What, then, is the snare Prince Krimikoff has laid for Madame Laferrier? The author does not say. But it must be the same order of snare which Valdeja sets for her. Poor Amélie! Let us admit that she has naturally a great talent for allowing herself to be caught in a trap.
"Irréprochable! s'écrie Valdeja avec chaleur.—Eh! bon Dieu! de quel mot vous servez-vous la? Qu'est-ce que c'est quevertueuse? (Riant.) Ah!—Ah! sur mon âme, voilà d'étroites idées, d'anciennes façons bien pauvres, et je croyais la France moins arriérée. Vous arrêter un instant à de pareilles distinctions?—Ah! madame, j'avais d'abord conçu une meilleure idée de vous!"
"Irréprochable! s'écrie Valdeja avec chaleur.
—Eh! bon Dieu! de quel mot vous servez-vous la? Qu'est-ce que c'est quevertueuse? (Riant.) Ah!
—Ah! sur mon âme, voilà d'étroites idées, d'anciennes façons bien pauvres, et je croyais la France moins arriérée. Vous arrêter un instant à de pareilles distinctions?
—Ah! madame, j'avais d'abord conçu une meilleure idée de vous!"
You may imagine Amélie's joy at the thought of the good opinion the noble stranger has conceived of her. Valdeja goes on,raising his tones:
"Quand on adopte un régime, il faut tâcher qu'il soit bon. Je ne connais qu'un enseignement respectable, c'est celui de nos passions. La nature y est pour tout, la société pour rien. Plaisir, ivresse, déüre, voilà des mots auxquels nos cœurs répondent.... Vous le savez, vous qui ne pouvez, même en ce moment, contenu vos pensées qui s'allument (il lui prend la main,) vous dont le pouls s'active, dont l'œil s'enflamme et rit là en silence de tous ces aphorismes de vertu.—Monsieur, Monsieur ...—A quoi bon ces vains scruples? Je vous comprends, je vous suis, je vous devance peut-être.—Parlons d'autre chose, je vous prie.—Voyez, votre mémoire vous domine, vos souvenirs sont dans votre sang; vous vous rappelez tout ce que vaut, dans la vie, un moment d'illusion.—Laissez-moi!—Ce que peut un bras qui serre ...—Laissez-moi!—Un souffle, qui renverse!—Oh! grâce! grâce!"
"Quand on adopte un régime, il faut tâcher qu'il soit bon. Je ne connais qu'un enseignement respectable, c'est celui de nos passions. La nature y est pour tout, la société pour rien. Plaisir, ivresse, déüre, voilà des mots auxquels nos cœurs répondent.... Vous le savez, vous qui ne pouvez, même en ce moment, contenu vos pensées qui s'allument (il lui prend la main,) vous dont le pouls s'active, dont l'œil s'enflamme et rit là en silence de tous ces aphorismes de vertu.
—Monsieur, Monsieur ...
—A quoi bon ces vains scruples? Je vous comprends, je vous suis, je vous devance peut-être.
—Parlons d'autre chose, je vous prie.
—Voyez, votre mémoire vous domine, vos souvenirs sont dans votre sang; vous vous rappelez tout ce que vaut, dans la vie, un moment d'illusion.
—Laissez-moi!
—Ce que peut un bras qui serre ...
—Laissez-moi!
—Un souffle, qui renverse!
—Oh! grâce! grâce!"
You see very clearly that instead of stopping, Valdeja continues:
"Venez! dit il en prenant Amélie par la taille.—Écoutez! (On entend le bruit d'une voiture.) C'est mon mari! Voilà sa voiture qui rentre."
"Venez! dit il en prenant Amélie par la taille.
—Écoutez! (On entend le bruit d'une voiture.) C'est mon mari! Voilà sa voiture qui rentre."
Ah! so we are to see this worthy M. Laferrier after all! The noise of the carriage, which would have disturbed anybody else, helps Valdeja, on the contrary, to wind up the scene, which we should agree was becoming difficult between people who have only just met for the first time, one of whom hates and despises the other.
"Vous quitter ainsi, s'écrie Valdeja, sans un gage, sans un souvenir? (Apercevat le mouchoir resté sur la table.) Ah! Ce mouchoir, qui est le votre ...—Monsieur ...—Là, là, sur mon cœur; il y restera comme votre image!—Monsieur, rendez-moi mon mouchoir.—Jamais! Adieu, adieu, madame!"
"Vous quitter ainsi, s'écrie Valdeja, sans un gage, sans un souvenir? (Apercevat le mouchoir resté sur la table.) Ah! Ce mouchoir, qui est le votre ...
—Monsieur ...
—Là, là, sur mon cœur; il y restera comme votre image!
—Monsieur, rendez-moi mon mouchoir.
—Jamais! Adieu, adieu, madame!"
And, in spite of Amélie's cries of "My handkerchief, my handkerchief!" Valdeja goes out, forgetting to take leave at his departure. The curtain falls. Let us now see what happens in the third act.
In the first scene of the third act, we are at Valdeja's rooms in a furnished house. He is alone, seated at a table, holding in his hand the handkerchief which he has taken from Madame Laferrier. He waits for his moujik Mourawieff. Mourawieff has been deputed by Valdeja to procure the letters and portraitartfully.Perhaps Valdeja, as a civilised being, ought to have lent assistance to the skill of a moujik only arrived in Paris the previous day, who, consequently, could not be very much up to date in French manners; but he has overlooked this detail, which, as it concerns the reputationof the wife of a friend, deserves, perhaps, that some attention should be paid to the matter.
The consequence is that Mourawieff acts as cunningly as a moujik; he waited for Rodolphe's servant at the door of No. 71 of the rue de Provence, where the frequenter of the café Tortoni stays; he makes sure that the servant is the bearer of the letters and portrait; and, in wrestling terms, he trips him up. Sylvestre falls, loosing letters and portrait. Mourawieff takes possession of them and arrives, running. Do not let us complain: Mourawieff's clumsiness is a skilful move on the part of the author and will give us an excellent scene presently. I say presently, because, before it, there is one which we do not consider very happy—from the moral point of view be it understood: we are not concerning ourselves here, be careful to notice, with the literary merits of the drama. No, we will imagine ourselves Academicians—what more can you desire? we are all mortal!—commissioned to make a report on the most moral play acted in 1832 at the boulevard theatres; our confrère Scribe competes for the prize for morality: we examine his play with all the more care as we know he is a fanatical partisan of the censorship, and we make our report.
The unfortunate scene is that where Valdeja opens the packet and reads the letters addressed to M. Rodolphe by his friend's wife. The perusal of them confirms him in the resolution to leave his friend in ignorance of everything; but he takes upon himself to avenge that friend's honour and to fight a duel with Rodolphe. He therefore takes a brace of pistols and a couple of duelling swords and makes himself ready to go in search of Rodolphe at 71 rue de Provence. He meets the man he is looking for on the threshold of his door. Rodolphe has also, like Valdeja, a brace of pistols in his hands and two swords under his arm.
That Valdeja, who probably wishes a duel without witnesses, should take pistols and swords and go armedlike a Malbrouk on his way to the war, in search of the man of whom he has to demand the vindication of a friend's honour, is conceivable enough in all conscience. But that Rodolphe, who has none of these motives, instead of sending his seconds as is done between well-bred people, should come himself and go up the stairs with sword under his arm and pistols in hand, instead of leaving all the weapons in his carriage, is altogether senseless. No matter, for, as we have already said, we are not fishing in those waters. The scene containing this improbable incident is original and well drawn; that is sufficient. Bravo! bravo! bravo! But you shall see where it vexes us that our confrère has taken advantage of the absence of the censorship. The two young people agree to fight with pistols. It is Rodolphe who suggests the weapon.
"Le pistolet, soit! répond Valdeja.—Chacun les nôtres.—J'y consens.—Dites-moi donc,—reprend Rodolphe tenant, ainsi que Valdeja, sa boîte à la main,—nous avons l'air de bijoutiers, courant les pratiques.—Pourquoi non? La mort est un chaland tout comme un autre, et nos âmes sont, dit on, des joyaux divins.—Vieilles idées sans base et sans soutien!—Pour l'un des deux, Rodolphe, le doute aura cessé d'exister aujourd'hui.—Va comme il est dit!"
"Le pistolet, soit! répond Valdeja.
—Chacun les nôtres.
—J'y consens.
—Dites-moi donc,—reprend Rodolphe tenant, ainsi que Valdeja, sa boîte à la main,—nous avons l'air de bijoutiers, courant les pratiques.
—Pourquoi non? La mort est un chaland tout comme un autre, et nos âmes sont, dit on, des joyaux divins.
—Vieilles idées sans base et sans soutien!
—Pour l'un des deux, Rodolphe, le doute aura cessé d'exister aujourd'hui.
—Va comme il est dit!"
Both go out. The second scene of the third act brings us into a room in Évrard's house. The whole family is in a state of rejoicing; Darcey's 100,000 francs have saved Évrard from ruin. They bless Darcey. Albert Melville, Clarisse's future husband, takes advantage of this moment of expansiveness to try to obtain from his fiancée a positive statement as to the state of her affections. Clarisse feels that of a sister for him, the tenderness of a friend, but she will never be in love with him. Albert is resigned; enumerating Clarisse's excellent qualities, hethinks he will be happy in his lot. The scene is interrupted by the arrival of Adèle. For a long time she has not been to her father's house, but, invited by him as well as her husband to a little family gathering, she complies with the invitation. Behind her enters M. and Madame Dusseuil, her uncle and aunt. As for M. Darcey, no one knows if he is coming; Adèle has not seen him since the morning. As they are wondering about his coming, the door opens and he enters pale and constrained.
Now begins a scene, dramatic in its simple domesticity. Darcey has found his wife's letters. The author does not tell us how, for these letters cannot have been put in his way for two hours after the departure of Valdeja; which leads us to surmise that, Valdeja not having returned within two hours, he must be dead. Never mind by what means Darcey has discovered the letters; he has them, and that is the chief point, and he comes as before a family tribunal to ask each member what is the punishment a friend of his ought to inflict on a wife who has deceived him.
"Je pardonnerais, mon frère, dit Clarisse, dans l'espoir d'obtenir par le repentir ce qu'un autre sentiment n'aurait pas en assez de force pour faire naître.—Moi, je la tuerais! dit Albert."
"Je pardonnerais, mon frère, dit Clarisse, dans l'espoir d'obtenir par le repentir ce qu'un autre sentiment n'aurait pas en assez de force pour faire naître.
—Moi, je la tuerais! dit Albert."
Adèle's father is questioned in his turn.
"ÉVRARD.Ma foi, je la mènerais à ses parents; je les ferais juges entre elle et moi; je leur dirais: 'La voilà! le mauvais germe a étouffé le bon; il a porté ses fruits; ils sont murs, récoltez-les! et je la leur laisserais.DARCEY.Eh bien, c'est vous qui l'avez jugée.ADÈLE,avec anxiété.Mais qui donc?...DARCEY.Je ne la tuerai pas, je ne la traînerai pas sur les bancs d'untribunal; mais je vous la rendrai, mon père! Car, cet homme, c'est moi! Cette femme, c'est votre fille!ADÈLE.Ce n'est pas vrai!ÉVRARD.Adèle vous a trahir?ADÈLE.Je ne suis pas coupable! il ne m'aime plus: c'est un prétexte.DARCEY.Et Rodolphe, l'avez-vous oublié depuis hier?ADÈLE.Qui, Rodolphe?DARCEY.Rodolphe, votre amant!ADÈLE.Je ne connais pas de Rodolphe!DARCEY.Vous ne connaissez pas de Rodolphe?ADÈLE.Non.DARCEY,lui mettant ses lettres sous les yeux.Lisez donc! lisez! Voilà les pièces du procès; ces lettres, ce sont les siennes. Adieu!Justice est faite!..."
"ÉVRARD.
Ma foi, je la mènerais à ses parents; je les ferais juges entre elle et moi; je leur dirais: 'La voilà! le mauvais germe a étouffé le bon; il a porté ses fruits; ils sont murs, récoltez-les! et je la leur laisserais.
DARCEY.
Eh bien, c'est vous qui l'avez jugée.
ADÈLE,avec anxiété.
Mais qui donc?...
DARCEY.
Je ne la tuerai pas, je ne la traînerai pas sur les bancs d'untribunal; mais je vous la rendrai, mon père! Car, cet homme, c'est moi! Cette femme, c'est votre fille!
ADÈLE.
Ce n'est pas vrai!
ÉVRARD.
Adèle vous a trahir?
ADÈLE.
Je ne suis pas coupable! il ne m'aime plus: c'est un prétexte.
DARCEY.
Et Rodolphe, l'avez-vous oublié depuis hier?
ADÈLE.
Qui, Rodolphe?
DARCEY.
Rodolphe, votre amant!
ADÈLE.
Je ne connais pas de Rodolphe!
DARCEY.
Vous ne connaissez pas de Rodolphe?
ADÈLE.
Non.
DARCEY,lui mettant ses lettres sous les yeux.
Lisez donc! lisez! Voilà les pièces du procès; ces lettres, ce sont les siennes. Adieu!
Justice est faite!..."
Nothing further remains for Darcey to do but to be avenged on Rodolphe; but, as one might expect, he has been killed by Valdeja. In the fourth act, we are at Adèle's house: it is modest to the very verge of mediocrity, for Adèle is short of money; she holds a pen in her hand and has paper before her; she is on the point of humbling herself to her husband and asking help from him. She prefers that humiliation to becoming the mistress of an Italian banker named Rialto. Sophie and Amélie enter. You can guess the scene: the pen is flung across thetable, the paper upon which the first letters were already traced is torn up; the proposals of Rialto are accepted. The shameful treaty bears the stamp of self-sacrifice. Albert Melville has lost his position in the offices of the Exchequer; Rialto, who is at the head of all the loans, gets him restored to it and Albert Melville marries Clarisse. What is the reason for this anxiety for the welfare of Albert Melville and Clarisse on the part of the three women? Stop a minute! The marriage of these two young people will cause Valdeja to give way to despair. Whereupon, Valdeja comes forward. He comes on behalf of Darcey, whose kindness of heart is touched by the physical sufferings of the woman: as woman, not as his wife. Adèle is nothing to him personally now, only from the point of view of ordinary humanity; she no longer belongs to his family; she is his neighbour merely. Adèle, who has nearly accepted this conjugal charity, refuses it at the instigation of the two women. Valdeja is more cheerful than usual: he smiles in spite of himself at the contretemps which destroys the prospect of the marriage of Albert and Clarisse for ever. But, when promising to yield herself to Rialto, Adèle asks that Albert's post may be given back to him, and, within ten minutes' time, the post is restored to him, the marriage is arranged and the young folk are wedded! It is not very probable that all this could take place in ten minutes; but one knows that actual times does not exist on the stage. When Valdeja learns that it is the hatred of the three women which has just destroyed his last hope, he renews his oath of hatred, which they listen to with laughter. The curtain falls upon that oath. It rises upon a pretty garden with a summer-house on the left.
For three years Adèle is Rialto's mistress, and she lives with him just as though she were his wife. She has all she wants, even to the lover of her heart's desire. This lover's name is M. Hippolyte. Rialto promises to buy her houses, carriages and horses, and she loathes him.M. Hippolyte gives her a simple bouquet and she worships him. See him enter upon the scenes.
"Bonjour! ma chère Adèle!
—Ah! arrivez donc, monsieur! Je m'entretenais de vous.
—Et, moi, je pensais à vous.Vous le voyez, ma chère Adèle, des fleurs, votre image ...."
It is evident that if Hippolyte has made the conquest of Madame Darcey, it is an affair of the heart in which her mind has no part whatever. Besides, Hippolyte is grave to solemnity. He sends Créponne, the chambermaid, away and stays alone with Adèle. It is she who begins the conversation.
"Voyons, qu'est-ce qui pesé si fort sur la gaieté aujourd'hui? demande-t-elle.—J'ai quelque chose de si important à te dire.—Quoi donc?—Ma chère Adèle, depuis trois mois, je suis aimé de toi; depuis six semaines, j'ai formé le projet d'être ton mari, et je viens te t'annoncer.—Ah! ah! ah! ah! fait Adèle éclatant de rire.—Qu'y a-t-il donc de si risible?—Je ris parce que.... Ah! ah! ah! mais c'est une plaisanterie."
"Voyons, qu'est-ce qui pesé si fort sur la gaieté aujourd'hui? demande-t-elle.
—J'ai quelque chose de si important à te dire.
—Quoi donc?
—Ma chère Adèle, depuis trois mois, je suis aimé de toi; depuis six semaines, j'ai formé le projet d'être ton mari, et je viens te t'annoncer.
—Ah! ah! ah! ah! fait Adèle éclatant de rire.
—Qu'y a-t-il donc de si risible?
—Je ris parce que.... Ah! ah! ah! mais c'est une plaisanterie."
This hilarity, sufficiently ill-timed when confronted with so serious a proposal, does not disconcert Hippolyte in the least. He had come of age the previous day and wished to profit by his majority to marry Adèle in hot haste. Rialto is announced.
"C'est votre père? demande ingénument Hippolyte.—Oui, mon ami; il faut partir à l'instant, par ici, par la porte de ce pavillion.—Pourquoi donc?—Il ne faut pas qu'il vous voie, ou tout serait perdu! Éloignez-vous, de grace!—Du tout!Je veux voir monsieur votre père, moi; j'ai à lui parler."
"C'est votre père? demande ingénument Hippolyte.
—Oui, mon ami; il faut partir à l'instant, par ici, par la porte de ce pavillion.
—Pourquoi donc?
—Il ne faut pas qu'il vous voie, ou tout serait perdu! Éloignez-vous, de grace!
—Du tout!Je veux voir monsieur votre père, moi; j'ai à lui parler."
You guess why Hippolyte wants to speak to Rialto; Hippolyte, who attributes Adèle's immoderate laughterto playfulness of character, wishes to ask Rialto for his daughter's hand in marriage! Rialto laughs as loudly at this demand as Adèle had done. The poor lover might just as well have demanded the hand of the daughter of Democritus. But Hippolyte insists more pertinaciously to Rialto than he has done to Adèle; his tutor, to whom he has boasted of the virtue and beauty of the woman he loves, comes. The joke continues for about ten minutes; and then Rialto, whose laughter has suffered several checks, thinks it is time to put a stop to it. He sends the lover to the right about and takes Adèle by the arm to go a walk with her. You shall see what happens; and one thing you certainly will not have expected!
"HIPPOLYTE,arrêtant Rialto par le bras.Monsieur, c'est beaucoup plus grave que vous ne pensez!RIALTO.C'est possible; mais, si vous êtes malade du cerveau, je ne suis pas médecin.ADÈLE.Mon Dieu! laissons là cet entretien.HIPPOLYTE.Non, madame; je forcerai bien monsieur votre père à ne pas me refuser.RIALTO.C'est ce que nous verrons.HIPPOLYTE.Un mot suffira. Et, puis qu'il n'y a pas d'autre moyen, daignez me répondre, monsieur, connaissez-vous l'honneur?RIALTO.Eh bien, oui, je le connais. Qu'est-ce que vous en voulez dire?HIPPOLYTE.Tenez-vous au vôtre et à celui de votre famille?RIALTO.Sans doute que j'y tiens.HIPPOLYTE.Arrangez-vous, alors, pour qu'il ne souffre pas des atteintes que je lui ai portées, et tâchez de réparer avec le mari le dommage que l'amant lui a fait.RIALTO.L'amant?ADÈLE.Ne l'écoutez-pas!HIPPOLYTE.L'amant! Depuis trois mois, madame m'appartient!RIALTO.Ah! ah! qu'est-ce que vous me dites là?HIPPOLYTE.Ce qui est.ADÈLE.C'est une horreur!HIPPOLYTE.Et si vous avez un cœur de père ...RIALTO.Eh! monsieur, je ne suis pas son père!HIPPOLYTE.Vous n'êtes pas son père?RIALTO.Ni son père, ni son frère, ni son oncle, ni son mari ... Comprenez-vous, maintenant?HIPPOLYTE,stupéfie.Ah! ce n'est pas possible!RIALTO.Aïe! aïe! belle dame, vous m'en faisiez donc en cachette? Et mes billets de mille fanes comptaient pour deux, à ce qu'il paraît!ADÈLE.Il n'en est rien, je vous jure!RIALTO.Ah! ah! ah! Et vous, mon brave, vous voulez épouser des femmes qui vivent séparées de leurs maris, et que des protecteurs consolent!..."
"HIPPOLYTE,arrêtant Rialto par le bras.
Monsieur, c'est beaucoup plus grave que vous ne pensez!
RIALTO.
C'est possible; mais, si vous êtes malade du cerveau, je ne suis pas médecin.
ADÈLE.
Mon Dieu! laissons là cet entretien.
HIPPOLYTE.
Non, madame; je forcerai bien monsieur votre père à ne pas me refuser.
RIALTO.
C'est ce que nous verrons.
HIPPOLYTE.
Un mot suffira. Et, puis qu'il n'y a pas d'autre moyen, daignez me répondre, monsieur, connaissez-vous l'honneur?
RIALTO.
Eh bien, oui, je le connais. Qu'est-ce que vous en voulez dire?
HIPPOLYTE.
Tenez-vous au vôtre et à celui de votre famille?
RIALTO.
Sans doute que j'y tiens.
HIPPOLYTE.
Arrangez-vous, alors, pour qu'il ne souffre pas des atteintes que je lui ai portées, et tâchez de réparer avec le mari le dommage que l'amant lui a fait.
RIALTO.
L'amant?
ADÈLE.
Ne l'écoutez-pas!
HIPPOLYTE.
L'amant! Depuis trois mois, madame m'appartient!
RIALTO.
Ah! ah! qu'est-ce que vous me dites là?
HIPPOLYTE.
Ce qui est.
ADÈLE.
C'est une horreur!
HIPPOLYTE.
Et si vous avez un cœur de père ...
RIALTO.
Eh! monsieur, je ne suis pas son père!
HIPPOLYTE.
Vous n'êtes pas son père?
RIALTO.
Ni son père, ni son frère, ni son oncle, ni son mari ... Comprenez-vous, maintenant?
HIPPOLYTE,stupéfie.
Ah! ce n'est pas possible!
RIALTO.
Aïe! aïe! belle dame, vous m'en faisiez donc en cachette? Et mes billets de mille fanes comptaient pour deux, à ce qu'il paraît!
ADÈLE.
Il n'en est rien, je vous jure!
RIALTO.
Ah! ah! ah! Et vous, mon brave, vous voulez épouser des femmes qui vivent séparées de leurs maris, et que des protecteurs consolent!..."
We think we ought to spare our readers, especially our feminine ones, the rest of the scene. This may, indeed, benature,as they say in studio terms; but it is vile nature! Pah! And to think that once in my life I did something nearly like it in a play entitledLe Fils de l'Émigré! But do not be anxious, when I come to that, I will deal with myself severely!
At the fifth act, we find ourselves in amean room of wretched appearance.Three years have passed since Adèle has been turned out by Rialto and deserted by Hippolyte. Sophie waits for Adèle. The two women recognise one another.
"Ah! c'est toi, Sophie, dit Adèle.—Tu me reconnais? C'est heureux! Pour moi, je l'avoue j'aurais en quelque peine ...—Je suis donc bien changée? reprend Adèle.—Tu as l'air souffrant ...—Et toi, depuis trois ans que tu as quitté Paris?...—J'étais allée en Belgique avec mon mari, lorsqu'il est parti pour ce pays-là, sans le dire à ses créanciers, cm les fournisseurs en sont tous là: se ruiner en entreprises, en spéculations, quand il y a tant d'autres moyens!—Et il ne lui est rien resté?—Rien, que des dettes; répond Sophie avec amertume. Mais, moi,j'avais encore des espérances: un oncle paralytique, M. de Saint-Brice; qui, veuf et sans enfants, avait une immense fortune, et je suis revenue en France à Paris, où j'ai appris que,par la grâce du ciel,il venait de mourir. Mais, vois l'horreur, il m'a déshéritée!"
"Ah! c'est toi, Sophie, dit Adèle.
—Tu me reconnais? C'est heureux! Pour moi, je l'avoue j'aurais en quelque peine ...
—Je suis donc bien changée? reprend Adèle.
—Tu as l'air souffrant ...
—Et toi, depuis trois ans que tu as quitté Paris?...
—J'étais allée en Belgique avec mon mari, lorsqu'il est parti pour ce pays-là, sans le dire à ses créanciers, cm les fournisseurs en sont tous là: se ruiner en entreprises, en spéculations, quand il y a tant d'autres moyens!
—Et il ne lui est rien resté?
—Rien, que des dettes; répond Sophie avec amertume. Mais, moi,j'avais encore des espérances: un oncle paralytique, M. de Saint-Brice; qui, veuf et sans enfants, avait une immense fortune, et je suis revenue en France à Paris, où j'ai appris que,par la grâce du ciel,il venait de mourir. Mais, vois l'horreur, il m'a déshéritée!"
It is Valdeja who induced M. de Saint Brice to strike this great blow; so you see that the love for Sophie felt by the ex-attaché to the Embassy at St. Petersburg has not made much progress. We say theex-attaché,because during the six years he stays in Paris to attend to the affairs of his friend Darcey and those of his pupil Hippolyte, Valdeja must be no longer attached to but detached from the Embassy. During those last three years Adèle has made the acquaintance of M. Léopold, the son of a rich wine merchant, who has taken up his place as his father'ssuccessor;but unfortunately this succession has not lasted long.
"Et tu ne l'as pas abandonné? demande Sophie.
Je le voudrais, dit Adèle; je n'ose pas. Il est si violent, il me tuerait!"
Besides, Adèle has discovered secrets which make her tremble: M. Léopoldentices extravagant young men and robs them.She has no hope left except in her sister, to whom she has written.
Créponne enters and gives a letter to Adèle; it is from Clarisse, who is always good and charitable and loving! Her husband has forbidden her to see her sister; but, at two o'clock, hidden by a cloak, she will come on foot. Adèle must arrange to be alone. Sophie reads the letter at the same time with Adèle. She sees in it a means of injuring Clarisse and will meditate upon it.
"Adieu, dit elle à madame Darcey. Si j'ai quelque chose de nouveau, je viendrai te revoir.—Je crains que Léopold ne se fâche, et que cela ne lui déplaise.—Eh bien! par exemple!—Pour plus de sûreté, quand tu auras à me parler, ne monte pas par le grand escalier, où l'on pourrait te voir, mais viens par celui-ci, dont voici la clef."
"Adieu, dit elle à madame Darcey. Si j'ai quelque chose de nouveau, je viendrai te revoir.
—Je crains que Léopold ne se fâche, et que cela ne lui déplaise.
—Eh bien! par exemple!
—Pour plus de sûreté, quand tu auras à me parler, ne monte pas par le grand escalier, où l'on pourrait te voir, mais viens par celui-ci, dont voici la clef."
The key is just the thing Sophie wants to carry out her plan. But now that she has the key, the only thing she is in need of is some money with which to buy food.
"Tu n'aurais pas quelque argent à me prêter dit elle?—J'en ai si peu!—Et, moi, je n'en ai pas du tout. Je te rendrai cela dès que j'aurai obtenu ce que je sollicite.—Bientôt?—Je te le promets.—A la bonne heure, car sans cela.... Tiens!"
"Tu n'aurais pas quelque argent à me prêter dit elle?
—J'en ai si peu!
—Et, moi, je n'en ai pas du tout. Je te rendrai cela dès que j'aurai obtenu ce que je sollicite.
—Bientôt?
—Je te le promets.
—A la bonne heure, car sans cela.... Tiens!"
At this moment M. Léopold arrives; he smells the money, pounces upon it and confiscates it, as he says byorder of the police.That will give you an idea of monsieur'sways of procedure; but you will see plenty more. He wants money, much money.
Adèle must ask it from her parents.
"Vous savez bien qu'ils sont morts de chagrin, lui dit Adèle.—Oui, à ce qu'ils disent, répond Léopold."
"Vous savez bien qu'ils sont morts de chagrin, lui dit Adèle.
—Oui, à ce qu'ils disent, répond Léopold."
This is pretty talk, too pretty, indeed. There is still M. Rialto, but Adèle refuses to apply to him. To M. Hippolyte then....
"ADÈLE.Plutôt mourir que d'avoir recours à lui!LÉOPOLD,haussant la voix.Il le faut, cependant; car je veux, et vous ne me connaissez pas, quand on me résiste.ADÈLE.Léopold, Léopold, vous m'effrayez!...(a part).Ah! Dieu! qui m'arrachera de ses mains?LÉOPOLD.Là, au secrétaire ... voilà ce qu'il vous faut pour écrire.Entre Créponne.CRÉPONNE,has à Adèle.Une dame, enveloppée d'un manteau, est là dans votre chambre.ADÈLE,de même.C'est ma sœur, c'est Clarisse!LÉOPOLD,l'arrêtant par le bras.Où vas-tu? Tu ne sortiras pas d'ici que tu n'aies écrit.ADÈLE.O mon Dieu!LÉOPOLD,la faisant asseoir au secrétaire.Allons, une lettre à la Sévigné, et pour cela, je vais dicter: 'Cher Hippolyte....ADÈLE.Je ne mettrai jamais cela.LÉOPOLD.Hippolyte, tout court.ADÈLE,écrivant.'Monsieur....'LÉOPOLD.A la bonne heure, je n'y tiens pas.(Dictant.)Monsieur, une ancienne amie bien malheureuse ...CRÉPONNE.C'est bien vrai!LÉOPOLD.Je ne mens jamais ...(Dictant.)Est menacée d'un affreux danger dont vous seul pouvez le sauver.ADÈLE.Mais c'est le tromper!LÉOPOLD.Qu'en savez-vous? Je ne mens jamais ... (Dictant.) 'Si tout souvenir, si toute humanité n'est pas éteinté dans votre cœur, venez à son secours! Elle vous attendra aujourd'hui rue ...' Mets ton nom et ton adresse. 'Prenez avec vous de l'or, beaucoup d'or. Vous saurez pourquoi.'ADÈLE,indignée.Je n'écrirai jamais cela.LÉOPOLD,dictant d'un ton impératif.'Vous saurez pourquoi, et j'ose croire que vous m'en remercierez.'(Lui prenant les mains.)Allons! écris, je le veux!ADÈLE.Mais que prétendez-vous donc faire? le forcer à jouer, le dépouiller?LÉOPOLD.Cela me regarde ... Signe!"
"ADÈLE.
Plutôt mourir que d'avoir recours à lui!
LÉOPOLD,haussant la voix.
Il le faut, cependant; car je veux, et vous ne me connaissez pas, quand on me résiste.
ADÈLE.
Léopold, Léopold, vous m'effrayez!...(a part).
Ah! Dieu! qui m'arrachera de ses mains?
LÉOPOLD.
Là, au secrétaire ... voilà ce qu'il vous faut pour écrire.
Entre Créponne.
CRÉPONNE,has à Adèle.
Une dame, enveloppée d'un manteau, est là dans votre chambre.
ADÈLE,de même.C'est ma sœur, c'est Clarisse!
LÉOPOLD,l'arrêtant par le bras.Où vas-tu? Tu ne sortiras pas d'ici que tu n'aies écrit.
ADÈLE.
O mon Dieu!
LÉOPOLD,la faisant asseoir au secrétaire.
Allons, une lettre à la Sévigné, et pour cela, je vais dicter: 'Cher Hippolyte....
ADÈLE.
Je ne mettrai jamais cela.
LÉOPOLD.
Hippolyte, tout court.
ADÈLE,écrivant.
'Monsieur....'
LÉOPOLD.
A la bonne heure, je n'y tiens pas.(Dictant.)Monsieur, une ancienne amie bien malheureuse ...
CRÉPONNE.
C'est bien vrai!
LÉOPOLD.
Je ne mens jamais ...(Dictant.)Est menacée d'un affreux danger dont vous seul pouvez le sauver.
ADÈLE.
Mais c'est le tromper!
LÉOPOLD.
Qu'en savez-vous? Je ne mens jamais ... (Dictant.) 'Si tout souvenir, si toute humanité n'est pas éteinté dans votre cœur, venez à son secours! Elle vous attendra aujourd'hui rue ...' Mets ton nom et ton adresse. 'Prenez avec vous de l'or, beaucoup d'or. Vous saurez pourquoi.'
ADÈLE,indignée.
Je n'écrirai jamais cela.
LÉOPOLD,dictant d'un ton impératif.
'Vous saurez pourquoi, et j'ose croire que vous m'en remercierez.'(Lui prenant les mains.)
Allons! écris, je le veux!
ADÈLE.
Mais que prétendez-vous donc faire? le forcer à jouer, le dépouiller?
LÉOPOLD.
Cela me regarde ... Signe!"
Adèle signs and Léopold goes out. But Adèle quickly orders Créponne to run to Hippolyte, to warn him of the snare that is being laid for him. Adèle then goes to her sister. Créponne stays alone talking to herself while putting on her shawl. Whilst addressing herself to this twofold occupation, the door of the little staircase opens slowly, and Albert appears, shrouded in a cloak.
"Encore un qui arrive, dit la femme de chambre. Il en sort donc ici de tous côtés?"
"Encore un qui arrive, dit la femme de chambre. Il en sort donc ici de tous côtés?"
You perhaps suppose that Créponne, who is not tongue-tied, will go up to the newcomer and ask him who he can be to have possession of his mistress's house key? But no, she quietly moves off to the opposite side. Ah! confrère, though you are very clever and ingenious, I would verily rather have committed what they call in theatrical languageun loup.True, had Créponne spoken to the man wrapped in a cloak, she would have recognised Albert, whom she would have told that his wife was there and that would have been the end of scene one of the fifth act.
You understand, dear reader? Sophie had sent the key Adèle gave her to Albert, and, when doing so, took good care, of course, to tell Melville that his wife had arranged a meeting with Valdeja; then she writes to Valdeja, in Clarisse's name, to tell him he will find her ... where? I have no notion, for the author of the play does not give the address of the house. It is a needless precaution, and makes no difference, be assured!
Albert, who wishes to hear all, hides in a cupboard. Whilst he is hiding, Valdeja enters! You can guess the situation. Valdeja and Clarisse meet; great is their astonishment, especially on the part of Clarisse; but, finally, they explain matters. The sole thing that Clarisse sees in it all is that she is incurring a real danger.
"Ah! mon Dieu! s'écrie-t-elle, je suis perdue, déshonorée! Qui pourrait me secourir, me protéger?—Moi, Clarisse! dit Albert sortant du cabinet."
"Ah! mon Dieu! s'écrie-t-elle, je suis perdue, déshonorée! Qui pourrait me secourir, me protéger?
—Moi, Clarisse! dit Albert sortant du cabinet."
Albert and Valdeja exchange friendly greetings; they have learned to esteem one another. Valdeja goes away by a door at the back. Albert gives money to Adèle; Clarisse gives her a gold chain, then Albert and Clarisse go out by the little staircase. Scarcely have they disappeared before a noise is heard outside, then a pistol shot and cries of "Help! murder!" Adèle rushes terrified towards the stairs, and the curtain falls without any further explanation; but those who are anxious to guesswithout being told suspect that Léopold has taken Albert for Hippolyte and fired on him. The second part of the fifth act shows Adèle on a pallet-bed, ill and coughing and at death's door. Having spent her last crowns in a lottery, she has nothing to fall back upon but a gold chain which she has given to Sophie to sell. She would fain have chosen a more reliable agency, for she begins to mistrust her former friend; but it is necessary that it should be Sophie who sells the chain. You shall see why.
"Ma chère, cela va mal! dit Sophie en rentrant. Tu sais, cette chaîne que tu tenais de ta sur?—Eh bien?—J'ai été pour la vendre chez le bijoutier notre voisin, un vieux qui l'a regardée attentivement; puis il m'a dit: 'De qui tenez-vous cette chaîne?—D'une dame de mes amies.—Qui est elle —Que vous importe?—C'est que, a-t-il ajouté en feuilletant un registre, cette chaîne, à ce qu'il me semble, est au nombre des objets qui, lors de l'affaire Léopold, nous ont été signalés par la police.'"
"Ma chère, cela va mal! dit Sophie en rentrant. Tu sais, cette chaîne que tu tenais de ta sur?
—Eh bien?
—J'ai été pour la vendre chez le bijoutier notre voisin, un vieux qui l'a regardée attentivement; puis il m'a dit: 'De qui tenez-vous cette chaîne?—D'une dame de mes amies.—Qui est elle —Que vous importe?—C'est que, a-t-il ajouté en feuilletant un registre, cette chaîne, à ce qu'il me semble, est au nombre des objets qui, lors de l'affaire Léopold, nous ont été signalés par la police.'"
How can the chain have been marked by the police when Adèle had received it from her sister before the assassination? Then Sophie lost her head; and with good reason, too! When she sees how clever the police are she runs away; the jeweller calls his assistants and they follow her; they know she is there.
"Mais on ignore qui tu es?—Peut-être, car j'ai rencontré, en montant, la propriétaire.—Je ne la connais pas.—En bien, sais-tu quelle est cette femme? Notre ancienne amie!—Amélie Laferrier?—Elle-même!"
"Mais on ignore qui tu es?
—Peut-être, car j'ai rencontré, en montant, la propriétaire.
—Je ne la connais pas.
—En bien, sais-tu quelle est cette femme? Notre ancienne amie!
—Amélie Laferrier?
—Elle-même!"
What a pity it was not her husband! We shall, perhaps, see him. But he is not there, you may be sure, and I have a great longing to be presented to him. At this moment there is a knock at the door. It is a Sister of Charity. Adèle has written to the mayor, under the name of Madame Laurencin; she has depicted her misery in pitiable terms;the Sister of Mercy has been told and comes. Guess who that Sister of Charity is? It is Clarisse! Clarisse, who finds her sister weak, broken down, dying! Clarisse is in mourning, for Albert is dead. When Adèle recognises Clarisse, she faints away. Whilst Clarisse is bringing her back to consciousness with salts, the magistrates enter, brought by Amélie Laferrier. Naturally the meeting lacks effusion. The magistrates have come to arrest Madame Laurencin; but, as they must do this legally, they have sent to fetch the mayor. He arrives, and is Darcey, Amélie's husband, having become mayor of his arrondissement, thanks to conduct diametrically opposite to that of his wife! He is followed by his faithful Valdeja. The author does not tell us if Valdeja has been appointed deputy mayor under Darcey; it is likely, for, without this, how would he be there?
"Quelle est cette femme que l'on parle d'arrêter? demande Darcey.—C'est la vôtre, monsieur! votre pauvre femme!—Ma femme! répond Darcey, qui repousse le mot avec indignation."It is a rude shock for Adèle: knowing herself to be dying, she raises herself up and asks her husband's forgiveness."Jamais! répond Darcey."Adèle utters a cry and falls into an armchair."DARCEY,se laissant entraîner, dit à Valdeja, qui le pousse vers Adèle.Tu le veux? Eh bien ...(En ce moment, Adèle rend le dernier soupir.)Dieu! il n'est plus temps!VALDEJA.Elle expire!(À Amélie et à Sophie.)Femmes, prenez ce cadavre! prenez-le donc, il est à vous ... Vos œuvres méritaient un salaire: le voilà! Honte à vous et à toutes vos semblables!(À Darcey) À toi la liberté!DARCEY,lui montrant Clarisse.Et à toi, je l'espère, bientôt le bonheur!"
"Quelle est cette femme que l'on parle d'arrêter? demande Darcey.
—C'est la vôtre, monsieur! votre pauvre femme!
—Ma femme! répond Darcey, qui repousse le mot avec indignation."
It is a rude shock for Adèle: knowing herself to be dying, she raises herself up and asks her husband's forgiveness.
"Jamais! répond Darcey."
Adèle utters a cry and falls into an armchair.
"DARCEY,se laissant entraîner, dit à Valdeja, qui le pousse vers Adèle.
Tu le veux? Eh bien ...(En ce moment, Adèle rend le dernier soupir.)Dieu! il n'est plus temps!
VALDEJA.
Elle expire!(À Amélie et à Sophie.)Femmes, prenez ce cadavre! prenez-le donc, il est à vous ... Vos œuvres méritaient un salaire: le voilà! Honte à vous et à toutes vos semblables!(À Darcey) À toi la liberté!
DARCEY,lui montrant Clarisse.
Et à toi, je l'espère, bientôt le bonheur!"
These two last touches are a trifle harsh, it seems to us, before the body of Adèle and Clarisse's mourning garb; so harsh that, were we members of the Academy and deputed to award the prize for morality, it would be a ground for withholding the prize from the dramaDix ans de la vie d'une femme.
[1]TRANSLATOR'S NOTE,Rosière.—A young girl who in village life is awarded the prize of a rose for virtue.
[1]TRANSLATOR'S NOTE,Rosière.—A young girl who in village life is awarded the prize of a rose for virtue.
Doligny manager of the theatre in Italy—Saint-Germain bitten by the tarantula—How they could have livened up Versailles if Louis-Philippe had wished it—The censorship of the Grand-Duke of Tuscany—The bindings of printer Batelli—Richard Darlington, Angèle, AntonyandLa Tour de Nesleperformed under the name of Eugène Scribe
Doligny manager of the theatre in Italy—Saint-Germain bitten by the tarantula—How they could have livened up Versailles if Louis-Philippe had wished it—The censorship of the Grand-Duke of Tuscany—The bindings of printer Batelli—Richard Darlington, Angèle, AntonyandLa Tour de Nesleperformed under the name of Eugène Scribe
The curious discussion to which we have referred[1]proves, among other things, that the author ofDix ans de la vie d'une femme,the drama to which Mercier or Rétif de la Bretonne hardly dared subscribe their names, holds two very distinct opinions, which he does not reckon upon reconciling: one as legislator, and one as poet, since he asked the State Commission to suppress thesmall immoral theatres,and applied for a censorship which should be a salutary check to restrain talent from theexcesses of all kindsto which it is too commonly given. The fact is that, had there been a censorship in 1832, my confrère Scribe's talent, which I appreciate more than any one, restrained bya salutary check,would never have given to timorous souls the spectacle of a play which has remained, not as the model, but as the most advanced specimen, of dramaticeccentricity.It was M. Scribe, who, in the following sentence which he pronounced before the State Council, suggested to me the word I wanted—"There is not much money made by really literary plays; success is often achieved better byeccentricitiesandattacks against morality and the government."Furthermore, my illustrious confrère possesses a fine reputation as a man of moral character, not only in France but still more abroad; and I am going to relate an anecdote on this subject, which has its amusing side.
I lived for two years in Florence before a single theatrical manager thought of playing anything of mine; because I was an immoral man, no play, whether in the original or translated, could be performed in any one of the theatres of the City of Flowers. One fine morning, when I was still in bed, I heard a voice I knew in my sitting-room, and the sound of a friend's name. The voice and the name were those of Doligny. You remember that I spoke about Doligny in connection with the Tompson ofRichard Darlington,and that I paid full justice to the remarkable manner in which he had acted the part. Very well, it was Doligny, who, actor and manager, came with a French company to seek his fortune in Italy. Everywhere else fortune has three forelocks: in Italy it has only one; everywhere else, it turns on a single wheel: in Italy, it turns on two. Which is to say that, in Italy, more than anywhere else, fortune is for everybody, and particularly for the managers of literary enterprises, an Atlanta difficult to overtake and to seize by the hair. Doligny, then, went from Turin to Milan, from Milan to Rome, from Rome to Naples, from Naples to Venice, from Venice to Bologna, in the hope of overtaking fortune. He had not yet succeeded. Finally, he thought he saw a vision of gold in the direction of Florence. He smote his forehead and said to himself: Why have I not thought of that before? What he had not thought of was my presence at Florence. I carry about with me—where it comes from I have no idea; but there it is, indeed—I carry about an atmosphere of life and excitement which has become proverbial. I lived three years at Saint-Germain; well, the inhabitants themselves, respectable subjects of the Sleeping Beauty, did not know themselvesany longer. I communicated to the town a spirit of energy which they took at first for a sort of epidemic, a contagious fever, like that produced by the bite of the Neapolitan spider. I bought the theatre, and the best actors of Paris, coming to supper with me, played from time to time, before sitting down to table to give themselves an appetite, eitherHamletorMademoiselle de Belle-Isle,orLes Demoiselles de Saint Cyr,for the benefit of the poor. Ravelet had not horses enough, Collinet had not rooms enough, and the railway admitted to me, once, an increase of 20,000 francs takings per annum since I lived at Saint-Germain. It is true that, at the time of the elections, Saint-Germain considered me tooimmoralto have the honour of being its representative. Saint-Germain had then waked up, or nearly so. It had its forest for horse exercise, went to the theatre and set up on my terrace fireworks which they sent for from Paris, to the great astonishment of Versailles, which, from time to time, rose out of its tomb and looked with vacant eyes over the hills of Louveciennes, and said in dying tones: "What is Saint-Germain doing to make such a commotion as this? Look at me, do I move? Good heavens! When one is dead, it is not a time for having fireworks, going to the play or riding on horseback! Look at me, I sleep like an Academician, and I even push respect for conventions to the point of never snoring!"
Versailles lay down again in its gilded sepulchre, where, as it said, it never even snored. One day the king was annoyed by the noise which came from the direction of Saint-Germain, so much so that he took heed not to hear the faintest breath of wind coming from Versailles. He sent for M. de Montalivet, although he had no love for intellectual people. Montalivet and Vatout were the two exceptions at the court.
"My dear Count," said Louis-Philippe, "do you know what has happened?"
"What, sire?"
"We have succeeded in waking up Saint-Germain (they had made the king think he had brought about this miracle himself); we will manage to galvanise Versailles into life, with the picture gallery and fountains, on each first Sunday in the month!"
"Sire," replied Montalivet, "would you like Versailles instead of being as gloomy as death to be merry even to the point of foolishness!"
"My dear Count," replied the king, "I will not conceal from you that it would give me the greatest pleasure."
"Very well, Sire, Dumas has a fortnight's durance as National Guardsman: command that he spend it here at Versailles."
The king turned his back on M. de Montalivet and did not speak a word to him for a month after. What came of it? Versailles became more and more gloomy, and, after passing from melancholy to darkness, passed from darkness to funereal depths.
As to Saint-Germain, I do not know what became of it; but I have been assured that, since my departure, it has been seized with the spleen and simply shakes with agony. Now it was the knowledge of this vivifying quality which attracted Doligny to Florence. He said to himself: As Dumas is in Tuscany, Tuscany must have again become the department of the Arno, and we shall laugh and earn money. Doligny was mistaken: people laugh all over Italy; but they do not laugh at all in Tuscany. As to earning money there, I only knew the Comte de Larderette who made a fortune there; but his speculation had nothing literary about it.... I listened to Doligny's exposition of plans with a growing melancholy which could not fail to have discouraged him.
"Well," he asked me, "am I mistaken?"
"In what?"
"Do you not go to the court?"
"As little as I can; but I do go."
"Do you not go into society?"
"As little as possible; but, of course, I do see something of it."
"Have you no friends?"
"As few as possible; I have some."
"Do you think my actors are poor ones?"
"I do not know them."
"Do you not think the performance of your plays will pique people's curiosity?"
"Yes, indeed."
"Do you not believe, in short, that, thanks to all this, I can make money?"
"I believe you can; but...."
"But what?"
"You must do it with other plays than mine."
"Why so?"
"Because they will not allow you to play them."
"They will refuse to let me perform your plays?"
"Yes."
"What reason will they give for their refusal?"
"They won't give any."
"All the same, my dear friend, there must be some reason at the bottom."
"No doubt."
"Tell me what it is."
"My friend, you are asking me to make a painful confession."
"Tell me what it is."
"I do not know how to tell you a thing that I am ashamed to confess even to myself."
"Remember that my fortune depends on it!"
"My friend, I am an immoral author."
"Bah!"
"Yes."
"Who said so?"
"Le Constitutionnel; so the thing has spread abroad from the east to the west, from the south to the north." "You fill me with dismay!"
"What else can I do!..."
"Still, I am going to send them your plays."
"Send them, but it will be useless."
"But surely when they have read them...."
"Yes, but they won't read them."
"Yet they will refuse?"
"For the sake of appearances."
"Well, I wish to have a clear conscience in the matter." "Have a clear conscience, my dear fellow; it will only cost you your expenses for hiring, if you have already hired the theatre."
"Why of course I have hired it."
"The deuce! Send the plays then."
"This very day."
"Go! only let me know of the refusal directly you receive it."
"What's the good?"
"Who knows? Perhaps I may then have some fresh idea."
"Why have you not one now?"
"Ah! my dear fellow, ideas are capricious damsels which will not let themselves be taken except when they fancy, and the whim of my idea is not to produce anything until after the refusal of the grand-ducal censorship." "All right, we must humour your fancy I suppose." Doligny went away in despair at the probable refusal which threatened him, and yet with a certain degree of hopefulness in the idea that might spring up from that refusal. Three day later I saw him again. Owing to the protection of Belloc the ambassador, a delightful man, the refusal was only delayed for three days. This was a great favour; it might have been put off for a month, six weeks—for ever!
"Well?" I said, when I caught sight of Doligny.
"Well, as you said."
"Refused?"
"Refused."
"What plays did you send?"
"Richard Darlington, Antony, Angèle, La Tour de Nesle."
"Heavens! You went to work with a vengeance! the four most immoral plays of an immoral author."
"Do you think if I had sent others?"
"Useless."
"Then, the only thing left is to make use of your idea!"
"You had set special store by those four plays?"
"I believe they would have produced the best results. However, if you think you can obtain leave for others more easily...."
"Oh! that does not matter."
"Why?"
"Well, I have taken upon me to obtain permission, that is all you mind about?"
"Of course! will you undertake that."
"I win."
I picked up my hat.
"You are going?"
"Come with me."
"I will follow you with confidence."
"That is right."
I was writing at that time a big 'work on painting, entitledLa Galerie des Offices.I took Doligny to the printer's.
"My dear Batelli," I said as I entered, "you must do me a service."
"With pleasure, Monsou Doumasse."
"This is it."
"What is it?"
"I want you to re-bind these four plays, to change the four titles and to put another author's name to them."
"That is easy enough. Just tell me exactly what you want."
"You see this one?"
"Richard Darlington,drama in three acts of seven scenes, by Monsou Alessandre Doumasse."
"Just so. Very well, you must substituteL'Ambitieux ou le Fils du bourreau,by M. Eugène Scribe."
"Bene! Next?"
"You see this?"
"Angèle,drama in five acts by Monsou Alessandre Doumasse."
"You must put:L'Échelle de femmes,by M. Eugène Scribe."
"Bene! Next?"
"You see this one?"
"Antony,drama in five acts by Monsou Alessandre Doumasse."
"PutL'Assassin par amour,by M. Eugène Scribe."
"Bene! Next?"
"You see this one?"
"La Tour de Nesle,by MM. Gaillardet et * * *."
"Put:L'Adultère puni,by M. Eugène Scribe."
"Bene! bene!"
In an hour's time, the bindings were set up, sewed, and glued; the same day the four plays were deposited on the censor's desk. Three days after they were returned signed for permission.
The censors had not made any remarks whatever, they had not found a single word to say against them. It is a wonder that the Committee of Censorship had not proposed to the grand-duke to found a prize for virtue, in favour of four such edifying plays. That same night, the whole town, except MM. les Censeurs knew that the performance of four plays by M. Alexandre Dumas had been sanctioned under the moral signature of Eugène Scribe. I never had such a success. They thought these four works the very perfection of innocence; the grand-duke, the most innocent man in his grand-duchy, was applauded to the echo!
Scribe, on that occasion, was about to receive the Cross of the Commander of Saint-Joseph. Fortunately for Scribe, somebody or other revealed the trickery to the grand-duke. Scribe was beside himself with fear.