Chapter 16

Of course it goes without saying that the tribunal pronounced itself incompetent to deal with the case, and no justice at all was done to the poet.

[1]The agent Léotaud who arrested M. de Chateaubriand in 1832.

[2]See Appendix.

[3]See Appendix.

[4]See Appendix.

[5]Ibid.

[6]M. Odilon Barrot.

[7]See Appendix.

[8]See Appendix.

Le Corsairetrial—The Duc d'Orléans as caricaturist—TheTribunetrial—The right of association established by jury—Statistics of the political sentences under the Restoration—Le Pré-aux-Clercs

Let us return to the political trials which were a feature of the close of the year 1832. Of course, at this period, a political trial was thought more of than a literary one, and people were much more sure of being acquitted if they had conspired against the Government than if they had conspired against the Academy. The trial of the newspaperLe Corsairefollowed that ofLe Roi s'amuse,or even, I believe, preceded it.Le Corsairewas then republican; it had given an account of the 5th and 6th of June according to our point of view. It is an odd thing: every newspaper which supported the revolution in politics, supported thestatu quoin literature. I will relate, shortly, my quarrel with Carrel. This is how theCorsairehad expressed itself. We quote only the passage which was impeached by the public prosecutor:—

"... The National Guard of the suburbs had arrived, and it was in the actual courtyard of the Tuileries itself that cartridges and brandy were distributed. All at once, the roar of firing was heard on the quai de la Mégisserie, in the rue Saint-Martin, by the Saint-Méry convent and in the rue Montmartre and Saint-Honoré. Soon, cannon intermingled with it, and, during this time, a considerable number of soldiers went to various quarters of the city; the drums beat the invitation to the citizens, but the greatermass of them listened unheeding and declined Civil War. One part of the city was barricaded. A royal parade had taken place. The King of the French and his son the Duc de Nemours, accompanied by M. de Montalivet, sword in hand, and by M. d'Argout, provided with the crutch he had not discarded since his last illness, as the ministerial newspapers grotesquely put it, had gone through the boulevards and returned by the quays. More than fifteen hundred cavalry escorted the king. Meantime, blood was shed in the quartier Saint-Martin. The National Guard of the district showed an excitement of which it was difficult thoroughly to understand the cause; the firing did not cease; more than forty thousand men were in action...."

This article was prosecuted for provoking to rebellion. As can be seen, it was not amiably disposed to the July Government, and the question ought, we think, to have been put in an entirely different way. Had the attacked Government the right of defending itself? Without a doubt it had. Had it the right to distribute brandy and cartridges in the Tuileries courtyard? Certainly! Had we not indeed seen M. de Rumigny distributing powder and shot and wine at the Palais-Royal on 31 July and 1 August, on the morning of the parade of Rambouillet? Yes; but then the action was sympathetic and approved, whilst, to-day, there was immense opposition organised against Louis-Philippe, and all his actions were blamed, even those of legitimate defence.... They attacked the king, they attacked the princes, they attacked the ministers: this had all been well done and well received.

Philippon, the witty editor of theJournal four rire,had conceived the idea of depicting Louis-Philippe in the shape of afear: all the walls of Paris were covered with this grotesque likeness. He published the journalLa Caricature,to which Decamps contributed some of his early drawings, andLa Caricaturewas a tremendous success. Everyone, even the Duc d'Orléans, had a hand in it. We know that the prince could draw cleverly and with originality and that he also engraved. I still possess drawingsand engravings by him. He was a pupil of Fielding, and drew animals with great skill. One day, an idea for a caricature came into his head, inspired by the daily quips which the Chamber made at his father: it was to draw the king as Gulliver and the deputies as Lilliputians. The king was laid full length asleep, bound and gagged, with all the Lilliputian population about him, taking advantage of his enforced immobility to feel him over and examine him. A host of episodes each funnier than the others sprang out of the first idea. M. Jacques Lefebvre, the banker, was rolling a 5-franc piece towards the effigy of King Louis-Philippe with the same amount of exertion as a wheelwright rolls a wheel. M. Humann, Minister of Finance—so far as I can recollect—at that time, and consequently, supervisor of the excise duties, was plunged up to the knees in the powder so strongly appreciated by Sganarelle, and sneezing fit to shake his head off. M. Ganneron, who had made his fortune in tallow, came forward candle in hand towards the bridge made by Gulliver's half-open breeches, less courageous than the Comte Max Edmond of theBurgraves,and uncertain whether he might venture into the darkness of the cavern. M. Thiers and M. Guizot, who already disputed power between them, had each stretched a rope from the fobs of the king's waistcoat, and advanced each with scales in hand towards the two royal fobs which bore the titles ofMinistère de l'intérieurandMinistère des affaires Étrangères; M. Thiers's scales were labelledLibéralismeand M. Guizot'sRéaction.M. Mold and M. Dupin were playing on a see-saw. All these Lilliputians were as lifelike as possible. We need not speak of the king, who was eight to ten inches in length and a perfect portrait. But this is the most curious part of the story.

The Duc d'Orléans had obtained his stones from the lithographic office of Motte, father-in-law of our dear friend Achille Devéria. They forgot to say that this piece of lithography, not being intended for the public,did not need to be deposited with the Ministère de l'intérieur: the head workman did the thing in all conscientiousness and sent in a proof to the Ministère de l'intérieur; it was signed F.O., the duke's usual signature, for Ferdinand d'Orléans. It need hardly be said that the print was not only forbidden publication, but taken to the king.

The king recognised his son's signature! We can comprehend the paternal dressing-down His Royal Highness received. Honourable amends were made: the lithographer scratched out the head, and, instead of that of the Chief of the State, put the first head that came into his mind.

In 1834, the Duc d'Orléans gave me two copies of this caricature, onebefore the head was scratched outand oneafter; I was stupid enough to let myself be robbed of both. If the Duc d'Orléans were still living, I had only to ask him for others, and I did not then realise the price they were worth. This digression is intended to convey an idea of the sort of opposition that was raised at that period.

Le Corsaire,then, was prosecuted for provoking to rebellion. The jury retired to deliberate for form's sake, but soon came out and pronounced the manager of theCorsairenot guilty. The trial ofLa Tribunesucceeded that of theCorsaire.M. Bascans was acquitted as M. Viennot had been. Then came the affair of theright of association.Nineteen members of the Society of Friends of the People were summoned before the juries of the second court. They were accused of having been leaders and administrators of a political meeting of over twenty persons. This was quite a different matter from the two preceding acquittals! After three quarters of an hour's deliberation, M. Fenet, foreman of the jury, read this declaration—

"Re the first question.—'Has there been an association gathering on fixed days to discuss politics?'—'Yes,'"Re the second question.—'Did those gatherings take place without authorisation from the Government?'-'Yes.'[After these two affirmations everybody believed of course that the accused were certain to be found guilty.]"Re the third question.—Are the accused guilty?'-'No.'"

"Re the first question.—'Has there been an association gathering on fixed days to discuss politics?'—'Yes,'

"Re the second question.—'Did those gatherings take place without authorisation from the Government?'-'Yes.'

[After these two affirmations everybody believed of course that the accused were certain to be found guilty.]

"Re the third question.—Are the accused guilty?'-'No.'"

The whole court broke into applause. Thus theright of associationwas established by jury. People were beginning to grow sick of political sentences. Statistics had just been published giving the list of those sentenced during the Restoration: the Bourbons of the Elder Branch had in fifteen years cut offa hundred and eighteen headsand sentenced fourteencontumacious persons; it had condemned seventeen to penal servitude with hard labour, nineteen to a term of penal servitude; seventy-two to transportation, eighteen to imprisonment, thirty-five to temporary banishment. In conclusion, the general total of sentences, whether heavy or light, from death penalty to supervision, mounted totwo thousand four hundred and sixty-sixI In the midst of all these events, on 12 December Hérold produced a masterpiece:Le Pré-aux-Clercs.

Art is a king which walks smilingly through revolutions, looking down with contempt on all the upheavals it survives.

Victor Jacquemont

As this blood-stained year 1832 drew to a close, in which cholera alone had deducted from the population of France a tithe of ninety-five thousand deaths, the authorities of Bombay were mourning the death of Victor Jacquemont, a young savant of the highest distinction. Being a scholar, Victor Jacquemont detested men of imagination; he particularly hated us dramatists. He had left France in 1828 before the great literary movement which ensued, and he only judged of it by the leading articles in the newspapers.

"It is all in bad taste!" he said, in one of his letters, which afriendof mine showed me with the usual eagerness one's friends have for thrusting such kinds of stuff under one's nose. "In laying aside the Greeks and Romans, and the nobility of our old theatres, we have not been happy in their successors."

He called usmessieurs de l'horrible.Poor Jacquemont! I hardly knew him; I saw him once at General La Fayette's, who treated him like a son. The famous old man had a sure instinct for friendship: all who became great later were honoured by his friendship or protection.

The death of Jacquemont hardly made any impression in France; he was totally unknown by his compatriots; his reputation dated from the posthumous publication of his works, and especially of his private correspondence, which every cultured man "has read. I say cultured man, for there are no more inveterate hunters-out oftalent than your man of culture. Now there is real wit at the bottom of Jacquemont's correspondence, although it is of a dry and sceptical type. As for belief, that is another matter altogether; he evidently doubted everything, even God. In his last letters to his family, he does not express a word of hope for another life; the immortality of the soul, with Jacquemont, is not even as much as a dream. The letter in which he bids farewell to his brother, and, through his brother, to the whole family, is full of despair. I will not say that there is no resignation in it, but it reads like the work of an unconcerned person. Jacquemont talks of himself in it as he would speak of a casual acquaintance. Put the letter into the third person; let the dying man substituteheforI,and you have the official announcement of the death of a stranger, made by an indifferent person. See if the letter is that of a man dying four thousand leagues from his country:

"BOMBAY, INVALID OFFICERS' QUARTERS,"1December1832"DEAR PORPHYRE,—I came here ill thirty-two days ago, and for thirty-one I have been in bed. In the poisonous forests of the isle of Salsette, exposed to the burning sun during the most unhealthy season, I caught the germs of the disease, attacks of which I have often felt since my journey to Adjmir, but I had disguised from myself their true nature. It is inflammation of the liver. The pestilential exhalations have done for me. As soon as my illness began, I made my will and put my affairs in order. My interests are entrusted to the honourable and friendly care of Mr. James Nicol, an English merchant here, and to M. Cordier at Calcutta. Mr. Nicol was my host on my arrival in Bombay. No old friend could have lavished more affectionate care upon me. Nevertheless, at the end of a few days, while I was still able to be transported, I left his house, which is in the fort, in order to occupy a convenient and spacious set of rooms in the quarter of the invalided officers, in a most airy and healthy situation by the seacoast, a hundred yardsfrom my doctor, Dr. MacLennan, the cleverest in Bombay, whose admirable care long since made him my very dear friend."The cruellest thought, dear Porphyre, when we are dying in a far country, for those who love us, is the idea of the loneliness and desertion in which we may be passing the last hours of our existence. Well, my dear fellow, you can find comfort in the assurance I give you that, since my arrival here, I have not ceased to be overwhelmed with the most affectionate and touching attentions of a number of good and kindly men. They come and see me constantly, humour my sick whims and forestall my every fancy. Mr. Nicol more than any one; Mr. John Box, a member of the Government; an old engineering colonel, Mr. Goodfellow; a very kind young officer, Major Mountain, and others still, whom I have not mentioned. The excellent MacLennan nearly risked his own health for my sake; for several days during a crisis which seemed likely to end fatally, he came twice each night. I have absolute confidence in his skill. At first, I suffered greatly; but for a long time I have been reduced to a state of weakness which is almost exempt from pain. The worst is that for thirty-one days I have not slept more than one hour in all. But these sleepless nights are very quiet ones, and do not seem desperately long."Happily, the disease is drawing to its close; it may not be fatal, although most probably it will. The abscess or abscesses formed since the first inside the liver, which, until a recent period, promised to disperse by absorption, seem to have increased, and bid fair shortly to open externally. All I desire is to escape quickly out of the wretched state in which I have been lingering for a month past, no matter by what means it he. My mind is perfectly clear, as you can see; it has only been rarely and temporarily clouded during several violent paroxysms of pain at the beginning of my illness. I have generally calculated upon the worst, so have never been unusually depressed. My end, should it come, looks sweet and peaceful. If you were here seated on my bed, with our father and Frédéric, I should be brokenhearted, and should not regard death with such serenity and resignation. Be comforted, and console our father;console one another, my dear ones. But I am exhausted with this effort to write. I must bid you farewell! Farewell ... Oh! how your poor Victor loves you! Farewell for the last time! I can only write in pencil as I lie on my back. For fear the letters get rubbed out, the excellent Mr. Nicol will copy this letter in ink, so that I may be certain you will read my last thoughts."VICTOR JACQUEMONT"I have been able to sign what the admirable Mr. Nicol has been so good as to copy. Farewell once more, my dear ones!"

"BOMBAY, INVALID OFFICERS' QUARTERS,

"1December1832

"DEAR PORPHYRE,—I came here ill thirty-two days ago, and for thirty-one I have been in bed. In the poisonous forests of the isle of Salsette, exposed to the burning sun during the most unhealthy season, I caught the germs of the disease, attacks of which I have often felt since my journey to Adjmir, but I had disguised from myself their true nature. It is inflammation of the liver. The pestilential exhalations have done for me. As soon as my illness began, I made my will and put my affairs in order. My interests are entrusted to the honourable and friendly care of Mr. James Nicol, an English merchant here, and to M. Cordier at Calcutta. Mr. Nicol was my host on my arrival in Bombay. No old friend could have lavished more affectionate care upon me. Nevertheless, at the end of a few days, while I was still able to be transported, I left his house, which is in the fort, in order to occupy a convenient and spacious set of rooms in the quarter of the invalided officers, in a most airy and healthy situation by the seacoast, a hundred yardsfrom my doctor, Dr. MacLennan, the cleverest in Bombay, whose admirable care long since made him my very dear friend.

"The cruellest thought, dear Porphyre, when we are dying in a far country, for those who love us, is the idea of the loneliness and desertion in which we may be passing the last hours of our existence. Well, my dear fellow, you can find comfort in the assurance I give you that, since my arrival here, I have not ceased to be overwhelmed with the most affectionate and touching attentions of a number of good and kindly men. They come and see me constantly, humour my sick whims and forestall my every fancy. Mr. Nicol more than any one; Mr. John Box, a member of the Government; an old engineering colonel, Mr. Goodfellow; a very kind young officer, Major Mountain, and others still, whom I have not mentioned. The excellent MacLennan nearly risked his own health for my sake; for several days during a crisis which seemed likely to end fatally, he came twice each night. I have absolute confidence in his skill. At first, I suffered greatly; but for a long time I have been reduced to a state of weakness which is almost exempt from pain. The worst is that for thirty-one days I have not slept more than one hour in all. But these sleepless nights are very quiet ones, and do not seem desperately long.

"Happily, the disease is drawing to its close; it may not be fatal, although most probably it will. The abscess or abscesses formed since the first inside the liver, which, until a recent period, promised to disperse by absorption, seem to have increased, and bid fair shortly to open externally. All I desire is to escape quickly out of the wretched state in which I have been lingering for a month past, no matter by what means it he. My mind is perfectly clear, as you can see; it has only been rarely and temporarily clouded during several violent paroxysms of pain at the beginning of my illness. I have generally calculated upon the worst, so have never been unusually depressed. My end, should it come, looks sweet and peaceful. If you were here seated on my bed, with our father and Frédéric, I should be brokenhearted, and should not regard death with such serenity and resignation. Be comforted, and console our father;console one another, my dear ones. But I am exhausted with this effort to write. I must bid you farewell! Farewell ... Oh! how your poor Victor loves you! Farewell for the last time! I can only write in pencil as I lie on my back. For fear the letters get rubbed out, the excellent Mr. Nicol will copy this letter in ink, so that I may be certain you will read my last thoughts."VICTOR JACQUEMONT

"I have been able to sign what the admirable Mr. Nicol has been so good as to copy. Farewell once more, my dear ones!"

Only one single sentence from the man's heart: "Farewell! Oh! how your poor Victor loves you!" It explains entirely why a literature full of sentiment must have been antipathetic to that cold, learned intellectual temperament.

Happily, two men undertook to send to the family, heart-broken by the unexpected loss far away from them, the melancholy consolations which the dying man had not thought of giving them. A dying man who knows he is beloved ought to console those whom he is going to leave as much as he can; he ought to have pity on those whom he causes to weep: hearts are cured by being softened, not by being turned to stone. The man who has wept much alone can appreciate the truth of what I say here.

This is Mr. James Nicol's letter to Jacquemont's brother. Mr. James Nicol is an Englishman, remember, and yet the letter is written in French, a tongue other than his own. But there is one universal language for the heart.

"BOMBAY, 17December1832"MY DEAR SIR,—Although a stranger to you, fate has allotted it to me to communicate to you an event which you did not expect. It is with the deepest regret I am obliged to transmit to you your brother Victor's last letter,and to communicate to you the sole consolation which is left to you, that of telling you of the peaceful and painless end he made on 17 December."Your brother came to my house on 29 October from Tanna, being in a very weak state of health, in consequence of an illness he had recently had, which he thought would speedily be cured by the sea breezes of this island, and his strength quickly restored. The evening of his arrival he took a walk of half a league with me, and, next day, paid various calls; but he came back early, thoroughly exhausted. I advised him to see a doctor at once; Dr. MacLennan saw him the same evening. I enclose in this letter for your satisfaction the account the doctor wrote of his illness. As your brother has himself told you, he suffered terribly at the beginning of his illness, and, from the first, he was informed of the dangerous nature of the disease. On 4 November he made his will, a copy of which I enclose herewith. About 8 November the disease appeared to take a favourable turn; and he still entertained the hope of recovering his health, when the formation of an abscess appeared. He then became daily weaker, but preserved throughout his illness a calm and contentedness I have never seen equalled. I left him on 6 December nearly in the same condition as on the preceding days, but without any symptoms of near dissolution. However, on the 7th, about three in the morning, he was seized with violent pains, which lasted for two hours. Dr. MacLennan was with him at the time. At five A.M. your brother sent for me: he was not suffering when I arrived; but a great change had taken place in his looks since the previous night, and I could hardly restrain my tears. Then, taking my hand, he said to me: 'Do not grieve; the time draws close, and my wishes are about to be fulfilled. I have been praying to heaven for it for the last fortnight. It is a happy release. Were I to live now the disease would probably make the rest of my life miserable.... Write to my brother, and tell how peacefully and happily my last days passed....'"He repeated to me that he wished me to send his manuscripts and collections to France, and went into the most elaborate details concerning his funeral arrangements,which he wished to be celebrated with Protestant rites. He asked me to put up a simple gravestone with this inscription upon it—'VICTOR JACQUEMONTNÉ À PARIS LE 8 AOUT 1801MORT À BOMBAYAPRÈS AVOIR VOYAGÉ PENDANT TROISANS ET DEMIDANS L'INDE'During the course of the day he had several attacks of vomiting, and his breathing was considerably affected; but he kept the use of his faculties as perfectly as when in good health. He was only disquieted about his death, adding: 'I am very comfortable here, but I should be much better in my grave!' About five P.M. he said to me: 'I am now going to take my last drink from your hand, and then die.' A violent fit of vomiting ensued, and he was laid back in his bed completely exhausted. He opened his eyes at times, and until within twenty minutes before his death he seemed to recognise me. At sixteen minutes past six, he rendered up his spirit into the arms of death in his sleep."He was buried the following evening with military honours, as a member of the Légion d'honneur, and was followed by members of the Government, and by many other people."I feel the sincerest sympathy with you and your father in this irreparable loss. I only knew your brother during his illness, and only had the melancholy satisfaction of contributing to the best of my ability to his needs during his illness. In conformity with your brother's wishes, I have sent off by steamer with all possible care the articles of natural history which remained in my possession; they are packed in eleven cases and barrels, for which I enclose the invoice and bill of lading, signed by the captain of the French vessel,La Nympheof Bordeaux. I wrote to the CommissaireGénéral de la Marine at Bordeaux, asking him to smooth over any difficulties that might arise in connection with them. Be so good as to write to him about the things. I have also dispatched a box addressed to your father, containing all the writings your brother left with me.[1]I have put his Order of the Légion d'honneur, which your brother particularly instructed me to send you, in the case containing his papers. I also send you his watch and pistols. Be so good as to separate the catalogues belonging to the collections from the other writings, and send them to the Royal Museum. I have the honour to be, dear Sir, yours, etc.JAMES NICOL."

"BOMBAY, 17December1832

"MY DEAR SIR,—Although a stranger to you, fate has allotted it to me to communicate to you an event which you did not expect. It is with the deepest regret I am obliged to transmit to you your brother Victor's last letter,and to communicate to you the sole consolation which is left to you, that of telling you of the peaceful and painless end he made on 17 December.

"Your brother came to my house on 29 October from Tanna, being in a very weak state of health, in consequence of an illness he had recently had, which he thought would speedily be cured by the sea breezes of this island, and his strength quickly restored. The evening of his arrival he took a walk of half a league with me, and, next day, paid various calls; but he came back early, thoroughly exhausted. I advised him to see a doctor at once; Dr. MacLennan saw him the same evening. I enclose in this letter for your satisfaction the account the doctor wrote of his illness. As your brother has himself told you, he suffered terribly at the beginning of his illness, and, from the first, he was informed of the dangerous nature of the disease. On 4 November he made his will, a copy of which I enclose herewith. About 8 November the disease appeared to take a favourable turn; and he still entertained the hope of recovering his health, when the formation of an abscess appeared. He then became daily weaker, but preserved throughout his illness a calm and contentedness I have never seen equalled. I left him on 6 December nearly in the same condition as on the preceding days, but without any symptoms of near dissolution. However, on the 7th, about three in the morning, he was seized with violent pains, which lasted for two hours. Dr. MacLennan was with him at the time. At five A.M. your brother sent for me: he was not suffering when I arrived; but a great change had taken place in his looks since the previous night, and I could hardly restrain my tears. Then, taking my hand, he said to me: 'Do not grieve; the time draws close, and my wishes are about to be fulfilled. I have been praying to heaven for it for the last fortnight. It is a happy release. Were I to live now the disease would probably make the rest of my life miserable.... Write to my brother, and tell how peacefully and happily my last days passed....'

"He repeated to me that he wished me to send his manuscripts and collections to France, and went into the most elaborate details concerning his funeral arrangements,which he wished to be celebrated with Protestant rites. He asked me to put up a simple gravestone with this inscription upon it—

'VICTOR JACQUEMONTNÉ À PARIS LE 8 AOUT 1801MORT À BOMBAYAPRÈS AVOIR VOYAGÉ PENDANT TROISANS ET DEMIDANS L'INDE'

During the course of the day he had several attacks of vomiting, and his breathing was considerably affected; but he kept the use of his faculties as perfectly as when in good health. He was only disquieted about his death, adding: 'I am very comfortable here, but I should be much better in my grave!' About five P.M. he said to me: 'I am now going to take my last drink from your hand, and then die.' A violent fit of vomiting ensued, and he was laid back in his bed completely exhausted. He opened his eyes at times, and until within twenty minutes before his death he seemed to recognise me. At sixteen minutes past six, he rendered up his spirit into the arms of death in his sleep.

"He was buried the following evening with military honours, as a member of the Légion d'honneur, and was followed by members of the Government, and by many other people.

"I feel the sincerest sympathy with you and your father in this irreparable loss. I only knew your brother during his illness, and only had the melancholy satisfaction of contributing to the best of my ability to his needs during his illness. In conformity with your brother's wishes, I have sent off by steamer with all possible care the articles of natural history which remained in my possession; they are packed in eleven cases and barrels, for which I enclose the invoice and bill of lading, signed by the captain of the French vessel,La Nympheof Bordeaux. I wrote to the CommissaireGénéral de la Marine at Bordeaux, asking him to smooth over any difficulties that might arise in connection with them. Be so good as to write to him about the things. I have also dispatched a box addressed to your father, containing all the writings your brother left with me.[1]I have put his Order of the Légion d'honneur, which your brother particularly instructed me to send you, in the case containing his papers. I also send you his watch and pistols. Be so good as to separate the catalogues belonging to the collections from the other writings, and send them to the Royal Museum. I have the honour to be, dear Sir, yours, etc.JAMES NICOL."

The epitaph drawn up by the dying man himself is terribly curt and dreary. The lost child called Antony would have found something more filial for his unknown mother than this philosopher for his. Besides the mother who bore us, is there not also the mother who receives us into her arms;—the everlasting grave as well as the temporary cradle? Ought not the arid and devouring climate of India to make the gentle land of his birth most precious to the sufferer?

Oh, violets and daisies which shall one day spring up on my grave, how I should regret you if I had to sleep my last sleep beneath the burning sands of Bombay! The soul may, perhaps, be but a dream; but the perfume of flowers is a reality.

To the letter of Mr. James Nicol was joined the account of Jacquemont's illness by Dr. MacLennan, the length of which we greatly regret prevents us from reproducing here;[2]it proves to what a point the excellent doctor had risked his own health, as the dying man had said. Norwere these the only tokens of sympathy which the family of their famous dead received. MM. Cordier, Geoffroy-Saint-Hilaire and de Jussieu wrote the following letter to M. Jacquemont, the father:—

"PARIS, 21May1833"SIR,—We have sympathised with the blow which has just struck you down too much not to feel a desire to associate ourselves with your grief, by bearing testimony to our own share in it. The administration of the Museum, which had entrusted your son with the mission he honourably fulfilled, and to which he has sacrificed his life, feels the cruel loss in a double capacity; it has lost in him a traveller in whom it placed complete reliance, and science has lost a naturalist of most brilliant promise."We are authorised to hope that, owing to the wise precautions he took during his last days, the fruits of the fatal journey will not be lost; that M. Victor Jacquemont's work will bear fruit and their results develop, though, doubtless, less brilliantly than as if under his own direction, yet in a sufficient manner to cause his efforts to be appreciated, both in actual accomplishment and as an example of what further work he would have done had he lived."You may rely upon it that nothing will be neglected on our part to attain to this end, and in order to give you the only real consolation which is left you.—We are, sir, etc.,"Les professeurs administrateurs du Muséum"CORDIER, DirectorGEOFFROY-SAINT-HILAIREA. DE JUSSIEU"

"PARIS, 21May1833

"SIR,—We have sympathised with the blow which has just struck you down too much not to feel a desire to associate ourselves with your grief, by bearing testimony to our own share in it. The administration of the Museum, which had entrusted your son with the mission he honourably fulfilled, and to which he has sacrificed his life, feels the cruel loss in a double capacity; it has lost in him a traveller in whom it placed complete reliance, and science has lost a naturalist of most brilliant promise.

"We are authorised to hope that, owing to the wise precautions he took during his last days, the fruits of the fatal journey will not be lost; that M. Victor Jacquemont's work will bear fruit and their results develop, though, doubtless, less brilliantly than as if under his own direction, yet in a sufficient manner to cause his efforts to be appreciated, both in actual accomplishment and as an example of what further work he would have done had he lived.

"You may rely upon it that nothing will be neglected on our part to attain to this end, and in order to give you the only real consolation which is left you.—We are, sir, etc.,"Les professeurs administrateurs du Muséum

"CORDIER, DirectorGEOFFROY-SAINT-HILAIREA. DE JUSSIEU"

As a matter of fact, all Victor Jacquemont's writings reached Paris safe and sound. I saw them in M. Guizot's hand once when I had been to ask his help in saving the life of a man under sentence of death, who was to be shot the next day. I wanted a word from M. Guizot to this end, and he wrote on a spare sheet from among Jacquemont's manuscripts. The man was saved; but I will tell the story in its proper place. That is how the name of Jacquemont perhaps occupies a more important place in my memory and in my Memoirs than it should.

[1]The whole of Victor Jacquemont's writings, and the description of the principal objects of natural history which the collections comprised, that he sent to the Natural History Museum of Paris, have been published by MM. Firmin Didot frères, under the title ofVoyage dans l'Inde,6 vols, in 4to, four of printed matter and two containing 290 plates and 4 maps (1841-44).

[2]The letter will be found in the Paris edition of theSouvenirs of Dumas,1855, vol. vii.

George Sand

Now let us say a few words about the literary productions of the year 1832. We have seen its important theatrical works:Térésa, Louis XI., Dix Ans de la vie d'une femme, Un duel sous Richelieu, La Tour de Nesle, Clotilde, Périnet LeclercandLe Roi s'amuse.

M. Lesur's Annual List, which sums up the year's work, complains of thelack of productivenessof those twelve months, which only producedTWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY-SEVENworks, among which are the eight dramas above mentioned.

See what the chronologist says about the novels; his usual kindly inclination towards contemporary literature will be detected therein:—

"Romances multiply as fast as ever; they swarm everywhere and jostle one another in order to put before us an energetic display of trivialities: novels of manners, historical novels, psychological, physiological, pathological novels; tales and comic and fantastic stories of every sort and colour!"

Yes, Monsieur Lesur; and, among those abounding novels, we have, in fact, two masterpieces by Madame Sand,IndianaandValentine,and one of Eugène Sue's best works,La Salamandre.

But let us deal first with Madame Sand, that hermaphrodite genius who combined the strength of a man with the grace of a woman; who, like the ancient sphinx,the ever-mysterious enigma, crouched on the extreme borders of art with the face of a woman, the claws of a lion and the wings of an eagle. We will return afterwards to Eugène Sue.

Madame Sand came to Paris a short time before the Revolution of 1830. What did she come there to do? She will herself tell you with her accustomed frankness. Madame Sand wears a woman's clothes, but only as garments to cover her and not for purposes of concealment; of what use is hypocrisy when one possesses strength?

"A short time before the Revolution of 1830," says the authoress ofIndiana,"I came to Paris with the object of finding occupation, not so much of a lucrative nature as a sufficiency. I had never worked except for pleasure; I knew in common with everybody else thatun peu de toutmeantrien en somme.I laid great stress on work which would permit me to remain in my own home. I did not know what to turn to. Drawing, music, botany, languages, history, I had nibbled at them all, and I regretted very much that I had not gone deeply into any of them; for, of all occupations, the one that attracted me least was to write for the public. It seemed to me that, apart from a rare talent for it, which I did not feel to possess, it was of less use than any other. I should, then, much have preferred a particular profession. I had often written for my own personal amusement. It appeared to me to be very impertinent to pretend to be able to amuse or interest other people, and nothing could have been less congenial to my reserved character, a dreamer, and eager for intimate friendships rather than for public exposure of one's most intimate thoughts. In addition to this, I knew my own language only very imperfectly. Educated on classical reading, I saw romanticism spreading everywhere. I had at first scoffed at it and rejected it from the solitudes of my own private corner, and from the depths of my inner conscience, but, when I acquired a taste for it, I became enthusiastic; my taste, which was then unformed, wavered between the past and the present, without knowing where to settle, liking both without knowledge and without seeking a means of reconciling them."

It is impossible better to describe the state of perplexity in which genius is placed during a certain period of life, drawn forward by faith and backward by doubt. Meanwhile, as the author ofIndianawas then only twenty-five, and had to choose between the bread of independence and daily bread, she took up both painting on fans and painting portraits at 15 francs apiece and also wrote a novel. It was all very precarious work, the poorest transfer copies varnished over produced a greater effect than the young artist's water-colours; for 5 francs—and a better likeness than hers—the same portraits could be had which she sold for 15; finally, the novel seemed so poor to George Sand that she did not even attempt to turn it to account. However, she felt that her true vocation was literature, and she decided to consult some successful literary man.

There was at this period alittérateurin Paris of incontestable and almost uncontested genius, a writer of the first rank, at all events as regards originality. He had published various novels, and the most striking of them had obtained as strange a success as, at the present moment,OurikaandÉdouardhave had. He had tried the theatre and written a comedy for the Français; it had collapsed amidst thunderous noise! I have given an account of his first and only performance. His name was Henri de Latouche. He was a compatriot of George Sand and a friend of the family. George Sand decided to look him up.

De Latouche, as I have already said, I knew but slightly, and, about 1832, I quarrelled with him because I was not Republican enough to suit him, or, rather, because I belonged to a different style of Republicanism than his. He was at this time a man of forty-five, with a face that scintillated with intellect, with a rather corpulent frame and very courteous manners, although they covered an infinite fund of irony. His language was choice and his speech pure and well-modulated; he spoke as he wrote, or, rather, as he dictated. Was he a suitable guide for abeginner? I have my doubts. De La touche was arbitrary in his opinions; he thought that all who were not devoted to him were hostile, all not for him against him. As timid as a chamois, he continually believed there was a hatched conspiracy on the way to calumniate and destroy him. He retired into his retreat at la Vallée-aux-Loups. His enemies accused him of cowardice and tried to pursue him there; but, if they ventured too far, they returned with their faces marked as with a tiger's claws. He began by teasing the poor novice cruelly, condemning, like Alcestis, all her literary attempts.

"Nevertheless," says George Sand, "beneath all the jeerings and criticism, the sportive, trenchant, amusing mockery he heaped upon me in our interviews, reason, taste, in a word, art, presented itself to me. No one excelled more than he in the destruction of the illusions of conceitedness; but no one had more kindly delicacy in preserving hope and courage. He had a sweet and touching voice, an aristocratic and clear pronunciation, and a manner that was both alluring and teasing. The eye that was put out when he was a child did not disfigure him in the least, the only trace of the accident left was a kind of red fire which shot from the pupil and gave him a strange look of brilliancy when he was excited."

No, the eye did not disfigure de Latouche's face, but it disfigured his character terribly! Perhaps, also, he owed some portion of his latent talent to this blind eye, as Byron did to his lame foot. We will go on quoting George Sand's own words, which complete the picture of de Latouche's character:—

"M. de Latouche loved to instruct, to reprove, to lay down the law; but he quickly lost patience with vain people, and turned his wit against them in derisive compliments, which were inexpressibly malicious. When he met a mind disposed to profit by his lessons, his satire was more kindly; his clutch became paternal and his fiery eye softened; and, after he had emptied the overflowings of his wit upon you, he let you see a tender,sensitive heart beneath, full of devoted and generous feeling."

Six months went by in this kind of work between pupil and master, the master pointing out what the scholar ought to read, himself reading them to her in his own fashion—namely, relating the book to her instead of reading it, adding to the author's narrative the brilliant embroideries of his imagination, letting fall from his lips at every word he uttered a pearl or diamond, as did the fairy in theThousand and One Nights,of whom we all read in our childhood.

De Latouche was editor ofLe Figaroat this period; a species of hussar of opposition, an officer of light cavalry which daily tilted against the Government. The ordinary editors of the paper were Félix Pyat and Jules Sandeau. George Sand was added to them. This addition was a sort of diploma of bachelor of letters. De Latouche's three pupils (I hope, since George Sand accepted the title, that the others will not disown it) had one common editorial office where they met daily at a given hour. It was in this office, seated at the little tables covered with green cloths, that they each wrotecopy.Copy, be it understood, is in this case very improperly the synonym for manuscript. De Latouche gave out a subject; they enlarged upon it, and the paper appeared to be written by one single mind, since it had but a single spirit, and that spirit descended, like the Holy Spirit upon the apostles, in tongues of fire upon his disciples. But all these attentions did not serve to make the poor pupil able to dispense with her master. The future author ofIndianaand ofValentine,and of so many other wonderful books, did not know how to write a newspaper article, nor how to be brief. De Latouche reserved for her all the sentimental anecdotes which admitted of some enlargement of treatment; but George Sand found she always had to confine herself to the narrow limits of half a column,a column, or a column and a half at most, and, when the article hadbeguntobegin,it had to be ended off; there was no room left for more.

Out of the ten articles George Sand gave to her editor-in-chief, often not a single one was of any use, and often he lit his fire with the copy which, she declares, was no good for anything else. Yet every day he said to her—

"Do not be discouraged, my child. You cannot write an article in ten lines; but, some day, you will write novels in ten volumes. Try, first of all, to rid your mind of imitations; all beginners start by copying others. Don't be anxious, you will gradually find your own feet, and be the first to forget how it all came to you."

And, as a matter of fact, during six weeks of the spring of 1832, which she spent in the country, George Sand wrote a novel in two volumes. That novel wasIndiana.She returned from the country, went to see Latouche and confessed, trembling, the fresh crime she had just committed.

"What good luck!" exclaimed de Latouche; "it will be said that I foresaw this; I have looked for and found you a publisher; give him your novel."

"Will you not have a look at it, then?" asked the author.

"No, you are hard to read, and I do not like reading manuscript. Take the two volumes to the publisher, claim your 1200 francs, and I will criticise the work in its printed form."

As George Sand knew of nothing better to do than to follow this advice, she did as she was told. Sometimes we sayheand sometimesshe; I hope George Sand will excuse us! Have we not said that her wonderful genius was as hermaphrodite asla Bragolettaof her master!

A month later, George Sand received from her publisher the twelve copies reserved for the author.Indianahad been published that very day. De Latouche entered.

"Oh! oh!" he said, scenting out the volumes freshfrom the press, as the ogre in Tom Thumb smelt the fresh flesh; "what is this?"

"Alas!" replied the trembling pupil, "it is my book."

"Ah! yes,Indiana,I remember."

But we will let George Sand herself tell about this momentous occasion in her life.

"He seized a volume with avidity, cut the first pages with his fingers, and began to make fun as usual, exclaiming, 'Ah! imitation, imitation, the usual style! Here is Balzac,were that possible!' Coming out with me on the balcony which runs round the roof of my house, he said over again to me all the clever, excellent things he had already told me, upon the necessity of being oneself, and not imitating others. At first, I thought he was unjust, but, as he went on speaking, I agreed with him. He said I must return to my water-colours upon screens and snuff-boxes, which amused me, certainly, more than other pursuits, but for which, unfortunately, I found no sale. My position had become desperate; and yet, whether because I had not entertained any hope of success, or was provided with the light-heartedness of youth, I was not upset by my judge's sentence, and passed a very tranquil night. Upon awaking, I received this letter from him which I have always kept:—"'Forget all my severe remarks of yesterday, forget all the hard things I have said to you the last six months; I have spent the night reading your book, etc....'"There follow two lines of praise, which only friendship could have prompted, but which he had the bad taste to put down, and the note ends with the paternal words: 'Oh, my child, I am proud of you!'"

"'Forget all my severe remarks of yesterday, forget all the hard things I have said to you the last six months; I have spent the night reading your book, etc....'

"There follow two lines of praise, which only friendship could have prompted, but which he had the bad taste to put down, and the note ends with the paternal words: 'Oh, my child, I am proud of you!'"

WithIndiana,George Sand put one foot inside the literary world; withValentineshe put both. You know now how the masculine and virile genius who calls herself George Sand began her career.

Eugène Sue—His family, birth, godfather and godmother—His education—Dr. Sue's wine-cellar—Choir of botanists—Committee of chemistry—Dinner on the grass—Eugène Sue sets out for Spain—His return—Ferdinand Langlé's room—Captain Gauthier

Twenty kilometres from Grasse there lies a small seaport called La Calle; it is the cradle of the Sue family, celebrated both in science and letters.

La Calle is still peopled by members of this family, which, probably, composes half the population. It was from here that, towards the close of the reign of Louis XIV., a young, adventurous student set up as a doctor in Paris. Becoming successful, he sent for his nephew to come to the capital. Both became very distinguished: Pierre Sue, as Professor of Forensic and Librarian of the Medical School—he left behind him works of great scientific value—Jean Sue, as Head, surgeon to the Hospital de la Charité, Professor of the School of Medicine, Professor of Anatomy at the École des Beaux-Arts, and surgeon to King Louis XVI. This latter was succeeded by Jean-Joseph Sue, who, besides the post of Professor to the Beaux-Arts, which he inherited from his father, became principal doctor to the king's military household. It was Eugène Sue's father who had the famous discussion with Cabanis about the guillotine, the inventor making out that a person guillotined only felt a slight chill on the neck, while Jean-Joseph Sue, on the contrary, maintained that it was dreadfully painful, and defendedhis opinion by arguments which proved his profound knowledge of anatomy; and by experiments made by some German doctors and others. We read all the discussion in connection with ourMille et un Fantômes; and we admit to having taken a lively interest in it.

Eugène Sue was born on 1 January 1803. He was, consequently, five months younger than I, and a few days older than Victor Hugo. His godfather was Prince Eugène and his godmother the Empress Joséphine; hence, his Christian name Eugène. He was suckled by a goat, and, for a long while, preserved the queer, hopping gait of his foster-mother. He studied, or, rather, did not study, at the Collège Bourbon:—like all men who are destined to make for themselves an original and eminent position in literature, he was an execrable scholar. His father, a ladies' doctor, who gave a course of natural history lectures for the benefit of society people, was married three times. He was wealthy, possessing nearly two million francs, and he lived in the rue du Chemin-du-Rempart, a street which has disappeared, but which was then situated behind the Madeleine. The whole of this quarter was at that time occupied by timber-yards: the ground then not being worth half what it now is. M. Sue had a fine house there and a magnificent garden. In the same house as M. Sue, lived his sister, the mother of Ferdinand Langlé, who wrote upwards of fifty comic operas with Villeneuve between 1822 and 1830.

At the period at which we have arrived, 1817 to 1818, the two cousins went together to the Collège Bourbon, that is to say, Ferdinand Langlé went to the college, and Eugène Sue was supposed to go there. He had a private tutor at his residence, Father Delteil, a plucky Auvergnat five feet in height, who, in fulfilment of his tutorial duties, did not hesitate to have hand-to-hand tussles with his pupil, when he fled into the garden only to be pursued after the fashion of Virgil's Galatea. When in the garden, the rebellious pupil gained an arsenalcontaining arms defensive and offensive. The defensive arms were the borders of the botanical garden, amongst which he took refuge, where his tutor dared not follow him for fear of trampling under foot the rare plants which the fugitive scholar crushed pitilessly without remorse under foot; the offensive arms were the supporting stakes which bore labels with the scientific names of the plants thereon, stakes which Eugène Sue converted into javelins, and with which he overcame his master with a skill that would have done honour to a pupil of Castor and Pollux, the two cleverest javelin throwers of antiquity.

When it was demonstrated to Eugène's father that his son's vocation was to throw javelins and not to expound Horace and Vergil, he took him away from college, and made him enter as an assistant-surgeon at the hospital attached to the king's household, of which he himself was head-surgeon. It was situated in the rue Blanche. Eugène Sue there found his cousin, Ferdinand Langlé, and the future doctor, Louis Véron.

We have said that Eugène Sue had many of his foster-mother's characteristics: the scamp of the household, ever ready to play wicked tricks, especially on his father, who had just remarried, and who treated him very harshly. But he avenged himself well in respect of this harsh treatment! Dr. Sue employed his pupils in preparing his course of natural history lectures; the preparations were conducted in a splendid anatomical room that had been bequeathed to the Beaux-Arts. It contained, among other things, the brain of Mirabeau, preserved in a glass jar. The legitimate organisers were Eugène Sue and Ferdinand Langlé, and a friend of theirs called Delâtre, who afterwards became, and probably still is, a doctor of medicine; the amateur assistants were Achille Petit, and that old and clever friend James Rousseau, whom I have often mentioned. The preparations were quite dreary enough, but were rendered more so because close at hand were two cupboards full of wine, to whichthe nectar of the gods was but as the white wine of Limoux: these wines were presents which the Allied Sovereigns had given to Dr. Sue after 1814. There was Tokay, given by the Emperor of Austria; Rhenish wines, given by the King of Prussia; Johannisberg wines, given by M. de Metternich; and, finally, a hundred bottles of Alicante, given by Madame de Morville, which bore the most respectable and venerable date 1750. They had tried every possible means of opening the cupboards, which had virtuously resisted persuasion as well as force; they despaired of ever making the acquaintance of Madame de Morville's Alicante, M. de Metternich's Johannisberg, the King of Prussia's "Liebfraumilch," and the Emperor of Austria's Tokay, otherwise than by the samples which, at Dr. Sue's grand dinners, he poured out for his guests into glasses the size of a thimble, when, one day, while fumbling about in a skeleton, Eugène Sue found, by chance, a bunch of keys. They were the keys of the cupboards! First, they laid hands on a bottle of Tokay, sealed with the Imperial seal, and emptied every drop in it; then they hid the bottle. The next day it was the turn for the Johannisberg, and, the day after, for the "Liebfraumilch"; next followed the Alicante. They disposed of these three bottles in the same way as the first. But James Rousseau, who was the oldest and, consequently, possessed superior knowledge of the world to that of his young friends, who had only just ventured their first steps upon the slippery ground of society, judiciously pointed out that, at the rate they were going, they would quickly make a hole which Dr. Sue's eyes would perceive, and so find out the truth. He therefore made the astute suggestion of drinking but a third of the contents of each bottle, filling them up with some composition which should look as much like wine as possible, recorking them scientifically and putting them back in their places again. Ferdinand Langlé approved the suggestion, and added an amendment: namely, to proceed to thegreat and solemn occasion of opening the cupboard in old-fashioned style, to the accompaniment of the singing of choruses. Both propositions were carried unanimously. That same day they opened a cupboard to a chorus copied fromLa Leçon de botanique,by Dupaty. The Corypheus sang—

"Que l'amour et la botaniqueN'occupent pas tous les instants;Il faut aussi que l'on s'appliqueA boire le vin des parents!CHŒUR.Buvons le vin des grands parents!"

Then precept was followed by example. When started, they composed a second chorus for the work. Their work consisted especially in stuffing the magnificent birds which they received from all four quarters of the globe.

This is the chorus of the workers—

"Goûtons le sort que le ciel nous destine;Reposons-nous sur le sein des oiseaux;Mêlons le camphre à la térébenthine.Et par le vin égayons nos travaux."

Whereupon, they took a second pull at the bottle, which was soon half-emptied. They next had to follow James Rousseau's counsel and fill it up. For this purpose they appointed a chemical committee, comprised of Ferdinand Langlé, Eugène Sue and Delâtre; later, Romieu was added to it. This chemical committee concocted a horrible mixture of treacle, liquorice and burnt sugar, replaced the wine with the improvised mixture, recorked the bottle as carefully as possible and put it back in its place. When it was a white wine, they clarified the preparation with beaten-up white of egg. But punishment occasionally falls upon the guilty.

M. Sue gave large and splendid dinner-parties: at dessert, they sometimes drank Madame de Morville's Alicante, sometimes His Majesty the Emperor of Austria's Tokay, at others, M. de Metternich's Johannisberg, or theKing of Prussia's "Liebfraumilch." All went swimmingly if they happened to fall upon an unopened bottle; but, if they lit upon one examined and corrected by the committee of chemistry.... Well, they had to swallow the drink! Dr. Sue tasted his wine, made a slight grimace, and said, "It is good, but wants to be drunk!" This was so great a truth, and the wine did indeed cry out to be drunk, that next day they began drinking it again. Such a performance was bound to end in a catastrophe, and this one proved no exception. One day, when they believed Dr. Sue to be at his country place of Bouqueval, from whence they reckoned he could not well return in the day, they managed, by dint of various seductive overtures to the cook and the servants, to have an excellent dinner served them on the lawn in the garden. All the bird-stuffers, the chemical committee included, were present, lying about on the grass, crowned by roses like Sybarites, drinking Tokay and Johannisberg, or, rather, having drunk it, when, suddenly, the door of the house leading out into the garden opened, and the commander appeared—the commander being Dr. Sue. Every one of them fled and hid; Rousseau alone took up his empty glass, refilled a second glass, and, stumbling forward straight towards the doctor, he said—

"Ah! dear Doctor Sue, this is the famous Tokay! Let us drink the health of the Emperor of Austria!"

One can imagine the doctor's wrath when he found the empty Tokay bottle on the grass, together with two bottles of Johannisberg and three of Alicante. They had drunk the Alicante like common wine. Talk of thievery, of procureur du roi, of police correctionnelle, rolled in the air like thunder rolling in the clouds during a storm. Profound was the terror of the guilty parties. Delâtre knew of a dried-up well near Clermont and proposed to take refuge in it!

A week later, Eugène Sue set out as assistant to explore the country of Spain (in 1823). He did this and stayed ayear at Cadiz, only returning to Paris at the beginning of 1825. The heat of the Trocadero had made his hair and moustache grow; he was as beardless as an apple when he left, and he returned as hairy as a king of the primitive races and as bearded as a moujik. This capillary growth doubtless flattered the doctor's vanity, but it did not serve to unloosen his purse-strings, which he kept tightly shut.

Desforges who had a small private fortune, and Ferdinand Langlé whose mother worshipped him, were the two Croesuses of society; several times, as did Croesus with Cæsar, they presented not 30,000,000 sesterces, but 20, 30, 40, 50 and even 100 francs to the most necessitous of the joyous band. Besides his purse, Ferdinand Langlé put at the disposition of the members of the society, who were never sure of a bed or supper, his own room in M. Sue's house, and the meal his mother always put ready for him every night.

Ferdinand Langlé, then a tall fellow of twenty-three, author of a dozen vaudevilles, lover of the charming girl called Fleurriet, who died before her time, an actress at the Gymnase,[1]rarely slept at home, but, as the servant told his mother that Ferdinand lived with the frugality of a monk, the good mother ordered a meal to be put upon his bedroom table every night. The servant put the supper on the table, and the key of the little street door in an agreed spot. When a belated one was homeless he turned his steps to the rue du Chemin-du-Rempart, put his hand into a hole in the wall, found the key there, opened the door, religiously put the key back in its place, drew the door to behind him, lit the candle and, if hewere the first to come, ate, drank and slept in the bed. If a second followed the first, he found the key in the same place, entered in the same way, ate the remains of the fowl, drank the rest of the wine, lifted the bedclothes in his turn and dived underneath them. If a third followed, the same game was played with the key and door, only the visitor found no more fowl or wine and no room in the bed, but ate the rest of the bread and drank a glass of water and stretched himself upon the couch. And soad infinitum.If the number increased immoderately, the last-comers drew a mattress from the bed and slept on the floor. One night, Rousseau arrived last and counted fourteen legs. It was in this room that Henry Monnier and Romieu met for the first time and made each other's acquaintance. Next day they thee'd and thou'd each other, and continued to do so until Romieu was appointed prefect andtutoya-ed people no more. Next morning, they were pretty often awakened by a visitor, a brigadier of theGardes,who, in passing by, came to look at the state of Ferdinand Langlé's wine cellar. This brigadier, whom I knew well, deserves particular mention. His name was Gauthier de Villiers. He was not only one of the bravest soldiers in the army, but one of the most active boxers in France. The word boxer applies here to his whole body. What became of Captain Gauthier, I have no idea. I would gladly see him once more, even at the risk of his breaking my wrist in shaking hands. He had the courage and the good-heartedness of Porthos. Not for the whole world would he have given a fillip to a child; but he had more wit than M. de Pierrefonds. He had served in the Horse Grenadiers of the Empire; he had made a special name for himself as a sabreman; when he charged and stabbed an enemy on horseback, he would lift him from his horse by the strength of his wrist and throw him behind him, as though he were a truss of hay. Gauthier stopped with one hand a tilbury that was going at full trot. He would get off his horse, put it on hisshoulders and carry it for ten, fifteen or twenty yards with almost as much ease as his horse carried him. He would pick up a china plate and put his finger through it with the same ease as a bullet passes through a cardboard target. One day at the barracks, they did him an injustice for which he wanted to have satisfaction. He waited on the bridge of the Tuileries for King Louis XVIII., who was to come out. Just as His Majesty's carriage passed out at a fast trot, as usual, Gauthier leaped to the horses' heads and stopped the coach dead. Louis XVIII. put his head out of the window and recognised his brigadierauxgardes.

"Ah! it is you," he said, in his little piping voice, "it is you, Gauthier. Well, what do you want, my friend?"

Gauthier then came up and laid bare his request.

"I will examine into it, I will examine into it," replied Louis XVIII.

A week later justice was done Gauthier.

He had a special gift for saving life. If a man fell into the water and was drowning, Gauthier jumped in and saved him; if any house caught fire and some tardy inmate was in risk of being burned, Gauthier would save the laggard. He saved old Vatteville from the Odéon conflagration, and thirty-seven or eight others besides. Gauthier went out in the African campaign as interpreter, and lived at Algiers. In the expeditions made round the town, he took a little cannon of four, instead of a rifle. When he came up to the enemy he put it in position for firing, and discharged it. At other times, he was contented with a rampart gun. While in the guards he had a magnificent horse which had the following history. It had the twofold fault of throwing its rider to the ground, and, when he was there, of bending to bite him: they decided to kill it. But, when proceeding to the execution, Gauthier came into the Hôtel du quai d'Orsay, and saw the whole company assembled together, deploring theloss of such a splendid horse. He inquired into the matter.

"Good!" he said, "I will tackle it; but on condition that, if I conquer it, it shall be mine."

The bargain was agreed to, and they handed him a bridle. The horse quietly allowed itself to be mounted; so Gauthier had not much trouble in leaping on its back. When he was there, the horse began its tricks and games, shying to right and to left, etc., but the rebellious animal did not know with whom it had to deal. Gauthier began to press his knees in; the horse, which was breathing hard, redoubled its leapings: Gauthier pressed more strongly. It was a splendid struggle to watch; the horse was vanquished, and ended by falling on its knees and lying down. Gauthier leapt off to free himself from the animal, then he waited. The horse was cured of his first fault, which consisted in throwing its rider; it must also be cured of its second habit of biting. As we have said, Gauthier remained standing ten yards from the horse. He had subjugated it like another Alexander; it remained to find out if he was to be devoured by it like another Diomede. In fact, as the horse regained its breath its eye went red, its nostrils smoked with anger; it raised itself on its fore legs, then on its hind, looked at its enemy, neighed and rushed upon him. Gauthier waited for it in the position of a boxer; he gave it a blow on the nose and broke two teeth, the horse reared with pain, turned round on its hind legs, and went into its stable. It was conquered. You, d'Arpentigny, will remember that, you too, Leroi and Ferdinand Langlé, my old friends in the Guards?

Well, Gauthier was one of the morning callers. He went straight to the cellar, applied his lips to the flask of rum or brandy, and swallowed as much as was in it. He began by feeling in his pockets; we must do him that justice, but they were as empty as the cellar. Then, seeing three or four waistcoats and asmany trousers lying about haphazard, he began to pass them in review. The sleepers watched him do it, one eye half open and the other completely shut; they were quite easy, for it was neither their waistcoats nor their trousers that Gauthier wanted: he could hardly get into the largest—he wanted their contents, and they contained nothing. Romieu alone manifested some disquietude; he had 19 sous in his waistcoat pocket. Gauthier fell upon the treasure. Romieu wanted to get up and dispute possession of his 19 sous with Gauthier. Gauthier pinned him down on his sofa with one hand, and, with the other, rang for the servant. When he appeared, Gauthier said to him—

"Go and fetch 19 sous' worth of brandy."

The servant prepared to obey.

"But,sacre bleu!" said Romieu, "I live in the faubourg Saint-Germain: as least leave me a son to cross the pont des Arts."

"That is quite reasonable," said Gauthier, putting back one son into Romieu's waistcoat. "Go and fetch me 18 sous' worth of brandy," he said to the servant.

It was upon that day and occasion that the robbed one, whom Gauthier had deprived of his 18 sous, but not of his spirits and quick-wittedness, made the famous chanson—

"J'nai qu'un sou,J'nai qu'un sou,La richess' n'est pas l'Pérou!Je dîn'rai je ne sais pas où;Mais, pour sûr, je n'ai qu'un sou!"

I forget the rest of it, so ask Henri Monnier to sing it you and he will recollect as vividly as I do the occasion upon which it was made.

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