The Odéon had been recently reorganised on new lines. Harel, whom we have seen attempting to seize Marion Delorme at Hugo's house by surprise, formerly secretary to Cambacérès, formerly sous-préfet of the department of l'Aisne, formerly préfet of the Landes, a political refugee in 1815, editor of the Nain Jaune in Belgium, in short, one of the most versatile men who ever lived, had just been appointed director of the Odéon, I believe in place of Éric Bernard. He had opened the theatre with Lucien Arnault's États de Blois, which did not meet with a great success, in spite of the sumptuous manner in which the piece had been mounted; and, being a good journalist and clever at handling the triple element which comprises the feuilleton, the short paragraph and the puff, Harel knew how to set the drums sounding in favour of my friend Frédéric Soulié's Christine à Fontainebleau.
I had not seen Frédéric since the night upon which we had parted with feelings of coldness towards one another and had each—decided to go on with our own Christines. Henri III. and its success and all the renown it had brought with it had passed without my hearing mention of Soulié's name. His Christine was finished and that was the last I heard of him. He had sent me two seats in the gallery for his Juliette and I had sent him two balcony tickets for my Henri III., and that was the extent of our exchange of politeness. I expected seats to be sent me for Christine, but, to my great astonishment, I did not receive them. Later, I found out that this was due to Harel, who feared I should do the play an ill turn, and so opposed tickets being sent me.
As I had no seat for the first production I made no effort to procure one for myself; and I went to bed quite satisfied that I should hear first thing next morning whether the play had been received with applause or hissed at. As a matter of fact, one of my good friends, a lad who had done nothing then beyond showing promise of talent but who has since made his mark, Achille Comte, came to my room at seven next morning. Poor Christine had fallen quite flat. Soulié, apparently, had conceived the notion of introducing an Italian bandit in the forest of Fontainebleau, and this had produced the most grotesque effect imaginable. The day before, I should have thought that this news would have delighted me after Soulié's treatment of me; but, on the contrary, it made me feel wretchedly miserable. The innocent and primitive friendships of our youth are the only real friendships.
The reading of Marion had not only impressed me deeply, but it had done me immense service: it had opened out to me hitherto undreamed-of poetic suggestions; it had revealed to me possibilities in the way of treating poetry of which I had never thought; finally, it had given me my first idea for Antony. The day after the reading of Marion Delorme I set to work with unusual courage. Before the music of the lines I had listened to the previous night had ceased ringing in my ears, I had started, inspired by the harmony of their dying strains; and the new Christine opened its eyes to the strains of the distant and melodious echo which still lived in my spirit, although the sound itself had ceased.
I must be allowed a brief digression on the subject of Christine: I give it as a study in manners and customs and I hope it will not be mistaken for boasting.
There was in those days, outside the literary world, a big fellow who was half an idiot, with a long crooked nose and legs like Seringuinos in the Pilules du Diable. He was, I believe, the son of an Orléans apothecary and he played the young Don Juan to chambermaids and daughters of the porter, whom he transformed into baronesses and duchesses in his elegies and sonnets; he wrote a novel which was published but, I am certain, was never read. This novel was entitled the Roueries de Trialph. His name was Lassailly.
There are certain people who acquire the odd privilege of introducing the grotesque into the most mournful and heartrending of scenes, and Lassailly was one of the most highly favoured of these purveyors of the ridiculous. Once, I had gone to bed and was writing the first scene between Paula and Monaldeschi and had got to these lines—
"Oh! garde-moi! je serai ta servante!
Tout ce qu'une amour pure ou délirante invente
De bonheurs, oui, pour toi, je les inventerai!
Quand tu me maudiras, moi, je te bénirai—
J'aurai des mots d'amour qui guériront ton âme;
Garde-moi! Je consens qu'une autre soit ta femme;
Je promets de l'aimer, d'obéir à sa loi;
Mais, par le Dieu vivant, garde-moi! garde-moi!..."
Suddenly I heard the door of my sitting room open and a howling being of some sort or other approached my bedroom; next I saw my bedroom door open and Lassailly entered, flinging himself on the carpet and tearing his hair. The apparition was so unexpected, so strange and even so terrifying that I stretched out my hand for the double-barrelled pistols I kept in a recess at the head of my bed. When I saw that it was Lassailly, I pushed the pistols back and awaited an explanation of this exhibition of buffoonery. The explanation was sad enough: the poor devil's father had thrown himself into the river and Lassailly had just learned both that his father had been drowned and that his body, after having been taken out of the water, was exposed at the Orléans Morgue, whence it could not be taken away without the payment of a certain sum of money. Lassailly had not a halfpenny towards this sum and he had come to ask it of me. At the sight of the son weeping for his father, who had met with his death in this deplorable manner, I could only visualize one mental picture: I was not so much impressed by the son's grief, which, however extravagant in expression, to the point of grotesqueness, was still, perhaps, sincere at bottom; but by the thought of the real, unforeseen and irreparable misery of the poor wretch that had been drawn from the waters of the Loire, pale and streaming, and sad, with eyes dimmed by death, and face smeared with river weeds, now laid on the damp stones of the Morgue. I did not attempt to console Lassailly: one does not offer comfort unless people ask for it. Rachel weeping for her children in Ramah, and filling the air with her lamentations, would not be comforted, because they were not.
"My friend," I said, "let us get to the most pressing part of the business. You want to go to Orléans, do you not? To bury your father? You say it will cost you a hundred francs; I think it will cost you more than that, and I would like to offer you as much as you will need; but I can only offer you as much as I possess.... Open that chiffonier drawer, which contains a hundred and thirty-five francs, take a hundred and thirty and leave me five...."