The celebrated Alphonse Karr, a devoted lover of flowers, took the trouble to make a “romancers’ garden,” composed of trees and flowers which contemporary novelists, finding the laws of nature too narrow for them, had described in their books. This imaginary garden owed to George Sand a blue chrysanthemum, to Victor Hugo a Bengal rose without thorns, to Balzac a climbing azalea, to Jules Janin a blue pink, to Madame de Genlis a green rose, to Eugene Sue a variety of cactus growing in Paris in the open air, to Paul Féval a variety of larch which retained its leaves during winter, to Forgues a pretty little pink clematis which flourished around the windows in the Latin quarter, to Rolle a scented camellia, and to Dumas the black tulip and a white lotus. The black tulip, it may be remarked, though unknown in Dumas’ day, has now become an accomplished fact.
Dumas, though not a botanist, had charming, if not very precise, notions about flowers,—as about animals,—and to him they doubtless said:
“Nous sommes les filles du feu secret,
Du feu qui circule dans les veines de la terre;
Nous sommes les filles de l’aurore et de la rosée,
Nous sommes les filles de l’air,
Nous sommes les filles de l’eau;
Mais nous sommes avant tout les filles du ciel.”
Dumas wandered much farther afield than the land of his beloved Valois. To Italy, to Spain, to Algeria, to Corsica, to Germany, and even to Russia. Mostly he made use of his experiences in his books of travel, of which “Les Impressions du Voyage” is the chief.
Who would read the narrative of the transactions which took place in Russia’s capital in the early nineteenth century, should turn to “Les Mémoires d’un Maître d’Armes,” or “Dix-huit Mois à St. Petersburgh.” It presents a picture of the Russian life of the time, in which—the critics agree—there is but slight disguise. Its story—for it is confessedly fiction—turns upon the fortunes of a young subaltern, who played a considerable part in the conspiracy of 1825, and, it has been said by a contemporary writer of the time, hardly any circumstance but the real name of the young man is disguised.
It is in the main, or, at least, it has for its principal incident, the story of a political exile, and it is handled with Dumas’ vivid and consummate skill, which therein proves again that the mere romancist had a good deal of the historian about him.
Besides the locale of “La Tulipe Noire,” Dumas takes the action of “The Forty-Five Guardsmen” into the Netherlands. François, the Duc d’Anjou, had entered Belgium and had been elected Duc de Brabant, Sovereign Prince of Flanders. At this time it was supposed that Elizabeth of England saw the opportunity of reuniting the Calvinists of Flanders and France with those of England, and so acquire a triple crown. Then follows an account of the attack on Antwerp, which resulted in final defeat of the French, and presents one of the most graphic descriptions of a battle to be found in the pages of Dumas. The historic incident of the interview in Duc François’ tent, between that worthy and the French Admiral de Joyeuse, is made much of by Dumas, and presents a most picturesque account of this bloody battle. The topography of Antwerp and the country around about is as graphic as a would-be painting.
“‘But,’ cried the prince, ‘I must settle my position in the country. I am Duke of Brabant and Count of Flanders, in name, and I must be so in reality. This William, who is gone I know not where, spoke to me of a kingdom. Where is this kingdom?—in Antwerp. Where is he?—probably in Antwerp also; therefore we must take Antwerp, and we shall know how we stand.’
“‘Oh! monseigneur, you know it now, or you are, in truth, a worse politician than I thought you. Who counselled you to take Antwerp?—the Prince of Orange. Who disappeared at the moment of taking the field?—the Prince of Orange. Who, while he made your Highness Duke of Brabant, reserved for himself the lieutenant-generalship of the duchy?—the Prince of Orange. Whose interest is it to ruin the Spaniards by you, and you by the Spaniards?—the Prince of Orange. Who will replace you, who will succeed, if he does not do so already?—the Prince of Orange. Oh! monseigneur, in following his counsels you have but annoyed the Flemings. Let a reverse come, and all those who do not dare to look you now in the face, will run after you like those timid dogs who run after those who fly.’
“‘What! you imagine that I can be beaten by wool-merchants and beer-drinkers?’