Between 1821 and 1822 Vatout wrote a book which was an enormous success. It was about the adventures of la Charte and was entitled Histoire de la fille d'un Roi. Later, he wrote Idée fixe, which was scarcely read; then, some sort of a novel called the Conspiration de Cellamare; finally, various publications about the royal châteaux. In all, nothing very striking; but nevertheless he was consumed with the desire to become an Academician, Scribe urging him to it. He reached his goal, poor fellow; but in the interval between his nomination and his reception, being as faithful to the royal cause during its exile as he had been in the heyday of its powerfulness, he went to pay a visit to the exiles at Claremont, where he was taken ill after dinner, and died twenty-four hours later! He died without having had the joy of sitting once in the Académie! Poor Vatout! No one, I am sure, did him greater justice or regretted him more than I did. I obtained Hugo's vote for him with much difficulty.
The whole of Parisian society knew Denniée, ex-ordonnateur-general, who, man of wit and pleasure-seeker as he was, talked as though his mouth were full of nutshells, and told a host of stories and anecdotes, each more strange and amusing than the last, with such a defective pronunciation that they acquired a convincing air of originality. He worshipped Mademoiselle Mars, who was very fond of him in return. If three days went Dy without Denniée being seen at her house, one asked what had become of him; for nothing but illness or an accident could, it was supposed, account for so long an absence.
Becquet was as well known as Denniée: perhaps he was even better known. He was one of the weekly contributors to the Journal des Débâts. He was exceedingly clever; but, as he got drunk regularly once a day, his intellect gradually became dulled. Two often quoted sayings of his will serve to illustrate the sort of respect and filial affection he had for his father. Once when Becquet the elder took his son to task concerning his unfortunate habit of drunkenness, saying to him.
"See, you wretch, how it is ageing you; you will be taken for my father, and I shall outlive you by ten years!"
"Ah!" Becquet languidly retorted, "why do you always say such disagreeable things to me?"
Becquet possessed another habit, that of contracting debts. He owed money to everybody, and this widespread indebtedness reduced his father to despair.
"Wretch!" he said to him, on another occasion,—this was old Becquet's usual term for his son, sometimes used as an adjective, at others as a substantive,—"Wretch!" he said, "by God and the devil, I cannot conceive how you can live like this."
"Stay, father," Becquet replied, "you have just mentioned the only two powers to whom I do not owe anything."
The day his father died—it is sad to relate that it was a festival-day for Becquet, who made merry in heart and purse—he dined at the café de Paris and ordered his menu like a man who is regardless of cost; but, when it came to the wine, he called the waiter; some doubt had probably arisen in his mind, and he wished the opinion of an expert.
"Waiter," he asked, "is the Bordeaux in mourning?"