"My dearly beloved brethren, as Charles X. is not a Christian, as he desires to keep the Charter, which is an Act contrary to religion, we ought not to pray for him, any more than for Louis XVIII., who was the founder of that Charter; they are both damned. Those who agree with me, please rise."
And three hundred listeners out of four hundred rose, and by that act declared that they were entirely of the same opinion as their priest.
Alas! If the Academy could have known what kind of man Baron Taylor was, whom the order of Charles X. had introduced into the sanctuary of the Comédie-Française! If it could only have guessed that he was to open its doors to MM. Alexandre Dumas, Victor Hugo and de Vigny,[1] it would have followed the curé Bergeron's example and excommunicated King Charles x. But it knew nothing at all about it.
The first bad turn the new commissioner of the king did to his patrons was to have M. Viennet's Sigismond de Bourgogne played, and M. Lemercier's Camille. I need hardly mention that both these plays fell flat. This did not discourage M. Lemercier: he decided to change his style of play, and began a melodrama called the Masque de poix. This elated M. Viennet, who, instead of changing his method, like his honoured confrère, made up his mind, on the contrary, to force his method into acceptance, and began by reading his Achille in the salons, a play which had been written twenty years before, and which had been accepted ten years ago.
"Do you not think my Achille is very heroic?" he said to M. Arnault, after one of these readings.
"Yes," replied M. Arnault, "as fierce as a turkey-cock!"
But very few men could be more brilliant at repartee than M. Viennet. It was like watching a tilting bout in the lists to hear him, save that he never retorted when his adversary missed fire. He certainly offered a favourable target for such attacks, and people were not slow to avail themselves of their opportunities. Once, at Nodier's house, he went up to Michaud.
"Tell me, Michaud," he began, in a manner that was peculiarly his own,—"tell me what you think, I have just finished a poem of thirty thousand lines."
"It will need fifteen thousand men to read them," replied Michaud.