MY MEMOIRS
BY
ALEXANDRE DUMAS
TRANSLATED BY
E. M. WALLER
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
ANDREW LANG
IN SIX VOLUMES
VOL. IV
1830 TO 1831
WITH A FRONTISPIECE
NEW YORK
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1908
Thomas Alexandre Dumas
General in the army of the French Republic.
Born at Jérémie in America, March 25th 1762.
CONTENTS
BOOK I
CHAPTER I
Mademoiselle Georges' house—Harel and Jules Janin—Young Tom and Popol—The latter's prayer against cholera—Georges' Oriental style of living—Her cleanliness—Harel's fault to the contrary—Twenty-four thousand francs flung out of the window—Saint Anthony—Piaff-Piaff—His dissoluteness—His death—His funeral oration [1]
CHAPTER II
M. Briffaut, Censor and Academician—History of Ninus II.—M. de Lourdoueix—The idea of Antony—The piece received by the Français is stopped by the Censorship—The Duc de Chartres—Negotiations for his presence with that of his two brothers at the first representation of Christine—Louët—An autograph of the Prince Royal [9]
CHAPTER III
The first representation of Hernani—The old ace of spades—The old man has a quarrel—Parodies—Origin of the story of Cabrion and of Pipelet—Eugène Sue and Desmares—Soulié returns to me—He offers me fifty of his workmen in the capacity of applauders—First representation of Christine—A supper at my lodgings—Hugo and de Vigny correct the objectionable lines [23]
CHAPTER IV
A passing cab—Madame Dorval in the Incendiaire—Two actresses—The Duc d'Orléans asks for the Cross of the Legion of Honour on my behalf—His recommendation has no effect—M. Empis—Madame Lafond's Salon—My costume as Arnaute—Madame Malibran—Brothers and sisters in Art [34]
CHAPTER V
Why the Duc d'Orléans' recommendation on the subject of my croix d'honneur failed—The indemnity of a milliard—La Fayette's journey to Auvergne—His reception at Grenoble, Vizille and at Lyons—Charles X.'s journey to Alsace—Varennes and Nancy—Opening of the Chambers—The royal speech and the Address of the 221—Article 14—The conquest of Algiers and the recapture of our Rhine frontiers [44]
CHAPTER VI
The soirée on 31 May 1830 at the Palais-Royal—The King of Naples—A question of etiquette—How the King of France ought to be addressed—The real Charles X.—M. de Salvandy—The first flames of the volcano—The Duc de Chartres sends me to inquire into the commotion—Alphonse Signol—I tear him from the clutches of a soldier of the Garde royal—His irritation and threats—The volcano nothing but a fire of straw [54]
CHAPTER VII
A pressing affair—One witness lost, and two found—Rochefort—Signol at the Théâtre des Italiens—He insults Lieutenant Marulaz—The two swords—The duel—Signol is killed—Victorine and le Chiffonnier—Death steps in [61]
BOOK II
CHAPTER I
Alphonse Karr—The cuirassier—The medal for life saving and the Cross of the Légion d'honneur—Karr's home at Montmartre—Sous les tilleuls and the critics—The taking of Algiers—M. Dupin senior—Why he did not write his Memoirs—Signing of the Ordinances of July—Reasons that prevented my going to Algiers [67]
CHAPTER II
The third storey of No. 7 in the rue de l'Université—The first results of the Ordinances—The café du Roi—Étienne Arago—François Arago—The Academy—La Bourse—Le Palais-Royal—Madame de Leuven—Journey in search of her husband and son—Protest of the journalists—Names of the signatories [77]
CHAPTER III
The morning of July 27—Visit to my mother—Paul Foucher—Amy Robsart—Armand Carrel—The office of the Temps—Baude—The Commissary of Police—The three locksmiths—The office of the National—Cadet Gassicourt—Colonel Gourgaud—M. de Rémusat—Physiognomy of the passers-by [86]
CHAPTER IV
Doctor Thibaut—The Government of Gérard and Mortemart—Étienne Arago and Mazue, the Superintendent of Police—The café Gobillard—Fire at the guard-house in the place de la Bourse—The first barricades—The night [97]
CHAPTER V
The morning of the 27th—Joubert—Charles Teste—La Petite Jacobinière—Chemist Robinet—The arms used in Sergent Mathieu—Pillage of an armourer's stores—The three Royal Guards—A tall and fair young man—Oudard's fears 105
CHAPTER VI
The aspect of the rue de Richelieu—Charras—L'École polytechnique—The head with the wig—The café of the Porte Saint-Honoré—The tricoloured flag—I become head of a troop—My landlord gives me notice—A gentleman who distributes powder—The captain of the 15th Light Infantry [114]
CHAPTER VII
The attack on the Hôtel de Ville—Rout—I take refuge at M. Lethière's—The news—My landlord becomes generous—General La Fayette—Taschereau—Béranger—The list of the Provisional Government—Honest mistake of the Constitutionnel [125]
CHAPTER VIII
Invasion of the Artillery Museum—Armour of François I.—Charles IX.'s arquebuse—La place de l'Odéon—What Charras had been doing—The uniform of the École polytechnique—Millotte—The prison Montaigu—The barracks of l'Estrapade—D'Hostel—A Bonapartist—Riding-master Chopin—Lothon—The general in command [134]
CHAPTER IX
Aspect of the Louvre—Fight on the Pont des Arts—The dead and wounded—A cannon ball for myself—Madame Guyet-Desfontaines—Return from the Babylone barracks—Charras's cockade—The taking of the Tuileries—A copy of Christine—Quadrille danced in the Tuileries court—The men who made the Revolution of 1830 [149]
BOOK III
CHAPTER I
I go in search of Oudard—The house at the corner of the rue de Rohan—Oudard is with Laffitte—Degousée—General Pajol and M. Dupin—The officers of the 53rd Regiment—Interior of Laffitte's salon—Panic—A deputation comes to offer La Fayette the command of Paris—He accepts—Étienne Arago and the tricoloured cockade—History of the Hôtel de Ville from eight in the morning to half-past three in the afternoon [164]
CHAPTER II
General La Fayette at the Hôtel de Ville—Charras and his men—"The Prunes of Monsieur"—The Municipal Commission—Its first Act—Casimir Périer's bank—General Gérard—The Duc de Choiseul—What happened at Saint-Cloud—The three negotiators—It is too late—M. d'Argout with Laffitte [175]
CHAPTER III
Alexander de la Borde—Odilon Barrot—Colonel Dumoulin—Hippolyte Bonnelier—My study—A note in Oudard's handwriting—The Duc de Chartres is arrested at Montrouge—The danger he incurred and how he was saved—I propose to go to Soissons to fetch gunpowder—I procure my commission from General Gérard—La Fayette draws up a proclamation for me—The painter bard—M. Thiers to the fore once more [187]
CHAPTER IV
Gee up, Polignac!—André Marchais—Post-master at Bourget—I display the Tricolour on my carriage—Bard joins me—M. Cunin-Gridaine—Old Levasseur—Struggle with him—I blow out his brains!—Two old acquaintances—The terror of Jean-Louis—Our halt at Villers-Cotterets—Hutin—Supper with Paillet [203]
CHAPTER V
Arrival at Soissons—Strategic preparations—Reconnaissance round the magazine—Hutin and Bard plant the tricolour flag upon the cathedral—I climb the wall of the powder magazine—Captain Mollard—Sergeant Ragon—Lieutenant-Colonel d'Orcourt—Parleys with them—They promise me neutrality [217]
CHAPTER VI
How matters had proceeded with the sacristan—The four-inch gun—Bard as gunner—The commander of the fort—Lieutenant Tinga—M. de Lenferna—M. Bonvilliers—Madame de Linières—The revolt of the negroes—The conditions upon which the commander of the fort signed the order—M. Moreau—M. Quinette—The Mayor of Soissons—Bard and the green plums [224]
CHAPTER VII
The Mayor of Soissons—The excise-office powder—M. Jousselin— The hatchet belonging to the warehouse-keeper—M. Quinette—I break open the door of the powder magazine—Triumphant exit from Soissons—M. Mennesson attempts to have me arrested—The Guards of the Duc d'Orléans—M. Boyer—Return to Paris—"Those devils of Republicans!" [234]
CHAPTER VIII
First Orléanist proclamation—MM. Thiers and Scheffer go to Neuilly—The evening at Saint-Cloud—Charles X. revokes the Ordinances—Republican deputation at the Hôtel de Ville—M. de Sussy—Audry de Puyraveau—Republican proclamation—La Fayette's reply to the Duc de Mortemart—Charras and Mauguin [245]
CHAPTER IX
Philippe VII.—How Béranger justified himself for having helped to make a King—The Duc d'Orléans during the three days—His arrival in Paris on the evening of the 30th—He sends for M. de Mortemart—Unpublished letter by him to Charles X.—Benjamin Constant and Laffitte—Deputation of the Chamber to the Palais-Royal—M. Sébastiani—M. de Talleyrand—The Duc d'Orléans accepts the Lieutenant-Generalship of the Kingdom—Curious papers found at the Tuileries [239]
CHAPTER X
The Duc d'Orléans goes to the Hôtel de Ville—M. Laffitte in his sedan-chair—The king sans culotte—Tardy manifestation of the Provisional Government—Odilon Barrot sleeps on a milestone—Another Balthasar Gérard—The Duc d'Orléans is received by La Fayette—A superb voice—Fresh appearance of general Dubourg—The balcony of the Hôtel de Ville—The road to Joigny [276]
BOOK IV
CHAPTER I
M. Thiers' way of writing history—Republicans at the Palais-Royal—Louis-Philippe's first ministry—Casimir Périer's cunning—My finest drama—Lothon and Charras—A sword-thrust—The posting-master of Bourget once more—La Fère—Lieutenant-Colonel Duriveau—Lothon and General La Fayette [284]
CHAPTER II
Letter of Charles X. to the Duc d'Orléans—A conjuring trick—Return of the Duc de Chartres to the Palais-Royal—Bourbons and Valois—Abdication of Charles X.—Preparations for the expedition of Rambouillet—An idea of Harel—The scene-shifters of the Odéon—Nineteen persons in one fiacre—Distribution of arms at the Palais-Royal—Colonel Jacqueminot [309]
CHAPTER III
Mission of four commissioners to Charles X.—General Pajol—He is appointed commander of the Paris Volunteers—Charras offers to be his aide-de-camp—The map of Seine-et-Oise—The spies—The hirer of carriages—Rations of bread—D'Arpentigny—The taking of the artillery of Saint-Cyr—Halt at Cognières—M. Detours [320]
CHAPTER IV
Boyer the Cruel—The ten thousand rations of bread—General Exelmans and Charras—The concierge at the prefecture of Versailles—M. Aubernon—Colonel Poque—Interview of Charles X. with MM. de Schonen, Odilon Barrot and Marshal Maison—The Royal Family leave Rambouillet—Panic—The crown jewels—Return to Paris [332]
CHAPTER V
Harel's idea—It is suggested I should compose La Parisienne—Auguste Barbier—My state of morals after the Three Days—I turn solicitor—Breakfast with General La Fayette—My interview with him—An indiscreet question—The Marquis de Favras—A letter from Monsieur—My commission
CHAPTER VI
Léon Pillet—His uniform—Soissonnais susceptibility—Hard returns to the charge with his play—I set out for la Vendée—The quarry—I obtain pardon for a coiner condemned to the galleys—My stay at Meurs—Commandant Bourgeois—Disastrous effect of the tricolours in le Bocage—Fresh proofs that a kindness done is never lost [354]
CHAPTER VII
A warning to Parisian sportsmen—Clisson—The château of M. Lemot—My guide—The Vendean column—The battle of Torfou—Two omitted names—Piffanges—Tibulle and the Loire—Gilles de Laval—His edifying death—Means taken to engrave a remembrance on the minds of children [368]
CHAPTER VIII
Le Bocage—Its deep lanes and hedges—The Chouan tactics—Vendean horses and riders—Vendean politics—The Marquis de la Bretèche and his farmers—The means I suggested to prevent a fresh Chouannerie—The tottering stone—I leave la Jarrie—Adieux to my guide [376]
CHAPTER IX
The Nantes Revolution—Régnier—Paimbœuf—Landlords and travellers—Jacomety—The native of la Guadeloupe and his wife—Gull shooting—Axiom for sea-bird shooting—The captain of la Pauline—Woman and swallow—Lovers' superstition—Getting under sail [384]
CHAPTER X
Story of Bougainville and his friend the curé of Boulogne [392]
CHAPTER XI
Breakfast on deck—Saint-Nazaire—A thing husbands never think of—Noirmontiers —Belle-Ile—I leave the two Paulines—The rope-ladder—The ship's boat—A total immersion—The inn at Saint-Nazaire—I throw money through the window—A batch of clothes—Return to Paris [409]
BOOK V
CHAPTER I
Confidential letter from Louis-Philippe to the Emperor Nicholas—The Czar's reply—What France could do after the Revolution of July—Louis-Philippe and Ferdinand VII.—The Spanish refugees—Reaction in the Home department—Scraping of the public monuments—Protest [418]
CHAPTER II
The drama of Saint-Leu—The bravery of the Duc d'Aumale—The arrest of MM. Peyronnet, Chantelauze, Guernon-Ranville and Polignac—Madame de Saint-Fargeau's servant—Thomas and M. de Polignac—The ex-ministers at Vincennes—The abolition of the death penalty in the Chamber—La Fayette—M. de Kératry—Salverte—Death to the ministers—Vive Odilon Barrot and Pétion! [429]
CHAPTER III
Oudard tells me that Louis-Philippe wishes to see me—Visit to M. Deviolaine—Hutin, supernumerary horse-guardsman—My interview with the king about la Vendée and the policy of juste milieu—Bixio an artilleryman—He undertakes to get me enrolled in his battery—I send in my resignation to Louis-Philippe [443]
CHAPTER IV
First performance of la Mère et la Fille—I have supper with Harel after the performance—Harel imprisons me after supper—I am sentenced to eight days' enforced work at Napoléon—On the ninth day the piece is read to the actors and I am set at liberty—The rehearsals—The actor Charles—His story about Nodier [457]
CHAPTER V
I am officially received into the Artillery Corps of the National Guard—Antony is put under rehearsal at the Théâtre-Français—Ill-will of the actors—Treaty between Hugo and the manager of the Porte-Saint-Martin—Firmin's proposition and confidence—Mademoiselle Mars' dresses and the new gas lights—I withdraw Antony from the Théâtre-Français—I offer Dorval the part of Adèle [472]
CHAPTER VI
My agreements with Dorval—I read Antony—Her impressions— She makes me alter the last act there and then—Merle's room—Bocage as artist—Bocage as negotiator—Reading to M. Crosnier—He falls into a profound slumber—The play nevertheless is accepted
APPENDIX[493]
THE MEMOIRS OF ALEXANDRE DUMAS
[BOOK I]
[CHAPTER I]
Mademoiselle Georges' house—Harel and Jules Janin—Young Tom and Popol—The latter's prayer against cholera—Georges' Oriental style of living—Her cleanliness—Harel's fault to the contrary—Twenty-four thousand francs flung out of the window—Saint Anthony—Piaff-Piaff—His dissoluteness—His death—His funeral oration
My Christine rehearsals had opened Mademoiselle Georges' house to me, as those of Henri III. had given me the entrée to that of Mademoiselle Mars.
The house that my good and excellent Georges occupied, No. 12 rue Madame, was, if I remember rightly, made up of very original inhabitants. First of all, in the attics lived Jules Janin, the second tenant. Then came Harel, the principal tenant, who lived on the second floor. And on the first and ground floors were Georges, her sister and her two nephews. One of these two nephews, who is now a tall, fine, clever-looking young fellow who bears the name of Harel, had for a long time figured regularly on his aunt's playbills, both in the provinces and in Paris, for she could not do without him, either at the theatre or about town.
My readers will recollect the phrase which never varied for five or six years running—
"Young Tom, aged ten, will take the part of," etc.
The other names would vary from that of Joas to that of Thomas Diafoirus; but the age never varied: young Tom was always ten.
We ought to be fair to young Tom; he hated acting and, every time he had to go on the stage, he would mutter between his teeth—
"Curse the theatre! If only it could be burnt down!"
"What is that you are saying, Tom?" Mademoiselle Georges would ask.
"Nothing, aunt," Tom would reply; "I am only repeating my part."
His brother Paul, who was called "le petit Popol," was by far the funniest looking object that was ever seen: he had a charming head, with fine dark eyes and long chestnut hair, but his body was too small to carry the head. This disproportion gave the child a very grotesque appearance: he was immensely clever, a gourmand like Grimod de la Reynière, and the very opposite of Tom in that he would have stuck to the stage all his life, if he could only have managed to get plenty to eat thereby.
At the time when I first became acquainted with him, he was only a little monkey of six or seven years of age, and already he had devised a way of establishing a credit account at the café at the corner of the rue de Vaugirard and the rue de Molière, by means of all sorts of ingenious excuses. One fine day it was found out that little Popol's account amounted to a hundred crowns! In three months he had run through three hundred francs' worth of all kinds of confectionery and drinks, which he had asked for in his mother's name, or in that of his aunt, and which he had eaten or drunk on staircases, in corridors or behind doorways. He it was who, in Richard Darlington, was placed in such a manner as to make him appear the height of an ordinary man, representing the Speaker of the House of Commons. In this capacity he had a bell at his right hand and a glass of eau sucrée at his left; he rang the bell with the gravity of M. Dupin, and drank the glass of eau sucrée with the dignity of M. Barrot. The little beggar never would learn his prayers, and this gave the Voltairian Harel immense delight; however, all at once (it was during an epidemic of cholera), they found out that little Popol said a prayer, morning and evening, which he had, no doubt, improvised to suit the occasion.
They were curious to know what this prayer was and, hiding themselves to listen, overheard the following:—
"O Lord God! take my Aunt Georges; take my Uncle Harel; take my brother Tom; take mamma Bébelle; take my friend Provost, but leave little Popol and the cook!"
But the prayer did not bring the poor little fellow the luck he fervently wished: cholera took him, and carried him off, with fifteen hundred others in the same day.
We have said who his brother Tom was; we have all seen how "mamma Bébelle" acted under the name of Georges the younger: now let us say a few words about Aunt Georges, the most beautiful woman of her day, and about Uncle Harel, the wittiest man of his time.
Well, Georges' aunt was a splendid-looking creature of about forty-one. We have already given a sketch of her portrait by the clever pen of Théophile Gautier. Her hands and arms and shoulders, her neck, teeth and eyes, were of indescribable charm and beauty; but, like the lovely fairy Melusina, there was a certain weariness visible in her movements which was increased by the wearing of far too long dresses—why, I know not, for her feet were as lovely as her hands.
Mademoiselle Georges' idleness, except in matters connected with the theatre, wherein she was always alert, was incredible, Tall and majestic, aware of her beauty, with two emperors and three or four kings for admirers, Georges loved to lie on a big couch, in velvet robes, furred pelisses and Indian cashmere shawls, during winter; in summer, in teagowns of batiste or muslin. Thus extended, in a pose that was always careless and graceful, Georges received the visits of strangers, sometimes with the majesty of a Roman matron, at others with the smile of a Grecian courtesan; whilst from between the folds of her dress, the openings of her shawls and the skirts of her teagowns, there would peep out the heads of two or three hares of the very best breed, looking like as many snakes' heads. Georges' love of cleanliness was proverbial: she would perform a preliminary toilet before she entered her bath, so as not to soil the water in which she stayed for an hour; here she received her familiar friends, fastening up her hair with golden pins, from time to time, when it came down; her splendid arms uplifted entirely free of the water, her throat and bosom seeming as though sculptured in Parian marble. And it was a singular thing that these actions, which in another woman would have been provocative and lascivious, were simple and natural in Georges, like those of a Greek of the time of Homer or Phidias; as beautiful as a statue, she looked simply like a statue surprised at its own nudity, and she would, I am sure, have been much surprised if a jealous lover had forbidden her to show herself thus in her bath, where, like a sea-nymph, she made the water heave with the motion of her shoulders and her white breasts.
Georges made everybody round her clean in his habits except Harel. But Harel was another matter altogether. Cleanliness meant an immense sacrifice to him, and this sacrifice he would only make under strong pressure and constraint. So Georges, who adored him, and could not do without his delightfully witty chatter at her ears incessantly, declared to all comers that it was only his mind she loved, and that, as to the rest of his personality, she left him free to do what he liked with it.
At that period Georges still possessed magnificent diamonds and, among them, two buttons which had been given her by Napoleon and which were each worth nearly twelve thousand francs. She had had them set as earrings and wore them in preference to all others. These buttons were so large that Georges very frequently, on returning home in the evening, after acting, took them off, complaining that they pulled her ears down. One evening, we returned with her and sat down to supper. When supper was over, we ate almonds; Georges ate a great number and, whilst eating, complained of the weight of these earrings, took them out of her ears and laid them on the tablecloth. Five minutes later, the servant came, brush in hand, to brush the crumbs off the table, swept earrings and almond shells together into a basket, and both earrings and shells were thrown clean out of the window into the street. Georges went to bed without remembering her earrings, and slept peacefully; philosophic though she was, she would certainly not have done this if she had known that her servant had thrown twenty-four thousand francs' worth of diamonds out of the window.
Next day, Georges the younger came into the room to wake her sister.
"Well," she said, "you may well boast of being lucky indeed! Look what I have just found."
"What is it?"
"One of your earrings."
"Where did you pick that up?"
"In the street."
"In the street?"
"Yes, my dear ... in the street, at the door.... You must have lost it when you came back from the theatre."
"No, I had them on at supper."
"Are you sure of it?"
"So sure that, because they tired me, I took them out and laid them by my side. What can I have done with them afterwards?... Where can I have put them?"
"Why, good gracious!" exclaimed Georges the younger. "I remember now: we were eating almonds and the servant swept the table with the brush."
"Ah! my poor earrings!" cried Georges, in her turn. "Go downstairs quickly and look, Bébelle!"
Bébelle was already at the bottom of the staircase and, five minutes later, she returned with the second earring, which she had found in the gutter.
"My darling," she said to her sister, "we are very lucky. Have a mass said, or some great misfortune will overtake us."
We have referred to Harel's dislike of cleanliness: it was universally well known, and he himself took a kind of pride in it; he was a man who delighted in contradictions and it amused him to enlarge upon this odd superiority. When he saw Georges lying on her couch surrounded by her well washed and combed dogs with their morocco leather collars round their necks, he sighed with ambition. For his ambition—and it was one he had often expressed but never realised—was to keep a pig! He considered Saint Anthony was the happiest of saints and, like him, he was ready to retire into a desert if Providence would condescend to allow him the same companion. As Harel's birthday approached, Georges and I decided to crown his modest desires: we purchased for twenty-two livres tournois a pig three or four months old; we put a diamond crown upon its head, a bouquet of roses at its side, rings of precious stones round its feet and, conducting it in state like a bride, we entered the dining-room at what we believed to be the most suitable moment to favour Harel with this sweet surprise. At the cries the new arrival uttered, Harel at once abandoned his conversation with Lockroy and Janin, attractive though it was, and ran towards us. The pig held a complimentary letter in one of its feet which it presented to Harel. Harel leapt upon his pig—for he guessed instantly that the pig was for him—pressed it to his heart, rubbed his nose on its snout, made it sit next him in Popol's high chair, tied it in the chair with one of Georges' scarves and began to stuff it with all sorts of dainties. The pig was christened there and then, and received from Harel (who vowed to undertake the obligations of a godfather towards his godchild) the euphonious name of Piaff-Piaff. That very night, Harel retired to his second storey with Piaff-Piaff and, as nobody had thought of the animal's bed, Harel carried away with him one of Georges' velvet gowns and made a litter of it for the pig. This theft led next day to a tremendous altercation between Georges and Harel, in which we, who were called in to judge between the two, sentenced Harel to pay Georges two hundred francs' indemnity for the night's use. The dress was sent to a shop, and page-boys' costumes were made out of it. Harel's love for his pig became quite fanatical. One day he came up to me at a rehearsal and said—
"Do you know, my dear fellow, I am so fond of my pig that I sleep with him!"
"So I understand," I replied. "I have just met your pig, who told me exactly the same thing."
I believe this was the only quip to which Harel never found a retort.
In common with all over petted animals, Piaff-Piaff grew conscious of his power, abused it, and one day things ended by turning out very badly for him. Piaff-Piaff, well fed, well housed, constantly petted, sleeping with Harel, attained to the honourable weight of a hundred and fifty pounds; which—for we calculated it—was fifty pounds more than Janin weighed, thirty pounds more than Lockroy, ten pounds more than I, fifty-five pounds less than Eric Bernard; it was decreed in a council from which Harel was excluded, that when Piaff-Piaff reached the weight of two hundred pounds he should be made into black pudding and sausages. Unfortunately for himself, each day he committed some fresh depredation in the house, which led to a general threat to hasten the hour of his demise, and yet, in spite of all these ill deeds, Harel's worship of Piaff-Piaff was so well known that the strictest resolutions always ended by granting him pardon. But, one day, Piaff-Piaff was prowling round a kind of cage where a magnificent pheasant was kept that I had given to Tom; the pheasant had the imprudence to poke its neck through two bars to peck at a grain of corn, and Piaff-Piaff stretched out his snout and bit off the pheasant's head. Tom was only a few steps off, saw the deed accomplished, and set up loud shrieks. But the pheasant, when decapitated, was only fit to be roasted. Piaff-Piaff, in attacking everybody else, had had the sense to respect Tom's property; he had, as we have said, frequently benefited by the plea of extenuating circumstances, but this last clumsy outrage left him no sympathiser, however eloquent, who could save him from being killed. Georges emphatically declared that he deserved death and no one, not even Janin, dared contradict the sentence. Judgment declared, it was decided to take advantage of Harel's absence to put it into execution, and, whilst everybody was hot against the offender, the butcher was sent for and told to bring his knife. Five minutes later, Piaff-Piaff raised shrieks loud enough to rouse the whole neighbourhood. The street door was held fast to keep Harel out if he happened to come back at that moment; but we had forgotten that the garden possessed an exit to the Luxembourg and that Harel might come in that way. Suddenly, as Piaff-Piaff was uttering the doleful notes which signified that his death was drawing near at hand, the door opened and Harel appeared, crying out—
"What are you doing to my poor Piaff-Piaff? What is the matter with him?"
"Well," said Georges, "your horrid Piaff-Piaff had grown too unbearable."
"Ah! poor animal! poor beast!" cried Harel; "they are cutting his throat!" Then, after a moment's pause, he said in sorrowful tones, "At any rate, I hope you told the butcher to put plenty of onions in the black pudding—I adore onions!"
And that was Piaff-Piaff s funeral oration.
[CHAPTER II]
M. Briffaut, Censor and Academician—History of Ninus II.—M. de Lourdoueix—The idea of Antony—The piece received by the Français is stopped by the Censorship—The Duc de Chartres—Negotiations for his presence with that of his two brothers at the first representation of Christine—Louët—An autograph of the Prince Royal
It was into the midst of such society as this, differing greatly in its humour from that of the Comédie-Française, that the rehearsals of Christine carried me. Just as in the case of Henri III., all our artist friends offered their services to me: Boulanger had designed one half the costumes and Saint-Ève the other, when suddenly we received the official intimation—"The piece is stopped."
First Marion Delorme was stopped, then Christine! Truly the Censorship was getting its hand in.
I went to the Ministry and found that my play was in the hands of M. Briffaut, author of Ninus II. The history of Ninus II. might surely make M. Briffaut indulgent to others. But forgive me, perhaps you do not know the history of Ninus II. I will tell it you.
M. Briffaut had, in 1809 or 1810, written a play under some title or other, the scene of which was laid in Spain. But it was stopped by the Censorship. A friend of M. Briffaut appealed to Napoleon against the decision of the Censors. Napoleon read the play and found it contained some lines in praise of Spaniards.
"The Censorship was right to forbid it," he said. "It does not at all suit me to have a people praised with whom I am at war!"
"But, sire, what is to become of the author?" the friend asked humbly and sympathetically. "He has composed but this one play and may never write another all his life long; he was counting upon this as an opening to many ambitions—sire, you will ruin his career!"
"Very well, then; if he puts his action, say, in Assyria, instead of in Spain, I will raise no objection; and, instead of calling his hero Pélage, he calls him Ninus I. or Ninus II, I will authorise it."
Now M. Briffaut was not going to be stopped by such conditions as these, so he called his play Ninus II.; then, wherever the word Spaniards came in, he altered it into Assyrians, and Burgos into Babylon: it made it awkward in altering the rhymes, but that was all;—and the play was authorised and played; it was, no doubt, on account of this herculean feat, that they made M. Briffaut a member of the Academy. He was, on the whole, a very good fellow, and not unduly proud of having done nothing—a superiority which renders many of my colleagues insolent.
We discussed at length, not the literary, but the political, defects of the unhappy Christine. It seemed she bristled with them; and the poor Censor, whose touch was very delicate, did not really know where to lay his hands on them. There was in particular this line which Christine recites in allusion to her crown—
"C'est un hochet royal trouvé dans mon berceau!"
which was looked upon as a crime. In that line, I was attacking the legitimacy, the divine right, the succession! I cannot tell you the number of things I was attacking in it! For the moment I fancy I must, without knowing it, have written my play in that fine Turkish tongue of which Molière gives us a specimen in Le Bourgeois gentilhomme, which is capable of expressing a great deal in very few words. Then there was the sending of the crown to Cromwell—a very dangerous suggestion for the Monarchy! It was in vain I protested that the incident was true to history; that Christine had really sent the crown to the Protector, who had had it melted down. To recall to humanity, which seemed to have forgotten the episode, that it had really taken place, was looked upon as a revolutionary and inflammatory act. Indeed, from M. Briffaut's manner of dealing with history in Ninus II., it was obvious he did not trouble himself much about historical facts. But, in spite of my discussions with M. Briffaut, pleasant as they were rendered by his affability, no progress was made, and thus, as Harel was pressed for time, I was prevailed on to try and engage the good offices of M. de Lourdoueix, the head of the Censorial staff.
I had been advised to get an introduction to M. de Lourdoueix by a lady of high repute who was one of his friends; I do not know what her name was, but I was given to understand that this was the only channel by which he could be got at; like Raoul, however, in the Huguenots, I was full of confidence in the justness of my cause; so, without any introduction whatever, I made an expedition to the South Side, where M. de Lourdoueix was to be found. I do not know whether M. de Lourdoueix had composed a Ninus III. or Ninus IV., whether he belonged to the Academy, or simply to the Caveau Club; but he was far from being as courteous in his manner as M. Briffaut. Our interview was a brief one; after five minutes' conversation, decidedly bitter on both sides, he said—
"After all, monsieur, it is no use your saying anything further; for as long as the Elder Branch is on the throne and I act as its Censor your work will be suspended."
"Very well, monsieur," I replied, bowing; "I shall wait!"
"Monsieur," M. de Lourdoueix ironically remarked, "that decision had been already arrived at."
"Then I repeat it," I said, and left him.
But it was a sufficiently serious threat: I had no longer the support of M. de Martignac, that man of resource. The Polignac Ministry had succeeded his, and I had no means of approaching the new President of the Council. So I waited; the only weapon left me was patience and, while I was waiting, one day when I was walking on the boulevard I suddenly stopped and said to myself—
"A man who, when discovered by his mistress's husband, kills her,—vowing that she had offered resistance to his addresses, and dying on the scaffold for the murder,—saves the wife's honour and expiates his crime."
The idea of Antony was found; and, as I believe I have said elsewhere, the character of the hero was suggested to me by that of Didier in Marion Delorme. Six weeks later, Antony was finished. I read the piece to the Français, but the reading did not receive a very warm welcome. I distributed my two leading parts between Mademoiselle Mars and M. Firmin; but it was quite evident they would rather I had chosen other interpreters for those characters. I sent the play to the Censor, and it was stopped like Christine. This made a brace of them. But, whether at the time there was a certain feeling of modesty which has since been lost sight of, or whether I had some friend at the background who was working for me—and I have always suspected the excellent and highly cultivated Madame du Cayla of having been that friend—whether, indeed, Harel really had the influence with the Government he made out, the play of Christine was returned to me without any very great alteration, early in March. They had even left in the famous line about the hochet royal, inflammatory though it was said to be, and the sending of the crown to the Protector, in spite of any possible catastrophe that might result from this historical reminiscence! So the interrupted rehearsals were taken up again.
However, in the midst of all my worries, I still went constantly to the Palais-Royal library, where I had made a new acquaintance. My fresh acquaintance was the Duc de Chartres. He was at that time a charming boy and has since become a charming prince; a bad enough scholar, whatever his masters may say;—and for fear lest, for the honour of the scholastic profession, they should give me the lie, I will just give, as illustration, an anecdote thereon. The Duc de Chartres was then, as I say, a winning lad of seventeen and, as I was twenty-seven, the difference of age between us not being as great as that between him and Casimir Delavigne, or between him and Vatout, it was to me he generally turned. Moreover, at this time my name was being talked about a great deal; all sorts of adventures were attributed to me, as a host of sayings have since been put down to my account. I had the passions of the African, they said, and they pointed to my frizzy hair and dark complexion, which neither could nor would deny its tropical origin. It all added to the curious interest felt towards me by a boy on the verge of manhood, who had sympathy towards Art as expressed by us, or, rather, as expressed by me, since at that date Hugo had not yet published anything in the dramatic line. Hernani was not to be performed until 25 February 1830, and the intimacy of which I am speaking began about the end of 1829. So the Duc de Chartres looked upon me as a man, if not of his own age, at least not so very much older, and whenever he could get away, he would come and have a chat with me. I should mention that the conversation was soon diverted and passed from Art to artists, from the play to actors, and that we were as much interested in discussing the relative merits of Mademoiselle Louise Despréaux, of Mademoiselle Alexandrine Noblet and of Mademoiselle Léontine Fay, as of Henri III. and Christine. But our meetings never lasted long, for, at the end of a few minutes, we heard the Duc d'Orléans chanting his mass, or some gentleman or other shouting out the name of the Duc de Chartres, and the young prince who, as a grown man, still trembled before the king, would run off through some hidden door, stammering—
"Oh, Monsieur Dumas, do not tell them you have seen me!"
Some time before the performance of Christine, he had expressed his anxiety to be present, with his two young brothers, at the production of my second drama; but he was afraid permission would not be granted him. Why did the poor lad come to me to help him? He came to beg me to tell the Duc d'Orléans of my wish that his children should be present at the performance of my play. I was quite prepared, on my side, to make this request; and, the first time I saw His Highness, I ventured to do so. The prince "hummed and hawed" a little, to express his mistrust with regard to the morality of a play which had ever come under the ban of the Censorship; but I reassured him as best I could; and, after a little pressure, I obtained leave for the young princes to be present at the performance. I took good care to go to the library on the Thursday following, for I felt certain I should see the Duc de Chartres there, and he came, but he was accompanied by M. de Boismilon; however, he managed to pass by me and to say in a whisper—
"We are going! Thank you."
But I have promised to give an anecdote illustrative of the idleness of the Duc de Chartres—a fault they did their utmost to hide from his father; the prizes young princes are usually loaded with serving to divert his suspicions.
I will keep my promise.
In 1835 I took a journey to Italy with Jadin. Our intention was to travel as real tourists, on foot, on horses or mules, in carriages, corricolo or speronare or by boat; in short, just as we could. We decided to leave France by way of the Gulf of Genoa; consequently, at Hyères, we hired a sort of driver who, for a hundred francs, was to take us to Nice, skirting the shores of the Gulf of Jouan, which would enable us to stop for half a day. Jadin intended to make a drawing of the shore where Napoleon had landed in 1815, meaning to have it engraved later. The vetturino had stipulated, as his share of our bargain, to be allowed to add four persons to our number, on condition that they offered no opposition to a first halt of five or six hours at Cannes, and a second halt at Grasse. Among the travellers accompanying us was a young man of twenty-four or twenty-five, who was clad in a blue dress coat, nankeen trousers, coloured stockings and laced shoes. In my Impressions de voyage, I gave him the name of Chaix; in my Memoirs, I must give him his real name, which was Louët. For a day and a half, he never addressed a word to us; but our conversation appeared to interest him enormously; he smiled at our jokes and listened attentively to our much rarer serious remarks. At table, his place was always laid by ours and, at our first sleeping-place, he arranged not to be separated from us by anything more than a partition. When we reached the Gulf of Jouan, he stopped and, whilst Jadin made his drawing, I flung myself into the water for a bathe. Just as I was undressing, Louët came up to me and, speaking to me for the first time, asked permission to bathe with me. I did not at first detect the punctilious politeness with which the request was put, and laughingly replied that he was perfectly free to do whatever he liked. He thanked me for the permission and took the most rational and least eventful of baths I ever saw, in three and a half feet of water; then, when the drawing and bathing were finished, we climbed into our carriage and slept at Nice that same night. Three of our companions had already left us, one at the heights of Draguignan and the two others at Grasse. Louët alone remained faithful to us as far as Nice, which surprised me the more as I had heard him tell the others who had accompanied him to the carriage, just as he was parting from them, that he was on his way to Paris.
Now Louët must have given a very wide meaning to the proverb, "Every road leads to Rome," if he could persuade himself so far as to think that the road from Toulon to Nice would take him to Paris. This strange conduct on the part of our travelling-companion roused Jadin's curiosity and mine, but it was at length explained by a request the vetturino made on Louët's behalf, who dared not put it to us himself. Louët had really started from Toulon to go to Paris, but he had been so charmed with our fascinating conversation on the journey that, instead of travelling only as far as Luc and there leaving for Draguignan and Castellane, he had told the vetturino that, as he had never seen Nice, he would go on to that place. When he reached Nice, he asked through the vetturino whether, as a great favour, we would allow him to continue the journey with us; hastening to tell us that his society should cost us nothing, for he would pay a third of whatever our expenses amounted to; the vetturino added, by way of parenthesis, that Louët, whom he knew, had just come into a legacy of about thirty thousand francs and was returning to Paris with it when he fell in with us: after which he did not see how he could find a better way of spending a portion of his money than in our society. The request was proffered with such graceful entreaty and Louët seemed such a good sort of young fellow that we did not even think of discussing the question, but intimated that we should be delighted to have his company; that, as he proposed, the expenses should be divided into thirds, and the very next day we would tell him our plan of travel, so that he might then see if our itinerary suited him. He replied that we need not trouble to give him such a programme, that he had no settled aim—it was us and not the journey he wanted—that, since we had honoured him with leave to accompany us, he would go to China with us, or wherever we wished. Certainly no one could have been more accommodating and, indeed, Louët went the entire Italian journey with us and proved himself throughout an excellent travelling-companion. I related this story in my Impressions de voyage with the light gaiety of narrative that is natural to me, and in 1838 I had a visit from Jadin.
"You will never guess who is coming to see you to-morrow...?" he began.
"I cannot."
"Louët."
"Nonsense!"
I had not seen Louët since my return from Italy three years before.
"Yes," Jadin went on, "and I am sent to announce the visit to you."
"What! is he by any chance coming to ask satisfaction from me for bringing him into my Impressions de voyage?"
"No, quite the reverse; he is delighted to figure in the book and is coming to ask a favour from you."
"Ah! he will be very welcome. What is it?"
"He wishes to tell you what it is himself."
"Good! I will expect him."
Louët came the next day, and was exactly the same excellent, simple fellow, except that he seemed to have advanced considerably in the art of dressing himself.
"Well, Louët, here you are! Why, my friend, you look like a millionaire."
"Yes, because I am better dressed than formerly; but, otherwise, it is exactly the reverse. I haven't a halfpenny."
"What? You haven't a halfpenny?"
"No. I risked my little fortune and lost it."
"Absolutely?"
"The whole of it."
"Ah! poor fellow!"
"So I have come to ask ..."
"What? Not for advice how to make a new fortune, surely?"
"No: for your influence."
"With the Government?" I asked, with growing astonishment.
"No."
"The king?" I asked, more surprised still.
"No."
"With the Duc d'Orléans?"
"Yes."
My countenance fell. I desired to keep the revered and loyal friendship I had vowed to the duke pure from all motives of interest, so that he might be sure of the genuine nature of my attachment; accordingly, every time I was asked to obtain some favour from the prince royal it caused me real pain.
"The Duc d'Orléans!" I repeated. "What in the world do you want me to ask the Duc d'Orléans on your behalf, my dear Louët?"
"Some small post...."
"A small post!" I repeated, shrugging my shoulders.
"He surely will not refuse you it," Louët added.
"On the contrary, my friend, he will refuse it me, because I shall be the first to tell him to refuse my request."
"Why?"
"Because you have no sort of claim upon the Duc d'Orléans—you do not even know him."
"Indeed I have some excuse, I do really know him," said Louët to me. "I was a college chum of his."
"At Henri IV.?"
"Yes."
"You are certain?"
"Why, of course."
"Would he remember you?"
"I was in the same class with him; besides, if he has forgotten me, I possess a little note in his own writing that will revive his memory."
"A note from him?"
"Look here: you shall see it for yourself"; and he showed me three lines on a scrap of foolscap in small handwriting containing these words:—
"MY DEAR LOUËT,—Translate for me from Ασκρωνδη as far
as ὅλoς, and I shall be infinitely obliged to you.
"DE CHARTRES"
I seized the paper eagerly.
"Oh!" I said, "that being the state of things, my dear Louët, you are saved, and I will answer for everything."
"You will undertake the matter for me, then?"
"With the greatest of pleasure."
"When shall you see the duke?"
"To-morrow morning."
"When shall I come back?"
"To-morrow at noon."
"I shall have my post?"
"I hope so."
"Upon my word, my dear sir, you will have done me an immense service."
"I will do it for you. Go and sleep soundly, without a care. And the day after to-morrow you will wake up with a salary of twelve hundred francs."
Louët went away with this pleasant prospect before him, and I wrote to the prince royal to ask him for an interview next morning. A quarter of an hour later, I received his assent. I was then lodging at No. 22 rue de Rivoli. My windows were exactly opposite those of the Duc d'Orléans and he often used to answer by a sign requests such as I had just addressed to him. Such demands on my part were seldom asked; I always waited until the prince sent for me, for I knew that the king, and particularly the queen, looked askance at my visits to their son. So, next day, when I presented myself to the prince, he said—
"Ah, here you are! Why the deuce are you in such a hurry to see me?"
"Ah, monseigneur, to ask a favour which I am sure you will grant me with great pleasure."
"For whom, or of what is it about?"
"I do not know, monseigneur, why you are so categorical with me; you know I am no purist."
"Never mind, it is a good thing to prove that, although prince royal, I have had a college education."
"Exactly, and it is of one of your college companions, monseigneur, I have come to speak."
"Is there a single one left, by any chance, without a berth?" he asked.
"Yes, monseigneur; I have discovered him."
"Oh! you! You are capable of discovering any mortal thing."
"Well, monseigneur, since I am the discoverer of the Mediterranean...!"
"Well, what more have you discovered now?"
"I have told you, one of your Royal Highness's college companions."
"What is his name?"
I drew the slip of paper from my pocket, ready for use at the first opportunity.
"Louët, monseigneur."
The duke uttered a cry.
"Oh! that dunce!" he said.
I looked at him with a smile and made a show of putting the paper back in my pocket.
"Then, monseigneur," I said, "that alters matters."
"How so?"
"I have nothing further to ask your Highness."
"Why?"
I shrugged my shoulders.
"Well, what is that slip of paper which you are putting back into your pocket and which you are dying to show me?"
"I am still very anxious to show it you, it is true, monseigneur."
"Very well, then, show it me!"
"I dare not."
"Give it me!"
I held out my hand towards the prince and with the greatest submission, I handed him the paper.
"Good!" he said; "it is sure to be some infernal machine."
"Read it, monseigneur."
The prince cast a glance at the scrap of paper and blushed red to his eyes.
He blushed very easily, and granting this to be a weakness in him, it was one he shared in common with the Duc de Nemours and the Duc d'Aumale.
"Ah! ah!" he said, when he had read it.
Then, looking at me—
"Well, what does that prove?" he said. "That I was a bigger dunce even than he."
"Monseigneur, you will, in that case, surely, do something to help your superior?"
"What do you want me to do?"
And at this he went quietly up to the fireplace, rolling the scrap of paper between his fingers.
"Well, monseigneur, I sincerely hope you will find him a post."
"Where?"
"Near your own person."
"In what capacity?"
"Why, if it were only as a future tutor to your children, he would translate for them from the Greek for Aσκρωνδη right on to λoς."
"Not that," he said; "but I have an idea."
"Upon my word, it does not surprise me."
Whereat the prince began to laugh.
"Do you think he would learn German?"
"He would learn anything you wanted, monseigneur."
"Very well. I will make him a secretary attached to Madame la Duchesse d'Orléans; when he knows German, he will translate the letters she receives from Germany ... that is the only post I have to offer him."
"When will the salary begin?"
"From to-morrow; tell him to call at Asseline's house."
"I thank you, both on his behalf and on mine, monseigneur."
He came nearer and nearer to the fireplace, rolling all the time the little bit of paper between his fingers. Finally he stretched out his arm towards the fireplace, but, holding my hand between the paper and the flames, I said—
"Pardon, monseigneur."
"What do you want?"
"That bit of paper...."
"Why?"
"It is my brokerage."
"What will you do with it?"
"I will have it framed."
"Oh, I know you are quite capable of doing that. Let me burn it."
"Monseigneur, I will hide it in a pocket-book and only show it once a week."
"Do you promise?"
"On my word of honour!"
"In that case, you can take it, and as you are longing to leave me to go and tell the good news to your protégé, go along with you."
"Oh, monseigneur, you shall not have the trouble of telling me twice."
"Go, go."
He waved me off with his hand, and I left him.
Poor prince! I have many anecdotes to tell of him like this one; and I mean to tell them. It was because of his goodness of heart and the loyalty of his patriotism that he became popular. And, when he died, I wrote these prophetic words:—
"God has just taken away the only obstacle that exists between the Monarchy and a Republic."
That is why you died, monseigneur: you were an obstacle: the Republic was a necessity.
[CHAPTER III]
The first representation of Hernani—The old ace of spades—The old man has a quarrel—Parodies—Origin of the story of Cabrion and of Pipelet—Eugène Sue and Desmares—Soulié returns to me—He offers me fifty of his workmen in the capacity of applauders—First representation of Christine—A supper at my lodgings—Hugo and de Vigny correct the objectionable lines
Hernani had been returned to Hugo almost without being examined; and we had not given them time to re-read it, as Taylor wanted to stage the play before his departure for Egypt. We were asked to hear it read before the Committee when the actors were present, as the play had been accepted beforehand.
The reading of Hernani made a profound sensation; nevertheless, I preferred, and still continue to prefer, Marion Delorme.
We were in the theatre by two o'clock on the day of the performance. We knew well enough that the victory achieved by de Vigny was not far-reaching. It was not of Shakespeare or Goethe or Schiller that sensible people were doubtful, it was of ourselves. What we wanted was a theatre that should be national, original, French, and not Greek or English or German; and this it was our mission to create.
Henri III., whether good or bad, was, at least, an original piece of work, drawn from our own chronicles, wherein traces of the influence of other theatres could be discerned, but no slavish imitation. Marion Delorme, which could not be got back from the Censorship, and Hernani, which was soon to be played, were both pieces of the same type. But Henri III. was intrinsically a stronger piece of work, whereas Hernani and Marion Delorme were more remarkable for their style.
Unluckily, French comedians were rigid in certain of their traditionary habits: it was usually quite an impossibility to get them to pass from tragedy to comedy without their making some dreadful slip in expression or even intonation. We have recounted the anecdote of Michelet and the four lines with reference to the cupboard scene. We ought also to mention that, in Hugo's work, comedy and tragedy often intermingle without any intermediate stages, and that this renders the interpretation of his thought more difficult than if he had attempted to set up an ascending or descending scale to bridge over the gulf between familiarity and grandeur of situation.
The English language, when rhymed, scanned and divided into short or long syllables, has a great advantage over ours, of which advantage Shakespeare availed himself to the full: his plays were generally written in three styles—in prose, in blank verse and in rhymed verses. Now, the people, the lower classes, talk in prose; the middle classes in blank verse; and princes and kings in rhyme. Moreover, if the ideas of the plebeian become exalted as he speaks, Shakespeare puts at his disposition two ascending styles in which to express his thoughts; if baser thoughts spring to the lips of kings and princes, he allows himself the liberty of making use of the language of the common people, or even of the middle classes, rather than injure that particular expression of thought. But the public that listens to our work knows nothing at all of these matters and is quite indifferent to all these shades of distinction: they merely come to applaud or to hiss; they applaud or hiss, that is all.
The first performance of Hernani left a unique impression upon theatrical annals; the suspension of Marion Delorme, the talk there had been about Hernani, had excited public curiosity to the highest pitch, and they were right in looking forward to a stormy night. The people attacked before they had heard a word, and defended without understanding what they were defending. When Hernani learns from Ruy Gomez that he has entrusted his daughter to Charles V., he exclaims—
"... Vieillard stupide, il l'aime!"
M. Parseval de Grandmaison, who was a little deaf, mistook it for
"Vieil as de pique, il l'aime!"
("Old ace of spades, he loves her!")
and, in his unaffected indignation, he could not refrain from shouting out—
"Oh! but really that is going a little too far!"
"What is going too far, monsieur?" my friend Lassailly inquired, who was on his left and had heard M. Parseval de Grandmaison's remark, but had not caught what Firmin said.
"I say, monsieur," the Academician replied, "that it is going a little too far to call a respectable, worthy old man like Ruy Gomez de Silva, 'old ace of spades'!"
"What! It is too strong an expression?"
"Yes, say what you like, it is not good taste, especially coming from such a young man as Hernani."
"Monsieur," Lassailly replied, "he had a right to say so. Cards were invented—they were invented in the time of Charles VI.; Monsieur l'Académicien, if you are not aware of that fact, I acquaint you with it. Hurrah for the old ace of spades! Bravo, Firmin! Bravo, Hugo! Ah!"
You can understand how hopeless it was to attempt to reply to people who attacked and defended in this fashion.
Hernani met with great success, although it was more strongly contested than Henri III. It is simple enough to find the reason for this: beauties of form and style are least readily appreciated by the vulgar mind, and these were Hugo's particular charms. On the other hand, these beautiful touches, being purely artistic, made a great impression on us, and on me in particular.
Hernani received all the tributes customary to triumph: it was outrageously attacked, and defended with equal violence; it was parodied with a clever astuteness directed against the traditionary dramatic customs, under the title of Arnali, ou la Contrainte par Cor (Arnali, or Constraint by Acclamation), a French work translated from the Gothic. And with regard to parodies,—let us make note of a historical fact, the date of which might else be lost in the mists of time, if we did not jot it down here.
The story—for such it is—of Cabrion and of M. Pipelet goes back to the month of March 1829. This is what happened, and it caused so much uneasiness to the porters of Paris that they have remained a melancholy race ever since!
Henri III., foreordained to meet with a great success, or at any rate to make a sensation, had also to have its parody; to facilitate the execution of this important work, I had sent my manuscript in advance to de Leuven and Rousseau; then, at their request, I had worked with them at the piece to the best of my ability, and we called it Le Roi Dagobert et sa Cour. But the Censorship regarded this title as lacking in respect to the descendant of Dagobert. The descendant of Dagobert, that worthy company which bears, for arms, scissors sable upon a field argent, meant His Majesty Charles X. It confused descendant with successor, but gentlemen on committees of examination are known to be above the consideration of such a mere trifle as that. So we altered the title to that of La Cour du roi Pétaud, to which the Censorship raised no objection. Just as if nobody were descended from le roi Pétaud!
So the parody of Henri III. et sa Cour was played at the Vaudeville under this title. It parodied the play, scene for scene. Now, at the conclusion of the fourth act, the farewell scene between Saint-Mégrin and his servant was parodied by one between the hero of the parody (unfortunately I have forgotten his name) and his porter. In this extremely tender, touching and sentimental scene, the hero asks the porter for a lock of his hair to the tune of Dormez donc; mes chères amours! which was all the rage just then, and most appropriate to the situation. On the night of the performance everybody went away singing the refrain and the words of the song. Three or four days afterwards, a party of us were dining at Véfours, including de Leuven, Eugène Sue, Desforges, Desmares, Rousseau, several others and myself. At the end of the dinner, which had been exceedingly lively, we sang the famous refrain in chorus:—
"Portier, je veux
De tes cheveux!"
Eugène Sue and Desmares decided to carry into effect this flight of our imagination and, as they entered the house, No. 8 rue de la Chaussée-d'Antin, where Eugène Sue knew the name of the concierge, they asked the good man if his name were not M. Pipelet. He answered in the affirmative. Then, in the name of a Polish princess who had seen him and fallen desperately in love with him, they asked, with many entreaties, for a lock of his hair, and, to get rid of them, the poor Pipelet ended by giving it them. He was a lost man, after he had committed such a weakness! That same evening three other requests were addressed to him on behalf of a Russian princess, a German baroness and an Italian marchioness; and, every time the request was put to him, an invisible choir sang under the great doorway—
"Portier, je veux
De tes cheveux!"
The joke was continued the next day; we sent everybody we knew to ask Master Pipelet for a lock of his hair, so that he eventually only answered the bell with horror, whilst to no purpose whatever did he remove from his door the traditional notice—
Address yourself to the Porter.
On the following Sunday, Eugène Sue and Desmares decided to give the poor devil a serenade on a grand scale: they entered the courtyard on horseback, with guitars in their hands, and began singing the persecuting air. But, as we said, it was Sunday, and, the householders being away in the country, the porter quite expected they would try to embitter his Sabbath as on other days, not allowing him the rest God had conceded to Himself. Having informed every servant throughout the house, he slipped behind the singers, shut the street door and made a pre-arranged signal, whereupon five or six servants ran to his assistance, and the troubadours were compelled to turn their musical instruments into weapons of defence: they came away with nothing but the necks of their guitars in their hands. Nobody ever knew the details of this fight, which must have been a terrible one; the combatants kept it to themselves; but it was known to have happened; and the porter of the rue de la Chaussée-d'Antin was voted a literary outlaw. From that moment the wretched man's life became a premature hell to him: even his night's rest was not respected; for every belated littérateur had to take an oath to return home by way of the rue de la Chaussée-d'Antin, were he living even at the Barrière du Maine. The persecution endured for over three months; at the end of that time a new face appeared to answer the accustomed demand: Pipelet's wife came weeping to the grating to say that her husband had fallen a victim to this persecution and had been carried off to a hospital with an attack of brain fever. The unlucky man was in a delirium and, in his raving, repeated incessantly, over and over again, the refrain that had cost him his reason and his health. This, then, is the real truth about the celebrated persecution of the Pipelets, which made a great sensation during the years 1829 to 1830.
Now let us return to Christine. When the play was returned from the Censorship it was rehearsed with a will. Romanticism, which had taken possession of the Théâtre-Français, had just spread to the other side of the Seine and had turned aside from the Academy—as in the case of a fortress which a great general scorns to attack at a time of invasion—and threatened to carry the Odéon by assault.
It was creating quite a revolution in the Latin quarter. Further, in order to give more effect to the next performance, Harel constantly suspended the play—a means of advertisement and a way of publishing hitherto quite unknown.
On the morning of the general rehearsal I received a line from Soulié; it was, with the exception of the slight correspondence previously mentioned and the sending of places for Roméo et Juliette, the only sign of his existence he had given me for a year. He asked me for a pass for this rehearsal. I sent him at once a pass for himself and any of his friends who might wish to accompany him. The rehearsal took place the same night. Now, in those days, general rehearsals were actual performances of the play as it would be presented finally. Friends were not yet sick of it, success had not made them indifferent or jealous, and there really seemed to be a general interest taken in the outcome of some of them. The cause we were upholding was that of every obscure aspirant who hoped to become famous some day; and they would share a good deal of the influence acquired by us, in order to make their path more sure and brilliant. Egotism made them devotees. So the general rehearsal of Christine was an enthusiastic success.
I left the orchestra after the fifth act, and went to pay my respects to Soulié. He was greatly moved and held out his arms to me. I embraced him with deep emotion; it had distressed me to be on cool terms with a man whom I loved and whose talent I admired more than others did, because, better than others, I appreciated that talent.
"Ah!" said he, "you were certainly well advised in writing your Christine alone. It is an admirable piece of work, but parts of it suffer as regards composition; that will come. Some day you will be our leading dramatist, and we your humble servants."
"Come now, my dear friend," I said, "you must be mad to say such things!"
"Not so; I mean what I say, upon my honour. To tell you that it gives me immense pleasure would be going too far; you would not believe me, but nevertheless it is so."
I thanked him.
"Look here," he said, "let us talk seriously: I know there is a plot organised against your play and that they are going to make it hot for you to-morrow night."
"Oh, I felt certain of it."
"Have you fifty places left in the pit?"
"Yes."
"Then let me have them and I will bring all my workmen from the sawmill, and we will back you up against them, never fear!"
I gave him a packet of tickets without counting them, and, as they were waiting for me on the stage, I again embraced him and we parted.
I think this man possessed certain brotherly and trusting qualities which one looks for in vain in theatrical circles: he who had been hissed three or four months previously in the same theatre, and under similar circumstances, now asked his rival for fifty places, in order to back up a play the success of which would but intensify the failure of his own, and from a rival who, with lavish generosity, gave him at once, without the slightest hesitation or misgivings, a pile of tickets quite sufficient in number to ruin the best play in the world if they fell into the wrong hands. We were, probably, rather absurd figures, but we were unquestionably well-meaning.
As no delay had been considered necessary, the play was performed the next day.
Frédéric had told me the truth. There had been organised by someone—by whom I had not the slightest idea, perhaps spontaneously and without any other incentive than the hatred borne towards us—the roughest sort of opposition I ever witnessed. As usual, I was present in a box at my first night, so I lost none of the incidents of that terrible battle which raged for seven hours; during which the play was knocked down a dozen times and always rose up again, ending at two in the morning by forcing the panting, horrified and scared public to go down on its knees.
Oh! I repeat it with an enthusiasm that has not diminished after twenty-five years of fighting, and in spite of my fifty or more triumphant successes, the contest between the genius of man and the ill-will of the crowd, the vulgarity of the audience, the hatred of enemies, is a grand and splendid spectacle. There is an immense satisfaction in dramatic quarters in feeling the opposition forced down on its knees and slowly made to bite the dust in utter defeat. Oh! what pride would victory produce, if it were not that, amongst honest men, it is a cure for vanity!
It is quite impossible to give any idea of the effect that the arrest of Monaldeschi produced on the audience, after the monologue of Sentinelli at the window, which had been hooted at. The whole theatre burst into roars of applause, and when, in the fifth act, Monaldeschi, saved by the love of Christine, sends the poisoned ring to Paula, there were furious outcries against the cowardly assassin, which were turned into frantic cheers when they saw him drag himself, wounded and bleeding, to the feet of the queen, who, in spite of his supplications and prayers, gives utterance to this line, which Picard had pronounced impossible—
"Eh bien, j'en ai pitié, mon père.—Qu'on l'achève!"
At last the whole audience was won over and the success of the play was assured. The epilogue, which was calm, and cold, and grandiose, a kind of vast cavern with damp floors and I dank vaults, where I buried the bodies of my characters, detracted from its successful acceptation. Those guilty souls with blanched heads and dead affections, meeting one another again after thirty years' separation, the one without hatred and the other without love, gazing in wonder at each other and asking forgiveness for the crime they had perpetrated, presented a succession of scenes that were more philosophic and religious in spirit than dramatic in art. Confronted with my own work, I recognised my mistake; but, having erred, I must atone; so I cut out the epilogue, which was really the best piece in the whole work, as regards style, although far from being perfect. Let us hasten to say that the rest was not very striking; it was written in imitation of a language in which I had then only just begun to stammer, in faltering accents.
I had not lost sight of Soulié during the performance: he and his fifty men were there. Even if I had put a mask over my face, I should not have dared to do what he had done for the success of my play!
Oh! dear and loyal-hearted friend! Known to and appreciated by few, I, who did know and appreciate you during your lifetime, and defended you after your death, I still extol your virtues!
But to conclude my story: the whole of the audience left the theatre without a single soul being able to tell whether Christine was a success or a failure.
I had a supper-party afterwards, for any of my friends who liked to come. If we were not fully triumphant at the victory, we were, at all events, excited by the fight. There were about twenty-five of us to supper—Hugo, de Vigny, Paul Lacroix, Boulanger, Achille Comte, Planche (Planche, who had not yet been bitten by the dog of hatred, and who only later showed an inclination to madness), Cordelier-Delanoue, Théodore Villenave—and I know not who besides, of the noisy youthful crew full of life and activity that surrounded us at that time; all the volunteers belonging to that great war of invasion, which was not in reality as terrible as it pronounced itself to be, and, after all, only threatened to capture Vienna in order to obtain possession of the Rhine frontiers.