"All right, when you go, ask Anicet to come and see me.... I will try to do my best."
Anicet came to me in a quarter of an hour's time. He is a conscientious worker and an indefatigable hunter-up of things; no one could do his part more generously in a collaboration. I have already said that he brought me the plan of Térésa almost entirely done. I gave him the idea of Angèle; and, at the same time, it was he who discovered not Muller médecin but Muller malade de la poitrine, namely, the profoundly melancholy side of the work. The idea of Le Fils de l'Émigré was his; the execution—specially in the three first acts—was entirely mine. We did the two last acts together during 7 and 8 June.
On 9 June I read in a Legitimist newspaper that I had been taken with arms upon me in the affair at the Cloître Saint-Merry, judged by court-martial during the night and shot at three in the morning. They deplored the premature death of a young author of such hopeful promise! The news wore such a stamp of truth; the details of my execution, that I had, by the way, borne with the greatest courage, were so circumstantial; the information was derived from such a good source that, for the moment, I had my doubts and felt myself all over. For the first time the newspaper said something nice of me; but then the editor believed I was dead. I sent him my card and wrote on it, "Avec tous mes remercîments."
As my messenger went out, another came in, bringing a letter from Charles Nodier. It was couched in these terms:—
"MY DEAR ALEXANDRE,—I have at this moment read in a newspaper that you were shot on 6 June at three in the morning. Be so good as to tell me if it will prevent you from coming to dine to-morrow at the Arsenal, with Dauzats, Taylor, Bixio and in fact our usual friends.—Your very good friend,
CHARLES NODIER
"who will be delighted at the opportunity to ask you for news of the other world."
I made answer to my beloved Charles that I had just read the same news in the same paper; that I was not sure myself whether I was alive; but that, body or shade, I would be with him next day at the hour named. However, as I had not eaten much for the last six weeks, I added that it would be more a question of my shadow than my body; I was not dead, but distinctly very ill! Moreover, I had been warned by an aide-de-camp of the king that the possibility of my arrest had been seriously discussed; I was advised to go and spend a month or two abroad, then to return to Paris, and on my return no more would be said. My doctor gave me the same advice in hygiene as His Majesty's aide-de-camp gave me in politics. I had always had a great desire to visit Switzerland. It is a magnificent country, the backbone of Europe, the source of three great rivers which flow to the north, east and south of our continent. Further it is a republic, and, small as it was, I was not at all sorry to see a republic. Moreover I had a notion I should be able to turn my travels to account.
I went in search of Gosselin, to whom I offered to write a couple of volumes on Switzerland. Gosselin shook his head: according to him, Switzerland was a played-out country about which there was no more to write; everybody had been there. It was in vain I told him that if everybody had been there everybody would go, and that, supposing those who had been there would not read my book, I should at all events be read by those who were going; but I could not succeed in convincing him. I, therefore, decided to regard the two or three months I was to spend in Switzerland as time wasted. I sent Harel the last two acts of the Fils de l'Émigré; he gave me the 3000 francs promised, and I received a draft to draw upon him for another 2000 francs. At last, provided with a proper passport, I started on the night of 21 July.[1]
As will be well understood, I have no intentions of beginning over again here my Impressions de Voyage: I will only tell in my Memoirs what has not found a place in my first narrative, it will not be much for frankness is one of my qualities: it has made me many enemies, but I do not thank God any the less for having given me this virtue. The reader may, then, make himself easy: I am going to take him as rapidly as possible over the route on which, in my Impressions de Voyage, I was obliged to stop at every step.
The day after my departure from Paris, I arrived at Auxerre. The change of air began to produce its effect upon my health; at Auxerre, seated at the table where the diligence dinner was served, I regained a little appetite. An enormous dish of cray-fish drove away all my doubts! I ate, so I should not be long before I was better. I slept at Auxerre, wishful to give the good fairy we call Sleep time to complete his work. The ancients called Sleep the brother of Death; but, exact as they were in their definitions, in my opinion, they are ungrateful to Sleep: it is the restorer of strength; the source whence youth derives its energy, and health conceals its treasury. Ah, good gentle sleep of youth! how well one feels that thou art life! Lose love, lose fortune, even hope, if only sleep comes: for the time being, it will return to you all that you have lost. For the moment, I say, indeed; but it is exactly by means of the sorrow you take up again directly you open your eyes that you understand how sweet and potent sleep is!