I was at the theatre, full of delight at this unexpected escape of my play, which was now to be produced the following Saturday, when one of M. Deviolaine's servants came hurriedly to me, looking very scared, to tell me that my mother had fallen ill as she was going down the stairs after visiting M. Deviolaine, and that they could not bring her back to consciousness. M. Deviolaine lived on the fourth floor of the house of one Chaulin, a stationer, at the corner of the rue Saint-Honoré and the rue de Richelieu. I rushed away from the theatre, sending the property-lad to tell M. Florence, the doctor belonging to the theatre, that my mother needed his assistance. In a few seconds I was with my mother: she was seated in a large arm-chair; her eyes were open and she had regained consciousness, but she could hardly speak. The whole of one side of her body was quite paralysed. She had been to call on Madame Deviolaine; as usual, I had been the subject of conversation; as usual, they had been telling her I was a wilful blockhead, unworthy the clemency the House of Orléans had shown me; that my play would be a failure and would not even produce enough to pay back M. Laffitte his thousand crowns, and that then I should find myself out of a berth and with no future before me. My poor mother had wept copiously, going away in great distress of mind, and as she was about to step downstairs she was seized with faintness, absolutely lost all power and fell down in a heap, her legs on the stairs and her body on the landing. A lodger found her in this position as he came upstairs; he rang M. Deviolaine's door-bell, and they carried her in and put her in a chair. My poor mother had somewhat regained consciousness by the time I reached her. I felt her pulse, and held up her arm, which fell inert; I pinched her to find the extent of her insensibility, and I came to the conclusion that she had just had a stroke of apoplexy, serious enough at any rate to cause paralysis of her left side. I sent for some mustard and put her feet in hot water till the doctor came. Then, as he was a long while in coming, I sent, to an instrument maker, who lived nearly opposite, for a lancet, and decided to bleed her myself in the foot if Florence did not come. But he came, and performed this operation himself; a slight improvement at once manifested itself, and, her tongue feeling freer, she was able to pronounce a few words. Meanwhile my sister had hastened there; fortunately, she was in Paris, having come up to see the first performance of my play. Fortunately, too, there was an empty room in the house—on the third floor, I think—and we took it for a quarter. Madame Deviolaine sent a bed down to it for my mother; we carried mattresses for ourselves from the rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis; we put the mattresses on the floor of my mother's room; and both my sister and I were determined not to leave her alone for a single moment.
Unluckily, Thibaut was away from Paris. Madame de Celles, daughter of General Gérard, was suffering from consumption and had required a doctor to accompany her to Italy. Madame de Leuven had recommended Thibaut, and he had gone with her. As we only knew Florence slightly, he thoughtfully withdrew of his own accord after he had rendered first aid to our invalid. So I called in another of my friends, named Cazal. He was an extremely clever fellow who, when he found that, in spite of his medical skill, his practice did not increase, invented a new kind of umbrella and parasol, took out a patent for them and made a fortune. Cazal spent the whole night with us by my mother's side; and next day, as the improvement continued, he believed he might look for her recovery if she had no relapse.
How I rejoiced that the idea had come to me of applying to M. Laffitte! how I rejoiced that M. Laffitte had lent me the thousand crowns! We could at least be certain of one thing, that, no matter how things turned out, our mother would want for nothing during her illness. Furthermore, on learning this news, one of my friends, son of a celebrated diamond merchant, Edmond Halphen, not knowing I was as rich as Ali Baba, sent me a small purse containing twenty louis. I returned him the louis, but I kept the purse, in remembrance of that delicate kindness which so few have shown to me, and I recall the act with gratitude, for it touched me deeply. I have, however, sometimes met with the same spontaneous generosity elsewhere, but among my women friends, not among my men friends.
Deeply troubled as I was,—God alone knew how deeply this blow had struck me!—I was obliged to leave my mother, for a few hours; my drama was so novel, even to those who were rehearsing it, that, unless I was present, their confidence took flight. I returned and found everyone greatly concerned by the misfortune that had overtaken me in such an unexpected manner. Taylor was present to prompt in my place in case I was unable to turn up. The play was ready or all but ready, and there was no doubt it would be performed the following Saturday. When I returned home, I found the whole of the Villenave family awaiting me, from Théodore to Élisa. They had missed me the night before, I who never missed going to their house a day, and, when the letter arrived that told my kind friends what had happened, they came off to see me at once. No one can have any idea of the strain of the next two or three days—the profound grief at watching my mother's dying condition, and the terrible labour of preparing a first drama for its public ordeal.
The night before the representation, I took a step that I had decided upon for some time previously. I presented myself at the Palais-Royal and asked to see M. le Duc d'Orléans. The request was so unusual and so audacious that, no doubt, the attendants expected I had an audience. They informed the Duc d'Orléans of my presence and of my request to speak to him. The Duc d'Orléans repeated my name over to himself twice and gave orders to admit me. "Ah! ah! is it you, M. Dumas?" he said. "What good wind blows you hither or, rather, blows you back again?"
"Monseigneur," I said to him, "to-morrow they play Henri III."
"Yes," he said, "I know that."
"Well, monseigneur, I have come to ask a favour of you, or rather an act of justice."
"What is it?"
"To give me your presence at my first representation.... A year ago, your Highness was informed that I was an empty-headed, vain fool; for a year I have been working as a humble poet; without giving me a hearing, monseigneur, you have sided with those of your retinue who have been my accusers—perhaps your Highness should have waited, but your Highness thought otherwise and did not wait. To-morrow things will be put to public trial; all I come to beg of you, monseigneur, is that you will be present at the sentence."