From Rome the lovers started for Naples. Madame Clément wasenceinte,and in order to produce a happy pregnancy Providence arranged the eruption of 1832. From Naples they returned to Florence. There Clément completed and exhibited in a church his picture of theCorpus Domini.This picture was a great success, so great, that the Contadini from the environs of Florence, who came to see the picture in processions, hearing it constantly said that it was a representation of theCorpus Dominiand, not knowing whatCorpus Dominimeant, believing that it was the painter's name, openly called Clément Boulanger and his wife M. and Mme. Corpus Domini. Meanwhile, the young couple took hasty excursions into the country and, as the parents could not leave little Albert behind, they put him in a basket which a man carried on his head. This was the son of Corpus Domini, and bearing this title, no goat-herd but would give him of her milk.
In his spare moments Clément remembered his chemical studies: he invented a kind of paper which concealed ink. You only had to dip the pen in the water-jug, stream or river, or simply in your mouth, to write with water or with saliva, and the writing became black as fast as the nib of the pen formed the letters. It was such a wonderful invention that they decided to start a paper factory under illustrious patronage. This patronage was granted and a sheet of the chemical paper was taken to Madame Clément. Unluckily or luckily, Madame Clément had a cold; she sneezed; the damped paper became black all over where it had been wetted. This gave the spectators much food for reflection. It would be impossible to use the paper on a rainy day or days when one had a cold or on days when one was tearful. The factory idea was renounced.
Clément Boulanger returned to Paris in the month of February 1832; and from the 10th to the 15th March of the same year, so far as I can recollect, he covered with his broad and easy style of painting a panel twelve feet by ten in my house.
In 1840 Clément Boulanger set out for Constantinople. For a year and a half he had been at Toulouse, where he painted theProcession,which is now at Saint Étienne-du-Mont. This work in the provinces had wearied him: he wanted the open air, change of scene, the stir of life, in short, instead of a sedentary life, he accepted the suggestion made him by the traveller Tessier, who was going to make excavations in Asia-Minor; and, commissioned by the department of Fine Arts to paint a picture of excavations, Clément, as we have said, set out in 1840. They reached Magnesia near the Mendere river and began to dig in the ground. This preliminary work appeared to Clément to be the most exciting, animated part of the business; he felt that it, at any rate, ought to be reproduced. He made a sketch in the full heat of the midday sunand, during his work, got one of those attacks of sunstroke that are so dangerous in the East. Brain fever ensued: he was far from all aid; there were only bad Greek doctors near him, of the type that killed Byron. They hung à hammock inside a mosque and laid the poor invalid in it. Delirium set in by the third day; on the fifth, he died laughing and singing, unconscious that he was dying. All the Greek clergy in Constantinople came to pay respect to the body of the poor traveller, who had died at twenty-eight years of age, far away from his friends, his family and his country! Twenty-eight years of age! do you realise? Compare that age with what he had done! The body was carried away on the back of a camel.
There, as here, everybody loved him. People of all lands and in every kind of costume followed the procession. All the French ships in the roadstead carried their flags at half-mast and their ensigns of mourning. The whole staff of the embassy came out to meet the body at the gate of Constantinople, and a procession of over three thousand persons followed it to the French church. There he lies, sleeping, like Ophelia, still smiling and singing!
Grandville
Delicate and sarcastic smile, eyes sparkling with intelligence, a satirical mouth, short figure and large heart and a delightful tincture of melancholy perceptible everywhere—that is your portrait, dear Grandville! Come! I begin to have as many friends below ground as above; come to me! tell me that friendship is stronger than the grave and I shall not fear to go down to your abode, since, dying, one rejoins one's dead friends without leaving the living ones.
You will remember, dear Grandville, when I went to call upon you in your garret in the rue des Petits-Augustins, a garret from whence I never came out without carrying away with me some wonderful sketches? What good long talks we had! What fine perceptions! I did not think of asking you then where you came from, neither where you were going; you smiled sadly at life, at the future; you had had some sadness forced out from the depths of your heart. It was easily explained, you were a connecting-link between Molière and la Fontaine. That which I did not think to ask of the artist when he was full of life, energy and health, I now ask of him when he is dead and laid in the grave. You have forgotten, you say, dear Grandville? I understand that. But there is one of your friends, a man of heart and of talent who has not forgotten: take Charles Blanc, and add to what he has forgotten that which you yourself can remember. Your life was too uninteresting, you say? Very well, butthe public takes as much interest in the humble vicar of Wakefield in his village parish as in the brilliant Ralegh at the court of the proud Elizabeth—You will try to remember? Good!—I will put it down.
Grandville was born at Nancy. He was the successor, compatriot, one might almost say the pupil, of Callot. His real name was Gérard; but his father, a distinguished miniature painter, had renounced his family name to take the theatrical name of his grandfather, an excellent comedian who had more than once brought smiles to the lips of the two exiles, Hanislas and Marie Leczinski, one of whom had been a king and the other of whom was to become a queen. The grandfather was called Grandville. This child, who was to create a world of his own, half animal, half human, who was to explain the scent of flowers by making the flower the mere external covering of woman, who, by means of imagery drawn from human life, was to endow the stars with those beauteous eyes which flash amidst the darkness and with which they are supposed to gaze upon the earth, this child, I say, was born on 13 September 1802. He was born so weak that it was thought for a moment he was only born to die, but his mother took him in her arms and hid him so completely in her heart, that Death, who was looking for him, passed by and saw him not. But the child saw Death, and that is why he has since then painted him so accurately.
As a youth, he was taciturn but observant, watching everything with those large melancholy eyes of his, which seemed as though they were looking for and finding in everything some side unknown and invisible to other eyes. It is this side which he has shown in all beings and created things, from the giant to the ant, from man to mollusc, from the star down to the flower. Others find fault with the world as the good God has made it, but, powerless to refashion it, they rest satisfied withrailing at it; Grandville not only did not scoff at it, but even re-created one of his own.
At twelve he entered the school at Nancy, and he left at fourteen. What did Latin, Greek or even French matter to him? He had a language of his own, which he talked in low tones to that invisible master whom we call genius, a language which, later, he was to speak aloud to the whole of creation. When I went to see Grandville and found him holding a lizard in his hand, whistling to a canary in its cage or crumbling bread in a bowl of red fishes, I was always tempted to ask him: "Come, what does the fish, canary or lizard say to you?"
Grandville began to draw at fourteen; I am mistaken, he had always drawn. Exercises and translations were scanty in his college exercise-books, but illustrations—as they have since been termed—to the subject of la rose, rosa and to the translation ofDeus creavit cælum et terrantwere marvellous! So, one day, the masters showed these exercise-books to his father. They meant them to be the means of getting the child a scolding; but the father saw more than the masters did: they only saw an indifferent Latin scholar; the father saw a great artist. All saw correctly, but each turned his back and looked in an opposite direction from that of the others. Grandville was from that day introduced into his father's studio, and had the right to make sketches without being obliged to do exercises and translations. When a sitter came to sit for a miniature in M. Grandville's studio, he sat both to father and son. The sitter, however, only saw the work of the father because that was a finished, varnished and touched-up portrait, whilst the son's was a beautiful and excellent caricature, at which the father would laugh heartily when the sitter was gone, but which he advised his son to hide deep among his drawings, wondering each time how it was that the man's face had some likeness to the head of an animal. Meantime, an artist called Mansion passed through Nancy, and went to call on hisconfrère Grandville, who showed him his miniatures; the artist visitor looked at them rather contemptuously, but, when he came to the youth's drawings, he fastened on them eagerly and looked at them as though he would never stop looking, repeating: "More!" as long as there were any more left.
"Let me have this lad," he said to the father, "and I will take him to Paris."
It was hard to give up his boy, even to a brother artist; and yet Grandville's father knew very well that one cannot become a great artist unless one goes out into the great centres of civilisation. He adopted a middle course, which appeased his conscience and comforted his heart. Hepromisedto send the boy to Paris. Six months went by before this promise was put into execution; at last, recognising that the lad was wasting time in the provinces, the father made up his mind. A hundred crowns were put into one of the young artist's pockets, a letter to a cousin in the other, and he was commended to the care of the conductor of a diligence; thus the great man of the coming future started for Paris. The cousin's name was Lemétayer; he was manager of the Opéra-Comique. He was a clever man, whom we all knew, very popular in the artist world, and intimate with Picot, Horace Vernet, Léon Cogniet, Hippolyte Lecomte and Féréol.
I shall be asked why I put Féréol, a singer, with Picot, Horace Vernet, Léon Cogniet and Hippolyte Lecomte, four painters? Well, just as M. Ingres, who is a great painter, lays claim to be a virtuoso, so it was with Féréol, who, though an excellent opera-singer, laid claim to be a painter.
Alas! We know others, too, besides M. Ingres and Féréol, who are ambitious in the same way! Now, it happened one day that Féréol, having carried one of his compositions to Lemétayer, it was seen by Grandville, and Grandville, in his disrespect for Féréol's painting, began to draw it over again, as Féréol might have begun singingover again one of the airs of M. Ingres. Meanwhile, Hippolyte Lecomte came in. We do not know whether Hippolyte Lecomte has, like M. Ingres and Féréol, some hobby besides his art; but we know he was a man possessed of good common sense and of good judgment. It was exactly what the young man wanted, and he passed from M. Mansion's studio to that of Lecomte. And, M. Mansion's pupil kept an old grudge against his master. This was what occasioned it—
With his delightful imagination, which was as picturesque when he was a child as when a man, Grandville had invented a game with fifty-two cards. Mansion thought this game so remarkable that he fathered it under his own name with the title ofLa Sibylle des salons.I once saw the game at Grandville's, when he was in a good humour and turning over all his drawings; there was something very fantastic about it. When with Hippolyte Lecomte, there was no longer any question of drawing—he had to paint. But painting was not Grandville's strong point—pencil or pen were his to any extent! He painted, like Callot, with a steel pen. Pencil, pen and style spoke admirably the language of the artist and adequately expressed what he wanted to say!
Then, suddenly, lithography comes on the scenes. Grandville is attracted to, looks at and examines the process, utters a cry of delight, and feels that this is what he must do. Grandville, like Clément Boulanger, was a seeker, never satisfied with what others found for him to do, at times discontented with what he had found for himself. Callot had substituted in his engravings the spirit varnish of musical instrument-makers for soft varnishes. Grandville executes his lithographs after the manner of engravings: he cuts into the stone with a hard pencil, shades with cut lines, specifies his outlines and draws no more, but engraves; it was at this time that the series of drawings representing theTribulations de la petite propriétéappear and that of theDimanches d'un bon bourgeois.Grandville then lived at the hôtel Saint-Phar in the boulevard Poissonnière, the room since occupied by Alphonse Karr, an artist who also used his pen as an engraving tool instead of writing with it.
About 1826 Grandville left the hôtel Saint-Phar and went to live in a sort of garret situated opposite the Palais des Beaux-Arts, where I made his acquaintance. Alas! I also lived in another sort of garret; the twenty-five francs which, upon Oudard'sentreaty,M. de Broval had just added to my salary, did not allow me to live in a first floor of the rue de Rivoli; my garret, however, was envious of Grandville's: an artist's studio, no matter how poor he is, always contains more things than the room of an ordinary workman; a sketch, a statuette, a plaster-cast, an old vizorless helmet, some odd bits of armour with traces of the gold damascening, a stuffed squirrel playing the flute, a gull hanging from the ceiling with wings spread, looking as though it still skimmed the waves, and a strip of Chinese material, draped before a door, give to the walls a coquettish air which rejoices the eye and tickles the fancy. And the painter's studio was a gathering-place for talks. There, and in the adjacent studios, were to be found Philippon, who was to foundLa Caricatureand, later, his brother, who foundedLe Journal pour rire; Ricourt, the persistent maker of improbable stories; Horeau, the architect; Huet, Forest, Renou. When they were flush of money they drank beer; on other days they were content to smoke, shout, declaim and laugh. Grandville laughed, declaimed, shouted, smoked, and drank but little. He remained seated at a table, a sheet of paper before him, pen or pencil in hand, smiling betimes, but everlastingly drawing. What did he draw? He himself never knew. A fancy bordering on the nonsensical guided his pencil. Birds with monkeys' heads, monkeys with fishes' heads, the faces of bipeds on the bodies of quadrupeds: a more grotesque world than Callot's temptations or Breughel's sportive demons,When two hours had gone by, full of laughter, noise and smoke for the others, Grandville had drawn from his brain, as from some fanciful circle, a whole new creation, which certainly belonged as much to him as that which was destroyed by the Flood belonged to God. It was all very exquisite, very clever, very enchanting; and expressed very clearly what it wished to interpret; the eyes and gestures speaking such a droll language that, by the time one had to leave them, one had always spent upwards of half an hour or an hour looking at them, trying to discover the meaning of them—improvised illustrations of stories unknown by Hoffmann. It was in this way he prepared, composed and publishedLes Quatre saisons de la vie, Le Voyage pour l'éternité, Les Metamorphoses du jour,and, finally,La Caricature,in which all the political celebrities of the day sat for him or before him. Then came 1832.
Grandville had offered that my portrait should be one of the first; he was one of the first to come and mount his platform, smoothing out his panel on a folding ladder and sketching the parts that reached above the height of the door. Two months afterwards, I went on a voyage. Did I see him again? I have my doubts. Only news of his tremendous works reached me. These wereChansons de Béranger, Gargantua au berceau,theFables de la Fontaine, Les Animaux peinte par eux-mêmes, les Étoiles, les Fleurs animées.Then, in the midst of all these merry figures which fell from his pencil and pen came heartrending and bitter sorrows; his wife and three children died one after the other; when the last died, he himself fell ill. It was as though the voices of his four beloved ones were calling him to them. His conversation changed in character; it became more elevated; no more studio laughter or youthful joking was to be heard. He talked of that future life towards which he was going, of that immortality of the soul of which he was to know thesecret; he soared into purest ether and floated on the most transparent clouds.
On 14 March 1847, he became insane; and he died three days later in the house of Dr. Voisin, at Vauvres. He is buried at Saint-Mandé, near his wife and three children, and if the dead are still endowed with sympathy, he has but to stretch out his arm to touch the hand of Carrel!
Tony Johannot
Grandville disappeared. Did he mount up to heaven on the rays of one of those stars with the faces of women, to whom he made love? Did he lie down to sleep in the tomb, to listen, during the sleep of death, to the growing of those women to whom he had given the stems of flowers? Oh! that is the great secret which the grave guards mysteriously, which death cannot tell life, which Hamlet asked fruitlessly of Yorick, of his father's ghost, of the interrupted song of Ophelia!
This secret my two dear and excellent friends who died on the same day—4 August 1852—Tony Johannot and Alfred d'Orsay, would assuredly have told me if it had been permitted to them. What poetry of sorrow could, then, be adequate to express the feelings of my heart the morning I woke to receive two such letters as these?
"MY DEAR FATHER,—Did you ever hear anything equal to this? I went to Tony Johannot's house yesterday with your letter, to ask him if he could undertake the vignettes forIsaac Laquedem,and they said to me: 'Sir, he has just died!'"Tony Johannot dead! I met him the day before yesterday and we made an appointment for to-day. Dead! This single syllable felt like the tolling of a bell. It awoke the same kind of vibration in my heart. Dead! Tony Johannot is dead! If people die like this, one ought never to leave those one loves. Come back at once to Paris or I shall start for Brussels.—Yours, "ALEX. DUMAS,fils"
"MY DEAR FATHER,—Did you ever hear anything equal to this? I went to Tony Johannot's house yesterday with your letter, to ask him if he could undertake the vignettes forIsaac Laquedem,and they said to me: 'Sir, he has just died!'
"Tony Johannot dead! I met him the day before yesterday and we made an appointment for to-day. Dead! This single syllable felt like the tolling of a bell. It awoke the same kind of vibration in my heart. Dead! Tony Johannot is dead! If people die like this, one ought never to leave those one loves. Come back at once to Paris or I shall start for Brussels.—Yours, "ALEX. DUMAS,fils"
"MY DEAR DUMAS,—Our well-beloved Alfred d'Orsay died this morning at four o'clock, in my arms laughing, talking, making plans and without any idea he was dying. One of the last names he uttered was yours, for one of his last projects was to renew the lease of your shooting, which he much enjoyed last year. The funeral will take place the day after to-morrow at Chambourcy. Come, if my letter reaches you in time! It would be a comfort to Agénor and to the Duchesse de Grammont to have you with them at such a time.—Yours affectionately, "CABARRUS"
"MY DEAR DUMAS,—Our well-beloved Alfred d'Orsay died this morning at four o'clock, in my arms laughing, talking, making plans and without any idea he was dying. One of the last names he uttered was yours, for one of his last projects was to renew the lease of your shooting, which he much enjoyed last year. The funeral will take place the day after to-morrow at Chambourcy. Come, if my letter reaches you in time! It would be a comfort to Agénor and to the Duchesse de Grammont to have you with them at such a time.—Yours affectionately, "CABARRUS"
Another time I will tell you the whole of d'Orsay's history, d'Orsay the gentleman, the man of fashion, the artist, and, above all, the man of kindly heart; and I shall certainly not have room in one chapter to do that. For the present, let us restrict ourselves to Tony Johannot, the one among the four dead men whose lives I am relating with whom I was the most intimate.
He was born in 1803, in the little town of Offenbach, as was his brother; I have given the history of his parents and of his early days in relating that of Alfred. He must, therefore, appear before our readers as a young man in the same frame as Alfred; it was in this way, indeed, that theArtistepublished them in its two excellent portraits of those twin-geniuses of art. Tony was delightful in those days, when about thirty years old: a clear, fresh complexion which a woman might have envied, short, curly hair, a dark moustache, small, but bright, intelligent and sparkling eyes, medium height in figure but wonderfully well-proportioned. Like Alfred, he was silent; but he was not as taciturn: his melancholy never went so far as depression: he was a man of few words and never launched out into a long sentence, but what he said always showed delicacy of perception and flashes of wit. Finally, his talent reflected his character like a mirror, and any one not knowing him could have formed a perfectly correct ideaof him from his drawings, vignettes and pictures. The first time I saw him, if I remember rightly, was at the house of our dear good friend, Nodier. Nodier was very fond of both of the brothers. Tony brought a lovely water-colour to Marie Nodier. I can see it now: it represented a woman being murdered, either a Desdemona or a Vanina d'Ornano. It was meant for Marie's album. We drew together at once without hesitation, as if our two hearts had been in search of one another for twenty-five years; we were the same age, almost, he a little younger than I. I have related in these Memoirs that we went through the Rambouillet campaign side by side and that we returned from it together. A score of times he had tried to make a portrait sketch of me; a score of times he had erased the paper clean, rubbed off the wood, scratched the paint off the canvas, dissatisfied with his work. It was in vain I told him it was a good likeness.
"No," he said, "and no one could do it, any more than I can."
"Why so?"
"Because your face changes in expression every ten seconds. How can one make a likeness of a man who is not like himself?"
Then, to compensate me he would turn over his portfolios and give me a charming drawing ofMinna et Brenda,or a lovely sketch of theLast of the Mohicans.
The chief merit of the character of Tony Johannot and the particular note of his talent was that gift of heaven bestowed specially on flowers, birds and women—charm. Tony even delighted his critics. His colour was, perhaps, a trifle monotonous, but it was cheerful, light and silvery in tone. His women were all like one another, Virginie and Brenda, Diana Vernon and Ophelia; what did it matter since they were all young and beautiful and gracious and chaste? The daughters of the poets, to whatever country they belong, have all one and the same father-genius. Charlotte and Desdemona,Leonora and Haidée, dona Sol and Amy Robsart are sisters. Now who can reproach sisters for bearing a family likeness?
Other illustrators found fault with Tony for monopolising every book as they blamed me for monopolising every newspaper. Ah! well, Tony has been dead eighteen months; let us see where, then, are those vignettes which were only waiting for a chance to be produced? Where, then, are all the illustratedPauls and Virginies,theManon Lescauts, Molières, Coopers, Walter Scottswhich were to cause those of the poor dead artist to be forgotten? Where, then, are the fancies and whims which are to succeed this rage? Where is the art which is to replace this trade? So far as I am concerned, since they have brought the same reproach of monopolising against me, and an occasion offers to say a word on this subject, I will say it without circumlocution. At the present moment, 15 December 1853, I have for some time past more or less leftLa Pressefree,Le Sièclefree,Le Constitutionnelfree; I have only one more story to write forLePays: see, you victimised gentlemen, the gates stand open, the columns are empty; besidesLe Constitutionnel, Le Siècle, La Presse,you haveLa Patrie, l'Assemblée nationale, Le Moniteur,theRevue de Paris,theRevue des Deux Mondes;write yourReine Margots,gentlemen! WriteMonte-Cristo,theMousquetaires, Capitaine Paul, Amaury, Comtesse de Charny, Conscience, Pasteur d'Ashbourn; write all these, gentlemen! do not wait till I am dead. I have but one regret: it is that I cannot divert myself from my gigantic work by reading my own books; distract my thoughts by letting me read yours, and I assure you it will be a good thing for both me and yourselves and, perhaps, even better for you than for me.
Tony did as I did; he first of all worked at the rate of six hours a day, then eight, then ten, then twelve, then fifteen: work is like the intoxication of hashish and ofopium: it creates a fictitious life inside real life, so full of delicious dreams and adorable hallucinations that one ends by preferring the fictitious life to the real one. Tony then worked fifteen hours a day—which speaks for itself.
Thus, after he had exhibited with his brother, the series oftableaus-vignettesto which I have referred in connection with Alfred, he did the following by himself:Minna et Brenda sur le bord de la mer, La Bataille de Rosbecque, La Mort de Julien d'Avenel, La Bataille de Fontenoy, l'Enfance de Duguesclin, l'Embarquement d'Élisabeth à Kenilworth, Deux Jeunes Femmes près d'une fenêtre, La Sieste, Louis XIII. forçant le passage du Méandre,a subject taken from George Sand'sAndré,a subject from the Gospels, one from theImitation of Christ, Le Roi Louis-Philippe offrant à la reine Victoria deux tapisseries des Gobelins au Château d'Eu.Then, after failing to exhibit in the Exhibitions of 1843, 1845 and 1846, he sent twelve pictures in 1848, five in 1850, three in 1851 and, in 1852, aScène de villageand thePlaisirs de l'automne.Three or four years previously, Tony's friends had been alarmed by a thing which, in spite of the fear of the doctors, seemed nevertheless quite impossible. He had been threatened with pulmonary phthisis. Nothing could have been more solidly constructed, it must be said, than Tony Johannot's chest, and, allowing for immoderate ambition, never were lungs more commodiously situated for fulfilling their functions; so Tony's friends did not feel anxious. He coughed, spat a little blood, took a course of treatment and got better. He had not stopped working. Work is a factor of health in the case of all who are producers. He had just done hisÉvangileandImitation of Christ,he had stopped work on an oil-painting ofRuth and Boazto start upon illustrations to the works of Victor Hugo, when, suddenly, he sank down and fell on his knees. He was struck by a crushing attack of apoplexy. On 4 August 1852, he died. The twofold news came too late: I could neither follow d'Orsay tothe cemetery of Chambourcy, nor follow Tony Johannot to the cemetery of Montmartre. There it is that the creator of many charming vignettes, many fascinating pictures, sleeps in the vault where his two brothers Charles and Alfred had preceded him.
Sequel to the preparations for my ball—Oil and distemper —Inconveniences of working at night—How Delacroix did his task —The ball—Serious men—La Fayette and Beauchene—Variety of costumes—The invalid and the undertaker's man—The last galop—A political play—A moral play
Sequel to the preparations for my ball—Oil and distemper —Inconveniences of working at night—How Delacroix did his task —The ball—Serious men—La Fayette and Beauchene—Variety of costumes—The invalid and the undertaker's man—The last galop—A political play—A moral play
Let us return from painters to paintings. The eleventh decorator had signed himself Ziégler. We did not reckon on him, but he had foreseen what might happen; one panel had been left blank and this was given to him on which to make a scene fromLa Esmeralda.Three days before the ball, everybody was at his post: Alfred Johannot was sketching his scene fromCinq-Mars; Tony Johannot, hisSire de Giac;Clément Boulanger, hisTour de Nesle;Louis Boulanger hisLucrèce Borgia;Jadin and Decamps worked in collaboration at theirDebureau,Grandville at hisOrchestre,Barye at hisTigres,Nanteuil at his door-panels, which were two medallions representing Hugo and Alfred de Vigny. Delacroix alone failed to answer to the appeal: they wanted to dispose of his panel, but I answered for him.
It was very diverting to see the start for this steeplechase between ten painters of equal merit. Each of them, without, apparently, watching his neighbour, followed with his eyes first the charcoal then the paint-brush.None of them—the Johannots in particular, being engravers and designers of vignettes and painters of easel pictures—were accustomed to the use of distemper. But the painters of large canvases soon got into the way of it. Among these, Louis and Clément Boulanger seemed as though they had never worked in any other medium. Jadin and Decamps discovered wonderful tones in this new method of execution, and declared they never wanted to paint in anything again but distemper. Ziégler took to it with some ease, Barye made belief that it was water-colour on a grand scale, but easier and more quickly done than water-colour on the small scale. Grandville drew with red chalk, charcoal and Spanish white chalk, and produced prodigious effects with these three crayons. We waited with curiosity for Delacroix, whose facility of execution has become proverbial. As I have said, only the two Johannots were behindhand. They knew they would not be finished if they did not work at night. Consequently, whilst others played, smoked and gossiped, both continued their day's work when night came, rejoicing in the tones given them by the light, and the superiority of lamplight to that of day, for painting intended to be seen by lamplight. They did not stop working till midnight, but they caught up with the others by so doing. Next day, when light broke, Alfred and Tony uttered cries of despair: by lamplight they had mistaken yellow for white and white for yellow, green for blue and blue for green. The two pictures looked like hugeomelettes aux fines herbes.At this juncture Ciceripèrecame in. He had but to glance at the two pictures to guess what had happened.
"Bravo!" he said; "we have a green sky and yellow clouds! But that is a mere nothing!"
Indeed, it was more specially in the sky that the error had been committed. He took up the brushes and with broad, vigorous, powerful strokes he repainted the skies of both pictures in one minute: the one calm, serene and azure,leaving a glimpse of the splendours of Dante's paradise through the blue of the firmament; the other low, cloudy, charged with electricity, ready to burst forth into lightning flashes.
All the young painters learnt in an instant the secrets of decoration, which they had been hours groping after on the previous day. Nobody cared about working at night. Besides, thanks to the lesson given by Ciceripère,things were progressing with giant strides. There was no more news of Delacroix than if he had never existed. On the night of the second day I sent to him to ask if he remembered that the ball was fixed for the next day. He sent reply that I need not be anxious and he would come at breakfast-time next morning. Work began with the dawn next day. Most of the workers, moreover, had their task three-quarters finished. Clément Boulanger and Barye had done. Louis Boulanger had no more than three or four hours' work. Decamps was putting the last touches to hisDebureau,and Jadin to his poppies and corn-flowers; Grandville was at work on his door tops, when, as he had promised, Delacroix arrived.
"Well, now, how are you getting on?" he asked.
"You see for yourself," said each worker, standing aside to let his work be seen.
"Oh, really! but you are doing miniature-work here! You should have told me: I would have come a month ago."
He went round all the four rooms, stopping before each panel and finding something pleasant to say to each of his confrères, thanks to the charming spirit with which he is endowed. Then, as they were going to breakfast, he breakfasted too.
"Well?" he asked, when breakfast was done, turning towards the empty panel.
"Well, there it is!" I said. "It is the panel for theCrossing of the Red Sea; the sea has gone back, the Israelites have crossed, the Egyptians have not yet arrived."
"Then I will take advantage of the fact to do something else. What would you like me to stick up there?"
"Oh, you know, a King Rodrigo after a battle:
'Sur les rives murmurantesDu fleuve aux oncles sanglantes,Le roi sans royaume allait,Froissant, dans ses mains saignantes,Les grains d'or d'un chapelet.'"
"Ah, is that what you want?"
"Yes."
"You will not ask me for something else when it is half done?"
"Of course not!"
"Here goes, then, for King Rodrigo!"
And, without taking off his little black coat which clung closely to his body, without turning up his sleeves or taking off his cuffs, or putting on a blouse or cotton jacket, Delacroix began by taking his charcoal and, in three or four strokes, he had drawn the horse; in five or six, the cavalier; in seven or eight, the battlefield, dead, dying and fugitives included; then, making sufficient out of this rough sketch to be intelligible to himself, he took up brushes and began to paint. And, in a flash, as if one had unveiled a canvas, one saw appear under his hand, first a cavalier, bleeding, injured and wounded, half dragged by his horse, who was as hurt as himself, holding on by the mere support of his stirrups, and leaning on his long lance; round him, in front and behind him, the dead in heaps; by the riverside, the wounded trying to put their lips to the water, and leaving tracks of blood behind them; as far as the eye could see, away towards the horizon stretched the battlefield, ruthless and terrible; above it all, in a horizon made dense by the vapour of blood, a sun was setting like a red buckler in a forge; then, finally, a blue sky which, as it melted away into the distance, became an indefinable shade of green, with rosy clouds on it like the down of an ibis. The wholething was wonderful to see: a circle gathered round the master and each one of the artists left his task to come and clap his hands without jealousy or envy at the new Rubens, who improvised both composition and execution as he went on. It was finished in two or three hours' time. At five that afternoon, owing to a large fire, all was dry and they could place the forms against the walls. The ball had created an enormous stir. I had invited nearly all the artists in Paris; those I had forgotten wrote to remind me of their existence. Many society women had done the same, but they asked to be allowed to come masked: it was an impertinence towards other women and I left it to the responsibility of those who had offered it. It was a fancy dress ball, but not a masked one; the order was strict, and I hired two dozen dominoes for the use of impostors, whoever they might be, who attempted to introduce themselves in contraband dress.
At seven o'clock, Chevet arrived with a fifty-pound salmon, and a roebuck roasted whole, served on a silver dish which looked as though it had been borrowed from Gargantua's sideboard, and a gigantic pâté, all to correspond. Three hundred bottles of Bordeaux were put down to warm, three hundred bottles of Burgundy were cooling, five hundred bottles of champagne were on ice.
I had discovered in the library, in a little book of engravings by Titian's brother, a delightful costume of 1525: hair cut round and hanging over the shoulders, bound in with a gold band; a sea-green jerkin, braided with gold, laced down the front of the shirt with gold lace, and fastened at the shoulder and elbows by similar lacing; breeches of parti-coloured red and white silk; black velvet slippers, à la François I., embroidered in gold. The mistress of the house, a very handsome person, with dark hair and blue eyes, was in a velvet dress, with a starched collarette, and the black felt hat with black feathers of Helena Formann, Rubens's second wife. Two orchestras had been set up in each suite of rooms, in such away that, at a given moment, they could both play the same air, and the galop could be heard throughout the five rooms and the hall. At midnight, these five rooms afforded a wonderful spectacle. Everybody had taken up the idea with the exception of those who styled themselves staid men; every one had come in fancy dress; but it was in vain that the serious-minded men pleaded their seriousness; no attention whatever was paid to it; they were compelled to clothe themselves in dominoes of the quietest colours. Véron, a staid person, though he could also be merry, was muffled up in rose colour; Buloz, who was serious and melancholy in temperament, was decked out in sky-blue; Odilon Barrot, who was ultra-serious to solemnness, had obtained a black domino, in virtue of his twofold title of barrister and député; finally, La Fayette, the good, the fashionable and courtly old gentleman, smiling at all this foolishness of youth, had, without offering any opposition to it, put on the Venetian costume. This man had pressed the hand of Washington, had compelled Marat to hide in caves, had struggled against Mirabeau, had lost his popularity in saving the life of the queen, and on 6 October had said to a royalty of ten centuries old: "Bow thyself before that royalty which yesterday was called the people!" This man—who, in 1814, had thrust Napoleon from his throne; who, in 1830, had helped Louis-Philippe to ascend his; who, instead of falling, had gone on growing in power during revolutions—was with us also, simple as greatness, good as strength, candid as genius. He was, in fact, the subject of astonishment and admiration for all those entrancing beings who saw, touched and spoke to him for the first time, who brought back to him his younger days; he looked at them earnestly, gave both his hands to them and responded with the most polite and courteous words to all the pretty speeches the charming queens of the Paris theatres addressed to him. You will recollect having been the favourites ofthat famous man for one whole night, you—Léontine Fay, Louise Despréaux, Cornélie Falcon, Virginie Déjazet? You recollect your amazement in finding him simple and gentle, coquettish and gallant, witty and deferential, as he had been forty years before at the balls of Versailles and the Trianon? One moment Beauchene sat down by him, and this juxtaposition made a singular contrast: Beauchene wore the Vendéen costume in all its completeness: the hat surrounded with a handkerchief, the Breton jacket, short trousers, gaiters, the bleeding heart on the breast, and the English carbine. Beauchene, who passed for a too Liberal Royalist under the Bourbons of the Elder Branch, passed for too Royalist a Liberal under the Younger Branch. So, General La Fayette, recognising him, said with a charming smile—
"Monsieur de Beauchene, tell me, I beg you, in virtue of what privilege are you the only person here who is not wearing a disguise?"
A quarter of an hour later, both were seated at an écarté table, and Beauchene was playing against the Republican of 1789 and of 1830, with gold bearing the effigy of Henry V.
The sitting-room presented the most picturesque appearance. Mademoiselle Mars, Joanny, Michel Menjaud, Firmin, Mademoiselle Leverd had come in the costumes belonging toHenri III.It was the court of the Valois complete. Dupont, the offended soubrette of Molière, the merry soubrette of Marivaux, was in a Boucher shepherdess costume. Georges, who had regained the beauty of her best days, had taken the costume of a Nettuno peasant-girl, and Madame Paradol wore that of Anne of Austria. Rose Dupuis had one like Lady Rochester. Noblet was in harlequin's dress; Javureck was a Turkish slave-girl. Adèle Alphonse, who was making her first public appearance, arriving, I think, from Saint Petersburg, was a young Greek girl. Léontine Fay, an Albanian woman. Falcon, the beautiful Jewess, wasdressed as Rebecca; Déjazet, as du Barry; Nourrit, as a court abbé; Monrose, as a soldier of Ruyter; Volnys, as an Armenian; Bocage, as Didier. Allan—who, no doubt, took himself for a serious-minded person like Buloz and Véron—was clad in a white necktie, black coat and trousers; but, over the toilet of a gilded youth, we had insisted on putting a cabbage-green domino. Rossini had taken the costume of Figaro, and vied in popularity with La Fayette. Moyne, our poor Moyne! who had so much talent and who, in spite of his talent, died of hunger, killing himself in the hope that his death would bequeath a pension to his widow—Moyne had taken the costume of Charles IX.; Barye was dressed as a Bengal tiger; Etex, as an Andalusian; Adam, as a doll; Zimmermann, as a kitchen-maid; Plantade, as Madame Pochet; Pichot, as a magician; Alphonse Royer, as a Turk; Charles Lenormand, as a native of Smyrna; Considérant, as a bey of Algiers; Paul de Musset, as a Russian; Alfred de Musset, as a weather-cock; Capo de Feuillide, as a toreador. Eugène Sue, the sixth of the serious men, was in a pistachio domino; Paul Lacroix, as an astrologer; Pétrus Borel, who took the name of Lycanthrope, as Young France; Bard, my companion in the Soissons expedition, as a page of the time of Albert Dürer; Francisque Michel, as a vagabond; Paul Fouché, as a foot-soldier in the Procession of Fools; Eugène Duverger, as Van Dyck; Ladvocat, as Henri XI.; Fournier, as a sailor; Giraud, as a man-at-arms of the eleventh century; Tony Johannot, as Sire de Giac; Alfred Johannot, as young Louis XI.; Menut, as a page of Charles VII.; Louis Boulanger, as a courtier of King John; Nanteuil, as an old soldier of the sixteenth century; Gaindron, as a madman; Boisselot, as a young lord of the time of Louis XII.; Châtillon, as Sentinelli; Ziégler, as Cinq-Mars; Clément Boulanger, as a Neapolitan peasant; Roqueplan, as a Mexican officer; Lépaule, in Highland dress; Grenier, as a seaman; Robert Fleury, as a Chinaman; Delacroix,as Dante; Champmartin, as a pilgrim; Henriquet Dupont, as Ariosto; Chenavard, as Titian; Frédérick Lemaître, as Robert Macaire covered with spangles.
Several droll incidents enlivened the evening. M. Tissot, of the Academy, conceived the notion of making himself up as an invalid; he had scarcely entered, when Jadin came in as an undertaker's man and, lugubrious crêpe on his hat, followed him from room to room, fitting his pace to his and every five minutes repeating the words:"I am waiting!" M. Tissot could not stand it and, in half an hour's time, he left. At one time, there were seven hundred persons present. We had supper at three in the morning. The two rooms of the empty flat on my landing were converted into a dining-room.
Wonderful to relate there was enough for everybody to eat and to drink! At nine o'clock in the morning, with music ringing in their heads, they began a final galop in the rue des Trois-Frères, the head of the procession reaching to the boulevard whilst the tail was still frisking in the courtyard of the square. I have often thought since of giving a second ball like that one, but it always seemed to me that it would be quite impossible.
It was about this time that they performed at the Odéon a play which made some sensation, first on account of its own merit, and, also, from the measure that it suggested. This play had for title:Révolution d'autrefois, ou les Romains chez eux.The authors were Félix Pyat and Théo.
They had taken for their hero the mad Emperor, whom, six years later, I tried in my turn to put on to the stage—Caligula. There was scarcely any plot in the play; its principal merit was that which was attached to its subtitle:Les Romains chez eux.Indeed, this was the first time people had seen the toga worn, and buskins on the feet, and the speech, actions, and eating as had been the case in real life. The subject was the death of Caligulaand the succession of Claudius to the throne. Unfortunately for the longevity of the play, it contained a scene which seemed to imply a disrespectful allusion to the leader of the Government. It was the third scene of the last act. One soldier represented Claudius as being perfectly suitable for the Romans, because he wasbig, fatandstupid.It is impossible to describe the effect which thisbig, fatandstupidproduced; there was at that period a terrible reaction against Louis-Philippe. The insurrection of the month of June still brooded upon all spirits. They applied these three epithets to the head of the Government, doing him the justice which he was at any rate to deserve sixteen or seventeen years later. I had not been present at the first performance. I succeeded, after great difficulty, in getting a seat at the second. Take careful note that I am speaking of the Odéon. All Paris would have come to Harel's theatre, for I think he still had the Odéon then, if the play had not been stopped at the third performance. And the most curious thing was that nobody, neither manager nor authors, counted much on the work, which was readily to be seen by the way in which it was mounted. Apart from Lockroy and Provost, the whole play was distributed amongst what is called in theatrical parlancela troupe de fer-blanc("a fit-up crowd"). Arsène played Chéréas and Moëssard, Claude. Seventeen days later the Porte-Saint-Martin played a piece which was to cause a scandal of another order. It was called:Dix ans de la vie d'une femme, ou les mauvais conseils.The leading part was played by Dorval. The play ofDix ans de la vie d'une femme—the first manuscript at least—was by a young man of thirty or so, named Ferrier. Harel, while reading it, had seen in it a sequel toJoueurand had coupled Ferrier with Scribe. The result of this alliance was a play fit to make people's hair stand on end, a drama which Mecier or Rétif de la Bretonne would hardly have put their names to!
Something like eighteen years later, we were discussing, at the Council of State, before the commission formed to prepare the law connected with theatres the question of dramatic censorship and theatrical liberty, and, on this head, I heard Scribe attackimmoral literaturemore violently than was usual with him. He demanded a censorship which should be a salutary check to keep talent from the excesses of all kinds to which it was too apt to surrender itself. I allowed myself to interrupt the austere orator, and addressed this question laughingly so that it could be heard all over the room.
"Come, tell us, Scribe, does the drama entitledDix ans de la vie d'une femmecome under the head of moral literature?"
"What?"
I repeated the question.
Scribe replied in the same laughing spirit in which he had been attacked. Read the work again and you will see it would have been difficult for him to reply otherwise. You shall judge for yourselves. We have so often seen our works and those of the Romantic school taxed with immorality by people who uphold M. Scribe as a moral author, that it must really be permitted us to repeat the accusation here and to show,play in hand,how far they pushed the scandal at times in the opposite camp. The wide point of view which the outline of these Memoirs embraces makes us hope that such an exposition may not be looked upon as a digression. At all events, those of our readers who think it irrelevant are quite at liberty to pass over the following chapter.
Dix ans de la vie d'une femme
This is whatDix ans de la vie d'une femmewas like. Adèle Évrard has married M. Darcey, a rich landowner, a worthy and excellent man, full of concern for, attention towards and kindnesses to his wife—a sort of Danville of theÉcole des vieillards,with this difference, that Darcey is only forty. Adèle, Madame Darcey, has the same Christian name as Madame d'Hervey; but, instead of being like the heroine ofAntony,ready to struggle to the point of preferring death to shame, Adèle ofDix ans de la vie d'une femmewas born possessed of every evil tendency that could be fostered by bad influences. Now such bad influences were not wanting in her case. Adèle, daughter of an honest merchant, wife of an honest man, had made the acquaintance—(where, the narrative does not say, but it ought to have done: these things, even on the stage, ought to be explained)—Adèle, we repeat, had made the acquaintance of two disreputable women named Madame Laferrier and Sophie Marini. At the raising of the curtain, Adèle is chatting with her sister; of what? Of a subject young wives and girls are eternally talking about—Love. Clarisse loves a fascinating young man named Valdeja, who holds a position of attaché to the Embassy at Saint Petersburg, far away from her. There is but one disquieting element in that love—the character of the recipient is inclined to melancholy.
Meanwhile, M. Darcey arrives. At the first words hepronounces, one can recognise that he is an excellent man, half father, half husband; his wife, whom he adores, will have the sunny side of life; only the feathers, silks and velvets of married life if she will but obey his orders, or rather, accede to her husband's wishes, which are very simple and reasonable. He wishes her to cease from seeing two persons who are of more than equivocal antecedents, whose conduct and ways are not consistent with the behaviour of a respectable woman, or with the duties of the mother of a family. Adèle promises in a fashion which means that she will break her promise. Her husband goes out, called away from home on business which will detain him half the day; Clarisse goes to attend to household matters, and Madame Darcey stays alone. Hardly is she left thus before she is told that Madame Laferrier, Sophie Marini and M. Achille Grosbois have come. Her first impulse is to recall the promise she has made to her husband; the second, to put it on one side. Enter these ladies and M. Achille.
We can imagine the turn the conversation takes, particularly when, on seeing Adèle's troubled looks as she welcomes her friends, they discover something fresh has happened in the household and that Darcey has forbidden his wife to receive Sophie and Amélie. Such a prohibition, which should make two women who possess merely the faintest feelings of pride fly for very shame, only incites our two hussies: they do not merely content themselves with paying an ordinary call at the château; they invite themselves to dinner. Furthermore, as though they had expected the affront that had been offered them, they prepare their revenge: M. Rodolphe is to come.
"Qu'est-ce que M. Rodolphe? demande Adèle.—Un jeune homme charmant!—Qu'est-ce qu'il est?—Il va à Tortoni.—J'entends bien ... Mais qu'est-ce qu'il fait?—Il déjeune le matin chez Tortoni, et le soir, vous le trouvez, en gants jaunes, au balcon de tous les théâtres. Du resté, il est garçon, possède vingt-mille livres de rente, et est adorateur d'Adèle.—De moi?—Il te poursuit partout sans pouvoir t' atteindre, et, en désespoir de cause, nous adore, Sophie et moi, parce que nous sommes tes meilleures amies!"
"Qu'est-ce que M. Rodolphe? demande Adèle.
—Un jeune homme charmant!
—Qu'est-ce qu'il est?
—Il va à Tortoni.
—J'entends bien ... Mais qu'est-ce qu'il fait?
—Il déjeune le matin chez Tortoni, et le soir, vous le trouvez, en gants jaunes, au balcon de tous les théâtres. Du resté, il est garçon, possède vingt-mille livres de rente, et est adorateur d'Adèle.
—De moi?
—Il te poursuit partout sans pouvoir t' atteindre, et, en désespoir de cause, nous adore, Sophie et moi, parce que nous sommes tes meilleures amies!"
And, upon this somewhat vague intelligence, that Rodolphe breakfasts at Tortoni's and is at night in the stalls at the theatres wearing yellow gloves, Adèle receives M. Rodolphe and invites him to dinner with her friends and M. Achille Grosbois. At this juncture, Clarisse runs in joyously: she tells her sister that a coupé, drawn by two horses with the most beautiful coats and a coachman in elegant livery, sent as a gift from M. Darcey, are just coming into the château courtyard.
"Comment! Ju n'avais pas encore de coupé? dit une des visiteuses.—Il y a trois ans que mon mari m'en a donné un! dit l'autre."
"Comment! Ju n'avais pas encore de coupé? dit une des visiteuses.
—Il y a trois ans que mon mari m'en a donné un! dit l'autre."
And the effect M. Darcey intended to produce by his driver and carriage and pair is completely lost. But, as Adèle's father arrives in this fine equipage, however little enthusiasm Madame Darcey puts into her appreciation of a present she has looked forward to for so long, she is obliged to leave her dear friends, not to see the carriage, coachman and horses, but to welcome M. Évrard. Amélie follows her, for fear, no doubt, that the paternal embraces may awaken some proper feeling in her friend's heart. Sophie, M. Achille, M. Rodolphe and Clarisse remain together. Conversation is difficult between a virtuous young girl and such creatures; but wait, Sophie means to keep up the conversation. She thanks Clarisse for a little sum the latter has given her. Sophie Marini had undertaken to collect money as a charitable lady, and fulfils, by so doing, a pious duty. For what had this person been collecting? Oh, that is a perfectly simplematter: for a young girl who has been deserted by a shameful seducer.
"Oh! voilà qui est horrible! s'écrie Rodolphe,—étendu sur une chaise.—Je ne vous nommerai pas le séducteur, quoique je le connaisse, reprend Sophie; ce serait inutile: il n'est plus en France, il est très-loin, à l'étranger ... en Russie.—En Russie! répète Clarisse vivement,—sans s'apercevoir que, devant elle, jeune fille et demi-maîtresse de maison, il y a un monsieur qui resteétendu sur une chaise.—Oui, en Russie, où il occupe une fort belle place! Et, certainement, ce Valdeja aurait bien pu ...—Valdeja! s'écrie Clarisse."
"Oh! voilà qui est horrible! s'écrie Rodolphe,—étendu sur une chaise.
—Je ne vous nommerai pas le séducteur, quoique je le connaisse, reprend Sophie; ce serait inutile: il n'est plus en France, il est très-loin, à l'étranger ... en Russie.
—En Russie! répète Clarisse vivement,—sans s'apercevoir que, devant elle, jeune fille et demi-maîtresse de maison, il y a un monsieur qui resteétendu sur une chaise.
—Oui, en Russie, où il occupe une fort belle place! Et, certainement, ce Valdeja aurait bien pu ...
—Valdeja! s'écrie Clarisse."
Well! the poison is shed, the poor child is wounded to the heart! Adèle re-enters. She thinks she will have a meal prepared in the pavilion in the park. The whole company then go out to luncheon. Some minutes later, M. Darcey returns, and he learns that the best wines from his cellar, and the finest fruits from his garden are being served to entertain M. Achille and M. Rodolphe, whom he does not know at all, and Mesdames Sophie Marini and Amélie Laferrier, whom he knows but too well. He asks himself if it is possible his wife can so soon have forgotten the promise she made him, when Amélie, Sophie and Achille appear on the scenes and proceed to talk freely without perceiving the master of the house.
"AMELIE.Nous voici revenus au point d'où nous étions partis.. Il est charmant, ce parc; mais c'est un véritable labyrinthe.SOPHIE.Heureusement, nous n'y avons pas rencontré le Minotaure!ACHILLE.Il est à Paris.DARCEY,qui s'est tenu a l'écart, s'avance près d'Amélie.Non, monsieur!Exclamation générale.ACHILLE.Ma foi! monsieur, qui se serait douté que vous étiez là àm'écouter? Rien de plus dès obligeant que d'être écouté! Vous excuserez la plaisanterie, j'espère?DARCEY.Monsieur ...ACHILLE.L'air de la campagne pousse singulièrement aux bons mots, et, sans examiner s'ils sont exacts, la langue s'en débarrasse.DARCEY.Je comprends cela â merveille; mais j'ai un grand travers d'esprit: je n'aime pas les fats.ACHILLE.Ah! vous n'aimez pas!...DARCEY.Ah! vous n'aimez pas!...DARCEY.Non, je ne les amie pas; et, quand ils s'introduisent chez moi (regardant les deux dames), dans quelque compagnie qu'ils se trouvent, je les chasse sans balancer.ACHILLE,sur les épines.Fort-bien, fort-bien!—Je disais tout à l'heure.DARCEY,élevant la voix.Monsieur, vous m'avez compris ...SOPHIE,à Amélie.Il n'y a pas moyen d'y tenir: sortons, ma chère! Elle sort en donnant la main à Achille.DARCEY.Je serais désolé de vous retenir.AMELIE.Monsieur, un pareil outrage.DARCEY.Madame Laferrier me permettra-t-elle de la reconduire jusqu'à sa voiture?"And whilst Darcey turns his back, the following scene takes place between Adèle and Rodolphe."RODOLPHE,un bouquet à la main.Eh bien, où sont dont ces dames?ADÈLE.Dieu! M. Rodolphe, parlez! éloignez-vous!RODOLPHE.Et pourquoi donc?ADÈLE.Mon mari est de retour.RODOLPHE.Eh! que m'importe?ADÈLE.Il vient de nous faire une scène affreuse.RODOLPHE,gaiement.C'est comme cela que je les amie, les maris!ADÈLE.Mais, pour moi, monsieur; pour moi, de grâce, parlez!RODOLPHE.Pour vous, c'est différent, il s'y a rien que je ne fasse. Mais mon respect, ma soumission me priveront ils de votre présence? Dois-je désormais renoncer à ce bonheur?ADÈLE.Il le faut.Je ne puis plus vous voir.RODOLPHE.Chez vous, je le comprends; mais dans le monde. Chez vous, amies?...ADÈLE,avec crainte.Monsieur, vous me faites mourir!RODOLPHE.Un mot de consentement, un seul mot, et je pars; sinon, je reste.ADÈLE.Parlez, parlez, je vous en supplie!RODOLPHE,lui baisant la main.Ah! que je vous remercie!"He escapes by the bottom of the garden; then Darcey returns."DARCEY.Leur voiture est sur la route de Paris.... Maintenant, madame, voulez-vous que nous passions au salon?ADÈLE.Monsieur, est ce la le commencement du rôle de mari?DARCEY.Oui, madame.ADÈLE,sortant.Alors, malheur à celui qui ose s'en charger!DARCEY,la suivant des yeux, et sortant après elle.Malheur à toi, si tu écoutes d'autres conseils que ceux de la raison!"
"AMELIE.
Nous voici revenus au point d'où nous étions partis.. Il est charmant, ce parc; mais c'est un véritable labyrinthe.
SOPHIE.
Heureusement, nous n'y avons pas rencontré le Minotaure!
ACHILLE.
Il est à Paris.
DARCEY,qui s'est tenu a l'écart, s'avance près d'Amélie.
Non, monsieur!
Exclamation générale.
ACHILLE.
Ma foi! monsieur, qui se serait douté que vous étiez là àm'écouter? Rien de plus dès obligeant que d'être écouté! Vous excuserez la plaisanterie, j'espère?
DARCEY.
Monsieur ...
ACHILLE.
L'air de la campagne pousse singulièrement aux bons mots, et, sans examiner s'ils sont exacts, la langue s'en débarrasse.
DARCEY.
Je comprends cela â merveille; mais j'ai un grand travers d'esprit: je n'aime pas les fats.
ACHILLE.
Ah! vous n'aimez pas!...
DARCEY.
Ah! vous n'aimez pas!...
DARCEY.
Non, je ne les amie pas; et, quand ils s'introduisent chez moi (regardant les deux dames), dans quelque compagnie qu'ils se trouvent, je les chasse sans balancer.
ACHILLE,sur les épines.
Fort-bien, fort-bien!—Je disais tout à l'heure.
DARCEY,élevant la voix.
Monsieur, vous m'avez compris ...
SOPHIE,à Amélie.
Il n'y a pas moyen d'y tenir: sortons, ma chère! Elle sort en donnant la main à Achille.
DARCEY.
Je serais désolé de vous retenir.
AMELIE.
Monsieur, un pareil outrage.
DARCEY.
Madame Laferrier me permettra-t-elle de la reconduire jusqu'à sa voiture?"
And whilst Darcey turns his back, the following scene takes place between Adèle and Rodolphe.
"RODOLPHE,un bouquet à la main.
Eh bien, où sont dont ces dames?
ADÈLE.
Dieu! M. Rodolphe, parlez! éloignez-vous!
RODOLPHE.
Et pourquoi donc?
ADÈLE.
Mon mari est de retour.
RODOLPHE.
Eh! que m'importe?
ADÈLE.
Il vient de nous faire une scène affreuse.
RODOLPHE,gaiement.
C'est comme cela que je les amie, les maris!
ADÈLE.
Mais, pour moi, monsieur; pour moi, de grâce, parlez!
RODOLPHE.
Pour vous, c'est différent, il s'y a rien que je ne fasse. Mais mon respect, ma soumission me priveront ils de votre présence? Dois-je désormais renoncer à ce bonheur?
ADÈLE.
Il le faut.Je ne puis plus vous voir.
RODOLPHE.
Chez vous, je le comprends; mais dans le monde. Chez vous, amies?...
ADÈLE,avec crainte.
Monsieur, vous me faites mourir!
RODOLPHE.
Un mot de consentement, un seul mot, et je pars; sinon, je reste.
ADÈLE.
Parlez, parlez, je vous en supplie!
RODOLPHE,lui baisant la main.
Ah! que je vous remercie!"
He escapes by the bottom of the garden; then Darcey returns.
"DARCEY.
Leur voiture est sur la route de Paris.... Maintenant, madame, voulez-vous que nous passions au salon?
ADÈLE.
Monsieur, est ce la le commencement du rôle de mari?
DARCEY.
Oui, madame.
ADÈLE,sortant.Alors, malheur à celui qui ose s'en charger!
DARCEY,la suivant des yeux, et sortant après elle.
Malheur à toi, si tu écoutes d'autres conseils que ceux de la raison!"
In the second act, Adèle is the mistress of Rodolphe. Thus, the wife has not even the excuse of seduction; she has not been overcome, given in through weakness, hesitated; she yielded as Sophie Marini or Amélie Laferrier would; then the interest grows. A wife is lost, but without any efforts to save herself!
Valdeja has arrived from Russia; he is gloomier, more bitter, more averse to women than ever. A young girl who loved him, whom he was counting upon marrying, who was almost his betrothed, has written to him through her father that she does not love him, and could not love him. Hence, Valdeja's sadness, his vow to be avenged on other women for the sufferings this one has caused him. Darcey does not know who the young girl is: an extraordinary thing, considering the degree of intimacy between himself and Valdeja, and that that young girl is his sister-in-law. But to proceed!...
Adèle enters. She exercises that insincere tenderness towards her husband, that assiduity which is affected by deceitful women. At the first words, Valdeja is not taken in by it. Adèle tells her husband that she has just learnt that her father is ill; she therefore proposes to go and see him, but she will return to dinner.
"Vraiment! Il est neuf heures du matin, dit Darcey, et à six heures tu seras rentrée?—A moins qu'on ne me retienne; ce pauvre père si bon!—Il me semble qu'en envoyant Créponne ou Baptiste s'informer de sa santé ...—Oh! ce serait d'une indifférence ... Et puis, Clarisse,ma jeune sœur,m'a écrit: elle désire me voir, sans doute au sujet du mariage dont il est question pour elle, tu sais?—Ah! mademoiselle votre sœur va se marier!"
"Vraiment! Il est neuf heures du matin, dit Darcey, et à six heures tu seras rentrée?
—A moins qu'on ne me retienne; ce pauvre père si bon!
—Il me semble qu'en envoyant Créponne ou Baptiste s'informer de sa santé ...
—Oh! ce serait d'une indifférence ... Et puis, Clarisse,ma jeune sœur,m'a écrit: elle désire me voir, sans doute au sujet du mariage dont il est question pour elle, tu sais?
—Ah! mademoiselle votre sœur va se marier!"
Here we see Valdeja informed that Clarisse is going to be married, as she has been told that Valdeja had been unfaithful to her. After this, Adèle insists so much on her father's illness, and on the fact that the letter from her sister Clarisse is very urgent, that her husband gives her complete liberty to go where she wished. The eagerness with which she takes advantage of this liberty rouses Valdeja's suspicions, and under pretext of having to make various visits, a letter from a Russian prince to be handed to a M. Laferrier, and so on, he goes out at a venture to follow Madame Darcey, when they announce the arrival of Clarisse.
"Alors, répond Darcey, dites à Adèle que sa sœur est là.—Madame est sortie.—C'est étonnant! Je n'ai pas entendu sa voiture, et il y a trop loin pour qu'elle aille à pied.—Madame avait envoyé Baptiste à la place voisine pour faire avancer un fiacre.—Un fiacre? C'est singulier! dit Darcey."
"Alors, répond Darcey, dites à Adèle que sa sœur est là.
—Madame est sortie.
—C'est étonnant! Je n'ai pas entendu sa voiture, et il y a trop loin pour qu'elle aille à pied.
—Madame avait envoyé Baptiste à la place voisine pour faire avancer un fiacre.
—Un fiacre? C'est singulier! dit Darcey."
Clarisse comes in; her father has nothing whatever the matter with him! but his credit is on the point of being destroyed by bankruptcy. He needs a hundred thousand crowns to save him. Valdeja offers them. But Darcey will not allow a stranger to pay the debts of his family: he puts the hundred thousand crowns at the disposition of Clarisse's father.
Let us pass on to the following scene and we shall see if Adèle d'Hervey—poor Adèle, against whom there has been this outcry because she was a respectable woman!—isnot a model of virtue (rosière[1]) compared to Adèle Darcey. Note, particularly, that our confrère Scribe, author ofDix ans de la vie d'une femmeand ofHéloise et Abeilard,is one of the warmest partizans for a dramatic censorship. Consult the archives of the State Commission oh this point. Further, we will try ourselves to procure these archives, and there will be found stated our three opinions: Eugène Scribe's, Victor Hugo's and that of Alexandre Dumas—a matter not without a certain amount of interest to all who are connected with literature.
Let us return to our drama. The stage represents an elegant boudoir in the house of Madame Laferrier. Adèle is there, waiting for Rodolphe. You will admit that I was not so far wrong in calling Madame Laferrier a disreputable woman. There is, I think, another name to designate women who lend their boudoirs to friends when the latter tell their husbands that their fathers are dying in order to obtain liberty to go and meet their lovers. But set your mind at rest. Adèle and Rodolphe only come there to quarrel. True, the quarrel is sufficiently disgraceful in itself.
"Qu'avez-vous à me reprocher, madame?—Votre oubli de toutes les convenances. Avant hier, par exemple, quand vous me donniez le bras, oser saluer sur le boulevard mademoiselle Anastasie, une figurante de l'Opéra!—Du chapeau seulement, sans mains, sans grace, comme on salue tout le monde.—Je l'avais une vue déjà une fois sortir de chez vous.—C'est ma locataire. J'amie les arts, moi ...—Je vous prie de me rendre mes lettres et mon portrait.—Dès demain, mon valet de chambre Sylvestre vous portera vos lettres, et, quant à votre portrait, a médaillon que j'avais fait faire, qui ne me quittait jamais, le voici, madame.—C'est bien! le voilà donc revenu dans mes mains.(L'ouvrant pour le regarder.)Dieu! que vois-je? et quelle indignité! Le portrait de mademoiselle Anastasie!—Est-il possible? C'est délicieux! Je me serai trompé en le prenant ce matin.(Textuel)."
"Qu'avez-vous à me reprocher, madame?
—Votre oubli de toutes les convenances. Avant hier, par exemple, quand vous me donniez le bras, oser saluer sur le boulevard mademoiselle Anastasie, une figurante de l'Opéra!
—Du chapeau seulement, sans mains, sans grace, comme on salue tout le monde.
—Je l'avais une vue déjà une fois sortir de chez vous.
—C'est ma locataire. J'amie les arts, moi ...
—Je vous prie de me rendre mes lettres et mon portrait.
—Dès demain, mon valet de chambre Sylvestre vous portera vos lettres, et, quant à votre portrait, a médaillon que j'avais fait faire, qui ne me quittait jamais, le voici, madame.
—C'est bien! le voilà donc revenu dans mes mains.(L'ouvrant pour le regarder.)Dieu! que vois-je? et quelle indignité! Le portrait de mademoiselle Anastasie!
—Est-il possible? C'est délicieux! Je me serai trompé en le prenant ce matin.(Textuel)."
Rodolphe goes out kissing Adèle's hand, calling her cruel, and promising never to forget her kindnesses.
"Ce pauvre Rodolphe! un charmant cavalier! dit Amélie, qui était présente à l'entretien."
"Ce pauvre Rodolphe! un charmant cavalier! dit Amélie, qui était présente à l'entretien."
One would have thought after the impertinences M. Rodolphe had been permitted to commit, Amélie would scarcely recallce charmant cavalierto Adèle's memory. Perhaps, though, this might have happened, if the name of Valdeja had not been pronounced. This incident gives another turn to the conversation.
"Valdeja!" exclaims Amélie; "Sophie Marini's deadly enemy?""Lui-même ... Sais-tu ce que Sophie Marini a contre lui?—Elle ne me l'a jamais confié; mais on prétend qu'autrefois elle l'a amie. Puis; il a découvert qu'il avait des rivaux, et il s'est vengé d'une maniéré indigne.—Comment cela?—En la faisant trouver à un dîner où il avait invité tous ceux qu'elle avait préférées. On ne dit pas combien il y avait de couverts.(Textuel.)"
"Valdeja!" exclaims Amélie; "Sophie Marini's deadly enemy?"
"Lui-même ... Sais-tu ce que Sophie Marini a contre lui?
—Elle ne me l'a jamais confié; mais on prétend qu'autrefois elle l'a amie. Puis; il a découvert qu'il avait des rivaux, et il s'est vengé d'une maniéré indigne.
—Comment cela?
—En la faisant trouver à un dîner où il avait invité tous ceux qu'elle avait préférées. On ne dit pas combien il y avait de couverts.(Textuel.)"
At this point, Créponne, Adèle's maid, comes on the scene. She has been hunting for her mistress for six hours past: at Rodolphe's and at Madame Marini's house. Clarisse coming to the house has revealed all: her father is not ill, and she never wrote! What is to be done? Fortunately, Amélie is there.
"Y a-t-il longtemps que vous n'êtes allés, toi et ton mari, chez madame de Longpré, dont tu me parles souvent?—Quinze jours environ.—Assieds-toi là, et écris.—Que veux-tu que je lui écrive?—Assieds-toi toujours. (Dictant.) 'Si, avant de m'avoir vue, le hasard vous mettait en rapport avec mon père ou mon mari, n'oubliez pas que je suis arrivée aujourd'hui chez vous dans un état affreux; que j'y suis restée longtemps, et que je'en suis repartie en fiacre. Je vous envoie mon chapeau et mon mouchoir. Vous me les renverrez demain par votre femme de chambre.' Date et signe. Commences—tu à comprendre?—Oui, mon bon ange!"—En arrivant chez toi, tu te trouveras mal, et je réponds du reste.—Dieu! que c'est simple et bien!(Textuel.)"
"Y a-t-il longtemps que vous n'êtes allés, toi et ton mari, chez madame de Longpré, dont tu me parles souvent?
—Quinze jours environ.
—Assieds-toi là, et écris.
—Que veux-tu que je lui écrive?
—Assieds-toi toujours. (Dictant.) 'Si, avant de m'avoir vue, le hasard vous mettait en rapport avec mon père ou mon mari, n'oubliez pas que je suis arrivée aujourd'hui chez vous dans un état affreux; que j'y suis restée longtemps, et que je'en suis repartie en fiacre. Je vous envoie mon chapeau et mon mouchoir. Vous me les renverrez demain par votre femme de chambre.' Date et signe. Commences—tu à comprendre?
—Oui, mon bon ange!"
—En arrivant chez toi, tu te trouveras mal, et je réponds du reste.
—Dieu! que c'est simple et bien!(Textuel.)"
At this moment a servant announces that a gentleman is asking to see madame.
"Il prend bien son temps, répond Amélie; qu'il s'en aille!—Il prétend qu'il n'est que pour un jour à Paris, et qu'il apporte à madame des lettres et des nouvelles du prince Krimikoff.—Ce pauvre prince! il pense encore à moi!——Dis au monsieur d'attendre là dans la pièce qui touche à ce boudoir; dans un instant, je suis à lui, je le recevrai."
"Il prend bien son temps, répond Amélie; qu'il s'en aille!
—Il prétend qu'il n'est que pour un jour à Paris, et qu'il apporte à madame des lettres et des nouvelles du prince Krimikoff.
—Ce pauvre prince! il pense encore à moi!—
—Dis au monsieur d'attendre là dans la pièce qui touche à ce boudoir; dans un instant, je suis à lui, je le recevrai."
Whyin the room adjoining that boudoirwe ask? Why, of course, so that the gentleman can hear what is going to be said; there is no deeper motive behind it than that! See for yourself, however: when the servant has gone out, the dialogue continues between Adèle and Amélie.
"Une chose m'inquiète, maintenant: ce sont ces lettres et ce portrait que Rodolphe a entre les mains.—C'est ta faute; je t'ai dit vingt fois de ne pas écrire. Tu veux toujours faire à ta tête!—Il n'en a que trois, et il m'a bien promis devant toi de me les renvoyer demain par son valet de chambre.—Espérons-le! Allons, va-t'en vite!—De ce côté?—Oh! non, tu serais vue par cet étranger.—Eh! mais j'y pense, maintenant, nous sommes là a parler tout haut, et l'on entend de ton petit salon tout ce qui se dit ici.—Qu' importe! cet étranger ne sait peut-être pas le français."
"Une chose m'inquiète, maintenant: ce sont ces lettres et ce portrait que Rodolphe a entre les mains.
—C'est ta faute; je t'ai dit vingt fois de ne pas écrire. Tu veux toujours faire à ta tête!
—Il n'en a que trois, et il m'a bien promis devant toi de me les renvoyer demain par son valet de chambre.
—Espérons-le! Allons, va-t'en vite!
—De ce côté?
—Oh! non, tu serais vue par cet étranger.
—Eh! mais j'y pense, maintenant, nous sommes là a parler tout haut, et l'on entend de ton petit salon tout ce qui se dit ici.
—Qu' importe! cet étranger ne sait peut-être pas le français."
Adèle is satisfied with the suggestion that a Russian does not understand French, the current language of Russia; she does not reflect that a Russian who cannot talk French would not ask to speak with Amélie, who is not supposed to be a woman who knows Russian. Valdeja enters behind the two women, brought in by a servant.
"Je n'étais pas si mal où j'étais! se dit Valdeja, et, dès qu'à travers cette légère cloison j'ai eu reconnu la voix de madame Darcey, j'eusse mérité de ne plus rien entendre de ma vie, si j'eusse perdu un mot de leur conversation!"
"Je n'étais pas si mal où j'étais! se dit Valdeja, et, dès qu'à travers cette légère cloison j'ai eu reconnu la voix de madame Darcey, j'eusse mérité de ne plus rien entendre de ma vie, si j'eusse perdu un mot de leur conversation!"
What does Valdeja think of doing now? That is quitesimple: to carry off Adèle's handkerchief and letter. Unfortunately, Amélie, when taking her friend home, has carried them away with her. But, do not be uneasy, when she returns she will bring them back, and this will give occasion to a curious scene, as you are about to hear.
Valdeja, who speaks French perfectly, although a foreigner, for he is a Spaniard, has been charged by Prince Krimikoff with a letter for M. Laferrier. This letter begins the affair. So they chat about Prince Krimikoff.
"Dans quel état l'avez-vous trouvé? demande Amélie.—Fort triste et fort maussade.—Changé à ce point! Je l'ai vu ici, il y a six ans: il était charmant.—Je sais cela. Il m'a dit que vous l'aviez trouvé charmant.—Il vous l'a dit?—Chut!... Parce que je sais vos heures intimes avec lui, ce n'est pas une raison pour les publier.—Monsieur! M. Krimikoff est un fat ... Je nie positivement.—A quoi bon? Parce qu'on arrive du fond de la Russie, nous croyez-vous en dehors de la civilisation? Là-bas, comme ici, la vie bien entendue n'est qu'un joyeux festin; et de quel droit. M. Krimikoff se réserverait il le privilège d'une ivresse exclusive?—Eh! mais, monsieur, permettez-moi de vous dire que voilà d'affreux principes."
"Dans quel état l'avez-vous trouvé? demande Amélie.
—Fort triste et fort maussade.
—Changé à ce point! Je l'ai vu ici, il y a six ans: il était charmant.
—Je sais cela. Il m'a dit que vous l'aviez trouvé charmant.
—Il vous l'a dit?
—Chut!... Parce que je sais vos heures intimes avec lui, ce n'est pas une raison pour les publier.
—Monsieur! M. Krimikoff est un fat ... Je nie positivement.
—A quoi bon? Parce qu'on arrive du fond de la Russie, nous croyez-vous en dehors de la civilisation? Là-bas, comme ici, la vie bien entendue n'est qu'un joyeux festin; et de quel droit. M. Krimikoff se réserverait il le privilège d'une ivresse exclusive?
—Eh! mais, monsieur, permettez-moi de vous dire que voilà d'affreux principes."
At the same time, as the author is careful to state, Amélie utters these wordssmiling.Valdeja continues:
"Affreux à avouer, doux à mettre en pratique.—Monsieur!—Ne le niez pas, je sais tout ... Car cette lettre que j'ai là, cette lettre n'est pas pour votre mari, comme j'ai dit: elle est pour vous."
"Affreux à avouer, doux à mettre en pratique.
—Monsieur!
—Ne le niez pas, je sais tout ... Car cette lettre que j'ai là, cette lettre n'est pas pour votre mari, comme j'ai dit: elle est pour vous."
It is, indeed, unfortunate that it is for Madame Laferrier and not for M. Laferrier; for, although they talk much about it, the spectators do not see M. Laferrier at all. It would certainly be interesting to see the husband who would adapt himself to such a wife! Listen carefully and follow the turn the conversation is going to take.
"Mais, continue Valdeja, à votre seul aspect, je me suis repenti de m'en être chargé ... Il me semblait cruel de vousapporter, de la part d'un autre, des hommages que j'étais tenté de vous rendre, et de vous voir lire devant moi ce que je n'osais vous dire.—Un rival?... Permettez! Je ne vous cacherai pas que les brilliantes qualités de M. Krimikoff, m'avaient frappée; cependant, sans le piège qu'il m'a tendu, je serais, je l'atteste, restée irréprochable."
"Mais, continue Valdeja, à votre seul aspect, je me suis repenti de m'en être chargé ... Il me semblait cruel de vousapporter, de la part d'un autre, des hommages que j'étais tenté de vous rendre, et de vous voir lire devant moi ce que je n'osais vous dire.
—Un rival?... Permettez! Je ne vous cacherai pas que les brilliantes qualités de M. Krimikoff, m'avaient frappée; cependant, sans le piège qu'il m'a tendu, je serais, je l'atteste, restée irréprochable."