"The Revolution! Gentlemen, you attack the Revolution! What folly! The Revolution includes the whole nation, except those who exploit it; it is our country, fulfilling the sacred mission of freeing the people entrusted to it by Providence; it is the whole of France, doing its duty to the world! As for ourselves, we believe in our hearts that we have done our duty to France, and every time she has need of us, no matter what she, our revered mother, asks of us, we, her faithful sons, will obey her!"
It is impossible to form any idea of the effect this speech produced; pronounced as it was in firm tones, with a frank and open face, eyes flashing with enthusiasm and heartfelt conviction. From that moment the cause was won: to have found these men guilty would have caused a riot, perhaps even a revolution. The questions put to the jury were forty-six in number. At a quarter to twelve, noon, the jurymen went into their consulting room: they came out at half-past three, and pronounced the accused men not guilty on any one of the forty-six indictments. There was one unanimous shout of joy, almost of enthusiasm, clapping of hands and waving of hats; everyone rushed out, striding over the benches, overturning things in their way; they wanted to shake hands with any one of the nineteen prisoners, whether they knew him or not. They felt that life, honour and future principles had been upheld by those prisoners arraigned at the bar. In the midst of this hubbub the president announced that they were set at liberty. There remained, therefore, nothing further for the accused to do but to escape the triumphant reception awaiting them. Victories, in these cases, are often worse than defeats: I recollect the triumph of Louis Blanc on 15 May. Guinard, Cavaignac and the students from the schools succeeded in escaping the ovation: instead of leaving by the door of the Conciergerie, which led to the Quai des Lunettes, they left by the kitchen door and passed out unrecognised. Trélat, Pescheux d'Herbinville and three friends (Achille Roche, who died young and very promising, Avril and Lhéritier) had got into a carriage, and had told the driver to drive as fast as he could; but they were recognised through the closed windows. Instantly the carriage was stopped, the horses taken out, the doors opened; they had to get out, pass through the crowd, bow in response to the cheering and walk through waving handkerchiefs, the flourishing of hats and shouts of "Vivent les républicains!" as far as Trélat's home. Guilley, also recognised, was still less fortunate: they carried him in their arms, in spite of all his protests and efforts to escape. Only one of them, who left by the main entrance, passed through the crowd unrecognised, Commissionaire Gourdin, who pushed a hand-cart containing his luggage and that of his comrades in captivity, which he carried back home.
This acquittal sent me back to my rehearsals; and it was almost settled for Antony to be run during the last days of April. But the last days of April were to find us thrown back into an altogether different sort of agitation. The law of 13 December 1830 with respect to national rewards had ordained the creation of a new order of merit which was to be called the Cross of July. There had been a reason for this creation which might excuse the deed, and which had induced republicans to support the law. A decoration which recalls civil war and a victory won by citizens over fellow-citizens, by the People over the Army or by the Army over the People, is always a melancholy object; but, as I say, there was an object underlying it different from this. It was to enable people to recognise one another on any given occasion, and to know, consequently, on whom to rely. These crosses had been voted by committees comprised of fighters who were difficult to deceive; for, out of their twelve members, of which, I believe, each bureau consisted, there were always two or three who, if the cross were misplaced on some unworthy breast, were able to set the error right, or to contradict it. The part I took in the Revolution was sufficiently public for this cross to be voted to me without disputes; but, besides, as soon as the crosses were voted, as the members of the different committees could not give each other crosses, I was appointed a member of the committee commissioned to vote crosses to the first distributors. The institution was therefore, superficially, quite popular and fundamentally Republican. Thus we were astounded when, on 30 April, an order appeared, countersigned by Casimir Périer, laying down the following points—
"The Cross of July shall consist of a three-branched star. The reverse side shall bear on it: 27, 28 and 29 July 1830. It shall have for motto: Given by the King of the French. It shall be worn on a blue ribbon edged with red. The citizens decorated with the July Cross SHALL BE PREPARED TO SWEAR FIDELITY TO THE KING OF THE FRENCH, and obedience to the Constitutional Charter and to the laws of the realm."
The order was followed by a list of the names of the citizens to whom the cross was awarded. I had seen my name on the list, with great delight, and on the same day I, who had never worn any cross, except on solemn occasions, bought a red and black ribbon and put it in my buttonhole. The red and black ribbon requires an explanation. We had decided, in our programme which was thus knocked on the head by the Royal command, that the ribbon was to be red, edged with black. The red was to be a reminder of the blood that had been shed; the black, for the mourning worn. I did not, then, feel that I could submit to that portion of the order which decreed blue ribbon edged with red,—any more than to the motto: Given by the King, or to the oath of fidelity to the king, the Constitutional Charter and the laws of the kingdom. Many followed my example, and, at the Tuileries, where I went for a walk to see if some agent of authority would come and pick a quarrel with me on account of my ribbon, I found a dozen decorated persons, among whom were two or three of my friends, who, no doubt, had gone there with the same intention as mine. Furthermore, the National Guard was, at that date, on duty at the Tuileries, and they presented arms to the red and black ribbon as to that of the Légion d'honneur. At night, we learnt that there was to be a meeting at Higonnet's, to protest against the colour of the ribbon, the oath and the motto. I attended and protested; and, next day, I went to my rehearsal wearing my ribbon. That was on 1 May; we had arrived at general rehearsals, and, as I have said, I was becoming reconciled to my piece, without, however,—so different was it from conventional notions—having any idea whether the play would succeed or fail. But the success which the two principal actors would win was incontestable. Bocage had made use of every faculty to bring out the originality of the character he had to represent, even to the physical defects we have notified in him.
Madame Dorval had made the very utmost out of the part of Adèle. She enunciated her words with admirable precision, all the striking points were brought out, except one which she had not yet discovered. "Then I am lost!" she had to exclaim, when she heard of her husband's arrival. Well, she did not know how to render those four words: "Then I am lost!" And yet she realised that, if said properly, they would produce a splendid effect. All at once an illumination flashed across her mind.
"Are you here, author?" she asked, coming to the edge of the footlights to scan the orchestra.
"Yes ... what is it?" I replied.
"How did Mlle. Mars say: 'Then I am lost!'?"
"She was sitting down, and got up."