent. In fact, we took two glasses of each liqueur to make sure that it was of good quality. Then, as time was pressing, we said to our new friend, in the phrase made famous by King Dagobert: "The best of friends must part," and we expressed our desire to go to the boat. Carré wished to do us the honours of his natal town to the last, and offered to accompany us. We accepted. It was a good thing we did. We had been misinformed about the fares of places in the boat: we wanted nine francs more to complete the necessary sum for going by water. Carré drew ten francs from his pocket with a lordly air, and gave them to Bixio. Our debt had attained the maximum of forty francs. There remained then twenty sous for our meals on board the boat. It was a modest sum; but still, with twenty sous between four people, we should not die of hunger. Besides, was not Providence still over us? Might not one of us also come across his Carré? Expectant of this fresh manifestation of Providence, we each pressed Bixio's friend in our arms, and we passed from the quay to the boat. It was just time; the bell was ringing for departure, and the boat was beginning to move. Our adieux lasted as long as we could see each other. Carré flourished his otter-skin cap, while we waved our handkerchiefs. There is nothing like a new friendship for tenderness! At length the moment came when, prominent objects though Carré and his cap had been, both disappeared on the horizon.
We then began our examination of the boat; but after taking stock of each passenger we were obliged to recognise, for the time being at any rate, that Providence had failed us.That certainty led to all the greater sadness among us, as each stomach, roused by the exhilarating morning air, began to clamour for food. We heard all round us, as though in mockery of our wretchedness, a score of voices shouting—
"Waiter! two cutlets!... Waiter! a beefsteak!... Waiter!un thé complet!"
The waiters ran about bringing the desired comestibles, and calling out in their turn as they passed by us—
"Do not you gentlemen require anything? No lunch? You are the only gentlemen who have not asked for something!"
At last I replied impatiently: "No; we are waiting for some one who should join us at the landing-stage of Fontainebleau." Then, turning to my companions in hunger, I said to them—
"Upon my word, gentlemen, he who sleeps dines; now, the greater includes the less, so I am going to take my lunch sleeping."
I settled myself in a corner. I had even then the faculty which I have since largely perfected, I can sleep pretty nearly when I like. Hardly was I resting on my elbow before I was asleep. I do not know how long I had been given up to the deceptive illusion of sleep before a waiter came up to me and repeated three times in an ascending scale—
"Monsieur! monsieur!! monsieur!!!"
I woke up.
"What is it?" I said to him.
"Monsieur said that he and his friends would breakfast with a person he expected at the landing-place at Fontainebleau."
"Did I say that?"
"Monsieur said so."
"You are sure?"
"Yes."
"Well?"
"Well then, it; is time monsieur ordered his lunch, seeing that we are approaching Fontainebleau."
"Already?"
"Ah! monsieur has slept a long time!"
"You might have left me to sleep still longer."
"But monsieur's friend ..."
"Monsieur's friend would have found him if he came."
"But is not monsieur sure, then, of meeting his friend?"
"Waiter, when you have read Socrates you will know how rare a friend is, and, consequently, how little certainty there is of meeting one!"
"But monsieur can still order lunch for three; if monsieur's friend comes, another cover can be added."
"You say we are nearing Fontainebleau?" I replied, eluding the question.
"In five minutes we shall be opposite the landing-stage."
"Then I will go and see if my friend is coming."
I went up on the deck, and mechanically glanced towards the landing-stage. We were still too far off to distinguish anything; but, assisted by tide and steam, the boat rapidly advanced. Gradually individuals grouped on the bank could be separately distinguished. Then outlines could be more clearly seen, then the colour of their clothes, and, finally, their features. My gaze was fastened, almost in spite of myself, upon an individual who was waiting in the middle of ten other persons, and whom I believed I recognised. But it was most unlikely!... However, it was very like him, ... if it were he, what luck.... No, it seemed impossible.... Nevertheless, it was, indeed, his shape and figure and physiognomy. The boat approached nearer still. The individual who was the object of my attention got into the boat to come on board the steamer, which stopped to take up passengers. When half-way to the steamer the individual recognised me and waved his hand to me.
"Is that you?" I shouted.
"Yes, it is I," he replied.
I had found my Carré, only his name was Félix Deviolaine; and, instead of being just an ordinary school-fellow, he was my cousin. I ran to the ladder and flung myself into his arms with as much effusion as Bixio had into Carré's.
"Are you alone?" he asked me.
"No; I am with Bixio and Boulanger."
"Have you lunched?"
"No."
"Well, shall I have lunch with you?"
"Say, rather, may we have lunch with you?"
"It is the same thing."
"Nothing of the kind."
I explained the difference between his lunching with us and we with him. He understood perfectly. The waiter stood by, serviette in hand; the amusing fellow had followed me as a shark follows a starving ship.
"Lunch for four!" I said, and, provided that it includes two bottles of burgundy, eight cutlets, a fowl and a salad, you can then add what you like in the way of hors-d'œuvre and entremets. Lunch lasted until we reached Melun. At four that afternoon we landed at the quay of the Hôtel de Ville, and next day I resumed my rehearsals ofCharles VII.
Le Masque de fer—Georges' suppers—The garden of the Luxembourg by moonlight—M. Scribe and theClerc de la Basoche—M. d'Épagny andLe Clerc et le Théologien—Classical performances at the Théâtre-Français—Les Guelfes, by M. Arnault—-Parenthesis—Dedicatory epistle to the prompter
Le Masque de fer—Georges' suppers—The garden of the Luxembourg by moonlight—M. Scribe and theClerc de la Basoche—M. d'Épagny andLe Clerc et le Théologien—Classical performances at the Théâtre-Français—Les Guelfes, by M. Arnault—-Parenthesis—Dedicatory epistle to the prompter
In those days nothing had yet tarnished the spirit of that juvenile love of the capital which had induced me to overcome many obstacles in order to transport myself thither. Three or four days spent away from the literary and political whirlpool of Paris seemed to me a long absence. During the month I had stayed at Trouville I felt as though the world had stood still. I took but the time to fly home to change my shooting dress,—as regards the game, my travelling companions had seen to that,—to make inquiries about things that might have happened affecting myself, and then I went to the Odéon. It took me a good half-hour's fast walking, and an hour in a fly, to go from my rue Saint-Lazare to the Odéon Theatre. Railways were not in existence then, or I might have followed the method pursued by a friend of mine who had an uncle living at the barrière du Maine. When he went to see his uncle—and this happened twice a week, Thursdays and Sundays—he took the railway on the right bank and arrived by the railway on the left bank. He only had Versailles to cross through, and there he was at his uncle's house!
They had rehearsed conscientiously, but the rehearsals had not been hurried at all. The last piece to be performed was theMasque de fer, by MM. Arnault and Fournier. Lockroy had been magnificent in it, and although the play was actedwithout Georgesit brought in money. I say, although it wasplayedwithout Georges, because it was a superstition at the Odéon, a superstition accredited by Harel, that no piece paid if Georges was not acting in it. Ligier, a most conscientious actor, though almost always compelled to struggle against the drawback of being too small in figure and having too coarse a voice, had been a genuine success in his part, greater than I can remember any actor to have had in a rôle created by himself. What a capital company the Odéon was at that period! Count up on your fingers those I am about to name, and you will find six or eight players of the first rank: Frédérick-Lemaître, Ligier, Lockroy, Duparay, Stockleit, Vizentini, Mademoiselle Georges, Madame Moreau-Sainti who was privileged always to remain beautiful, and Mlle. Noblet who unfortunately was not equally privileged to remain for ever virtuous. Mlle. Noblet, poor woman, who had just played Paula for me, and who was about to play Jenny; Mlle. Noblet, whose great dark eyes and beautiful voice and melancholy face gave birth to hopes which now are so utterly quenched at the Théâtre-Français that, although she is still young, people have not known for the past ten years whether she, who was so full of promise, is still alive or dead!
Why were these eclipses of talent so frequent at the theatre of Richelieu? This is a question which we will examine on the first suitable opportunity that presents itself. Let Bressant, who has played the Prince of Wales admirably for me inKeanduring the past fifteen or sixteen years, look to his laurels and cling tight to his new repertory, or probably he will be lost sight of like the others.
I stayed behind to supper with Georges. I have already said how very charming her supper-parties were,—very unlike those of Mlle. Mars, although often both were attended by the same people. But, in this case, the guests in general took their cue from the mistress of the house. Mademoiselle Mars was always a little stiff and somewhat formal, and she seemed as though she were putting her hand over the mouths of even her most intimate friends, not letting them give vent to their wit beyond a certain point. While Georges, a thoroughly goodsort beneath her imperial airs, allowed every kind of wit, and laughed unrestrainedly, Mlle. Mars, on the other hand, for the greater part of the time, only smiled half-heartedly. Then, how scatter-brained, extravagant, abandoned we were at Georges' suppers! How evident it was seen that all the convivial spirits—Harel, Janin, Lockroy—did not know how to contain themselves! When Becquet, who was a leading light at Mlle. Mars', adventured into our midst at Mlle. Georges', he passed into the condition of a mere looker-on. And the type of mind was entirely different—Harel's, caustic and retaliating; Janin's, good-natured and merry; Lockroy's, refined and aristocratic. Poor Becquet! one was obliged to wake him up, to prick him and to spur him. He reminded one of a respectable drunkard asleep in the midst of fireworks. Then, after these suppers, which lasted till one or two in the morning, we went into the garden. The garden had a door in it leading out on the Luxembourg and the Chamber of Peers, the key of which Cambacérès lent Harel on the strength of his having once been his secretary. The result was that we had a royal park for the discussion of our dessert. Gardens of classical architecture, like Versailles, the Tuileries and the Luxembourg are very fine seen by night and by the light of the moon. Each statue looks like a phantom; each fountain of water a cascade of diamonds. Oh! those nights of 1829 and 1830 and 1831! Were they really as glorious as I think them? Or was it because I was only twenty-seven or twenty-eight years of age that made them seem so fragrant, so peaceful and so full of stars?...
But to return. The Théâtre-Français, to our great joy, continued, by its failures, to afford a melancholy contrast to the success of its confrères of the boulevards and the outre-Seine. They had just played a five-act piece entitled theClerc et le Théologien, which had simply taken as its subject the death of Henri III., a subject treated with much talent by Vitet in hisScènes historiques.Those who have forgotten theÉtats de Bloisand theMort d'Henri III.can re-read the two works, that have had a great influence on the literary renascenceof 1830, which, according to the amiable M. P—— has yet to produce its fruit. M. P—— is a gentleman whom I propose to take by the collar and give a thorough good shaking, when I happen to have eau de Cologne on my handkerchief and gloves on my hands.
A strange incident preceded the performance of theClerc et le Théologien.The play, written in collaboration by MM. Scribe and d'Épagny, and accepted by the Odéon Theatre, had been stopped by the censor of 1830. Good old Censorship! It is the same in all ages! There indeed come moments when it cuts its fingers with its own scissors; but censors are a race of polypii,—their fingers merely grow again. The censor had, then, stopped MM. Scribe and d'Épagny's drama. The vessel which bore their twofold banner, upon which the Minister of the Interior had put his embargo by the medium of his custom officers, was at anchor in the docks of the rue de Grenelle. The Revolution of 1830 set it afloat again.
We have said that Harel received the work in 1829. Becoming possessed of his own work again by the events of the revolution of July, Scribe thought no more of Harel and took his play to the Théâtre-Français. But Scribe, who usually reckoned carefully, had this time reckoned without Harel. Harel had far too good a memory to forget Scribe. He pursued author and play, writ in hand and a sheriff's officer behind him. It need hardly be said that the officer stopped both the play and the author just when they were turning the corner of the rue de Richelieu. Sheriff's officers are very fast runners! A law-suit ensued, and Harel lost. But the trial inspired Scribe's imagination; in that twofold insistence of the Théâtre-Français and the Théâtre-Odéon he saw a means of killing two birds with one stone and of making one play into two. In this way M. Scribe would have his drama, M. d'Épagny his drama; the Théâtre-Français its drama, and the Odéon its drama. The play, consequently, was reduplicated like a photograph: the Théâtre-Français, which was down on its luck, came in for theClerc et le Théologienby M. d'Épagny; Harel drew Scribe aside by his coat-tailsjust as theClerc de la Basocheand he were entering,à reculons, on the second French stage. It is to be understood that I use this rather ambitious locution, theseconde scène française, to avoid puttingOdéonso close toreculons.Both the dramas were failures, or pretty nearly so. I did not see either of them, and I shall therefore take good care to refrain from expressing my opinion upon them.
But our true fête days—I hope I may be forgiven for this harmless digression—were when it was the turn of one of the gentlemen from the Institute—Lemercier, Viennet or Arnault—to produce a work. Then there was general hilarity. We would all arrange to meet in the orchestra of the Théâtre-Français to be present at the spectacle of a work falling flat, sometimes with very little assistance, at others gently aided in its fall by a bitter blast of hisses; a spectacle sad enough for the author's friends, but very exhilarating to his enemies, and the gentlemen above mentioned had treated us as enemies.
M. Arnault was the cleverest of the three authors I have just named, a man, as I have said elsewhere, of immense worth and eminent intellect. But everyone has his own hobby-horse, as Tristram Shandy says, and M. Arnault's hobby-horse was tragedy. But his hobby was roaring, broken-winded, foundered, to such an extent that, in spite of its legs being fired by theConstitutionnel, it could rarely get to the last line of a fifth act!
We asked that these gentlemen's pieces should be played with as much fervour as they employed in stating that ours should not. They, on their side, clamoured loudly to be played, and, as they had the government to back them up, specially since the July Revolution, their turn to be represented arrived, in spite of the timid opposition of the Théâtre-Français, in spite, too, of sighs from members of the staff and the groans of the cashier. True, the torture did not last long; it was generally restricted to the three customary performances, even if it attained to three. Often the first performance was not ended; witnessPertinaxandArbogaste.It was very strange, in this case, to see the excuses which these gentlemen made up for their failure. Those made by M. Arnault weredelightful, since nobody could possibly have a readier wit than he. For instance, he had made the Théâtre-Français take up again an old piece of his, played, I believe, under the Empire theProscrit, orles Guelfes et les Gibelins.The piece fell flat. Who did the furious Academician blame for it?—Firmin! Why Firmin? Firmin, delightful, enthusiastic and conscientious player, who enjoyed much lasting favour from the public, although his memory began to fail him,—Firmin played the part of Tébaldo, head of the Ghibellines and brother of Uberti, head of the Guelfs, in the play. The other parts were played by Ligier, Joanny and Duchesnois. So, we see, M. Arnault had nothing to grumble at: the Comédie-Française had lent him of its best; perhaps it had a conviction it would not be for long. Very well, M. Arnault made Firmin's memory, or, rather, want of memory, the excuse for this failure, and he dedicated his play to the prompter. We have this curious dedication before us, and are going to quote it; it will, we hope, have for our readers at least the attraction of a hitherto unpublished fragment. This time we are not afraid of being mistaken in the name of the authordu factumas not long since happened to us concerning an article in theConstitutionnelreproduced by us, which, by a copyist's error, we ascribed to M. Étienne, whilst it was only by M. Jay.[1]
And, by the way, as a relation of M. Étienne, a son-in-law or rather, I think, it was a nephew,—protested in the papers, let me be allowed a word of explanation, which will completely re-establish my good faith. I live part of my life in Brussels, part in Paris; the rest of the time I live in the railway between Brussels and Paris, or Paris and Brussels. Besides, I have already said that I am writing my Memoirs without notes. The consequence is that, when I am in Paris, I have my information close at hand; but when I am in Brussels I am obliged to have it sent from Paris. Now, I needed the article that had been published againstAntonythe very morning of the day it was to have been played at the Théâtre-Français. I wrote to Viellot, my secretary—a delightful fellow who neverthought of spreading the report that he was any collaborator,—to unearth theConstitutionnelfrom the catacombs of 1834, to copy out for me the above-mentioned article and to send it me. Viellot went to the Bibliothèque, that great common grave where journals of all sorts of parties and colours and times are entered. He borrowed the file from the rag-merchant of Pyat who was taking it away, and who, when he learnt what was wanted, would not let it off his hook for love or money until he was told that it was in order to do me a service; then he lent it, and Viellot picked off from its curved point theConstitutionnelfor 28 April 1834. Then he returned home and copied out the article. Only, in copying it I do not know what hallucination he was possessed with, whether the style flew to his head, or the wit got into his brain, or the form upset his senses, anyhow, he imagined that the article was by M. Étienne, and signed it with the name of the author ofBrueys et Palapratand of theDeux Gendres.I, seeing the copy of the article, believed,—I was at a distance of seventy leagues from the scene of action, as they say poetically in politics,—the signature to be as authentic as the rest; I therefore fell upon the unfortunate article, and rent it in pieces—I was going to say tooth and nail, but no, I am too cautious for that!—with might and main, both article and signature. My error, though involuntary, was none the less an error on that account, and deserved that I should acknowledge it publicly. Thereupon, reparation be made to M. Étienne, and homage paid to M. Jay! Honour to whom honour is due!
Let us return to M. Arnault and his dedication, which, I remember, at the time made my poor Firmin so unhappy that he wept over it like a child!
"DEDICATORY EPISTLETO THE PROMPTER OF THE THÉÂTRE-FRANÇAIS[2]"MONSIEUR,—Authors are by no means all ungrateful beings. I know some who have paid homage for their successto the player to whom they were particularly indebted. I imitate this noble example: I dedicate theGuelfesto you. Mademoiselle Duchesnois, M. Joanny, M. Ligier have, without doubt, contributed to the success of that work by a zeal as great as their talent; but whatever they may have done for me, have they done as much as you, monsieur?"'To prompt is not to play,' M. Firmin will say, who is even stronger at the game of draughts than at the game of acting.[3]To that I reply with Sganarelle: 'Yes and no!' When the prompter merely gives the word to the actor, when he only jogs the memory of the player, no, certainly,to prompt is not to play!But when the player takes everything from the prompter, everything from the first to the last line of his part; when your voice covers his; when it is yours alone which is heard whilst he gesticulates, certainly this isplaying through the prompter!Is it not this, monsieur, which has happened, not only at the first, but even at every performance of theGuelfes?Is it not you who really played M. Firmin's part?"'His memory,' he says, 'is of the worst.' It is conceivable, according to the system which places the seat of memory in the head.[4]But, under the circumstances, does not M. Firminblame his memory for the infirmity of his will? And why, you will say to me, is M. Firmin wanting in kindly feeling towards you, who feel kindly disposed to everybody? Towards you, who, from your age, perhaps also from your misfortunes, if not on account of past successes, had a right at least to that consideration which is not refused to the scholar who makes his first appearance? Such are indeed the rights which I knew M. Firmin's good nature would accord you, rights which I thought to strengthen in him by offering one of the most important parts in my tragedy, the part that you have prompted, or that you have played: it is a case of six of one and a half-dozen of another. I was, indeed, far from suspecting that the honour done to M. Firmin's talent was an insult to his expectations. Yet that is what has happened."The succession to Talma was open for competition. When the empire of the world came to be vacant, all who laid claim to the empire of Alexander were not heroes: I ought to have remembered this; but does one always profit by the lessons of history? I did not imagine that the heir to the dramatic Alexander would be the one among his survivors who least resembled him. Nature had shown great prodigality towards Talma. His physical gifts corresponded with his moral endowments, a glowing soul dwelt in his graceful body; a vast intellect animated that noble head; his powerful voice, with its pathetic and solemn intonation, served as the medium for his inexhaustible sensitiveness, for his indefatigable energy. Talma possesses everything nature could bestow; besides all that art could acquire. Although M. Firmin has eminent gifts, does he combine in himself all perfections? His somewhat slender personal appearance does not ill-become all youthful parts, but does it accord with the dignity required by parts of leading importance? His voice is not devoid of charm in the expression of sentiments of affection; but has it the strength requisite for serious moods and violent emotions? His intellect is not wanting in breadth; but do his methods of execution expand to that breadth when he wants to exceed the limits with which nature has circumscribed him? The pride of the eagle may be found in the heart of a pigeon, and the courage of a lion in that of a poodle. But, by whatever sentiment it is animated, the rock-pigeon can only coo, the cur can but howl. Now, these accents havenot at all the same authority as the cry of the king of the air, or the roar of the king of the forests."After these sage reflections, distributing the part of my tragedy to the actors who have abilities that are the most in keeping with the characters of those parts, I gave that of Uberti to M. Ligier, an actor gifted with an imposing figure and voice, and I reserved the part of the tender impassioned Tébaldo for M. Firmin. What the deuce possessed me? Just as every Englishman says whenever he comes across salt water, 'This belongs to us!' so does M. Firmin say whenever he comes across a part made for the physiognomy of Talma,This belongs to me![5]The part of Uberti was intended for Talma, and I did not offer it to M. Firmin! The part of Uberti was claimed by M. Firmin, and I did not take it from M. Ligier! A twofold crime oflèse-majesté.Alas! How the majesty of M. Firmin has punished me for it! He accepted the rôle that I offered him. Knowing the secrets of the Comédie, you know, monsieur, what has been the result of that act of complacency. Put into study in April,Les Guelfesmight have been produced in May, under the propitious influence of spring; it was only performed in July, during the heat of the dog-days. Thus had M. Firmin decided. Oh! the power of the force of inertia! When several ships sail in company, the common pace is regulated by that of the poorest sailer. The common pace in this case was regulated by the memory of M. Firmin, which unfortunately was regulated by his good will. Now, this good will thought fit to compromise the interests of my reputation. But everything has to be paid for. At what point, monsieur, did it not serve the interests of your fame? All the newspapers kept faithful to it. Did it not exhume you from the pit, where hitherto you had buried your capacities, and reveal them to the public? Did it not, when raising you to the level of the actors behind whom you had hitherto been hidden, give them a mouthpiece in you?"Declaiming, whilst M. Firmin gesticulated, you have, it is true, transferred from the boulevards to the Théâtre-Français an imitation of that singular combination of a declamatory orator who does not let himself be seen, and a gesticulatorwho does not let himself be heard, co-operate in the execution of the same part. People of scrupulous taste are, it is true, offended by it; but what matters that to you? It is not you, monsieur, who, in these scenes, play the buffoon: and what does it matter to me, since, acting thus, you have saved my play? Moreover, is it the first borrowing, and the least honourable borrowing, that your noble theatre has made from those of the boulevards?[6]"Thanks to that admirable agreement, theGuelfeshas had several representations. But why has not the run, suspended by a journey taken by Mademoiselle Duchesnois, been resumed upon her return, as that great actress requested it should be, and as the play-bills announced.[7]"M. Firmin refused to proceed. The part of Tébaldo, he says, has slipped out of his memory. For that matter, it might as well never have entered it. But, after all, what is it to you or to me whether he knows his part or not? Can he not make the same shift in the future as he has in the past? Need his memory fail him so long as you do not fail him? Is his memory not at the tip of your tongue, which, one knows, is by no means paralysed? But do not these difficulties, monsieur, that are said to come from M. Firmin, come from yourself? Accustomed to working underground, was it not you who stirred them up in secret? You have not the entire part, like M. Firmin; paid for prompting when you take the part of an actor, and of a principal actor, did you not get tired, at the last, of becoming out of breath for glory alone, and did you not behind the scenes oppose the revival of a play during the performance of whichyou had not time to breathe? Justice, monsieur, justice! No doubt M. Firmin owes you an indemnity: claim it, but do not compromise the interests of the Théâtre-Français by impeding his services in preventing him from doing justice to an author's rights; that may lead to consequences, remember: the number of authors dissatisfied with him on just grounds is already but too great; be careful not to increase it. The second Théâtre-Français, although people are doing their best to kill it, is not yet dead. Would it be impossible to put it on its feet again? Will not the players who have been drawn off to block the first theatre (which pays them less for playing at it than for not playing any part at all) grow tired in the end of a state of things which reduces them from the status of parish priests to that of curates, or, rather, from being the bishops they were degrades them to the rank of millers? In conclusion, is there not a nucleus of a tragedy-playing company still left at the Odéon? And are there no pupils at the school of oratory who could swell the number?"Think of it, monsieur, the tragedy which they seem to wish to stifle in the rue de Richelieu might find a home in the faubourg Saint-Germain, which was its cradle and that also of the Théâtre-Français. You would not do badly to drop a hint of this to the members of the committee. Further, happen what may, remember, monsieur, the obligations that I owe you will never be erased from my memory, which is not as ungrateful as that of M. Firmin."If only I could express my gratitude to you by some homage more worthy your acceptance!—Dedicate a tragedy to you, a tragedy in verse, written at top speed![8]But each must pay in his own coin: monsieur, do not refuse to take mine."Remember, monsieur, that Benedict XIV. did not scorn the dedication ofMahomet.I am not a Voltaire, I know; but neither are you a Pope. All things considered, perhaps the relation between us is equivalent to that which existed between those two personages. Meanwhile, take this until something better turns up. Classic by principle and by habit I have not hitherto believed myself possessed of sufficient genius to dispense with both rhyme and reason. But who knows? Perhaps, some day, I shall be in a condition to try my hand at the romanticguerre: if I put myself at a distance from the age when people rave extravagantly I shall draw nearer to that of dotage. Patience then!—I am, with all the consideration which is due to you, monsieur, your very humble and very obedient servant,"ARNAULT"
"DEDICATORY EPISTLETO THE PROMPTER OF THE THÉÂTRE-FRANÇAIS[2]
"MONSIEUR,—Authors are by no means all ungrateful beings. I know some who have paid homage for their successto the player to whom they were particularly indebted. I imitate this noble example: I dedicate theGuelfesto you. Mademoiselle Duchesnois, M. Joanny, M. Ligier have, without doubt, contributed to the success of that work by a zeal as great as their talent; but whatever they may have done for me, have they done as much as you, monsieur?
"'To prompt is not to play,' M. Firmin will say, who is even stronger at the game of draughts than at the game of acting.[3]To that I reply with Sganarelle: 'Yes and no!' When the prompter merely gives the word to the actor, when he only jogs the memory of the player, no, certainly,to prompt is not to play!But when the player takes everything from the prompter, everything from the first to the last line of his part; when your voice covers his; when it is yours alone which is heard whilst he gesticulates, certainly this isplaying through the prompter!Is it not this, monsieur, which has happened, not only at the first, but even at every performance of theGuelfes?Is it not you who really played M. Firmin's part?
"'His memory,' he says, 'is of the worst.' It is conceivable, according to the system which places the seat of memory in the head.[4]But, under the circumstances, does not M. Firminblame his memory for the infirmity of his will? And why, you will say to me, is M. Firmin wanting in kindly feeling towards you, who feel kindly disposed to everybody? Towards you, who, from your age, perhaps also from your misfortunes, if not on account of past successes, had a right at least to that consideration which is not refused to the scholar who makes his first appearance? Such are indeed the rights which I knew M. Firmin's good nature would accord you, rights which I thought to strengthen in him by offering one of the most important parts in my tragedy, the part that you have prompted, or that you have played: it is a case of six of one and a half-dozen of another. I was, indeed, far from suspecting that the honour done to M. Firmin's talent was an insult to his expectations. Yet that is what has happened.
"The succession to Talma was open for competition. When the empire of the world came to be vacant, all who laid claim to the empire of Alexander were not heroes: I ought to have remembered this; but does one always profit by the lessons of history? I did not imagine that the heir to the dramatic Alexander would be the one among his survivors who least resembled him. Nature had shown great prodigality towards Talma. His physical gifts corresponded with his moral endowments, a glowing soul dwelt in his graceful body; a vast intellect animated that noble head; his powerful voice, with its pathetic and solemn intonation, served as the medium for his inexhaustible sensitiveness, for his indefatigable energy. Talma possesses everything nature could bestow; besides all that art could acquire. Although M. Firmin has eminent gifts, does he combine in himself all perfections? His somewhat slender personal appearance does not ill-become all youthful parts, but does it accord with the dignity required by parts of leading importance? His voice is not devoid of charm in the expression of sentiments of affection; but has it the strength requisite for serious moods and violent emotions? His intellect is not wanting in breadth; but do his methods of execution expand to that breadth when he wants to exceed the limits with which nature has circumscribed him? The pride of the eagle may be found in the heart of a pigeon, and the courage of a lion in that of a poodle. But, by whatever sentiment it is animated, the rock-pigeon can only coo, the cur can but howl. Now, these accents havenot at all the same authority as the cry of the king of the air, or the roar of the king of the forests.
"After these sage reflections, distributing the part of my tragedy to the actors who have abilities that are the most in keeping with the characters of those parts, I gave that of Uberti to M. Ligier, an actor gifted with an imposing figure and voice, and I reserved the part of the tender impassioned Tébaldo for M. Firmin. What the deuce possessed me? Just as every Englishman says whenever he comes across salt water, 'This belongs to us!' so does M. Firmin say whenever he comes across a part made for the physiognomy of Talma,This belongs to me![5]The part of Uberti was intended for Talma, and I did not offer it to M. Firmin! The part of Uberti was claimed by M. Firmin, and I did not take it from M. Ligier! A twofold crime oflèse-majesté.Alas! How the majesty of M. Firmin has punished me for it! He accepted the rôle that I offered him. Knowing the secrets of the Comédie, you know, monsieur, what has been the result of that act of complacency. Put into study in April,Les Guelfesmight have been produced in May, under the propitious influence of spring; it was only performed in July, during the heat of the dog-days. Thus had M. Firmin decided. Oh! the power of the force of inertia! When several ships sail in company, the common pace is regulated by that of the poorest sailer. The common pace in this case was regulated by the memory of M. Firmin, which unfortunately was regulated by his good will. Now, this good will thought fit to compromise the interests of my reputation. But everything has to be paid for. At what point, monsieur, did it not serve the interests of your fame? All the newspapers kept faithful to it. Did it not exhume you from the pit, where hitherto you had buried your capacities, and reveal them to the public? Did it not, when raising you to the level of the actors behind whom you had hitherto been hidden, give them a mouthpiece in you?
"Declaiming, whilst M. Firmin gesticulated, you have, it is true, transferred from the boulevards to the Théâtre-Français an imitation of that singular combination of a declamatory orator who does not let himself be seen, and a gesticulatorwho does not let himself be heard, co-operate in the execution of the same part. People of scrupulous taste are, it is true, offended by it; but what matters that to you? It is not you, monsieur, who, in these scenes, play the buffoon: and what does it matter to me, since, acting thus, you have saved my play? Moreover, is it the first borrowing, and the least honourable borrowing, that your noble theatre has made from those of the boulevards?[6]
"Thanks to that admirable agreement, theGuelfeshas had several representations. But why has not the run, suspended by a journey taken by Mademoiselle Duchesnois, been resumed upon her return, as that great actress requested it should be, and as the play-bills announced.[7]
"M. Firmin refused to proceed. The part of Tébaldo, he says, has slipped out of his memory. For that matter, it might as well never have entered it. But, after all, what is it to you or to me whether he knows his part or not? Can he not make the same shift in the future as he has in the past? Need his memory fail him so long as you do not fail him? Is his memory not at the tip of your tongue, which, one knows, is by no means paralysed? But do not these difficulties, monsieur, that are said to come from M. Firmin, come from yourself? Accustomed to working underground, was it not you who stirred them up in secret? You have not the entire part, like M. Firmin; paid for prompting when you take the part of an actor, and of a principal actor, did you not get tired, at the last, of becoming out of breath for glory alone, and did you not behind the scenes oppose the revival of a play during the performance of whichyou had not time to breathe? Justice, monsieur, justice! No doubt M. Firmin owes you an indemnity: claim it, but do not compromise the interests of the Théâtre-Français by impeding his services in preventing him from doing justice to an author's rights; that may lead to consequences, remember: the number of authors dissatisfied with him on just grounds is already but too great; be careful not to increase it. The second Théâtre-Français, although people are doing their best to kill it, is not yet dead. Would it be impossible to put it on its feet again? Will not the players who have been drawn off to block the first theatre (which pays them less for playing at it than for not playing any part at all) grow tired in the end of a state of things which reduces them from the status of parish priests to that of curates, or, rather, from being the bishops they were degrades them to the rank of millers? In conclusion, is there not a nucleus of a tragedy-playing company still left at the Odéon? And are there no pupils at the school of oratory who could swell the number?
"Think of it, monsieur, the tragedy which they seem to wish to stifle in the rue de Richelieu might find a home in the faubourg Saint-Germain, which was its cradle and that also of the Théâtre-Français. You would not do badly to drop a hint of this to the members of the committee. Further, happen what may, remember, monsieur, the obligations that I owe you will never be erased from my memory, which is not as ungrateful as that of M. Firmin.
"If only I could express my gratitude to you by some homage more worthy your acceptance!—Dedicate a tragedy to you, a tragedy in verse, written at top speed![8]But each must pay in his own coin: monsieur, do not refuse to take mine.
"Remember, monsieur, that Benedict XIV. did not scorn the dedication ofMahomet.I am not a Voltaire, I know; but neither are you a Pope. All things considered, perhaps the relation between us is equivalent to that which existed between those two personages. Meanwhile, take this until something better turns up. Classic by principle and by habit I have not hitherto believed myself possessed of sufficient genius to dispense with both rhyme and reason. But who knows? Perhaps, some day, I shall be in a condition to try my hand at the romanticguerre: if I put myself at a distance from the age when people rave extravagantly I shall draw nearer to that of dotage. Patience then!—I am, with all the consideration which is due to you, monsieur, your very humble and very obedient servant,"ARNAULT"