ua 

 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 
 MAY TREAT MORRISON 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 ALEXANDER F MORRISON
 
 PlllLOSOPIII'RS AND ACTRESSES. 
 
 By ARSENE HOUSSAYE. 
 
 ^Villi braatifulh rii;;rav(>(l portraits of Voltaire and IHadamc de Parabcre. 
 
 coy TEXTS: 
 
 THK HOUSE OF SCAKUON. 
 ViihlAllli;, 
 
 ViM/rAiuii Axn MLLi;. he nviiv. 
 
 ASI'ASIA »THK KEl'Ulil.IC 01-" PLATO). 
 MADEMOI.-^ELLIO OAUfiSlN. 
 CALL' IT. LA TOUU. 
 
 KAOUL AND GADUIHI.LK. 
 MADE.MOISKLLI', I)ii .MAIUVAUX. 
 TH1-; .MAHnilONKSS- CAI'lllCI'.S. 
 THEMl.Sl'lllCSSUFUOUNILLE.SUlITJT. 
 C1I.\.MI()KT. 
 
 AllKLARl) ANM) ITELOLSE. 
 
 TllK DHATH OF ANDUE OHENIEH. 
 
 THE MAItyUlS DE ST. AULAIUE. 
 
 COLLE. 
 
 THE DAUGHTER OP SEDAINE. 
 
 FRUn!K)N. 
 
 I'.L.^NGINl. 
 
 AN UNKNOWN SCULPTOa. 
 
 VANDYKE. 
 
 SAPI'HO. 
 
 A LOST POET. 
 
 HANDS FILLED WITH ROSES. FILLED WITH GOLD, FILLED WITH BLOOD. 
 
 THE HUNDRKD AND ONE IMCTQllES OF TAUDIF, !• KlEND OF (MLLOT. 
 
 THREE I'.VGES IN THE LIFE OF MADAME DE PAKAUERE. 
 
 DIALOGUES OP THE DEAD UPON THE LIVING. 
 
 "The title of Ars.''ne lloussaye's volume is not to be literally undcratoofL 
 Tli-TL- id more iii it than falM at first upon tlie tyiiipaiiuui of our intelligence. Tlie 
 sc'.'ue anil aeiiou of the book are by no means restricted to academic K''ove8 and 
 th'-atri 'al g.een-rooms. Its author allows hinu( If jj. I'ater latitude. .Vdopting a 
 trittt mottii, he declares the world a stage. His i)lillo.sophers and actresses com- 
 prisj a multitude of classes an J characters ; he linds them everywhere. Artists 
 and thinkers, women of fashion and frequenters of courts, the lover of seifnce 
 and tlie favored of wit and beauty— the majority of all these, aicordlng to his 
 fantastical preface, are philosophers and actresses. Only on the stage and at the 
 Sorbonue, he luaUclously remarks, few aeti-esses and philo.sopliers are to be found." 
 
 —lildckwood's ila(jazim. 
 
 "We have here the most charming book we have read these many days. — so 
 powerful in its fascination that we have b ■en held for hours fiom our imperious 
 lal)ors, or nceilfui slumbers, by the entrancing iniliience of its pages. One of the 
 most desirable fruits of the proUIlc field of literature of the present season." 
 
 —Kvlectic. 
 
 ''Two brilliant and fascinating— we had almost said, bewitching— volumes, 
 combining information and amusement, the lightest gossip, with solid and ser- 
 viceable wisdom." 
 
 •' It is a most admirable book, full of originality, wit. Information, and philoso- 
 phy Indeed, the vividness of the book is extraordinary. The scenes and descrip- 
 tions are alisolately life-like."— Ai^^Twrt/ G'lZflU: 
 
 Two volumes, benutifully printed on superfine paper, tinil eleyantly 
 hinttifl, tin if'oriii ifitit this volume, Price $4,00, 
 
 Sent by mail, post-paid, on recLipt of price, 
 
 .'^ (;. W. DILLINGHAM, Tublislipr. NEW YORK, 
 ^^jgfj Successor to O. W. CAKLETON & CO.
 
 LOiDiae ^y
 
 MEN AND WOMEN 
 
 OF THE 
 
 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 BY 
 
 ARSENE HOUSSAYE 
 li 
 
 PART I. 
 
 
 3 » 11 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 G. W. Dillingha7it, Publisher, 
 
 Successor to G. W. Carleton & Co. 
 LONDON : S. I.ow, SON & CO. 
 
 Mnccci-.wxvi. 
 
 5 1 i ■" i' i ••'•■"' i > »
 
 CorYRiGiiT, i88fi, nv 
 G. W. DILLINGHAM. 
 
 TROWS 
 
 PntNTINO AND BOOKDIflOING COMPANTi 
 
 ftEW YOHK.
 
 CO 
 
 o 
 2 
 
 ion 
 
 H 
 
 Introduction pace 5 
 
 N DaFRESNY 11 
 
 «v 
 
 g FONTENELLE 46 
 
 as 
 
 Marivaux 7fi 
 
 PiRON S9 
 
 The Abbe Prevost 122 
 
 Gentil-Eernard 137 
 
 Florian 151 
 
 boufflers 173 
 
 . RiVAROL 197 
 
 ^ Chevalier de la Clos 22o 
 
 2 Gretry 245 
 
 § Diderot 280 
 
 1^ Boucher 292 
 
 ® Lantara 334 
 
 Louis XV 352 
 
 Mademoisei-le de Camargo 372 
 
 Mademoiselle Guimard, a Goddess of the Opera 396 
 
 Sophie Arnould 420 
 
 M arie-Antoinettf 437 
 
 430137
 
 TNTUODUCTION. 
 
 An ancient sage has represented human reason under 
 the lorm oi" an adventuress in rags resting in the evening 
 upon ruins. Can we not thus represent the Philosophy 
 of the eighteenth century ? She has penetrated the tem- 
 ple — she has there inscribed her name; but the temple 
 is naught but a majestic ruin. In the eighteenth cen- 
 tury, wit destroyed the heart, reason destroyed poetry. 
 Alter the reign of Pascal, who sought God in a future 
 life, is the reign of Voltaire, who, forgetting God, stud- 
 ed only human life. The heart beat no more; wit de- 
 voured all. The seventeenth century was the slave of 
 heaven ; the eighteenth century proclaimed itself free, 
 and broke the golden chains which joined heaA'en to earth. 
 Enslaved, it had the voluptuousness of endurance : free, it 
 stretched its arms, and found but vacuity. Pascal saw the 
 abyss under his feet, but he also saw heaven beyond the 
 abyss Voltaire saw not the abyss, neither did he see the 
 
 I*
 
 b INTRODUCTIOIT. 
 
 heaven beyond. Tlio sackcloth brought Pascal near tc 
 eternal life : the pleasures of this world estranged Voltaire 
 from the joys of heaven. 
 
 Human reason, whether represented by Pascal or Vol- 
 taire, wlu'llu-r il prays or jests, whether it inclines or 
 raises ils head, is not paramount. A modern thinker has 
 said: "The nineteenth century can not be condemned 
 to sacrifice philosopliy to religion, nor religion to philoso- 
 phy ; the heaven to earth, nor earth to heaven ; man to 
 God, nor God to man." God aiid m^n,-- — heaven and 
 earth, can act in concert; they do act in concert, in spite 
 of all the systems known to fame ; but the religion of the 
 seventeenth century and the philosophy of the eighteenth, 
 which at this day are yet at the bar more ardent than ever, 
 are not reconciled : God is on neither side ; God is every- 
 where, except ill the heart that restrains the faith — the 
 heart that consumes the soul. 
 
 But here is not the place to erect a doctrine upon the 
 quicksand of fancy. If, as has been said, human life is 
 the dream of God, God it can likewise be said is the dream 
 of man. All the minds that he has dazzled with his light 
 have sought to follow him in his eternal works. I have 
 only wished to indicate at the commencement of this work 
 from what point of view I have contemplated the eigh- 
 teenth century under its serious aspect. The eighteenih 
 century has given birth to the revolution ; the revolution 
 has created a new world upon the ruins of the old ; we 
 have come out of it still more free than our fathers the en- 
 cyclopaidists. With liberty let us advance. The world 
 is ours, but the light of the world is with God.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 7 
 
 't is the contrasts which strike us most in the eighteenth 
 century : the gay rays which lighted a court of thorough 
 voluptuaries, regarding neither law nor gospel, soon lighted 
 a people armed with antique virtues, combating an entire 
 world more by their audacity than their arms. Strange age ! 
 — each year surprises you by its grandeur and its mean- 
 ness, by its strength and its cowardice, by its philosophy 
 and its fanaticism. Yonder is a rustic masquerade of Ver- 
 sailles, or a masked ball of the Palais-Royal. Here, 
 Louis the Fourteenth and Fifteenth on their sad death-beds, 
 Marat at the tribune, Marie Antoinette at the guillotine , 
 Dufresny spending millions to cause roses to bloom, at the 
 side of Fontenelle, who hoards his wit and his money; 
 Piron, whom Rembrandt would have loved to paint, look- 
 ing through the windows of a pothouse at Marivaux in a 
 carriage going to have his portrait taken by La Tour. The 
 Abbe Prevost passes with his dear Manon — the truest 
 passion of the age — before Gentil-Bernard, who flutters 
 from one amour to another. Voltaire laughs at every- 
 thing, while Jean Jacques weeps over everything. Dide- 
 rot builds his temple with herculean arms ; Boutllers, with 
 his " Queen of Golconda," mocks the architect. Boucher 
 divests painting of feeling, and Gretry finds it again in 
 music. The King Louis XV. making pretty verses, in 
 juxtaposition with the poet Bernis who governs France. 
 Marie-Antoinette acts comedy at the Trianon, while Mad- 
 emoiselle Clairon plays royalty at Paris. 
 
 Until now, historians have oidy seen kings and heroes 
 in the history of :i nation ; poets and painters, who are in- 
 timately connected with, and who ;ire most always the
 
 8 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 glory and the joy of il, h:ivo been neglected, like barret 
 weeds and (lowers without perfunie. History is a com- 
 edy, where everybody has a part : if the historian forgets 
 a single actor, the piece is a failure. To forget the rep- 
 resentatives of art, is it not to suppress the scenes where 
 the sun shines, where the rose opens, where Nature chants 
 Ikm' hvmn of love ? 
 
 I shall, without doubt, be reproached for having studied 
 with the same sfilicilude the works and life of the philoso- 
 plicr, of the poet, and of the painter. Until now, critics 
 have studied the works more seriously ihan the life. It 
 nmst be admitted, however, that the passions of all men 
 poetically endowed, are still a study worthy of an enlight- 
 ened curiosity. Is there not often more poetry to be gath- 
 ered in the heart that beats, than in the book that rhymes? 
 
 I gave myself up with passion to this study of man in 
 the poet. I sought truth wherever it was to be found — 
 less in books than in newspapers and pamphlets, less in 
 pamphlets and newspapers than in printed and autograph 
 letters. I put in operation another species of study : every 
 time that I met in the world a man or a woman of the eigh- 
 teenth century, I tritid to read with open book their rec- 
 ollections. Thus I have put my hand upon the heart of 
 the age ; I have reanimated the illustrious dead. By living 
 familiarly with them, I have seen them in a musing or smi- 
 ling mood : they have spoken to me as to an old friend. 
 
 There is to-day in France and Germany a new art, 
 called criticism. The criticism of the last age was a cav- 
 illing old maid, who traduced the heart without ever hav- 
 ing loved. She did not create ; she was contented to ana-
 
 rNrTEODUCTION. 9 
 
 lyze grammar ii. hand, and saw no further than the book 
 opcr beneath her eyes. To-day, criticism has become 
 herself creative ; she has become enamored of the worship 
 of ideas ; she stirs them up, and disseminates them. The 
 book which she analyzes is now but the starting-point, for 
 her domain is everywhere ; philosophy, art, science, poe- 
 try — her boundary is the infinite. Formerly, criticism 
 was but the official report of the beauties and defects of a 
 work : to-day, criticism is itself a work. It is great and 
 generous ; such a book has become celebrated because it 
 has been pleased to find in it, symbols and ideas which are 
 not there. In France, the reviews have been the cradle 
 of this style of criticism, it has grown up under strong 
 and patient hands, become the safeguard of the French 
 mind, and it can be said of it, that ' Criticism, the daughter of 
 ancient literature, is the mother of the literatures to come.' 
 
 This book has been written little by little, and from time 
 to time ; I was only guided by the ardor or the fantasy of 
 the moment, becoming enamored at one time with a stern, 
 then with a smiling physiognomy, but always with the idea 
 of some day completing the gallery. It will be seen that 
 I have not sided with any of the schools of literature or 
 philosophy that have had a reputation in France. 
 
 The eighteenth century attracted me at an early age. 
 How often have I imagined myself taking part in the love- 
 adventures of the regency, in the literary debates of the 
 Cafe Procope, in the pastorals of Versailles, in the carnival 
 of wit and love, in the startling fame of the Encyclopaedia, 
 and in the heroic tragedy of the French Revolution, of 
 which but (lilt; aciiT remained lu lower llif lurtain !
 
 10 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 We have worn out the Greeks and Romans, the Middle 
 Ages and the Renaissance, the English and the German 
 spirit : the eighteenth century has been unknown, or rather 
 disavowed. I became enamored of this age of wit and 
 gold. Poetry was there, as she is everywhere ; but liter- 
 ary loves pass like others : the mind goes from conquest to 
 conquest, treasuring as a nucleus only its preferred recol- 
 lections. The French Revolution has opened new bounds 
 to thought; and, while striving to be a faithful painter, I 
 have always aimed to speak of the men of the eighteenth 
 century with the feeling and ideas of my own age.
 
 MEN AND WOMEN 
 
 OF THE 
 
 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 dufees:n^t. 
 
 DuFKESNY introduces us gaylj to the eighteenth 
 century. Let us pass with a smile into this gallery 
 of portraits, by turns gay and sad, representing, in aU 
 their shades and all their contrasts, the ideas, i)assions, 
 and humors of the age of Yoltaire and of Madame de 
 Pompadour. 
 
 Dufresny is a poet in action, such as I love and you 
 too love without doubt — one who takes a straight 
 coui-se to the ideal land of the poet, who is not turned 
 aside by the deceitful seductions of the world, but 
 gathers in passing throu'gh life all that the sage should 
 gather — poetry and love — often seated beneath the 
 vine-trellis, but rather to dream than to gather the 
 grape. 
 
 ^ This poet — always in love, notwithstanding his 
 two wives and innumerable mistresses; always ]ioor, 
 in spite of the millions given liini by Louis XIV.; 
 always singing, even when in ill hick — was descended, 
 in a moi'e f>r less direct line, from a ]>oor devil of a
 
 1 2 DUFRESNY. 
 
 riinc<v of Navaivc,; offci| in love, for a long time 
 poor, always siiit^iiig— ^iii* a word, from Henry IV. — 
 and- tlijBi-e 'have' i|)een| j^'oets'i.of worse descent. He 
 was the image of his 'great-gi'and father and also of his 
 great-grand mother, the pretty flower-girl of Anet, 
 " the fairest rose of my garden," as Henry IV. called 
 her. 
 
 The genius of Art cradled the infancy of DutVcsny. 
 He came into the Avorld at Paris in 1648, amidst the 
 barricades of Cardinal de Retz; he grew np during 
 civil, foreign, and religious Avars, but dwelt far from 
 their noise and smoke, passing his tender youthful 
 years in imprecations on books and schoolmasters, and 
 in sunlight as well as starlight dreams. One fine 
 morniii"; wishino; to hear nothino; more of Greek and 
 Latin, he ran away from school, took care to keep 
 out of the way of his grand mother''s cottage, and threw 
 himself head and heels upon the world. He was then 
 between fifteen and sixteen. At that deliglitful age 
 our feet are as those of the gazelle, our spirits as the 
 birds, ever in search of spring. Be ofi\, and a good 
 journey to you ! May God protect you, my child ! Is 
 n<.>t the road you travel with such happy thoughtless- 
 ness a o;ood road ? All roads lead to Home, savs the 
 proverb, which means that all roads lead to something. 
 
 Toward evening, Dufresny heing very hungry^ and 
 not the less thirsty^ saw the pointed roofs and tur- 
 rets of a chateau rising from a mass of foliage, at the 
 termination of a valley which he had entered. " That's 
 my sleeping-place," said he, with a humorous devil- 
 may-care'-air. lie pushed on at a quickened pace, 
 disregarding the attractions of the flowers and berries 
 along his jiath, and the perfume of the ripened grapes.
 
 A CHATEAU OF THE XVIHTH CENTUKY. Ic 
 
 the pure water of the brooks, and all ''^Vhotellerie 
 chamjpHre^'' as he styled it at a later period. A little 
 before sunset he reached a light iron fence, thi-ough 
 which was seen a small park, dotted here and there 
 with elms and oaks. A gateway half covered by ivy, 
 showing, in an archway surrounded with heavy scroll- 
 work, some I'emains of Gothic tracery, rose on one 
 side. One of the fronts of the chateau was seen 
 through the trees, rising from the grass, already 
 tinged with yellow. Far from being deserted, the 
 chateau appeared to be the theatre of life and gayety. 
 Fair forms were seen at the windows, and the tones 
 of a violin melted away on the evening breeze. Our 
 vagabond poet could not believe his eyes nor his ears. 
 It was profound enchantment. Tliere, on that sculp- 
 tured balcony, a smiling woman; here, on these 
 trees, a ray of sunlight — the smile of heaven, and the 
 smile of earth; there gallant, idling gran-d seigneurs, 
 abandoning the chase for the charms of love ; here a 
 she])herd liumming the chorus of a peasant song. 
 "Wliat a concert, what a picture, a school in the 
 open air!" exclaimed Dufre?ny; "this is the place 
 for my studies; but meanwliile I am hungry." And 
 he began to think sadly that lie had no part in this 
 festival of the world and nature ; that a poor child 
 like himself had as yet no position in the world ; and, 
 to sum up, that he must go to bed for that night sup- 
 perless. And where was he to sleep, unless under 
 the bri<rht stars? His jjavetv vanished with the last 
 ray of tiie sun; he half raised his eyes to a fallen 
 image of the Virgin in the niche of the postern, anc! 
 connnenced j»i lying with devotion to the holy mother 
 of God . 
 
 2
 
 14 DUFliKSNY. 
 
 llo was interrupted in his prayer by the sound o( 
 the voice of two lovers, who were lovingly sauntering 
 aloMjj; a retired part of the park, partially obscured 
 by the <;atherino; twili<j;ht. lie turned his head 
 luechanically. "AVhat are you doing there, my 
 child r' said the gentleman, who had just j^erceived 
 him. " Faith, sir," said the boy, without much hesita- 
 tion, "I was praying for a supper; now, madame, 
 has not my prayer been lieard?" — " lie is as beautiful 
 as a Cupid, with his curling locks," said the lady, 
 "we must receive him in the chateau. Come, Mon- 
 siem' de Nangis, open the gate. I will help you." 
 
 The Marquis de Nangis obeyed with a smile. 
 Scarcely had the gate moved, when Dufresny slipped 
 through, like a bird, and threw himself at the lady's 
 feet. He Was taken to the chateau, and straight to 
 the saloon Mhere the women were toying, the men 
 playing the butterfly, and the old people busy at 
 ombre. " I have brought you a prodigal son, aunt," 
 said the marcpiis, "a pretty schoolboy, who wants to 
 go on his travels by himself." — ^"And in the mean- 
 time," said the fair protectress of Dufresny, " is play- 
 ing truant." — "Where does this amiable vagabond 
 come from?" said old Madame de la Roche Aymon, 
 the mistress of the chateau. — " I come from Paris," 
 answered Dufresny, timidly advancing. — •" Where are 
 you going?" — "I don't know." — "Your family?" — ■ 
 " The king of France is my cousin." — " Truly," said the 
 marquis, with a burst of laughter. — "Yes," answered 
 Dufresny, "and still better, we are said to resemble 
 each other. One may resemble a more distant re- 
 lation, for I am rlescpnded from Henry TV. by the 
 ^race of God, and the pretty tiower-girl of Ajiet."
 
 IN GOOD SOCIETY. 15 
 
 "All, lia! the yoniig fool is joking. lie has plenty 
 of wit; he is a good-looking adventurer; we must 
 make his fortune; I will present him at court; the 
 king will give this new prince of the blood a good 
 reception." — "At coui-t," exclaimed Dufresny, "I 
 know the road to it well, but it is not a very amusing 
 place; my grandfather died there of ennui.'' — "His 
 grandfather at court! what the devil did he do 
 there?" — "Nothing much, I suppose, lilve a good 
 many others. By-the-by, some charitable soul was 
 talldng of making my fortune, which is very luck}^, 
 but if meanwhile I had some supper — " 
 
 Everybody was charmed with Dufresny's non- 
 chalance. "Truly," said one, "he has the maimers 
 of an independent gentleman," — "Faith," said 
 another, "he plays the grand seigneur marvellously." 
 Supper was served, Dufresny admitted to the foot of 
 the table, and j^laced between a provincial pedant 
 and a young abbot without an abbey. Although so 
 indifferently located, he made innumerable sallies 
 and was the true king of the table. But after supper 
 his fortunes suddenly changed. There was more 
 company at the chateau than usual, and not even a 
 truckle-bed left for his royal highness Monseigneur 
 Dufresny, A chambermaid, who interested herself 
 in him, conducted him to a hayloft, regretting, though 
 in a very low tone, that she could do no better for 
 such a charming student. lie forgot his titles to the 
 crown of France and went to sleep like a lucky fellow. 
 
 He rose with the sun in the morning, descended 
 from his a]>artment, and promenaded the park with 
 great nonchalance. The Marquis de Nangis, in setting 
 out for the chase, passed near him. "Monseigneur."
 
 10 DDFUKSNY. 
 
 said the poet, "there is no common sense about yowT 
 jtark, or ratlier there is too much. Xow tlicse 
 paths hiid out by rule are enough to kill one witli 
 ennui; tliese trimmed and snipt thickets are pitiable 
 to look at; it is all pinned up like a country prude. I 
 pity your taste. Trust me, the genius of a gardener 
 inspires me. Besides, a good dog hunts according 
 to his breed ; my ancestors were the best gardeners 
 of France and Navarre. Now, if you follow my 
 advice, 3'ou M'ill throw your terrace and park into a 
 picturesque confusion : dig a fish-j^ond here, under 
 your feet; pull down that stiff hedge yonder. lad- 
 mire those rocks which you have taken so much pains 
 to cover with earth, and that bit of broken wall, which 
 your ninny of a gardener no doubt intends to rebuild 
 and plaster over. In a word, monseigneur. Nature 
 knows what she is about; she has her channing 
 caprices and her fairy fantasies ; let her act for her- 
 self a little." 
 
 Thus we see Dufresny received at the chateau like 
 a spoiled child, careless of the future as of the past, 
 abandoning himself to the luxuriant freedom of youth, 
 amusing himself with the hounds as well as the hunts- 
 men, with the scullions as well as the fine ladies, 
 scarcely ever thinking of his ]DOor grandmother, who 
 was praying for him. But the fine company, which 
 the hunting-season and the vintage had assembled at 
 the chateau were about dispersing to the sumptuous 
 hotels of Paris. What was to become of the vacra- 
 bond poet, who had no hotel to go to? The Marquis 
 of Nangis took pity upon him, conducted him straight 
 to the court, and requested an audience of the young 
 king. "Sire, you behold at your feet an illustrious
 
 LOUTS QTATORZK. 17 
 
 scion of iho, 2yreity jlotoer-yiH of Anet.^'' — "'I under- 
 stand," said Louis XIY., '■* if oiu- sacred religion has 
 given us innumerable brothers, our grandsire Henry 
 lY, has left us plenty of little cousins. This one 
 seems to me to have a genteel, lively air, he is wel- 
 come: does he know anything?" — "How, sire! he is 
 ^ youth of genius, sings like a bird, writes like a 
 nutary, has the best of ideas about gardens, without 
 saying anything about Greek and Latin, which he 
 has fjone at tooth and nail. But these ai"e matters I 
 no longer care for." — "If he sings so well," said the 
 king, "I will make him one of the valets of my 
 wardrobe. He will amuse me better than that imbe- 
 cile old Desnoyers, who can now scarcely tell one note 
 from another." — ^"And have all the gracefulness 
 of a tiring-wonum," added the marquis. 
 
 Till now Dufresny had kept somewhat in the back- 
 ground, Louis XIV. beckoned him to advance in 
 front of his ann-chair, "Your name?" demanded 
 he. — "Some say Charles Riviere, others, Charles 
 Dufresny ; for my part, to accommodate both parties, 
 I call myself Riviere or Dufresny, if it please your 
 Majesty." — " What is the name of your family ?" 
 — " One or the other, sire, but what difference 
 does it make? AVho in this world would dare to say 
 ^vith assurance, I know whence I came, I know 
 whitlier I am going? Human vanity has worked 
 away for a long time at genealogies ; they are a kind 
 of perspectives, whose beauty consists in displaying a 
 long gallery of portraits, feebler in color, and more 
 vague in design, the more distant they are placed. 
 Besides, tlie ]>oint of observation, being almost always 
 vague and undetermined, allows us to imagine tluit 
 
 2*
 
 18 nUFRESNY. 
 
 WO see faces in tlic distance which not even the eye 
 of a lynx could discover. Those who wish to stretch 
 beyond their eyesight, in their search after family, 
 think they discover in the fogs of antiquity the figures 
 of ancestors, of forms as synnnetrical as if Michael 
 Angelo himself had moulded them; but they see 
 them only as the forms of men, horses, or spectres, 
 are sometimes seen in the clouds." — "Marvellous 
 well !" said Louis XIY., " a capital lectm-e on bla- 
 zonry, which would drive to despair many a one 
 who pesters me with his vain titles." — " Thus," con- 
 tinued Dufresuy, " it only depends upon myself to 
 discover crowned heads in the distant fogs, but there 
 is no trouble in that. AVhat is more certain is, that 
 I come in a straight line from God. I have that in 
 common with plenty of others, who may seek some- 
 thing better if it amuses them." Louis XIV. slightly 
 bit his lip ; he had really laid aside his majesty and 
 pride for an instant, but these two pearls of the 
 crown, as Benserade called them, suddenly re- 
 appeared in spite of himself. How could he, who 
 called himself Louis XIV., not be irritated at such 
 audacious words from a beggarly poet of some sixteen 
 years? When one is king of France by the grace 
 of God, how could the utterance of this bold truth be 
 passed over without anger. Louis XIV. did not 
 explode ; he contented himself with a slight remon- 
 strance, and installed the poet in his palace. " I 'm 
 a made man," said Dufresny ; " here is plenty of 
 sunlight, a garden, iine clothes, good suppers, and 
 nothing to do — God be praised, and long live the 
 king!" 
 
 This coui-se of life lasted for three years. The
 
 SONG-WKITING. 10 
 
 poet expanded like a rose under morning breezes 
 fragrant dews, and warm sun-beams. Dnfresny, not 
 Louis XIY., was kins;. But tlie war burst out, and 
 it was necessary to go to the war. Louis XIY. bad 
 become so accustomed to see Dufresny's cheerful 
 face at every step and at every moment, that he 
 commanded him to depart in his suite for Flanders. 
 The campaign was nothing more than a pleasm'e- 
 tour. For the first time a king of France had carried 
 with him all the pleasm-es of his palace, and still 
 more, victory made one of the party. "This affair of 
 the king's is decidedly not bad," said Dufresu}^, after 
 the taking of Tournay. The courtiers did not witness 
 these easy manners of Dufresny without vexation, 
 but remembering that he was a child of good family^ 
 they did not dare to complain. 
 
 Dufresny followed the king at the siege of Lille to 
 the breach, and donned helmet and cuirass him- 
 self. After Lille was taken there was a splendid 
 supper. Dufresny was summoned at the dessert, and 
 commanded to sing a hymn of victory. Dufresny, 
 like a spirited fellow, understood song-writing much 
 better. Much they thought, too, by that time, of the 
 siege of Lille; there had already been, since the 
 action, too many bottles emptied and heads fuddled 
 for that! Dufresny bowed gracefully to the king, 
 and sang his pretty harvest-song to an air composed 
 by himself. Here is the first verse : — 
 
 'To the vines of Claudine 
 
 All the vintagers go. 
 You can tell by their mien 
 Who will gather or no.
 
 20 DUFRESNY. 
 
 To those who arc best 
 
 All glnilly {;ive place ; 
 Gleanings full to the rest 
 
 Who follow their trace." 
 
 There were plaudits fur the song;, the music, and 
 the singer. More than one scignor, more than one 
 hero of the previous day, envied Dufresny's gay 
 triuinpli ; for at the trenches there was only the king 
 to applaud deeds of valor; but at the supper, besides 
 the king, there were fair dames who bestowed on the 
 poet their sweetest glances. "Who is this pretty 
 boy?" said one of these ladies to Yauban. "This 
 pretty boy, madame, is the king's fool," the grave 
 soldier answered. Louis XIV. heard him, and 
 condescended to turn toward Dufresny and say : 
 " Yauban has hit it ; always remember, Chariot, you 
 are the king's fool. One fool is not too many among 
 60 many sages." Every one bowed except Turenne, 
 who was already conquering Flanders in imagina- 
 tion. 
 
 The king returned to Paris, where fetes and bene- 
 dictions awaited him. The court passed the winter 
 at St. Germain, in ceaselessly renewed pleasures. 
 One evening, at the time of opening the theatre, the 
 king, somewhat weary of music, dance, comedies, 
 and mistresses, asked for Dufresny. They hunted for 
 him everywhere; at last the king himself discovered 
 him on the stage, playing a rascally valet in one of 
 Moliere's comedies, in capital style. 
 
 Dufresny returned to the seat of war at the end of 
 March ; he was present at the conquest of Holland ; 
 crossed the Rhine in the king's suite, without wetting 
 his feet; and led the errant life of a soldier, without
 
 PASSAGE OF THE RHINE. 21 
 
 other arms than his a-^^vetv and wit. Poet as he 
 was, he faced danger welh At the passage of the 
 Ithine, or ratl^er after the passage, lie received a 
 sabre-cnt in the hand. When Boilean presented the 
 Pa-s-mge of the Rhine to tlie king, Dufresny was 
 present in tlie hall of andience. After Boilean left, 
 lie read this fine poetical fiction himself. "I don't 
 recollect this," said he, interrnpting himself at the 
 end of every verse. "Does M. Despreaux imagine 
 that we passed through the infernal regions, or rather 
 the Styx?" — "Be off," said the king, with some pet- 
 tishness ; " it is only the poets who imderstand how 
 to write the history of kings." 
 
 Bnt Dnfresny was not a ]ioet bom for a court. 
 " Cultivating roses, marking out paths, planting 
 hedges, is the same as writing sonnets, songs, and 
 poems," he often said ; " if a laborer writes 
 prose in the book of Nature, a gardener writes 
 verse." Om- English gardens come to us, not from 
 England but from Dufresny. In architecture and 
 landscape-gardening he was an excellent master. 
 In the eighteenth century nothing was more common 
 than to hear a picturesque garden or handsome 
 country-seat described as a la Dufresny. The 
 most lovely retreats in the neighborhood of Paris 
 were planned or embellished after his recommenda- 
 tions, lie insisted that Versailles should be made 
 *• a aarden of caprices.'''' Louis XIV, ordered designs 
 from Dufresny ; the poet planned magnificent gardens, 
 in which all the pronienadei-s would lose themselves. 
 The Ciiinese never imagined anything so grandiose 
 and poetically wild. The king, fearing to sink too 
 much monc^y l)y Dnfrcsny's operations, shelved the
 
 22 DUFRESNT. 
 
 plims but not tlioir jiutlior, who was appointed in- 
 si)octor of gardens. 
 
 Dufresny was tliirty years old when he married. 
 Scarcely anything is known of \u9. first wife, who, 
 according to Voisenon, was a comfortahly-off city 
 dame, who captivated the poet by a large garden in 
 the faiilx)urg St. Antoine. Thanks to his marriage, 
 he had a garden to cnltivate to his liking. "AYell, 
 my poor Charh)t," the king said to him a month after 
 the wedding, "what do you think of mamage?" — 
 "Alas, sire, this land of marriage is one which 
 foreigners have a great desire to inhabit, while the 
 native inhabitants would gladly be exiled from it; or 
 rather it is a community of goods in which there is 
 nothing good in common at the end of eight days." — 
 " One thing will not be common in your mansion, 
 that is, money. During these past few years I 
 liave given you more than a hundred thousand 
 crowns ; you really throw money out of the windows." 
 — " It is gone before I have time to open the windows. 
 It costs money, sire, to live at court." — "You rascal, 
 I should like to know how much you pay for bed 
 and board here !" — "Alas, sire, I dine out and sleep 
 out so often," — "Ah, ha ! then the secret is out — so 
 you stay at the palace when you can find nothing 
 more amusing in Paris — you are an ingrate !" — "I 
 am well aware of it, sire, so I entreat your majesty 
 to turn me out of doors. A poet ought to put some 
 bounds to his horizon; and besides, thanks to my 
 wife, I am not now in a good humor every day.'- 
 — " But who is there who will give me a good hearty 
 laugh?" the king pensively interrupted. — "Your 
 reflection, sire, reminds me of a pleasant Arabian
 
 THE OAI.IIMl .\.\'.> T!i:C IMIYSICIA.N. 28 
 
 l:vle, wliieli I will relate with your permission." — " Let 
 me hear it," said the king; "but make haste, tbr 
 they are waiting for me." 
 
 THE CKOWS. 
 
 The caliph Ilaroun had two physicians, one for 
 his body, the other for his mind ; his mind was 
 sick with sadness, so that the second physician was 
 a philosopher, who passed all his time in endeavor- 
 ing to enliven the caliph. One day while they w^ere 
 walking together in the palace-gardens, the caliph 
 exclaimed, " Oh Ilaroun, Haroun, you sadden your 
 friends by your gloom, as yon branching tree saddens 
 the neighlioring trees by its shade. I j>romise you a 
 ring," tm-ning to the philosopher, "for every time that 
 you make me laugh." Tlie philoso23her forthwith 
 began to narrate comic and burlesque stories about 
 widows, but he narrated in vain. lie already de- 
 spaired of himself as of the caliph, when a flock of 
 crows alii^hted on the tree. " Yesterdav," continued 
 the philosopher, " these crows gave a great deal of 
 trouble to a dreamy poet who, seeing this cloud of 
 ead-colored birds blackenino; the flowers and fruits 
 of such a beautiful tree, forgot that its trunk was as 
 thick as a tower, and in the impulse of the moment 
 began shaking as if it was a sapling. The account 
 which I have given you of it is not laughable, but 
 on seeing the thing myself I could not help laugh- 
 ing." — " If I had seen it I think that I should have 
 laughed as you did," said the caliph. — ""Well," an- 
 swered the i)hilosopher, with a triumj^hant air, "yuu 
 ought to laugh too, in seeing me all in a passion with 
 trying by shakings of pleasantry to chase away tluiso
 
 DUl'KESNY. 
 
 I)lav'k crows, tlitit is to say, these cares and sorro-vvs 
 Iroin ycMir l)rain.'"' — "You have won the riiig^ there 
 it is," cried the caliph. 
 
 " And I, sire," said Dufresnv, after a panse, 
 "liave I won leave of absence ?" — "Yes," answered 
 tlio king, sadly, "be olf ; bnt remember me when 
 you have no money left. I hope in that way to 
 see you often. Adieu, I love you in spite of your 
 vices. It is superfluous to say that you are a charm- 
 ing poet, the other poets are mere pedants, except 
 Moliere, who is almost as good as you are. Adieu, 
 my brave Chariot ; I am. very sorry I have nothing 
 to give you to-day, for } on have told me a very beauti- 
 ful story — the branching tree on which the black 
 crows alighted, alas! is the king. Let us see, what 
 can I give you?" — "Ah, sire, is it not enough for 
 to-day to have given me the key of the fields ?" 
 Thereupon Dufresny bowed, kissed the king's hand, 
 and left without delay. Did this jjhilosophic dream- 
 er — who for the sake of liberty turned his back with 
 such good will on the silk and gold, the fetes aiid 
 ])leasures of the most splendid court in the world — 
 iiKike Louis XIY. think ? Did he not envy a little 
 that humble poet who had not a crown of care and 
 iucpiietude eternally pressing on his brow ? 
 
 Once installed in his w'ife's house, Dufresny quickly 
 commenced ruining himself by his seignorial prodi- 
 galities. He lost no time in the work. He com- 
 menced with masons and gardeners ; he built a 
 matision, or rather a palace ; he realized the en 
 chanting gardens of his dreams, after which he gave 
 BI)lendid suppers to which the fashionable, but espe
 
 LOSES HIS WIFE. 25 
 
 (uallj the theatrical world, was invited. Vise re- 
 ports that he met one evening more than fifty act- 
 resses at one of Duft-esny's sn])pers. His wife, who 
 had no taste for these prodigalities, in vain endeavored 
 to hold oil to her monev with both hands, but she at 
 last revenged herself on Dufresny's follies in a man- 
 ner nsnal with dames in those days. She was not 
 handsome, according to Yoisenon, her gallant was. 
 It is to Dufresny that we owe the clever saying, " The 
 favor vxis all on your side, «//'." 
 
 She died, it is not known how or why. Her bus. 
 band's sorrow exhaled in a bacchanalian sono-, A 
 notary came to make an inventory, " There is noth- 
 ing for you to do here," said Dufresny to him. 
 "But, monsieur, at the dissolution of the joint pos- 
 session of the fortune which" — "Say rather of the 
 misfortune — that affair produced nothing good un- 
 less you call debts good — is it worth while to inven- 
 tory my debts?" — "But, monsieur, your two chil- 
 dren?" — "That concerns Heaven — their erand- 
 mother, who has got nothing to do, has promised me 
 to educ-ite them." — "But, after all, monsieur, the 
 law has its claims — a small inventory." Dufresny 
 seized his hat, took to his heels, and never reappeared 
 in tlie house. 
 
 He went the same day to St. GeiTnain, and suc- 
 ceeded in seeing the king. "Well, Dufresny, how 
 do your gardens flourish?" — "Ah, sire, their paths 
 are not always strewed with roses — I ha\e counted 
 my chickens before they were hatched. My wife is 
 dead; I have abandoned my house to tlie notary ; I 
 have nothing left, not even my gayety. But the 
 thing wliicli iiuikes nie saddest is that I just now spoko 
 
 3
 
 2<> i)rKui:sNV, 
 
 liai-slilv to a l)02:2:ar, avIio asked alms at tlie entrance 
 to tlio })alace." — '' Come," said Louis XIV., "let us 
 hear; yon must hit on some drollery." Dutresny i)ut 
 his hand tt* his forehead like a man trying- to recol- 
 lect himself. " The poor devil," he continued, " fol- 
 lowed me and said, ''Poverty is not a crime? It is 
 much worse, I answered him." — " I am always sorry 
 for your misfortunes, you prodigal fellow," said the 
 king. " Come, speak." — ■" I only ask your majesty 
 a small corner of ground at the end of the lawn at 
 Vincennes ; it has capabilities for a magnificent gar- 
 den, in mv stvle." — " A garden ? you are a fool. Do 
 you want it to display your poverty ?" — " 1 shall never 
 be poor while I have a garden ; it is my throne, sire. 
 I find there the green vine-tendrils or the roses for 
 my crown." — "Be it as you will," said the king; 
 " come back the day after to-morrow, and we shall 
 have the papers signed." 
 
 Dufresny went, to sleep where he could. The next 
 day he presented himself to Kegnard, who had made 
 one at his suppers. Regnard wishing to repair the 
 breaches in his fortune by means of the stage ; 
 confided his plan to Dufresny, W'ho wished to take 
 an even share in the venture. But the day after, 
 our poet having received from Louis XIV. a pm-se 
 containing a hundred louis, the grant of half an acre 
 of the lawn at Vincennes, and the monopoly of the 
 mamifactory of looking-glass, he abandoned the 
 theatre till fuiiher ordei-s from his evil fortunes. As 
 it was in spring, he hastened to sow his hundred 
 louis in his garden. From such good seeds he har- 
 vested a few puffs of perfumed air. 
 
 Winter liaving ari-ivt'd. it was time to call on his
 
 WRITES COMEDY AVITU KKGNARD. 27 
 
 fi-ieiid TIegnard. Tiic monopolv of the new iiiami- 
 factnre of niivrors was nothing less than a fortune f »r 
 lite, Init it was slow in coming, as the early disbdrse- 
 ments exceeded the receipts. Dnfresny went to the 
 contractors, spoke to them about his disgust for 
 business affairs, and offered them his privilege for 
 twelve thousand livres, that is to say, about enough 
 to support him during the winter according to his 
 mode of life. The monopoly was worth a hundred 
 thousand livres, so the contractors quickly offered 
 him six tliousand. To a poet who lives from day to 
 day, like a careless grasshopper, a little ready money 
 is a fortune. Dufresnv sio;ned a transfer. The same 
 day he met Regnard. " Well," said the traveller to 
 liim, "I have not seen yon for a long time, where 
 liave von been ?■ All Paris has been calling for you." 
 " I have been livino; at mv ijarden all smumer, with 
 my roses and maijoram, my grajjes and gooseber- 
 ries." — " And our comedies V — "I have not thought 
 about them ; but I have imagined verdant ])rospects 
 which are real teiTestrial paradises." — " AVell, thank 
 heaven, winter has come, with his powdered wig; 
 gardens are no longer in season, and willing or not, 
 you must compose some comedies with me for the 
 llieutre-Italien." — "As yon please; I am on luy 
 way to pay a rogue at A'^incennes, who lodged mo 
 tolei'ably during the summer, Af\er my return, I will 
 jiut my wits at your disposal." — "So you pay your 
 debts?" — "The small ones only; as for the great 
 ones I content myself with paying the interest to the 
 jxjor." 
 
 The same evening Dnfresny took a]>artmeuts near 
 Kegnard's. They were two gay philosophers, loving-
 
 28 DUFRESNT. 
 
 ]_v rc'C'oi\iiiii" the liai)ii_v lioiirs as they caiiie from tlie 
 liand i>t" lli'avon, careless of tlie fiiture as of the 
 past, S(jueeziii,u' the ]>resent with all their Btrei!<:;tli, 
 seizing- Avitli ardor all the pleasures of the ])assiiii:; 
 (lay ; the i-ays of simlij^-ht, the mistress wlio comes 
 ■without ceremoiiv, the iiiouldv flask, the ii^ayetv of 
 friends, the sonii; at sn])])er ; those wlio choose like 
 itegiiai'd and ])ufresny may find a thousand pleas- 
 ures in the compass of a day. Our two ])hilosophei's 
 had studied the world well ; one in adventurous 
 travel, the other at the court; they ha<l sounded all 
 the weaknesses of the lieart, all the al)surdities of in- 
 tellect to their very de])ths. Eeoiiard, who had stood 
 the bnmt of adversity, had the liardiest mind. Du- 
 fresny, more dazzled by the splendor of the world, 
 had more fire of intellect; the first desiijned noble 
 outlines like a pupil of Moliere, the second added a 
 thousand brilliant ornaments to the sketch. " IJeg- 
 nard is a laboi-er, I am oidy a gardener," said Du- 
 fresuv. Jt was a simile as true as it was ingenious. 
 Tie made his drInU with Reo-nard in '■'•Zes Chmois''' 
 After breakfast ItCirnard took liis i)en and traced the 
 fdili ; Dufresny was good only for Iiis sallies of 
 broad humor. Each one broujrht him but one pis- 
 tole. Louis XIV. paid better, but then Louis XIV. 
 did not always take the joke. These joint comedies 
 were socni produced by the Italian buffoons with 
 side-splittini; success. The two poets afterward 
 composed, always workinp; after l)reakfast and in tlie 
 same style. La Foire de St. Gerwain., and Les 
 ^fomies d^Egypte. Kegnard finished by paying 
 Dufresny in cash (ready money for ready jttkei^). 
 Til is mode of payment sharpened Dufresny's intel-
 
 niS GARDEN AT VmCENNES. 29 
 
 Icct ; ill oxu- day we have Dufresuys by the dozen, 
 in inns the wit. 
 
 The poet, at hist finding that Eegnard was enrich- 
 ing himself while he was exhanstiiig his resources, 
 rutnmed to his gardens. The swallows had returned, 
 and lie again cultivated his well-beloved rose-s with- 
 out troul)ling himself about harvest-time. This sea- 
 sou liis irarden at Yincennes was a miniature master- 
 l)iece of art and nature ; but one evening while he 
 was revelling in the intoxicating perfume of his 
 flowers, he remembered that he had not the where- 
 withal to pay for his supper. At that moment a large 
 stone uf the great wall of the park, which was partly in 
 ruins, fell at his feet. " Well," said he, " if that stone 
 had fallen on the other side, it would have crushed 
 Some passer-by ;" and in his zeal for humanity he sum- 
 moned a lal)orer and ordered him to tear down the 
 broken wall fortliwith. In a few days he sold twenty 
 cart-loads of handsome stone to his neighbors. If 
 lie had l)cen left alone he would have torn down all 
 the M-alls of the park ; but the governor, being at 
 last advised of the proceeding, begged him to set 
 some limits to his zeal for humanity. 
 
 I have forgotten to tell you that Dufresny had 
 among his bad habits, a 2)assion for gandjling. lie 
 found in liis bead one morning, "when he least expected 
 it, a veritable comedy, almost self-made, thanks to 
 liis recollectinii of some scenes in which he had been 
 an actor. AUliough he o\ved llegnard a grudge, he 
 Went ill liis first glow of enthusiasm and recited his 
 (•omc(ly to liim, scene by scene, and word for word. 
 Ill-guard ]>reteiide<I that he did not understand it, 
 a:id l)cgged his old friend to write out the piece, and 
 
 3*
 
 30 DlIFliKSNY. 
 
 intrust liim with the nuuniscript. Dufresiij did so. 
 l^egiiiird promised to point out its faults, tliougli lie 
 hnd a i^reat many other tliiniys to attend to, he said. 
 Y<. T six niontlis lie kept Dufresny dancin<»; atteiulanee, 
 answering the poor poet's complaint now and tluMi 
 by a <2;ood sujiper. At last Eegnard returned tlie 
 MS., decoi-ated with a great luimljer of ci'osses. 
 '• So you take my comedy for a cemetery," said Du- 
 fresny. lie set to work a2;ain : this time he was en- 
 thusiastic about his work ; but alas! the fotal liuur 
 had struck — his good star had faded ! It was <»f no 
 use. Fortune is fickle, he had wearied her too long, 
 she had fled for eyer, leaving but a cloud of golden 
 dust in her course. It was in vain that he ])ursued 
 her with his cries and tears, misfortune alone re- 
 sponded to them ; it was in vain that he stretched out 
 his failing hand toward her Avith repentance ; a dry 
 and icy hand, the hand of misery, came to lean 
 upon his. He offered "Z^ Chevalier joueur'^'' to the 
 Comedie Frangaise, it was put in rehearsal the same 
 day. That lught the poet could not sleep ; ha])piest 
 hopes fluttered over his humble lodging-hon^se bed; 
 he saw not, like many others, castles in the air, but 
 his gardens, the oases of his life, again in bloum. 
 Ihit a few days after the leaves droi)i)ed from all his 
 roses. Passing by the Comedie Fran^aise, about 
 eight o'clock one evening, he met Gacon, who asked 
 him if he had come to see Le Joueur <»f llcgnard. 
 " Le Joxieur of lieii-nard !" exclaimed Dufresny. 
 " Yes," returned Gacon, " they are just commencing 
 it." A flash of light passed through Dufresny's 
 mind ; he entered the theatre w'ith indignation, 'he 
 looked on at the most lamentable of spectacles, he
 
 WHO IS THE PLAGIARIST ? 31 
 
 saw Lc Joiunir wliicli he Lad created represented, 
 everyl)ody applauded, the name of the autliur %vas 
 saluted M'itli enthusiasm, hut the name was that of 
 Itegnard. "After all," said poor Dufresny, when 
 Ids choler was a little appeased, '"ideas are the 
 l>r(.>pertj of the whole world ; Eegnard has followed 
 Moliere, who took as lie could find. I wrote uiy 
 piece as fast as the pen could move, he has turned 
 mj prose into verse. Thus is a masterpiece fabri- 
 cated." 
 
 This adventure caused scandal. Dufresny opeidy 
 accused Ilegnard. The comedians, in order to keep 
 Parisian curiosity in suspense, announced that they 
 would shortly produce Le Joueur of Dufresny. At 
 the end of two months it was produced. Eegnard is 
 accused of theft in the prologue, in which he figured 
 as an unbounded plagiarist from his old friend. 
 Among the thousand epigrams launched against tlie 
 two poets, that of Gacon's was especially commended, 
 "i'liis sliarpener of epigrams said that Dufresny and 
 Ilegnard in\ented Le Joueur between them, so that 
 
 Kach boldly pilfered from his friend, 
 But Rcpiiard liad the greatest skill, 
 And proved the hest thief in the end. 
 
 At first Dufresny Avas the most l)lamed, but l)y 
 degrees the truth Avas acknowledged by all fair- 
 minded men. It lias been said by a critic: "Du- 
 fresny must be believed : if he had been a pla- 
 giarist, he would not liave dared to produce, in a 
 tlieutre still resounding with the ])laudits bestowed 
 on that of Jlegnard, a comedy hei-alded by a 
 tlioiLsaud unlUvorable [ireixissessions. and depi-istd
 
 32 DUFRESNT. 
 
 of tlie brilliaiit pro?tii!;e of versification, Avitli wliic-h 
 his rival's was cmbcllislied ; but Diifresny, the true 
 father of 'Z« Joueur^^ eiuimored M-ith the form 
 wliic-h his piece had received from his liaiids at its 
 creation, exasperated a<2;ainst his faitliless friend, 
 trnsting more to liis just rights tliau was proper 
 ill a cause wliere entertaiumeut was tlie judge, 
 acted witli all the im[)rudence and ill-fortune of 
 sincerity." The best argument in favor of Du- 
 fresnv is, that Resrnard had bought from him for 
 a hundred crowns that pleasant comedy, '"'' Attendez- 
 moi sous V orme?'' But in this case it was a reo:ular 
 bargain; Dufresny had no more idea of reclaiming 
 it than if lie had sold an old coat. 
 
 He hobbled back again toward the Comedie 
 Italienne, and associated himself with Biancoletti, 
 son of the famous Dominique. They wrote togetlier 
 the " Contes de ma mere VOleP (Mother Go(.>se'8 
 Tales), a piece of buflPoonery which sui)]>lied our poor 
 poet with bread, nothing more. Louis XIV. had at 
 last lost patience with Dufresny's mode of life ; he 
 gave less and less frequent answers to his petitions, 
 saying to those who wished to plead for him, "I am 
 not potent enough to enrich Dufresny." Thus aban- 
 doned by the king, without family, without a home, 
 it was a sad sight to see the miserable plight to 
 which he was reduced. Where were the fine laces 
 of his linen, his sparkling jewels, his gold shoe- 
 buckles, the plumes of his beaver — what had l)e- 
 coine of the magnificent attire suitable to a man 
 who had squandered over half a million ? He was 
 not yet old, but in spite of his natural coquettishness 
 he had iieiforce to submit to sorrv accoutrements.
 
 ABANDONED BY THE KING. 33 
 
 He was soon so sUaLLv and tlireadLare, that one day 
 on presenting liiniself at the Louvre to see the king, 
 he was repulsed in broad davliglit hy the guard. 
 
 It was doubtless about this time, that seeing Louis 
 XIV. passing in his carriage and saluting the crowd, 
 lie threw his hat under the horses' feet, and stretched 
 out his hands in desperation. The horses stopped, 
 but what a stroke of ill-fortune I — The king saw in 
 Dufresnv only a beggar, and threw a crown of six 
 livres to him from the window. The poor poet took 
 to his heels with his utmost speed, as if to es- 
 cape from his shame, and ran no one knew whither, 
 to weep with shame and anger. Certes, had sui- 
 cide then been in voo-ue, Dufresnv would have hung 
 himself, for how coidd he continue his iournev on 
 so bad a road, when life had naught but flints to 
 scatter beneath his feet, and the portal of the other 
 world can be opened so easily. But in those days 
 men lived as long as it pleased Heaven ; they tnidged 
 ])atiently through all the merry ways of life, calling 
 into requisition, in default of lieroism in bearing ca- 
 lamity, a little of that good old philosophy which then 
 formed the life of the nation. So do not pity Du- 
 fresny too much. He only is to be pitied Avho, 
 having exhausted all the favors of fortune, has no 
 other resource left but to don the livery of wretched- 
 ness on the decline of youth, when the imagination 
 is naught but a devastated plain, scarcely animated 
 here anil there by the fall of a leaf or the cry of a 
 bird taking wing. Donot pity Dufi'esny. T tell you, 
 lie will take refuge in the past, or still better, mIII 
 amnse himself witli the present, as with a comedy of 
 a tln.ii.-and \aried scenes. Besides, let fortune <lo
 
 34r DUFEESNY. 
 
 \wv worsf, sue can not cle})rive liiiu oC his little n-ainU'ii- 
 ])lot at A'inceniies, wlieii the pleasant season retnvns, 
 and the roses bloom airain. Perhaps you think 
 that Dufresnv went and bemoaned himself in a 
 loni' eleii-iac ? Do not be deceived. He cried liearti- 
 ly, but could not restrain a smile amidst his tears. 
 '' My poor hat lost ! that is all I have gained by that 
 silly business. longhtto liave picked u]> the money, 
 and makinc: mvself known to Lonis XIY., said to 
 him, 'What would you have Dufresny do with this':!' 
 The king would liave taken back his alms, and I 
 should luive liad no weight upon my heart." 
 
 Dufresny returned to his lodging, thinking that a 
 wife, the first he could get, would be a treasure to 
 liim in his misery. With a wife lie would be sure 
 of a home and of l)read without anxiety; he had his 
 days of ennui, a wife would make them pass ])leas- 
 antly. A letter from Biancoletti came to dissipate 
 this odd revery. Biancoletti invoked a little of his 
 hnniur for the finishing touch to a piece he had in 
 hand. Dufresny mended his pen, and sat down to 
 answer the letter. He had not written three lines, 
 when a woman, without any previous notice, walked 
 into his room. " Alas !" said he, " people formerly 
 took the troid)le to wait in the antechamber; here is 
 the inconvenience of being no longer a fine gentle- 
 num, and particularly of not having an antecham- 
 ber." Tlie woman, who had heard Dufresny's re- 
 mark, veiy coolly said to him, " I went through all your 
 other rooms without meeting a single valet, otherwise 
 I should have had myself announced." Dufresny 
 recognising the voice, turned with a merry smile,
 
 ANGELIQUE. 6t 
 
 '* Ah, is it YOU, Angelique ? I am glad of it. I was 
 waiting with impatience for my rivfiies." — "That is 
 all very well, Monsieur Dufresny ; but you have had 
 no ruffles in the wash this long time." 
 
 This woman was Dufresny's washerwoman, a 
 large girl, pleasant and i'air-complcxioned, and 
 dressed eu(]ucttishly. '* Do you know, Angelique," 
 continued the poet, in resuming his letter, " that 
 you are a very pretty girl?" — "That is pos- 
 sible, ]\[()nsieur Dufresny; but I am not to be paid 
 with that kind of money to-day. You have owed 
 me eighty li\Tes this long time. I beg 3'^ou to re- 
 member me, for I am going to be married." — " How 
 is that ! you are going to be married !" cried Du- 
 fresny, suddenly starting from his chair. — "And 
 why not, if you please ? Am I not old enough ?" 
 
 Dufresny had become thoughtful. — "With M'honi 
 and Avith what ?" — " With a valet-de-chambre of the 
 Due d'llarcourt, and with twelve Imiidred livres 
 which come to me from my family." — " The deuce ! 
 the misci'al)le fellow is not to be pitied ; a good 
 
 match in faith ! Has anything yet " —"What 
 
 do you take me for. Monsieur Dufresny?" — "For a 
 fine irirl who desires onlv to l>ecome a fine wife." — 
 " That is all very well. Monsieur Dufresny, but you 
 are making me lose my time with all your fine talk. 
 Come, be kind enough to settle our little bill." — "I 
 have a horror of figures. See here: to finish tliis 
 matter, I will marry you and we shall be quits." 
 — "You are joking! A gentleman — If I take you 
 
 at your word " — "Tliat is what I wish. I'.iit 
 
 what will your other friend say?" — "Say no more 
 about liim" — "Are you sure he has had nolliiiig ov
 
 3() DUFRT':SNY. 
 
 account from your twelve Imndrcd livres or from 
 Yourself r' — "I should iiavc liked to have seen hiui 
 try it ! It is only to yon that people give {inytliing or. 
 account." — "AVell, embrace me, and let ns lie oH' to 
 ihc next tavern. "What a pretty wife I am going to 
 have! l>y-the-l»y, have you a little money about 
 Yt)u ?" — " Do vou know that you do me a o;reat deal 
 t)f honor? A man of your rank and of your talents 
 to marry a poor girl incapable C)f playing the part of 
 a duchess." — "It is you who will be the dupe; look 
 at the matter twice ; see to what a state I have 
 arrived with all my talent and my forty-five years." 
 — Angclique weeping embraced him. " To-morrow," 
 said she, with charming naivete, "• I will make you 
 look as well as I have seen you formerly. But, jfirst 
 and foremost, you must ask me in marriage of my 
 aunt Durand, for form's sake : it is not far — quai des 
 Tournelles. She is a good woman, and besides she 
 keeps my money for me." — " Let us go instanter ; 
 we should never put off anything to the morrow\ If 
 YOU will take my advice, "sve will afterward snv a 
 sh(»rt prayer together at Notre-Dame, and it will be 
 all over." — " So this is the style in which you wish to 
 marry me ! Thank heaven, I do not agree with you !" 
 — " Oh, I am willing to marry you in any style you 
 wish. I "will not even object to the marriage con- 
 tract, though all these things are superfluous." 
 
 Three weeks afterward the marriage took place 
 rather privately. Such was the inanner in which 
 Dufresny married his washerwoman. Nothing was 
 ever more reasonable or more natural than this 
 marriage, which caused so much scandal. But what 
 mattered the vain satires of the world to Dnfresny ?
 
 MARRIES niS WASlfERV'OMAN. 37 
 
 He luid a young and liandsome wife wlio loved liim, 
 BO lie said those wlio pitied liim were jealous. 
 
 Le Sage tlnis relates this singular adveuture in the 
 tenth ehai)ter of his "Devil upon Two Sticks." The 
 devil is showing Cleophas the people who should be 
 ])iit in the madhouse. "I also wish to send there," 
 says he, ''an old fellow of good famihj^ who no 
 s»n.>ner gets a ducat than he spends it ; and who, not 
 being able to exist M'ithout money, is capable of doing 
 anything to obtain it. Fifteen days ago, his washer- 
 woman, to whom he owed thirty pistoles, came to ask 
 him for them, savinc; that she needed them, as she 
 was iroino- to marrv a valet-de-chambre who had 
 ])rop..>c'd to her. — 'Ton have other money, then,' 
 said he to her, ' for M'here the plague can you find a 
 valet-de-chambre willing to become your husband for 
 thirty pistoles ?' — 'Eh? but,' answered she, 'I have 
 two liuii(bv(l ducats besides that.' — 'Two hundred 
 ducats,' replied he with emotion; 'the devil! you 
 have only to give them to me ; I will marry you, and 
 we will be quits.' He was tahen at his wuid, and his 
 wasliei-wonian has become his wife." 
 
 The news of this marriage was soon extended far 
 and wide, thanks to a bon-mot of the al)be Pellcgrin, 
 M-ho had been present at the celebration. Dufresny, 
 some (lavs after, rallied him at Anise's for always 
 wearing dirty linen; the abbe, pi(pied at this, re- 
 torted that everybody was not fortunate enough to 
 mai'ry a washerwonum. 
 
 (Jut of love to liis wife, Dufresny set to work again 
 with ardor. He wrote a dozcTi butfooneries, one after 
 the other, for the Italieiis, and three or four come- 
 dies f"i- Ihf Th(':iliv Franciiis. Thr luwvi'sl was good 
 
 4
 
 3S dVtrks.ny. 
 
 duriii::; tlie early yours, but uul'ntiiuatcly as soon as, 
 lie tbiiiul he liad eiioni!;li to sai)[)oi-t liimself for a 
 season, lie (lr«»p[)e(l the pen and took up the watei'iiiiji;- 
 ]t<>t, returned to Ins fatal iiui'tleu at \'inconncs, and 
 did not leave it until all his resources were exhausted. 
 He had no lon<i;er mueh enthusiasm for the sta^'e, 
 Avhieh had retui-ned him but small <^aiiis, and 
 began to despair, wiieii Louis XIY. again thought of 
 Inni. The patent for the looking-glass manufactory 
 had expired; in signing a renewal of it, the king had 
 sti})ulated that the contractors should pay ])ufresny 
 an annual pension of three thousand livres. The 
 poet, therefore, ]-eceived one morning the title to this 
 pension: but how could he wait six months before 
 receiving: the iirst instalment? Six months to Du- 
 fresnv ! It seemed like the end of the world, "^riie 
 contractors were accommodating peojDle ; he ]>aid 
 them a second visit. " I shall live fifty years,'' he 
 told them; "but if you will pay me for five years in 
 advance, I will give you a full acquittance." They 
 debated a long time ; the C(jntractors talked a great 
 deal about the chances of death; but after two con- 
 tracts giuirantying them, Dufresny returned, all in a 
 jjerspiration, "svith ten thousand livres in gold. Jle 
 sj^read them out on the table with the jov of an iidant, 
 and embraced his wife, who from weeping from 
 misery wept for jov. 
 
 The next day he reattired his wdfe from head 
 to foot, bought himself fifty pairs of mfiles, hired 
 three sets of apartments at the same time, to dis- 
 sipate the blue devils which tormented him ; in 
 Hue, took rapid strides again down the road of 
 ruin, in spite of his wile, who restraine<l liim
 
 THE MEKCURr. 39 
 
 witli Ijotli 1 lands. In less tlian a vcav he tell into 
 profound Avretchedness. At the death of Vise he 
 addressed a petition to Louis XIY. for the exclusive 
 privilege of the publication of the Mercury : — 
 
 May it please you. sire, my privilege to renew, 
 And grant my i)atent-right to cheer and gladden you. 
 
 lie obtained it, and thus commenced his duties: — 
 
 " Mercury flies with outspread wings, 
 
 To search me out, through all the universe, 
 The cleverest jokes and newest things 
 
 Both true and false, as well in pmse as verse; 
 From which I'll choose, seeking Minerva's aid, 
 But vain I call the blue-eyed maid. 
 She'll not to me incline, 
 I can not hope that fire ilivine, 
 Save from the god of wine. 
 
 After this preface he composed tales of the school 
 ot Le Sage, and some very weak criticisms, but 
 among tliem a very curious and original parallel 
 between lli)mer and Iia])elais. After all, he was 
 more of a poet than a journalist and was unable to l)e 
 hmiiorous and sensible at fixed hours. In his hands 
 the Mercury ran great risk of appearing only once 
 in six weeks. At lirst, thanks to the solicitude of 
 his wife, everything went on in the best possible 
 maimer, l)ut his wife having died din-ing the second 
 year, he got tired of his journal, and sold the privilege 
 cf jmblication. The death of his wife, as he has 
 said, brought the autumn of his life t(j winter; ho 
 regretted until the day of his death, the sad but 
 ha|»py hours passed beside his dear, ruddy, mild 
 Ang(;Ii<pic.
 
 40 DUFRF.SA 1 . 
 
 From 1715 to ITIO, Dnfrcsny lived no one knows 
 wliere or liow ; it is tlionnlit that he passed his time 
 ill the suhurlis of Paris, in the suite of some noble- 
 man directing masons and gardeners; perliaps he re- 
 tired silently on the pittance produced hy the sale of 
 the Mercnry, weej)inn- tor his wife, and cultivating 
 liis i-oscs at Vincennes. It is certain, however, that 
 at the period of Law's scheme, he found himself in 
 snch distress that lie presented this strange petition 
 to the Duke of Orleans: "It is needful for your 
 glory, monseignenr, to leave Dufresny in his extreme 
 poverty, so that at least one man may remain in a 
 situation, which will remind men that the whole kinc;- 
 doin, before yon lent yonrself to its aid, was as poor 
 as Dufresny." The regent wrote nangjit at the foot of 
 the petition, and sent an order to Law to pay two 
 hundred thousand livres to Dufresny : he knew that 
 the poet belonsred to the familv. Dufresnv hastened 
 to spend the money. lie built a fine mansion in the 
 faubourg St. Antoine, which he called the House of 
 Pliny. For the first time in his life he spent his 
 money at the proper time, for the two hundred 
 thousand livres were in l^ank-notes. Six months 
 later he would have suffered in Law's Ijankruptcy ; 
 but Dufresny was not such a fool as to keep his 
 bank-notes in his pocket. 
 
 He died in 1724-, aged seventy-five, cahnly, like a 
 mail who has nothing more to do in this woi-ld. In 
 his latter days he saw his children again, who had 
 become zealous devotees : to please them he burnt 
 a large manuscript, containing four comedies, the 
 c<»nlinuation of the ''''Amusements comiques et seri- 
 <?Ma'," tales, songs, and memoirs. Heaven forgivo
 
 niS POKTEAIT. 41 
 
 his cliiklren, for Dufresnv reduced to ashes much wit 
 and giivety. He died in the auturnn, like a good 
 jtoet and a good Christian. He saw his garden from 
 liis bed ; his hist glance passed over the flowers as 
 they faded, and was lost in the azure heaven with 
 his soul. 
 
 I have seen his portrait by Coy])el. It represents 
 a man of sixty yeai-s, but still tresh and sprightly. 
 His charming head is buried in a forest of hair, his 
 smile is marked l)y intelligence and good humor, the 
 most beautiful smile in the world. His dear Angel- 
 ique, the washerwoman, has not forgotten his shirt- 
 frill and ruffles. His hand is ornamented with a 
 diamond, and what is still better, with an impatient 
 ])en whose point is far from being blunted. The at- 
 tributes of science are represented as his armorial 
 l)earings. And, in reality, was not this man, though 
 he never opened a book, a savant in action? He 
 l)ad studied love in his heart, grandeur at the 
 court, war upon the field of battle, architecture in 
 the erection of buildings, nature in his garden, 
 l»oetrv and music in son":. Thus Dufresnv's science 
 d id n<;)t depend upon books ; she dropped her dreamy 
 head, and seemed lost in recollection. Dufresny's 
 Works form seven volumes, M'ithout including his 
 "Theatre l>ouffon," which is full of humorous pas- 
 sages. His tales, which are tliose of a })hiloso])her, 
 arc written with too much carelessness. Dufresnv 
 thought rather than wrote. His comedies, always 
 original, are fjrmed a little on the model of his life, 
 no logic in the intrigue, but wit of the true stam]->, 
 graci-ful satire, a charming disoi-der, all goes by 
 jinziird as in tlie actual conu-dv of human lih*. Tiiui 
 
 4* "
 
 i'2 DUFRESNT. 
 
 ill the liiiiitiMl liorizun of the tlieiitrc wlicre so much 
 art is needed to group the scenes haiMiitMiioiisly 
 around tlie idea to be expressed, the iiiiciirhed 
 comedit^s of J.)uf Vesny were not always well received. 
 ]\rore than one pleasant scene produced a smile, more 
 than one eharmin<^ hon-mot i)assed from mouth to 
 month, hut tliat M'as often the limit of their success. 
 If you want to see Dufresny's work par excellence, 
 you must consult " Zes Aninsements comf'qiies et se- 
 rieux,-^ which is tlie work in which he displays 
 his originality without restraint. Each page of 
 this little volume contains some good sentiment on 
 human philosophy. It is the l>ook of a thinker, 
 who ex])i'esses himself as a wit. AVe listen gayly 
 to him in this treatise, which is serious only in 
 its satire. "I have given to the ideas which have 
 come into my head the name (»f AtnvfieDients ^ 
 thev will he crrave or cav according to the lunnor 
 I am in while writing them, or the humor you 
 are in Avhile reading them." This satire is, as yon 
 know, a journey through Paris. Dufresny departs 
 for this still unknown country with a native of 
 Siain, " whose bizarre and figurative ideas" con- 
 trast at every step with his own and sharpen liis wit. 
 Thus at the Tuileries, the Siamese exclaims at the 
 sight of its charming promenadei's : " Oh, the beau- 
 tiful aviary! oh, what charming birds!" — "They 
 are," says Dufresny, fjllowing out the same idea, 
 " amusing birds who change their plumage two or three 
 times a day — volatile l)y inclination, feeble by na- 
 ture, gay in i)lumage, they see the dawn only at sun- 
 set, walkiuiT with their feet raised a foot from the 
 ground, touching the clouds with their superl) tufts..
 
 HIS BICST WORK. 43 
 
 In a word, most women are peacocks at the prome- 
 nade, magpies in domestic life, doves in a tete-a-tete. 
 There are also varions nations among these prome- 
 naders — the polished nation of the ttishionahle ladies, 
 the savage one of the provincials, the free one of the 
 co(piettes, the nneonqneral)le one of the faithfnl, 
 the docile one of the nnfaithfnl, the wandering one 
 of the cjvpsies." He continues thus : " AVe have two 
 sorts of promenades at Paris, the one, people frequent 
 to see and to be seen, the other, neither to see nor to 
 he seen by anybody. Ladies inclined to solitude 
 voluntarily seek the by-paths of the Bois de Bou- 
 loquCi, where they serve as mutual guides to lose one 
 another." Montesquieu found in this book not merely 
 the i(h:a^ but the ^V/cv^s', too, of the Persian Letters. 
 Dnfresnv contented himself with a rai)id tour. 
 Moiitesipiieu followed with a slowness of reflection 
 in the poet's footsteps. 
 
 AVith a little less of that inaction which forms 
 the charms of the happy hours of his life, and a 
 little less of poetry in action, Dufresny, with his 
 liappy endowments, would have ranked among the 
 great poets. At least he is among those whom 
 Fame does not dare to place in the inferior ranks ; 
 he stands by himself, neither small nor large, 
 chamiing : and that is all. AVith fewer certain re- 
 sources, but more patience and study, many second- 
 ary writers appear to have surpassed him. Had 
 Montesquieu, who drew his first book tVom a work of 
 Dufresny 's, his exquisite talent? With Montesquieu, 
 jiatience was everything ; his was the genius of reflec- 
 tion. It was not until he was thii-ty-two years old — 
 rich, noble — his name well known in the fashionable
 
 44 dufim;sny. 
 
 world, that he ventured upon his lirst work ; tlie easy 
 succefS (»f tlic Persuin L-.-tters conducted its author 
 to the Academy forthwith, while Dufresny died in 
 oblivion. 
 
 Dut'resnv was alwavs sin<>;ino; while cultivatino; his 
 roses, impruvi sin r);l)oth words and music, but like a 
 true poet who detests books, he never preserved 
 either the words or the music : words and music 
 passed away with the wind. An echo, j)reserved by 
 chance, is all that has come down to ns of his many 
 songs. There is a truly Gallic turn in his musical 
 philosophy, as in Les Lendemains^ Les Cloches, 
 and La CJi.anso7i des Vendanges. 
 
 Tlie same books are continually reprinted, but they 
 are little read, or they are not read at all : the mas- 
 ter-pieces of a nation are in the minds of every one^ 
 they are known before they are read. A celebrated 
 book is a tradition spread from mouth to mouth — it 
 is a museum wlience all the painters have taken 
 a picture. I know all the Wouvelle Heloise by heart, 
 thouo;h it is chance whether I have ever, durinn; a 
 studious or an idle day, read twenty pages of it. 
 The books to re^jrint are the unknown books, many 
 of which are delightful. AYluit an attractive vol- 
 ume could be made from Dufresny 's seven — two 
 comedies, two tales, four songs, Les Amusements 
 comiques et serieux. Thus composed it would 
 be one of the most pleasing volumes in French 
 literature. 
 
 I wished, as a good historiographer, to hear some 
 of Dufresny's music. A violoncellist played for me. 
 with mucli disdain, some of the old naive and sim- 
 ple airs. It is almost the music of Jean Jaccpies —
 
 dijfeesny's roses. 45 
 
 it has the same languishing sweetness. Good music 
 for a solitary valley, but too quiet for Paris. 
 
 Dufresny is a poet rather by his life than by his 
 writino;s. He is the traveller who has not had time 
 to write out his journal amidst the confusion of his 
 adventures. Here and there, however, on meeting 
 Avith a fair landscape, he has jotted down in passing- 
 some exj^ression, charming in thought £ind feeling. 
 But, most often, when his adventurous voyage left 
 him an hour of repose, he hid himself in his garden 
 and cultivated his roses ; it was the sole labor he 
 recognised. How many flowers of eloquence and 
 of poetry, famous in their day, have had neither the 
 reputation, the perfume, nor the permanence of the 
 roses of Dufresny !
 
 FONTENELLE. 
 
 A VERY curious spectacle was presented on tlie 7tli 
 of February, 1 765, at the hotel of llel vetius. Madame 
 Ilelvetius, who was not a philosopher, thanks to her 
 l)eautiful eyes, inaugurated the festivities of the car- 
 nival by a niagniticent ball to which all who were 
 distinguished in Paris for brilliancy of wit, beauty, 
 or grace, were invited. It was a charjning world, bad 
 catlK)lic but ffood. Christian, sinninsr in broad dav- 
 light, but giving alms in the shade, already laughing 
 at titles of nobility as at titles ecclesiastic, calling 
 Richelieu the Grand Duke of the Boudoir, and 
 Yoisenon, the Archbishop of the Comedie-Italienne. 
 
 The curious spectacle at the ball of Madame Ilel- 
 vetius, on the 7th of February, 1755, was not owing 
 to the scandal caused by the amours of Grimm and 
 Madame d'Epinay, at the expense of Jean Jacrpies 
 Housseau, but to the opening of the ball by an old 
 poet with Mademoiselle Ilelvetius. This old poet, 
 gnrnamed the old shepherd, was M. de Fontenelle; 
 then mor-e than ninety-eight years old. As for his 
 partner. Mademoiselle Ilelvetius, she was only a 
 year-and-a-half.
 
 SCAJ^DAL. 47 
 
 This evening he kept them waiting a little for him. 
 " So much the woi-se ; we will wait," said Madame 
 Ilelvetius. — "' It is coquetry," said Madame d'Epinay 
 — " I am very sure," said Montcrif, " that he will 
 make his appearance covered with all the gewgaws 
 of frivolity." — " You see I was right when I wrote 
 'The style is the man,'" said M. de Button, smooth- 
 ing his ruffles. — "You are mischievous. Monsieur de 
 Butfon," said Madame d'Angeville, with a charming 
 little curl of the lip; "since they have gone so far 
 as to style M. de Fontenelle the old shepherd, be- 
 cause he has a little that is simple and unafiected 
 in him." — "If it were so, madame," said Duclos, 
 witli none too much gallantr}^, "he could have retained 
 his real name, Le Bouvier [the cowherd], which 
 certainly does very well. Witli a name like that he 
 could have made good and unaffected eclogues which 
 smelt of the grass of the fields; but when one is 
 called Fontenelle, he is nothing more than a little 
 fountain, pattering on the stones with a petty mo- 
 notonous murmur; still an eclogue, if you will, but 
 what an eclomic ! All this mav be said without in- 
 jury to the genius of M. de Fontenelle." 
 
 Montcrif, a disciple of Fontenelle, took up the 
 convei-sation. "In faith," said he, "I think that M. 
 Duclos regards the eclogue in much the same light 
 as the old abbe Delanie, who naively takes the cows 
 to water in a stanza." — "And why not?" exclaimed 
 Duclos; "it is a great fault, truly, to call things l)y 
 their right names !" 
 
 Madame Ilelvetius hastened to appease the critics 
 " ]\[or,sieur Duclos, they want you by the firej)lace. 
 As for you, Monsiuur Montcrif, tell us of y«>ui
 
 48 rONTENETJ.K. 
 
 caning rencontre witli the ]H)et. Kvervixxlv is talk- 
 inir abtmt it. JMadanie de la Tioclietoiicanlt "wonld 
 he most cliarined t(» have a good version of tlie little 
 storv." — "• I thank i\radan.ie de la Ilechet'oncanlt ; I 
 ■\vill relate it to hei' the more willingly, as the jjoet 
 who WHS the recipient l>lays the best part in it. In 
 my leisnre moments I liad wiitten on eats. It was 
 the ajKilogy of the cats and at the same time that of 
 tlie women. Perhaj)S I had deceived myself, bnt I 
 thonght I wrote in all sincei'ity. The poet Roy had 
 christened me for this misdeed, the liistoriograjiher of 
 cats. The joke met witli snecess in society. I vowed 
 revenge. As there is bnt one weapon against Hoy, the 
 cane, I took a cane; I went where I knew I shonld 
 find hini, an<l at the same time that I reminded him 
 of his satire, raised tlie cane with anger. Do yon know 
 what the poor devil said to me, the historiographer ot 
 cats? — 'l)raw in your claws, pnssy ! don't scratch ! 
 draw in your soft paws !' You may well suppose that 
 I dropi)ed the stick. However, I ought rather to have 
 told you M. de Fontenelle's last joke, wliich is more 
 in the order of the day — " — "That is not to be told 
 too loud," said Madame Ilelvetius, with a charming 
 smile. — "Who told it to you, then ?" said Madame 
 d'Epinay, mischievously. " Come, come !" cried 
 Duclos, " it is only citizens' wives and dancing-girls 
 who take offence at a little gayety." — ""Well," con- 
 tinued Montcrif, "last week Fontenelle went one 
 morning to see a very pretty woman, mIio has taken 
 the abl)c de Bernis as her confessor. The lady came 
 out to Fontenelle in her deshabille. 'You see,' said 
 she to him, ' that we get up for you.' — ' Yes,' answered 
 Fontenelle; 'but you go to bed for somebody else."'
 
 FONTENKI-I.K IX PKEPAEATION. 49 
 
 —"Don't go too far, Monsieur de Montcrif, we can 
 gness the rest," said Madame de la Ilocliefoncanlt, a 
 little too late. 
 
 Meantime, while tliey were waiting for him in the 
 saloons of llelvetius, Fontenelle M-a& doing his best 
 to furbish up his person and his wit. " Kinon," said 
 he to one of his nieces, the youngest of the demoiselles 
 de Marcillj, who was at times his handmaiden, 
 " what do you think of my looks now ? Come ; I will 
 not ask with my hand on my heart, but with my 
 hand on niv eves, is it true that I have no more grace 
 in my smile, or fire in my glance ? Men do not stop 
 at eighty, Kinon ; I am beginning to grow old rather 
 fast ; in fine, we must expect everything, even death." 
 — '' Oh, uncle," answered Mademoiselle de Marcilh^, 
 "the little loves are still crouching in the curls of 
 your pei-uke ! Trust me, you will make a conquest to- 
 night ! You would be sure to have more success than 
 I if we wej"e both to dance a miinict at the same time." 
 — "Are my ruffles to your liking, Xinon ? " — "Yes, 
 nncle ; they were intended, yon know, by Madame 
 de Froidmont for his lordship the archbishop." 
 
 All the while that he was arranging himself with 
 liis niece, Fontenelle was taxing his memory to put in 
 play all the resources of his mind, which, no longer 
 capable of jiction, was still tricked off with tinsel. It 
 was, if we may credit Rollin and Duclos, a sad spec- 
 tacle to see this being, almost an automaton, who 
 looked as if he had come out of his gi-ave for the 
 twentieth time, this rattling skeleton, still seeking in 
 liis vanitv for noise and flitter. Even in lM)ntenolle's 
 best days, ids intellect had not carried away every- 
 body ; ])lenty of peoi^le, finding neither profundity
 
 50 rONTKNKLLE. 
 
 nor truth, nothing natural or spontaneous, liad with- 
 ch-awu from th(> herd ; but then, at least, the poet 
 saved his credit bv the aid of his i'-i'i'Ce and his youth. 
 l>ut when over eightv, to dnig- everywhere the super- 
 annuated parapliei'ualia of a wit, to desire to strew 
 rosedeaves over Ids faded lips, to play the fop and the 
 ndlkscjp, was but the sign of the man of intellect sunk 
 into second childhood. 
 
 At last Fontcnelle set out in the caiiiage of 
 Madame do Forgeville, in company with the two 
 demoiselles Marcilly. During the ride he repeated 
 Ins lesson like a child. — "Let us see," lie muttered 
 to himself; "I must make money out of everything 
 to-night. That memorable hush has been scarcely 
 lieard of for these four or five years. I can still 
 return to it. I have also lately (it was scarcely more 
 than twenty years ago) hit on a capital paradox: If 
 I had my hands fall erf' truths, I should take good 
 care not to ojjen them. That always produces its 
 effect. Xot to forget my tender things to the women, 
 and my graceful turns of speech. There is no more 
 time to be lost." 
 
 As Montcrif was interrupted by Madame de la 
 llochefoucault, the doors of the great saloon were 
 thrown open. — "There he is! it is M. Fontenelle!" 
 was exclaimed on all sides. Madame Ilelvetius 
 rushed forward to meet him. He bowed, still grace- 
 fully, seized her hand, and I'aised it gallantly to his 
 centenary lips. — "Monsieur de Fontenelle, do you 
 know that we were waiting for you to open the 
 dance?" — "It was because I knew it that 1 came 
 late ; ovei-look this little bit of coquetry : poets are 
 women, foi' which I have no cause of complaint.
 
 OPEinxG THE i>Axci:. 51 
 
 And besides, if I must tell everything, I have a 
 domestic who serves me as badly as if I had tweutv." 
 Foiitenelle was placed alongside of Madame de 
 Froidmont, who was ninety -five. — " Ah, my poor old 
 shepherd I '' said she to him, tossing her head, and 
 lisping a little, "Iiow old we are getting!" — "Hush ! 
 Death forgets ns," said Fontenelle, putting his finger 
 on his lips, and assuring liimself that all eyes were 
 upon him. This joke had still great success; every- 
 body applauded. — " I have cheated Nature ; I have 
 somewhat of a Xorman's cunning in that respect." 
 — When Fontenelle had collected all the beautiful 
 smiles which were dii-ected on his locks, whitened by 
 so manv winters, he asked liis neiijhbor what svas 
 mider discussion when he entered. — "I am a little 
 deaf and 1 do not see very well ; mv lieavv bairo-ao-e 
 lias been sent on in advance ; but it is only neces- 
 sary for me to know the title of the chapter to under- 
 stand the conversation." — Ilelvetius answered him 
 that the poets on one side, and the philosophers on 
 tlie other, had been agitating the (piestion for an hour, 
 whether science was necessary fur the happiness of 
 mankind. — " Ah, my philosopher, yon have preached 
 np science, but, be not angry, you are mistaken. 
 What need liave we of the light of the lanterns of 
 science to lead ns to everlasting darkness? " 
 
 Mademoiselle Ilelvetius, who was scarce!}' able to 
 walk yet, was led in at this moment. " See," said he, 
 "my ])ai"tner is weary of waiting; come, my legs, 
 be a little lively, if you ])lease — come on !" He rose 
 and conducted the young dancer by the hand to the 
 middle of the I'oom. Then, as if by ciicliaiitiiiciit, 
 graceful groups formed around him. lie was at first
 
 ;»2 i-'(wrKNi:LLE. 
 
 ilazzlod l)v the dresses, the looks, tlie flowers, the 
 smiles, the entire ])oiiip of luxury and heauty — he 
 felt his logs shake, he thong-Jit for a nionient that his 
 soul was about to depart fi'oni his body in the dance; 
 but he soon rallied, and as soon as the musicians had 
 connnenced with an air of llousseau, he advanced 
 at his own risk and peril, keeping continually hold 
 of his partner's hand. Evei'y one closely observed 
 this singular spectacle of old age and infancy, car- 
 ried around in the same whirl. After the iii'st iiijure 
 it was necessary to force Fontenelle to rest himself. 
 "Come," said Madame d'Epinay, '*God be praised, 
 you have got tlu'ough with a difficult stej)." — "It is 
 the one before the last," said Fontenelle, reseating 
 himself. " When the last comes, I may make a wiy 
 face, but at least after that 1 shall have a long 
 rest." — " There is," said Madame d'E[)inay, " an 
 old proverb which says: 'It is oidy the fii'st step 
 tliat costs anything.'" — "That proverb is not com- 
 mon sense ; the step which costs the most is the last. 
 The first step ! ah, madame, why could we not have 
 made it togethei- ? Ah, if I was only eighty ! " 
 
 Fontenelle went on in this way for moi'e than an 
 hour. Madame d'Epinay, who did not dance then, 
 for certain I'casons, listened with curiosity to the 
 amiable vagaries of the poet. She was not the only 
 one — Madame de Rochefoncault, Madame de Foi-ge- 
 ville, and some others, came and gathered around 
 him ; while in another corner of the i-oom, Duclos, 
 Grimm, Colle, and Diderot, were narrating with some 
 severity, certain chapters of his history. 
 
 The history of Fontenelle can soon be told. lie 
 lived a hundred years; but was it in truth worth
 
 HIS i;iKTn. 53 
 
 while for liiin to make the tour of a century ? This 
 poet without poetry, this petticoat philosopher, this 
 inau without soul, this sage of the boudoir, this Fou- 
 teuelle, in tine, might surely have died half a cen- 
 tury sooner, without any loss to ns or to himself 
 except a little noise and smoke. At ninety-eight he 
 said, " I have neither laughed nor wept." Let us 
 pity, pity this proud man, because lie never laughed, 
 and because he never wept. 
 
 He came into the world at Kouen in the middle 
 of the seventeenth century. " Truly," said lie, at a 
 later period, " I did not look as if I had come into 
 the world to make a loiii; stav. I was so feeble 
 that the liirht alone nearlv killed me." His mother, 
 Martha Corneille, was sister to the celebrated Pierre 
 and Thomas Corneille. This shows us how Fon- 
 tanelle came to be a poet. His father, Francois Le 
 Bouvier, a lawyer of little fame, was well read in 
 polite literature. He was a matter-of-fact man, of a 
 melancholy and irascible tempci'ament. His mother, 
 in contrast, was mild and i2:enial. Althou<i;h a 2;ood 
 catholic, she pardoned her brothers for their profane 
 productions. The young Bernard went through his 
 earliest studies at the Jesuit college of his native 
 town. He advanced from the first by great strides 
 through the realms of science. Thus, when thirteen, 
 he wrote a Latin poem on the Annunciation^ for the 
 ])rize of the Palinodes, thought worth}^ to be printed 
 if nut to obtain the prize ; but from that time he fell 
 oft' a little. Li philosophy he stopped short, being 
 r(M»elled by the thorns of scholastic loc;ic. His com- 
 jadits hoped at last to have their revenge. " Now," 
 tjaid he, long afterward, " I could not succeed so 
 
 5*
 
 6-i T-'ONTKNi;i,IJ5. 
 
 quickly in pliilosoplij, for the ver}' I'cason that I was 
 a philoso})lier. Hut as, from a very early period, I 
 did not trouble myself nnich about anything, I 
 did not choose to nnderstand anything ahont logic ; 
 1 ended hy nnderstanding something of it; I soon 
 saw that it was not worth the trouble of understand- 
 ing." 
 
 After an enthusiastic study of physics, he M'ent 
 through a law course, and was admitted. A good 
 cause came in his way. He undertook the defence 
 of a poor devil, perhaps wrongfully accused. After 
 some explanations the judges were about to acquit 
 him ; but Fontanclle, not wishing to lose the effect 
 of his argument, which contained a great deal about 
 the Ci reeks and llomans, demanded to be heard, to 
 complete the reparation of the accused, llo ar- 
 gued with more of show than substance. "In a 
 word," says the abbe Desfontaines in his joui-nal, 
 "ho did so well, that the arrows which he pointed 
 became weapons against the accused." After the 
 ])leadings, the judges fatigued with all this display, 
 and mistrusting some subterfuge, exercised their pow- 
 ers with rigor, and the poor devil was condenmed, 
 thanks to liis lawyer, Avho did not afterward find any 
 one to defend. 
 
 Thomas Corneille took, on a visit to Paris, Fonto- 
 nelle with him. Thomas was then conducting the 
 Jfercure Galant with Vise. The colmnns of this 
 journal were opened to the new-comer who scattered 
 therein the primroses of his imagination, primroses 
 without fi-eshness and without perfume. It was in 
 this that he achieved his first success. The year fol- 
 lowing, after his return to llouen. Vise wrote in the
 
 EETUKNING TO EOUKN. 
 
 Mercvre the apologj of the joniig Korinan Muse 
 lamenting his too long sojourn far from Paris. Fon- 
 tanelle returned after liaving obtained the second 
 prize fi-om the French Academy. Inimediatelj on 
 his return he wrote on the scenario of liis uncle 
 Thomas, the verses for two operas, which attracted 
 some attention, Psyche and Belltro])hon. These 
 operas were followed by a tragedy, As])ei\ which 
 would be forgotten without the epigram of Racine 
 on the origin of hisses. He abandoned the theatie 
 in some disgust. He was a journalist and nothing 
 more, so lie set to work at newspaper writing by the 
 volume. As soon as he had people's eyes turned to- 
 ward him, Fontenelle exerted all the powers of his 
 faculties with the wretched aim of being always 
 an object of public attention. Vanity was his sole 
 companion, his sole love, his sole joy. Not being 
 able to be a man of genius, and knowing well that 
 liis memory would not long survive him, he seized 
 on celebrity with both hands, he fought with his in- 
 tellect to liis death. "If he makes much ado about 
 dying," said Duclos, laughing, " it is because he 
 knows but too well that once in the other woi-ld, he 
 will have nothing to contend for in this." 
 
 He I'eturned again to Ilouen,to write, in solitude and 
 quiet, The Plwralttij of Worlds. The Marchioness de 
 la ^[esengere was living at that time in her chateau 
 at llouen. Fontanelle was received there as a poet; 
 he ])assed all the fine afternoons in the park. Tvow 
 and then, he promenaded with the mai'chioncss, who 
 mom-ned over the recoHections of a fatal uffectidii. V>y 
 dint of walking with iier and seeing her weep, he 
 imagined that he was falling in love with her. Ntit
 
 no FONTICNKLLE. 
 
 knowing ]ui\v to begin, as ho took connsol of liis li(>;ul 
 aiul not of liis heart, he imitated the slie]ih(!r(ls. lie 
 traced passionate verses on the hark of tlie heech 
 trees. If wo may believe the abbo Ti-nl)lot, these 
 verses, carved by Fonteiielle, were still to be seen in 
 the middle of the eighteenth century, 
 
 " Lvridas is so toiidor, and Clviiuiu Ixiks so well, 
 \Vli;it will become of li!in V 
 
 Oil, Love, wage war on her ! — that heart of stone suhdue ! 
 Oil, Love, oh, cruel Love ! " 
 
 AN'hon Fontenollo had -written this blaidv vei'sc, he 
 turned toward the windows of Madame do la Mes- 
 engere. — "Some day," said he to himself, "1 M'ill 
 write a verse there, if it please hor beautiful eves." 
 lie liad neither the pleasure nor the ti-oublo. The 
 next day, a mischievous hand — doubtless that of the 
 marchioness, made the quatrain rhyme, as follows: — 
 
 "Lycidas is so tender, and Clynicno looks so well, 
 What will become of Mm, for Clymene doth rebel? 
 Oh, Love, wage war on her, that heart of stone subdue 
 Oh, Love, oh, cruel Love, what luis become of you? 
 
 > ) 
 
 Fontenelle did not consider liimself vanquished on 
 beholding these terrible rhyines ; he urote an icy 
 epistle to the marchioness, full of darts atid quiv- 
 ers. Madame de la Mosengore was unscathed ; she 
 knew how to make a better disposition of her heart. 
 Ilowevei', for her amusement, she pretended to soften 
 a little. The poet, augui-ing well from certain chari- 
 table glances, had recourse again to the bark of the 
 beech-tree: —
 
 PASTORAI, T.OVE. 57 
 
 '* Shepherdess with the stonj heart, you. who can rliymeso well, 
 Whose one soft glance hath given joy that words cannot express, 
 Beneath this tree, to morrow eve, will you renew the spell '•"' 
 
 The next dav Foiitenelle rushed to the beech-tree 
 — Oil, joy ! oil, transport! — the rhyme was filled out! 
 It is sufficient to say that the shepherdess witli the 
 stonv heart had written "Yes," under the three 
 lines. You can guess whether Fontenelle was at 
 the trysting-place. At night-fall he saw a shadow 
 among the beech-trees ; he advanced with trepidation, 
 stretched out his hands, and fell upon his knees : " Ah, 
 marchioness, behold me dying of love at your feet." 
 — '' Monsieur Fontenelle, I am right sorry, but there 
 has been some mistake ; I am not the marchioness.'' 
 — P'ontenclle M'as verv alert in risins^. — " I know it 
 very well," said he, in great dismay ; " it was only 
 a ji»ke ; but who are you, then ? " — " Therese —noth- 
 ing more." — " The deuce ! " said Fontenelle ; " the 
 maid instead of the mistress! It was you, then, 
 who wrote a word on the beech-bark ? " — " Good 
 gracious ! thei'e was no one but me in the house who 
 could have been a shepherdess; but this does not 
 obli<:;e you to do anvthin<r. Monsieur Fontenelle." 
 
 lie feigned to be enamoured with La Champ- 
 inele, not because she was pretty, nor from love, but 
 fi-om sheer vanity. " M. Ilacine," said she to him 
 one day, " has told me so much against you, that I 
 liave filially come to like you, besides, your univei'sal 
 mind pleads marvellously in your favor. So come 
 and see mo. Fontenelle went but once. Instead of 
 Madame he found JMonsienr Champmelo. '"My wife 
 is not here," said the cumedian to him ; '• she i.s 
 rehearsing her part with that animal I>a Fontaine,
 
 58 FONTICNKLI.IC. 
 
 who makes half my pieces." Fontenellc liad Jiis la- 
 bor for Ill's pains." 
 
 He liad not a 2;reat number of mistresses. Made- 
 nioiselle Bcrnai'd, the tragic muse, was the best known 
 and the least fickle; but what a sorry pair of loveis 
 were they ! As soon as he readied her house, forth- 
 with to work — that is to say, at a scene of a tragedy ; 
 ill lieu of a kiss, only a couplet. 
 
 Fontenellc never had any idea of marrying ; he 
 cared naui^ht for the loving and devoted care of the 
 wife, for the little children who make our hearts so 
 gay, for the calm joys of the chimney-corner. He 
 never loved any one but himself ; he lived with him- 
 self. Think of his having lived so lon<>; in such com- 
 pany ! If it had not been for his vanity, he would 
 have died of ennui ! The abbe Trublet — always the 
 apologist of Fontenelle — thus terminates his eulogy : 
 " What contributed not a little to the happiness of M. 
 Fontenelle, was the fact of his never liavino- been 
 married." — AV^hat do you know about this same chap- 
 ter of marriage, Monsieur TAbbe ? 
 
 "Even in friendship," Delille said, " Fontenelle put 
 his heart on guard." lie had, nevertheless, a great 
 number of friends, among others, the duke of Orleans, 
 La Motte, Marivaux, Montcrif, Madame de Tencin, 
 Madame de Lambert, and ]\Ladame de Stack The 
 regent liked Fontenelle's mind as one likes a curious 
 little animal, which amuses you by its dexterity and 
 irentleness. One dav, he said to him, " Monsieur de 
 Fontanelle, do you wish to live in the Palais Iloyal ? 
 A man who has written the Plurality of AV^orlds ought 
 to be lodged in a palace." — "Prince, a wise man 
 takes but little space, and dues not fancy change;
 
 niS KEPUELIC. 
 
 but for all that I will come and take np my luibita- 
 tion in the Palais Royal to-morrow, with arms and 
 bao-irage — that is to say, with my nightcap and slip- 
 pui-s." — He lived a long time at the Palais Poyal. 
 As lie scarcely ever saw the regent, this prince said 
 to him one day, " In offering you my i-oof, I hoped to 
 see yon at least once a year." Fonteiiellc presented 
 his Elements of the Geometry of the Infinite to the 
 reijent, with these words: "It is a book which can 
 only be nnderstood by seven or eight geometricians 
 of Europe, and I am not one of those eight." Fon- 
 tenelle had the vanity of schoolmasters; he Avas 
 proud of his title of academician ; but he never had 
 any active ambition. Thaidcs to the Duke of Orleans, 
 lie might have advanced his political fortunes, but he 
 preferred to keep snug among his academies. His 
 friend Cardinal Dubois came in his greatness, to seek 
 for consolations from him. He said in consequence 
 of this, "I know very well that his royal highness 
 the regent might have made some great political 
 scarecrow of me; but I heai-tily entreated him to 
 leave me in my chimney-corner, for there I never had 
 the idea of seeking consolation from Cardinal Dubois." 
 However, as he wanted to show off his philost^ph}' 
 everywhere, he bestowed a little of it on politics. 
 He planned a republic, which was not e.xactly that 
 of Phito; a curious republic, in which "wives could 
 repudiate their husbands without being able to be 
 repudiated by them, but were to remain a year after 
 without the power of i-enuu-rying. No orators in the 
 whole state than certain orators maintained by the 
 state, and intcMided U) inaintain to the people tlic 
 hap|»iness oi their guveriniient. Statues to be erected
 
 GO VONTKNKLLK. 
 
 to great men, of whatever kind, even to hecndifal 
 '/nonten ! For the sake of greater resemhUince, their 
 forms may even be preserved in wax, in a magnifi- 
 cent ]ialace, made crjyressly for tlie pnipose. Tliese 
 statues or figures to be ti-ied foi' offences which would 
 not subject the persons to corporeal punisliments." — 
 W^w sec from this tliat Fontenelle had good reasons 
 for leniainino- snuijc aiuouir liis academies. With such 
 ]K)litical ideas, he would have played a very pretty 
 part in the comedy of the regency ! 
 
 After having published The riurality of Worlds, 
 he entered, armed from head to foot, into the petty 
 war of the ancients and moderns ; he made liimself 
 the champion of the moderns ; therefore Boilean, 
 who did not like satire in. otlier lumds than his own, 
 declared himself the eternal enemy of Fontenelle ; 
 and if this name is not found at the present day 
 between Cassau'ne and CoUetet, it is because Boileau 
 at that time wrote no more satires. He did not 
 the less revenge himself ; as soon as Fontenelle pre- 
 sented himself at the Academy, the old satirist took 
 tiie field against him. Everywhere, after the visit of 
 Fontenelle, followed that of Boileau. Fontenelle was 
 refused admittance five times. Like a man of spirit, 
 he wrote a Discourse on Patience, which he sent to 
 the Academy. A poet who took his own part so 
 well was not long refused admittance ; the patient 
 man was received a short time afterward. 
 
 Meanwhile, his fame was spread with greater and 
 greater success throughout the court, the city, and the 
 provinces. Every provincial who came to Paris with 
 a little grammar in his head, was, above all things, 
 desirous of seeing 1\I. de Fontenelle; he returned,
 
 CnAJJACTEE BY LA RRUTERE. 01 
 
 Baving on all occasions, "I have seen the opera and 
 ]\I. de Fontenelle! M. de Fontenelle ! What a 
 genins! He remarked, not over four years ago, to 
 the ducliess of Maine, who asked what difference 
 there was between herself and a watch, ' Madame the 
 dnchess, the M'atch marks the lionrs and j'onr liigh- 
 iiess makes us forget them.' And then hist year he 
 said to Madame de Tencin, ' My dear lady, your in- 
 tellect is like a watch ; it is always advancing.' " 
 Thei'e was, therefore, an unlimited demand fur Fon- 
 tenelle, so that he rarely dined at home one day in 
 the week. lie paid for his welcome by a bon-mot 
 prepared in advance. The same one often did him 
 good service twenty times. Heaven knows how many 
 grimaces he made before and after victory ! Xever 
 did woman, coquette, or actress, make more ado about 
 saving, " I love you." La Bruvci'e, who could see 
 clear in daylight, in contradistinction to many wits 
 of the day, thus sketches Fontenelle, " Cydias is a wit ; 
 it is his profession. \\\ society, after having bent liis 
 forehead, pulled down his rutfle, extended his hand, 
 and opened his fingers, he gravely sets forth his 
 fjuintessenced thoughts and sophistical i-easonings. 
 A feeble discourser, he has no sooner set foot in a 
 company, than he seeks some women among whom ho 
 can insinuate himself, and make a parade of his wit 
 or his j)hiloso[)hy ; for whether he speaks or writes, 
 he should not be supposed to have in viev/ either the 
 true -or the false, the jeasonable or the i-idiculous — 
 lie solely avcjids expressing himself like other people, 
 Cydias thinks himself ecjual to Lucian or Seneca ; but 
 he is (jiily a coni]jound of tlic ])edant and the pi'ccisian, 
 made up bjr the admiral ii iii of cit,-; and provincials."
 
 02 FONTENF.LLE. 
 
 To (liscourat;c criticism, Fontcncllo li;ul declai'ed 
 tliat he would bniu inircad all the joui-nals which 
 commented upon his woi-Us. As his works were very 
 M'idelv circulated, as ho hail a tootiiiiz; evervwhere, as 
 he knew how to give a helping hand at tlie I'ight time, 
 no one was severe upon him exce])t Ilonsseau and La 
 Bruyere. Everyl)ody sang Ids praises : the Mercure 
 (Jalant and the Gazette de France^ llayle and Vol- 
 taire, the blue stockings of Peru and the poets of 
 iStockliolm, in prose and verse — even in ]-,atin verses. 
 And such verses, and such praises! He is Plato, 
 Orpheus, more than a man, a denn'god ! Listen to 
 Crcbillon : 
 
 " Poet whom old Greece 
 Would, e'en from infant days, have set 'mid demigods." 
 
 IJear, too, M. delsivernois: "All the temples of genius 
 celebrate his worship. Like those master-works of 
 architecture which nnite the riches of all the orders, 
 lie has gathered the palms of the muverse." You 
 see that M. de Kivernois was not forced to anj' ex- 
 pression for the sake of rhyme. It is not the lan- 
 gnage of the gods ; but Fontenelle would not have 
 disdained such prose. Nor the f (allowing : " The books 
 of M. de Fontenelle ni"e enamelled Nvitli beautiful 
 thoughts. It is bettei' than a meadow ; they pre- 
 sent the majestic spectacle of the firmament, whose 
 azui'o is afjrceahly relieved by the sparkling gold of 
 the stars." So said the abbe Trublet. What do you 
 think of that agreeably ? Fontenelle would have 
 found it to his taste. Everybody, even to Yoltaii-e, 
 who said : — 
 
 " liim the fool duth iiiiderstaud, the wise to jwai.se unite.''
 
 LETTEES OF GALLANTRY. 63 
 
 But Voltaire, doubtless to imitate Fontanelle, ended 
 Iiis tirade with a point : — 
 
 " Born with gifts the liigliest, lie an opera doth indite." 
 
 Even to Kigand, who has left us a portrait of Fonte- 
 nelle, enlivened with an indescribably charming smile, 
 which is almost like the smile of a woman who has 
 loved. 
 
 What a sad concert of incredible laudations ! 
 Wherefore tiiis bad verse and bad prose ? Why 
 these temples, this incense, this worship, which is a 
 profanation ofpoesv? Let us look a little into Fon- 
 tenelle's claims. Is not his best that of having lived 
 a century ? Posterity raav do what it will : a poet 
 who lives a century will make his way better than 
 most others. He made his debut in the Mei^cure, by 
 the letters of gallantry of the Chevalier d'lier — , in 
 which ho has aimed at displaying all his powers. I 
 therefore I'cad over again the letter to Mademohelle 
 de F!, on a white hair which she had. After many 
 fatiguing involutions, lie exclaims, "Could you not. 
 Mademoiselle, be a little under the intluences of the 
 tender passion, without immediately growing pale? 
 Love was designed to put a new brilliancy in your eyes, 
 to paint your cheeks a fresh carnation, but not to scat- 
 ter snows upon your head. His duty is to adorn you ! 
 It would be a great pity if he should make you grow 
 old who rejuvenates the whole world. Pluck out 
 from your locks this white hair, and at the same time 
 ]»luck out its root which is in your heart." I have 
 taken the best paragraph. All the letters are in this 
 ])rovincial and formal style. 
 
 Almost at the same time, Fontenelle wrote the
 
 G4: FONTENKl.l.K. 
 
 Plurality of Worlds, taking Descartes, in liis most 
 cliinierical fancies, as a guide. It is here that he 
 shines in full force, lie wished to give the fruit 
 inuler the llower, philosophy inuhn- the foi-iu of 
 the graces, truth under the llattci'ing veil of false- 
 liood. "I am the first," said he unceremoniously — 
 He counted without La Fontaine — but could he, who 
 wrote that" the simple is a shade of the vulgar,'' 
 think of La Fontaine? As for the Plurality of 
 AVorlds, the only hook of Fontenelle's which has 
 c )me down to us, I reproduce the verdict of Yol- 
 taire. " This book, founded upon chimeras can never 
 become classic. I'hilosophy is above all things the 
 truth ; the truth should not hide itself under false 
 ornaments." 
 
 AVe can find in the author of the Plurality of 
 AVorlds a cei-tain boldness, brilliant rhetoric, grace, 
 if not naturalness, common sense if not profundity. 
 But it nnist be confessed that graceful phrases are 
 not the proper equipment for the discovery of new 
 worlds; meditation would be a better travellinj' 
 companion ; to the meditative man the horizon ex- 
 pands at every step. The sky would, perhaps, be 
 a little cloudy, sometimes foggy, but poetry is 
 often in the cloud, and the sun which dissipates the 
 fog appears with greater splendor ; while for mere 
 grace, the horizon, however beautiful, is at once re- 
 stricted. Thus we find in the worlds of Fontenelle, 
 a great mass of celestial matter in lohich the sun is 
 cramped tq^- The aurora is a grace lohich Nature 
 gives us over and above fall measure. Of tlie en- 
 tire celestial asseinJjlage there has remained to the 
 earth only the moon, ichich aiypears to he much
 
 THE PLURALITY OV WORLDS. 65 
 
 attacked to it. All this is very pretty, especially for 
 laiii^liing scholars learning geography, or for women 
 who are examining the Chinese iignres on their fans 
 while listen ino;. Gracefulness was the flower of the 
 Muses a hniidred years ago. Contemplation, the 
 passion of the poets of the present day, was then, 
 according to Fontanelle, only the mountain Avhence 
 poetry takes its rise. This mountain has other 
 springs, if we may believe Goethe, Byron, Hugo, 
 and so many otliers of our day, who would have re- 
 vealed a new world to Fontenelle. 
 
 A bitter criticism on the Plurality of Worlds would 
 be to sav, that the book is written for the worst class 
 of women, the blue-stockings. In the time of Fon- 
 tenelle, the marchionesses of the Hotel Rambouillet 
 scattered themselves here and there in the saloons, 
 liaving always on their lips, not a smile, but alas ! 
 Bomc witticism. Fontenelle, who had studied in this 
 school, Fontenelle, too feeble to live with men, soon 
 ])itched his tent by the side of the women. As he 
 liad no love, he soudit the hvnien of the mind; 
 lie united liiinself to the blue-stockings. Here is 
 the secret of this dried-up heart, the secret of this 
 soulless mind. 
 
 ]]efore this connection with these blue-stockings, 
 he was seized with a great liking for Voltaire, D'Ur- 
 fey, and Mademoiselle de Scudery ; he had prome- 
 naded in mind along tlie river of Tenderness, with 
 the sliepherdesses of Lignon, writing in the Mer- 
 cnre Gnlant to the first woman lie came across, in 
 the style of Voitui'e. This unfortunate injetical dawn 
 threw its deceptive rays over the whole of his life; 
 he could not avoid occasional unlucky returns to 
 
 0*
 
 6() KONir.NKM.K. 
 
 his j-oiith. lie was already far from that period wlicii 
 ho described in the Mercure the empire of poetry. 
 This diirression is still of the famous school. Fou- 
 teuelle, therefore, commences in this wise: "This 
 empire is divided into high and low poetry, like most 
 of our provinces. The capital of this empire is called 
 Epic. AVe always find people at its gate who ai-e 
 killing one^aiu)tiier. On the other liand, when we 
 ])ass through Romance, Avhich is the faubourg of the 
 Epic, we are always meeting people who are in great 
 joy, and wlio are soon to be married. Low poetry 
 resembles very much the low countries — it is full of 
 quagmires: Burlesque is its capital. Two rivers 
 v.-ater the country ; one is the Iliver of Ilhyme, 
 which takes its source from the foot of the mountains 
 of Ilevery. These mountains have elevated peaks, 
 which are called the Peaks of Sublime Thought. 
 Many reach them hy supernatural efforts, but an in- 
 finite number fall who are a long time in getting on 
 their leirs airain. The other river is that of Ileason. 
 These two i-ivers are sufficiently remote from one an- 
 other. There is but one mouth to the Eiver of 
 Rhyme which corresponds to the River of Reason. 
 It results from this that many villages situated on 
 the River of Rhyme, as the Yirelay, the Ballad, the 
 Royal Ode, can have no commerce with the River 
 of Reason. There is in the country of poetry a 
 very dense forest where the i-ays of the sun never 
 penetrate : it is the forest of Balderdash where 
 Reason loses itself." 
 
 Did not M. de Fontenelle travel a little in that 
 same fojest ? 
 
 The History of the Oracles is merely an agreeable
 
 HTS PEOSE. 67 
 
 snmmarj of the immense work of Yan Dale. Fon- 
 tenelle received without compLaint the entire glory 
 due to the learned foreigner. The History of the 
 Academy of Sciences is a brilliant, varied, and lumi- 
 nous journal ; but in it, as in everything else, M. Fon- 
 tenelle is only half a critic and half a scholar. This 
 history is a journal and nothing more. Is it worth 
 while to point out a mass of wretched productions 
 which died in the cradle, as the History of the French 
 Stage, the Parallel Idiceen Corncille and Bacine, 
 where he savs : " The characters of Racine liave some- 
 thiuir low about them from being natural." The Dis- 
 course on Poetry, which contains none ; On Hajypi- 
 ness — (what could this man, joyless and tearless, say 
 on this head ?) On the Human Reason, in which he 
 coldly puts forth unreasonable nonsense. Is it M'ortli 
 the trouble to bring to light again those pastorals in 
 Sunday clothes, those eclogues which expand far from 
 the sun, far from the mountains, far from Nature, 
 on a Gobelin carpet, before a screen, under the glit- 
 ter of chandeliers; those songs which ])eople have 
 taken good care not to sing, those tragedies in prose 
 and verse which they have taken good care not to 
 plav, those letters without freedom which they have 
 taken good care not to read ? 
 
 Fontenelle has passed for a poet full of spirit, 
 grace, and philosophy. To this liis verses might fur- 
 nish a sufficient answer. 
 
 "Areas and Palemon, both of the same age — hoth wcU- 
 matclK'd comj>etitors tlie one for the other— both answering 
 one anotlier by siniihir songs -formed a pastor.il combat: — 
 it was not tlie contenijitible glory— either of song or of verse 
 wliich excited their minds."
 
 OS rONTKNKLr.K. 
 
 Such is tlio style in wliicli M. do Foiit-cnelle put 
 liis shepherds on tlic scene. Not n word of the conn- 
 trv, of the sky, or of tlie lU)cks — ;ue they on the 
 ine;uK>\v ov on the road, in the sliade of the beeches 
 or at the edge of the spring. What niattei' ! M. de 
 Fontcnelle does not descend to these petty prosaic 
 pictures — lie does not take the ti-ouhle to paint his 
 shephei'ds for us; but in return tlie ingenious poet 
 does not forget to inform us in an adiniral>le stylo 
 that they are hot/i of the same age. lie goes fni-ther ; 
 knowing eveiy reader's forgetfulness of nund)ei's, 
 he repeats thrice, with infinite art, that they are 
 two, neither more nor less. What do you say to 
 these v^ell-matclu'd eninpetitors, who form '^ pCL^tnral 
 eomhat of hard knocks, of shnilai' songs, and of 
 that conteinj)tMe gloi'ij, wliich did not excite their 
 minds ? AVell ! Here is at last a poet who does 
 not talk like the lest. Do not be astonished that 
 after similar masterpieces, M. de Fontenelle should, 
 as head of the school, liave wi-itten a discourse on 
 the Eclogue, in which, among other happy i-emai'ks, 
 he observes that Theocritus is coarse and i-idiculous ; 
 tliat Virgil, "too rustic," is only a copyist of Theo- 
 critus. But I am forgetting to tell you how Foute- 
 nelle's shepherds talk : 
 
 TiRClS. Whither go yon, Lycidas ? 
 
 Lycidas. I am traversing tho plain, and even intend to monnt 
 the neighboring hill. 
 
 TiRCis. The walk is a long one. 
 
 Lycidas. Ah ! if need were, for the cause which leads me, I 
 would go still farther. 
 
 Tiucis. It is easy to understand you — always love 'i 
 
 Lyciuas. Always. What can we do without love V
 
 HIS PASTORAL. 
 
 09 
 
 TiRcrr-. Thou knowest Lygdamis ? 
 
 Lycidas. Who knows him not ? 'lis he vr\io adores the 
 charms of Clymena. 
 
 Tiucis. Himself. 
 
 Lycidas. AVliat a shepherd ! He is of a character which would 
 have pleased me iu a lover had I beeu a shepherdess. 
 
 You think that I have been quoting prose. It may 
 he so ; if, however, we are to trust JM. de Fontenelle, 
 it is an eclogue in verse. 
 
 Tliose are not true shepherds, but stupid shep- 
 herds, such as you will not find in Champagne. If 
 yon should happen, in some little rural excursion, in 
 Korniandy, the country of Fontenelle, to meet on 
 the shady side of the road with some pensive young 
 she[)herd, listening to the cooing of the pigeons 
 more than to the cries of his dogs, make him tell 
 you what is in his heart, lie will not respond like 
 Lycidas, W/iat can we do without love? ^Tis I loho 
 the charms of Clymena adore j he Mill tell you 
 pretty much this: "I love Elizabeth, a pretty girl 
 who is watering the salads in her father's little gar- 
 den. Do you see her beautiful head rising just above 
 the hedcre ? Ah ! I wish her mother's eyes were not 
 BO sharp ! Cut she will not prevent Elizabeth from 
 passing presently along this road, for it is the cross 
 road which leads to their field. With this fine sun 
 Blie will go and turn over the hay with the hazel pitch- 
 fork which I cut for her in this little wood. As she 
 passes I will stoj) her to teil her that I love her, and 
 slip into lier bosom a pretty bouquet of violets which 
 I have kissed a thousand times. At night she will 
 put it at the hea<l (»f her bed alongside of the Easter 
 palm, and even when asleep she will think of me."
 
 TO FONTENKLLK, 
 
 No amorous slicplierd sj^eaks as badh' as those of 
 Fontciielle, because lie is in love and not a scholar. 
 
 There is not, as you sec, a woi-se poet in Fi'unce 
 than Fontenelle. As a critic he does not shine in 
 the first rank. I do not wish to make war on him 
 Avith other weapons than his own woids ; so listen 
 to him: "The Latins are superior to the Greeks, 
 Yirgil to Homer, Horace to Pindar. We only need 
 ])atiencc ; it is easy to foresee that after a long sei'ies 
 of ages no one will have any scruple about prefer- 
 ring lis openly to the Greeks and Latins. I do not 
 think Theagenes and Chariclea, Clitojthon and Leu- 
 cvpjye^ can ever be compared to Cyrus and the -4s- 
 trea. There arc also new departments of wi-iting, 
 such as letters of gallantry-, tales, and operas, each 
 one of which has furnished us with an excellent au- 
 thor, to whom antiquity can oppose no rival, and 
 whom apparently posterity will not surpass. Were 
 there nothing but songs, a perishable class of writing, 
 and to which nnieh attention is not given, we can 
 show a prodigious quantity full of animation and merit, 
 and I maintain that if Anacreon had read them, he 
 would rather have sung them than the greater part of 
 his own. We sec at the present day, by a gieat num- 
 ber of poetical works, that versitication can have as 
 much elevation, but, at the same time, moj-e regu- 
 larity and exactness than it has ever had." 
 
 By these few lines you can judge of the stjde and 
 depth of Fontenelle, such is his serious style, his 
 severe reasoning. It is of a kind to make one regi-et 
 his bed-chandjer style, and his bookish badinage; 
 with all these periods )-ounded off so pretentiously, 
 almost always terminating with a bad metaphor, or
 
 AS A CKITIC. 71 
 
 a stroke of smartness, these points so painfully sharp- 
 ened, which made Rollin remark that '' tlio end of 
 every paragraph in Fontenelle, is a position which the 
 pei"iods seem to have been ordered to seize npon." 
 
 AVhen Fontenelle thinks, lie is Pascal as a M'it, he 
 is La Ilochefoucanlt at Quimper-Corentin, and some- 
 times even at the chatean of La Palisse. The most 
 fanatical disciple of Fontenelle, the abbe Trublet, the 
 same who coinr>'iled^ and compiled^ and compiled^ ac- 
 cording to Voltaire, this subaltern spirit, as La Brujere 
 styles him, who was only the register, or the storehouse 
 for the works of others, has extracted from the works 
 of Fontenelle a laro-e volume of thoughts under this 
 title: Tlie Spirit of 21. de Fontenelle. The poor 
 abbe, among other fine things, has said in the preface: 
 ''This volume is almost double the size of the Maxims 
 of Itochefoucault. It is almost equal to that of the 
 Thoughts of Pascal, and the Characters of La Pruy- 
 cre : vet these three works fused to2;ether would be 
 far from equalling it in value." 
 
 xSow what, then, will remain of this man of intel- 
 lect, who lived under the sun without seeing the 
 sky ; by the side of women without opening his 
 heart ; on the hill-side without plucking the ripening 
 grape? — of this prose writer who lost eighty years in 
 bedecking with tinsel the most vulgar truisms ; in 
 cultivating flowerets without perfume; in d:izzling 
 his eyes M'ith fireworks of tiie kind which leave 
 only a deeper darkness when over ; iu weighing, 
 as Voltaire lias said, a ]>oint or an epigram iu 
 scales hung on spider-webs ; of this poet without 
 K(»ul and without greatness, as without sinipHcity ; 
 who babbled only for the ljlue-st<jckings of his lime ;
 
 72 FONTENKI.LK. 
 
 Avlio made of the Ycniis dc Mod ids n, puppet "well 
 bedizened Avith spangles ; of this thinker who said 
 almost nothing; of tliis somewhat provincial wit 
 whose best thing has been long since foi'gotten ; of 
 this somewhat Kornian critic, wlio found Homer 
 confused, Theoci'itus coarse, Virgil too rustic, Boilcau 
 wanting in M-it, Ilacinc commonj^lace, La Fontaijie 
 trivial, Moliero in bad taste; who thought that the 
 moderns (thanks, doubtless, to M. do Fontanelle) 
 surpassed the ancients ? "What remains of him ? 
 Piron has told us — Piron, so despised, but who was 
 a man of a different stamp. Hear, therefore, Piron : 
 " Voiture beirat Fontenelle; Fontenelle be^at Mont- 
 erif ; and Montcrif M'ill beget nothing at all." Yes; 
 Fontenelle died with Montcrif. Pray God for the 
 repose of his works ! There is, however, one work of 
 Fontenelle M'hich will escape oblivion; this woi'k is a 
 thought — the thought of a philosopher: "If I had 
 my hands full of truths, I should take good care not 
 to open them." 
 
 IL's heart has no hold on one, was the remark 
 of the Marchioness de Lambert ; it was the opinion 
 of everybody, even of the blue stockings; but, at a 
 later period, Condorcet, through blind zeal, has been 
 led to make the apology for the heart of Fontenelle. 
 In spite of this apology, it is a matter of literaiy 
 notoriety, that Fontenelle wanted a heart; it is sad 
 but it must be said. Justice must be done to every 
 one. I do not blame Fontenelle, but I say to him 
 with Madame de Tencin, "Ah, how I pity you, for it 
 is not a heart which you have got there in your breast, 
 but brains such as you have in j-our head ! " Would 
 you have proof, listen to Colle, who relates in his
 
 HIS ECLOGUE, 73 
 
 journal, tliat a nephew of tlie great Oorneille, a cousin 
 of Fontenelle, begged in vain at the door of the 
 ahnost centenary poet, wlio was heaping pension on 
 pension, revenues on revenues. I i)ass < iver in silence 
 the too well-kno^vn story of the asparagus and twenty 
 othei-s as sad to relate; but to editj you on this 
 chapter, listen to Fontenelle himself: "In the age of 
 love affairs, my mistress quits me, and takes another 
 lover. I go to her house in a fury, and over^\■]lelm 
 her with reproaches. She listens to me, and laugh- 
 ingly answers : ' When I took you, it was pleasure 1 
 was in search of; I find more with another.' — ' In 
 faith,' said I, 'you are riglit !'" Hear him again: 
 "I never seriously liad the desire to love or to be 
 loved ;" or again, "I have never, (rod be thanked," 
 (God l)e thanked! — tliat name is well placed there!) 
 "felt either love or the other human passions ; but I 
 know them all, and it is from that that I have guarded 
 against them." In conchision, yon already know that 
 Fontenelle said when dying, "For nearly a century 
 I have neither laughed nor cried." He had ended 
 by becoming accustomed to the table of Madame de 
 Tencin, dining there almost every day. He was told 
 that she was dead; "Well," said he, with his 
 ordinarv serenity, "I will go and dine at Mada.ne 
 Geoffriii's." 
 
 He ]iassed his life pcaceabl}', far from all passion, 
 ill the ti-iiling endearments, as he called them, of 
 certain women who had not a great de.*?,! to do here 
 b.'low. This man who loved only hiniii-i-.jf. nevertheless 
 could not live in solitu<le. II'^, never l:n<:\v the. joys 
 (>? liboKy. He always wanted a corqilinient. A 
 
 b\iivii to his vanity, for his vanity he nui'!.- himself tho 
 
 I- 
 i
 
 74 FONTKNi:i.I-E. 
 
 slave lo (lie ffi-st comer. Tlie roof \vlii('li sheltered 
 him ii! Ihis wdrhl was never other *^haii tlie roof of 
 iK>S}>ilality; he passed his days hei'e and there; with 
 Tliomas C'linuMUe, with jM. Ic llai^iiais, at the Palais 
 Koval, MJth ]\[. d'Anhe (you know him; that M. 
 d'Aid)e celebrated hy Kiilhieres). To make ameiK.'s, 
 he always dined out with ]\[adame de Teiicin, with 
 ]\radame d'Epinay, with Madame de Lnnd)ert, witli 
 Madame d'Argenton, in fine, everywhere except at 
 home. This style of living c<iiild not fail of being 
 economical. He, therefore, although a podt without 
 •)atrimony, died with an income of 35,000 livres (ho 
 belonged to all the paying academies), withojt s[»eal<- 
 ing of 75,000 livres, in ringing coins, which, whca 
 about eio;htv-seven, he had concealed in his mattuo^^, 
 doubtless, to re})ose upon in the other world. Let any 
 one say now, that all the poets are improvident; but 
 Fontenelle was not a poet. TnTow I repeat, that while 
 he was thus hiding away hli- mone}', his cousin, the 
 nephew of the great Coiueiile — the nephew of his 
 mother — was begging at a neighboring door! Be- 
 sides, were there not twenty other nnf<.)rtu nates to 
 succor at that time in the great family of men (f 
 lettei"s, whence lie had issued so rich and glorioui=:? 
 Malfilatre dying of hnnger! And so many otljLi" 
 hidden miseries which the eye of charity always 
 discovers ; so many other sonls that were breaking 
 their wing's against the corners of some confined 
 room, or the raft-irs nf a garret! Oh! Monsieur do 
 Fontenelle, you would have been pardoned for much 
 prose and many a verse, foi- some open-handed 
 charity! One would not say, "He is a bad poet," 
 if one could apply t(j you the words of Scriptu e:
 
 HIS DEATH. 75 
 
 " He luitli been on the earth like the blessed 
 dew.* 
 
 He died m the winter of 1757, as a tolerably good 
 Christian, without fear, without regrets, without noise, 
 and without a shock. On seeing his hearse pass, 
 riron exclaimed) "Tlicre is the first time that M. de 
 Fontenelle has left home not to go and dine in the 
 citv 1" AVas not that a worthv funeral oration? 
 
 In order to be just, and to temper a little this 
 frank and rude criticism, I wish to record here 
 another fr.neral oration. The day after Fontenelle's 
 death, nt ?. pupper in good society, a fine lady having 
 made boxni'. very delicate witticism which was not 
 understO(xl, exclaimed, "Ah, Fontenelle, where arc 
 you'i"
 
 MxilllYAUX. 
 
 The seventeenth and eighteenth centm-ies are 
 coiuKctcd by the war between the ancients and the 
 niodeiT.!i. From 1072 to 1725, there is perccptiljle 
 not a ]iterarj revohition, but a serions revolt, whicli 
 Bomowhat disquieted those who were accustomed to 
 a line style and sound doctrines. The entire history 
 of the war between the Ancients and the Moderns 
 is well known ; but has any one studied the peculiar 
 characteristics of those who had revolted against 
 the ancients? Besides, beyond tlie battle-field 
 where Perrault, Fontenelle, La Motte, and Mari- 
 vaux, contended, others were seeking new sources of 
 inspiration, instance Crebillon the tragic, the abljc 
 Prcvust, Pii'on himself, and almost all of those who 
 were good hands at the pen. They already thought 
 there was a revival of letters. A curious parallel 
 might be instituted between those times and our 
 own. In 1700, all the authors were already forming 
 a scliool of poetry to suit their ov/n powers, as at our 
 day. 
 
 AVhen Marivaux made his del)ut, the oft-renewed 
 war had at last wearied the combatants. Moreover,
 
 THE ANCIEXTS AXI) :M0DERNS. 77 
 
 lioileau %vas dead ; La Motte no longer protested 
 against poetry, except l)y liis tragedies in prose or by 
 his odes. Meanwhile, the wits of his time followed 
 Somewhat the h.eresies of Fontenelle and La Motte. 
 Thus Duch ;^', Montesqrjeii, and others less celebrated, 
 lacking a feeling for poetry, dec^lared that poetry was 
 only a scholastic amnseu)ent. This heresy continued 
 through the whole of the eighteenth century. "It 
 is as beautiful as fine prose," said Buffon, at a later 
 period, on hearing some verses. Buftbn ^yas right: 
 in the eighteenth centiuy, the prose of Jean Jacques 
 Eousseau had dethroned the poetry of Jeau Baptiste 
 TJoussean. 
 
 Marivaux imbibed his hatred against poetry in the 
 company of Fontenelle and La Molte, who beheld 
 with s<^>me hope anotlier youthful mind ra.shly venture 
 in sucli a contest. Fontencilie smiled in takhig up 
 arms. La ]\It>tte, always reasonable, even in his errors, 
 condjated with moderation; ]Marivaux, younger and 
 m!)re determinod, blindly th'-cw himself at the on- 
 slaught against Iloiiicr, whom, in derision, he styled 
 the dioiih'. It must, however, be said, that, not daring 
 to fight him face to face, he commenced l)y travesty- 
 intr him. IIo did not limit himself to this sacrilegious 
 action. He ventured openly to condemn Molicre. 
 This was, moreover, the tactics of the chiefs of the 
 revoU. "We have already seen how little Fontenelle 
 thought of Kacine ; La Motte by no menus liked La 
 Fontaine: war was waged in favor of those moderns 
 who were 'yclej)t Fi »ntenelle. La M<itte, and Mari vauX; 
 but not in favor of Moliere, La Fontaine, and llacine. 
 As is always tlie case, they fought for themselves 
 and not for olhei*8. 
 
 r*
 
 7S IMAKlVAlX. 
 
 rVmtonollo, Lu Mutte, and MtirivaiiJ:, who, tiianks 
 to tlioir paradtKXC)^, rarlu-r than to their talent^., occu- 
 pied a hiri;e space in the first lialf of tlie cigliteenth 
 centnrv, -vvil' not ]>(', fojgotlen in literary history. 
 Marivaiix, tic lea^^t of a s*.ho]tir of the three, may 
 most surely defy ohlivio]): in the lirst instance liy 
 liis talent, and in tiio ^ecvud by liis style, or rather 
 l.»y liis jnanner oi wi'itinir. Fontenelle, it is tnie, 
 may claim a little of that jargon \vhich sparkles, 
 entices, and fatigues. Like Mari\'aux, he took the 
 most roundabout course uf saying what he had to 
 say. In the vitiated style of Fontenelle, however, 
 the lieart never utters a v,rord. In the prettinesses of 
 Marivanx, the heart utters tones which prove to you 
 that Xatin-e is still there. For example, is it not the 
 lieart which speaks --the heart only — when Marianne, 
 deserted, sees a crowd of unknown persons pass, of 
 whom slie envies even the most unfortunate. "Alas," 
 exclaims she ; " some one is expecting them !" 
 
 AVit w^as sadlv iniurious to both of these men; it 
 limited their horizon ; it imprisoned tliem in another 
 Hotel Eandjouillet, where all that was true and 
 simple was proscribed, where grace was bedizened 
 Avith finery too worldly. In a word, their defect was 
 to have had too much wit, or rather to have loved 
 wit too much. 
 
 Iilarivaux was born in 1688, at Paris, where he 
 died at the age of seventy-five. He lived poor, and 
 did iTOod. A youthful bejrsrar held out his hand to him 
 at the comer of the street. " Why do you not work ?" 
 — "Alas, master, if you f>nly knew how lazy I am !" 
 — Touched by this frank a\'owal, he gave the beggar 
 enough to enable him to continue his mode of life,
 
 ms MODE OF LITE. 79 
 
 saying, thiit in order to be good enongli, it was need- 
 lul t( ha too good. This reminds me of a happy 
 expre^siou of Ilelvetins, one wliich honors the writer 
 as well as the philosopher. In a discussion, Marivaux 
 became very much heated against Helvetius, from 
 wlioni he received a pension. Helvetius did not 
 make any defence; he contented himself with saying 
 after Marivaux had o;one, " How I should have 
 answered him, if I was not under obligations to him 
 for accepting my favors !" 
 
 Marivaux passed his life at the theatre, at the cafe, 
 in the world, always engrossed by romances, come- 
 dies, and passions. He went from one subject to 
 another with a truly feminine inconstancy. He was 
 never willing to finish his Marianne^ or the Paysan 
 Parvenu^ saying all that belonged to ancient history. 
 "VVe are all alike ; the line romance, the good comedy 
 is the romance, the comedy to be written. How 
 many great poets are there in imagination, who are 
 only blotters of paper when they have pen in hand ! 
 To Marivaux, love was like romance or comedy ; he 
 ha<l every day some new fancy; he never went so 
 far as to complete the work; thus, just smitten 
 with Mademoiselle Lecouvreur, he fell in love with 
 ^Mademoiselle Sylvia, whom he forgot the next day 
 f jr Mademoiselle Salle. I forgot — he forgot it him- 
 self — Marivaux married when thirtv. His wife was 
 the daughter of an attorney of Sens, who had diedj 
 leaving scarcely any property. His domestic life 
 wa-^ very calm, very still, occupied only by laborious 
 study and uiKpiiet love. Marivaux had nevei- dis- 
 covered tlu- sc'crt't of being haj)py, on account (»f his 
 deplorable habit of minutely studying the atoms <»f
 
 80 MAKIVAUX. 
 
 })assioii. His wile luul all the eiuu-iiis of luarl, of 
 siiuplicitv, ami ot'grace; she loved him with touching 
 teiuleniess; she was the lite, the sinile, tlie joy of his 
 house; he was not I'ieh, but she was contented with 
 little. She soon presented him with a daughter, 
 Aviio ought to have made this hai)|)y household still 
 more gay. He had happiness within his gras]i, but 
 the ingrate did not ])erceive it until the death of his 
 wife, eiiihteen months after his inaiTia<>'e. Dui'in<r 
 these eighteen months, he had lost his time in search- 
 ing for the philos(.»phy of happiness. AVhen his 
 daughter was eighteen, he i)laced her in a convent, 
 Baying that he could give her no portion. Is not 
 lil)erty, when one has beauty, a portion for a queen? 
 Mademoiselle de Marivaux did not give her first 
 love to God, but perhaps I will relate to you some 
 day her mournful story. 
 
 Marivaux was long in reaching the Academy, lie 
 deceived himself, savs the criticism of the time ; it 
 was to the Academy of Sciences that he shoukl have 
 gone, as the inventor of a new idiom, and not to the 
 French academv, of whose lamjuac-e he was imiorant. 
 Marivaux never answered satires nor epigrams ; nnich 
 criticised at all times, he contented himself with 
 saying, like the bull to the fly, "Ah, friend, who 
 thought 3^ou were there ?" 
 
 After being more than twenty times successful at 
 the Comedie-Franmise and the Comklie-Italiennr^ 
 he found himself as poor as when he began. The 
 theatre, a century ago, was not a gold-nn'ne for poets. 
 Meanwhile, old age arrived. AVith his habit of giving 
 with both hands, his position dis<piieted his friends, 
 lie fell sick. Fontenelle, who, if he had had the
 
 m ENGLAND. 81 
 
 heart of Marivaux, iiiiglit have been tlie banker of 
 literature, one morning bronglit a hundred louis to 
 tlie sick num. Marivaux took the sum with tears in 
 his eyes, but immediately returned it to Fontenelle. 
 " I know," said he to him, " all tlie worth of your 
 friendship ; I respond to it as I ought to, and as you 
 deserve; I regard these hundred louis as received; 
 I have made use of them, and I return them to you 
 witli thanks." 
 
 Mari\aux flonrished like a pretty woman ; his 
 only good time was the spring — his autumn was 
 gloomy, and his winter sad and desolate. He was 
 forgotten, in France; Grimm did not wait for his 
 death to declare, that "the vigorous breath of philos- 
 ophy has long since tossed over all those slight rep 
 ntations built upon reeds." England has fully re- 
 venged Marivaux for this forgetful inconstancy of the 
 Frencli. Marivaux was long admired and taken as 
 a model by the English. His Spectatexir made a 
 fortime there; and his romances insj^ired Richardson 
 and Fielding. 
 
 Voltaire said of Marivaux : " He is a man who 
 iniderstauds all the by-paths of the human heart, 
 Imt does not know the higliway." This happy ex- 
 ])ression is an eulogium of liigh value. Every one 
 can not pass tln-ough those by-paths in that wild 
 country where sovereign reason lierself can not })ur- 
 pue a straight course. In the school of poetry which 
 he made to suit liimself, Marivaux shows with how 
 nnich subtlety he lias followed so tortuous a route. 
 " With the comic writers, Love, until this tiuu', h;iR 
 heeii at ofbls with the cireumstaiu'es which surroiiiu' 
 him, and liiii.sln'S by being lia|))iy iji s|»ite of his ii]»-
 
 82 MARIVAUX. 
 
 ])(.TUMitsi. AVitli 1110 he \^ at odds witli liiinself alone, 
 and '.Mills hv hoing lia]»p,v in spite of himself. Ho 
 will li'ani liy my pieces how to distrust more the 
 tricks whii-li ho plays himself, than the snares which 
 are set fur him hy other hands." Upon this he was 
 accused <>f toiichiiiii; but one chord of the heart. 
 '' Von only know how to contrive love surprises." 
 lie replied immediately, and contended that no one 
 could have greater variety than himself: "In my 
 pieces yon will find sometimes a love which is un- 
 known to other parties — sometimes a love which 
 they feel hut wish to conceal from each other ; 
 sometimes a timid love which does not dare to de- 
 clare itself; sometimes, in fine, an uncertain, and, 
 as it were, an undecided and half-developed love, 
 which they suspect without being sure of, and of 
 which they have a half-conscions idea within them- 
 selves, before they allow it to take its coui-se. Where 
 in all this is the sameness which they so unweariedly 
 charge me with?" AVhatever lie may say, it is al- 
 ways a love which hides itself, it is always a sur- 
 prise of love. These delicate touches, these exquisite 
 turns, these imperceptible shades, are somewhat lost 
 in a theatre from the spectator's point of view. At 
 the first representation, it was with great difficulty 
 the public was impressed but little by little, knowing 
 by liearsay that there was a great deal of talent in 
 these pretty pieces, they ended by understanding 
 and applauding. 
 
 ]\[arivaux, as original in his life as in his works, 
 liad his first pieces performed without being willing 
 to l)ecome known even to the actors. A discreet 
 friend arranged ovorylhiiig. As i'<>v himself he paid
 
 THE " SURPKISE DE l'aAIOUE." 83 
 
 for admission to sec the representations like any 
 chance passer-hv, allowing himself to become tired 
 without ceremony, and to say so openly. One day 
 the celel;rated Sylvia, of the Comedie-Italienne, 
 despairing of being able to express all the delicate 
 shades of her part in the ''^Surprise de VAmour,^'' 
 exclaimed alond that she would o;ive anythino; in the 
 world to know the author of the piece. Marivaux's 
 airent, as discreet as he was, carried him bv main 
 force to the house of Mademoiselle Sylvia. He pre- 
 sented him as a li'iend, with whom he was passing. 
 The actress was at her toilet. Marivanx asked per- 
 mission to admire her at home as he had on the 
 stage. "While finishing oif a madrigal, Marivanx 
 to(.»k np a pamphlet lying open on a table. " It is 
 the ^ Snrprise de r Amour,'' ^^ said Mademoiselle Syl- 
 via — "it is a charming play, but I am provoked 
 with the author, who is a vain man, and does not 
 wish to let himself be known. "We should perform 
 the piece a hundred times l)etter if he had conde- 
 scended to read it to ns himself." Marivanx at once 
 counnenced reading Sylvia's part. She listened to 
 liim like an actress, passionately fond of her art. 
 "You throw great light upon it," she exclaimed; 
 " Although I have been playing this comedy for two 
 yeai"8, I have never yet understood my part. You 
 are the devil or the author." Mauivaux did not con- 
 ceal tlie fact any longer. " I am very willing," said 
 he, " to acknowledge my faults ; but I wish to tell 
 you youi's as well. You are wrong in showing so 
 innch sj>irit in your ])art. You Hatter your vanity, 
 but you niiscontrue tiie sense. Actors must never 
 Hp|>car to feel the weigh! «'l' liiat wliidi tiny say —
 
 84r MAKIVAUX. 
 
 nature never studies before speakinn^. You must 
 leave sonietliini!; lor tlie mind of the spectator. 
 " ]}ut, good Heavens," said Mademoiselle Sylvia, 
 " be careful how you take for granted the existence 
 of an intelligence in the spectator which he does not 
 l)ossess ; we shall do him an honor dangerous to our- 
 selves and little flattering to him, as he will perceive 
 nothing of it." — "Well, you are doubtless right: 
 continue to play badly to be applauded, and witliout 
 glorifying ourselves therefor, let us both think like 
 that orator who, seeing liimself applauded by the 
 multitude, asked if he had said anything foolish." 
 
 In his romances, Marivaux abandoned liimself still 
 more to all the graceful turns of his crowquill, saying 
 that he knew how to distinguisli between the wit 
 which is only happy when spoken from that which is 
 only good when read. The metaphysics of the heart 
 are more supportable in a romance than in a comedy. 
 Marivaux was desirous that a romance should make 
 •ne feel and think. He was wrong in believing that 
 the reader could not disjjense with the author's re- 
 flections. Are not the lovers who talk the most those 
 who understand one another the least ? 
 
 Marivaux liked but three men in French literature. 
 The only ones that he recognised were Montaigne, 
 Corneille, and Dufresny. " Those," said he, " owe 
 nothing to any one." It will be noticed that origin- 
 ality, before all things, was his touchstone. "I like 
 better to be humbly seated on the hindmost bench of 
 the small company of original authors, than to be 
 ostentatiously jilaced in the front row of the great 
 tribe of literary apes." lie has been comj^ared with 
 Dufresny, l)ut Dufresny is superior to him. Dufresny'»
 
 niS FIRST LOVE. 85 
 
 ori'nimlitv is iu his ideas, that of Marivaux, who has 
 but few ideas, is only in the manner of saying what 
 he thinks ; Dufresny is natural in his wit, Marivanx 
 is frequently only affected. 
 
 A horticulturist of the time one day made a criti- 
 cism on Fontenelle, by giving the name of this cele- 
 brated poet to the variegated ranunculus. In truth 
 the phrases of Fontenelle are overloaded with epi- 
 grams, concetti^ and madrigals. As for Marivaux, if 
 it was needful for me to criticise his w^orks, should I 
 not succeed in so doing by relating this little story ? 
 
 At twenty, Marivaux was violently smitten by a 
 young girl of a citizen family. She was beautiful from 
 her grace, her smile, and her youth. She had the 
 beauty of the devil in all its splendor. Although she 
 was not yet twenty, she already knew all tlie tricks 
 of coquetry. However, as youth has numerous priv- 
 ileges, this young girl was sometimes naive and 
 simple even in her studied graces. More and more 
 enamored, Marivaux asked her hand. As she was 
 twenty, and Marivaux was gallantly equipped, she 
 gave her word, thinking she gave her heart. On the 
 eve of the marriage, Marivaux visited his betrothed 
 to admire once mure her beautiful face. She was 
 alone in her room. He entered on tiptoe to surprise 
 her l)y a kiss ; but scarce had he entered, when he 
 forgot this love surjyrise. The fair one was gravely 
 occupied in studying tlie play of her countenance — 
 she inclined Iier head, she raised her eyes, she smiled 
 or sighed — "she assumed all the attitudes of the 
 three rrraces." Never had coquette sought a better 
 ]essr>n fi-(»m her mirror. Offended by all lier tricks, 
 Marivanx took ni>his h;d, and went olF without say- 
 
 S
 
 SQ MARIVAUX. 
 
 lug a word, vos^)lvc(l never to marry the coquette 
 Had ho not, liowever, seen tlie living and faitlilhl 
 iniaii'e of liis Muse? 
 
 ]\[arivaiix, in si)ite of liis goodness, had few friends. 
 Intercourse with him was as thorny a matter as with 
 a co(|uette. lie saw nudice in the simplest phrases. 
 You see where his mournful habit of haviiii;- a desinu 
 in ever}^ step and every word had conducted him. 
 AVhat may appear strange is, that he thought him- 
 self the most simple, if not the most natural man in 
 the world ; he spoke as Jie wrote, and, in fine, 
 inuigined that he wrote as men speak when they 
 know how to speak. He thought himself so far from 
 all artifice, that he could not pardon others for not 
 beino- natural. A man had written to him in his own 
 style. "There," said he, "is a charming unstudied 
 man !" — He went to see him; he was asked to wait; 
 he perceived^ by chance, on this man's desk the 
 rough draft of the letter which had enticed him, and 
 which he thought had been written as fast as pen 
 could move. — ''These rough drafts," said he, "d^ 
 him great injury. He may henceforward nuikc 
 minutes of his letters for whom he pleases, hut he 
 shall not receive any more of mine." — He w^ent off, 
 and never returned. 
 
 At the age when love gathers its second harvest, 
 he consoled himself for the sorrows of life with a de- 
 voted woman, who resigned herself with a good gi-ace 
 to the part of nurse. He died as a Ciiristian philoso- 
 pher, ridiculing the free-thinkers of the day. "They 
 are doing their best to stultify themselves ahout the 
 other woi'ld ; they will end by being saved in spite 
 of themselves." — D'Alendjert sadly remarks — for
 
 Sl'IKIT OF MARIVACX. 87 
 
 tjis remark dates from liis old age, that Marivanx, un- 
 like tlie false sages, did not take old age for the age of 
 reason. ]le felt tliat old age "was little more than the 
 prelude of death. "It is," said he, "a war in which 
 one is vanqnishcd on every field of battle.'- — D'Alem- 
 bert, l)efore the whole Academy, thns tenninated the 
 eulogy of INFarivaiix : "lie "was happy enough to find 
 an ohject of attachment^ who, without having the 
 vivacities of love, filled his latter years with happi- 
 ness and peace. It is above all when the age of the 
 passions lias terminated for ns, that we have need of 
 the society of a sweet and complaisant woman who 
 partakes our sorrows, calms or tempers om* pains, who 
 bears with our fanlts. Happy he who can find such 
 a friend ; more happy he who can preserve her, and 
 has wot the misfortune to survive her !" — D'Alembert 
 had just V^'A. Mademoiselle de Lespinasse. 
 
 Marivaux died at the same time as Louis Kacine. 
 Dachaumont delivered the following fimeral oration 
 u])on tlie latter : " We have lost M. Louis Racine, 
 who had long been brutalized by wine and devotion." 
 — As a funeral oration for Marivaux, a friend pub- 
 lished a volume under the title of "Spirit of M. de 
 Marivaux." This volume is curious to run over, 
 fi'om the ])reface to the approval of the censor, which 
 is in the style of Marivaux : " I have read by order, 
 a manuscri})t, having for title '■The Spirit of 3fari- 
 vaux.'' I liave thought that I had found therein the 
 fineness of tlionght and delicacy of expression wliich 
 were peculiar to this author, and T consider that its 
 ]iublioation may be permitted." Does not this fin:0 
 liappy ('.\]>rcssioii complete the jjortrait of tins chami- 
 ing and strange man. He was asked, "AVliat ia
 
 88 MAIIIVAUX. 
 
 tliesoul?" — '"You must usk FontciicUe," answered 
 he; but iinmediately cuntinueil, "He luis too much 
 seujte to know niiythiuiL!: more about it than I do."— 
 Mahibrauche bad endt'd l)_y sayiujji; ])retty mucb the 
 same thing, weary of liaviug walked all liis life upon 
 the edge of the abyss of ])hiloS()i)hy. But has not 
 this expression of Marivaux's, wit beyond the 1>uunds 
 of wit^ It was a fault into which he alwavs fell. 
 He has said that a beautiful woman sliould conceal 
 the half of her beauty. Why did ho not conceal the 
 half of his wit?
 
 r 1 E O K . 
 
 The being, Avliom I am about to revive, is not a 
 niincinrr Muse lanicuidlv stretched on a sola in a per- 
 fniued boudoir, whose window is never opened to 
 tlie snn, to the morning breezes, to the mm-murs of 
 Nature. Xo : this is not a little nuirchioness who 
 prattles affectedly with an abbe or guardsman, who 
 loses her grace from excess of grace, her heart from 
 excess of wit, her soul God knows how ! It is a tnie 
 Burgundian ]\[use, a buxom girl, simple and without 
 art, who laughs innnoderately, Init does not know 
 li(»w to smile, who has her heart in her hand, and a 
 retort on her lips when the glass is not there, for she 
 is somewliat fond of the pot-house. She was not 
 brouglit up in a convent; she is a vagabond Muse, 
 who has thrown too soon her purity to the winds. 
 She passed lier youth like a wanton girl, singing and 
 diffusing gayety over the strolling theatres, and 
 sometimes carrying intoxication and folly to the ex- 
 tent of profjmiug love, that smile of Heaven moist- 
 ened with angel's tears, in a song miwortliy of a 
 poet, UMwiM-thy of a man, unworthy of a tipsy I>nr- 
 gnndian. Have patience ! On the decline of this 
 
 7*
 
 jO I'IRON. 
 
 youtli, lusty luul cxiil)erant, and ^towii wild as tlic 
 iv>rost of evil passion^!, all this deviltry will be sobered 
 down, the wild gayety will become gentle and love- 
 able, lier flowing locks will be tied up again, her dress 
 lengthened. !She is always the same pretty girl, and 
 in good humor, more than ever fond of a joke ; but 
 the scene has changed. Farewell Tabarin, all hail 
 ]\[olicre ! It is no longei- IIarle(]uin, it is the Metro- 
 mania. Poetry has ibrgivtu her, but Heaven has 
 been outraged — it needs an expiation, it needs many 
 tears to blot out that cursed and fatal ink which has 
 i>erved for this masterpiece of profanation — it rc- 
 tjnires many a prayer to drown the echo of this hor- 
 rible song. Patience ! behold the devil grown old : 
 this Muse, which sung so wickedly in its youth, is 
 soon about to expire singing psalms. St. Augus- 
 tine who had the science of the heart, has said in 
 his wisdom : " The heart comes to us from God^ the 
 heart returns to GodP But if God has pardoned 
 the repentant Piron, the French Academy has not 
 yet pardoned him — not entirely — for that song. 
 
 Thus, before we come to the delicate pastels of 
 Delatour, I would study a bold portrait by Kegault. 
 Piron lived outside of that pretty bantering world 
 which played with roses and slept in silk. If the 
 abbes and the marquises met the Burgundian poet, it 
 was rarely but at fhe theatre or the Cafe Procope — 
 seldom or never in the saloons. Piron was poor; 
 besides he had his wit against him. People fled 
 from his jokes as fast as their legs could carry them, 
 almost always with a limp. 
 
 In the seventeenth century, there lived at Dijon, 
 m long the officials, an apothecary who had his shop
 
 HOMKE AND ACHILLES. 91 
 
 always full of wit, spirit, and gayety. Did any one 
 ask for ptisana, he gave liiin a drinking song; did 
 they want some physic, he offered them an harangue 
 in Burgundian patois. Thus did this new-fashioned 
 apotjiocary cure all his patients so well that he 
 died poor, leaving nothing to his descendants hut 
 an edityiug coll-^c lion of poems, songs, and Christ- 
 mas carols. Thii. was all the inheritance of Alexis 
 Piron. 
 
 Alexis Piron, son of Aimc Piron, came into the 
 v/orld in the summer of 1689, in the same season 
 with Montesquieu, a little before Yoltaire. His 
 fatlier, wlio celebratcil all memor?.ble events, took 
 care not to pass this over in silence. Piron was cele- 
 brated in song at hi^: birth, like tlie son of a king. 
 It was a good omen. At twelve, Pii'on, already re- 
 sponded to the song, he passed all his leisure hours 
 in planning, scanning, stringing rhymes, as he has said, 
 out of French syllables. One of his comrades who was 
 somewhat his elder, being enrolled in the dragoons, 
 said to him on the day of departure : " I shall return 
 Achilles." — "You will find me Homer," answered 
 Piron. At a later period, on recalling the incident, 
 the poet, who had become blind, exclaimed : "Poor 
 Achilles Avould have found me blind like Homer, if 
 he liad not died at the Invalides." His studies were 
 severe. Py degrees the desire for rhyming became 
 extinct in his young imagination. At sixteen he 
 laughed at A]k)11o and the Muses, like a youth who 
 has already lost tliat precious candor which is needed 
 fur love and ])oetry. On leaving school lie betook 
 himself to the study of the law, but scarce had he 
 opened bis b(j(jks when the Muse of i)leasure and
 
 QO. 
 
 PIllOiV. 
 
 M'ild i;:iyety distracted liis mind, God keep y<tn 
 IVoin over knowing wliat Avere the first inspirations 
 of this muse. There exists not cnonii:;]! indignation to 
 Avitlier this bad work, wliicli pursued Piroii to tlie torn!; 
 like a pitiless Moga?i'a. Piron had just been admit- 
 ted advocate, but how defend others after that. 
 Fearing the noise nuide about his fatal song, wliicli 
 made the magistrates of Dijon frown somewhat, 
 he exiled himself in the train of a financier on his 
 travels. This man had olTered him two hundred 
 liATCS a year to copy verses. " I am well content if 
 the verses are good." — •' If the verses are good," ex- 
 claimed the financier. " Good indeed ! there is no 
 donbt of it, for they are my own," Piron resigned 
 him>;clf. From the very first, things went on badly. 
 "You did not tell me, monsieur, w- hat was the length 
 of yonr verses. I have never seen snch long ones." 
 — "You are a pedant." Piron contented himself 
 with here and there resetting a verse on its feet with 
 some little rhyme and reason, but without saying a 
 word about it. Tlie poetical financier did not make any 
 complaints. But nnluckily this old fool had a female 
 second consin in his train, who was pretty enough 
 and coquettish enongh, and who wanted nothing 
 more than to blossom and bloom. Piron commenced 
 with her by a little Anacreontic story. Much did 
 the second consin care for poetry! Instead of slip- 
 r)infr the love storv into her bosom she threw it into 
 the fireplace of a room at a hotel, and at the time 
 of leaving, thaidcs to an ofiicions valet wdio did not 
 know how to read, the verses of the lover wei'e 
 [•laced in the hands of the financier. Piron did not 
 think it best to go farther — he gayly abandoned for
 
 A COinC TRAGEDY. 03 
 
 time and love, and again took tlie road toward tlie 
 paternal roof, in company with liis friend Sarra/.in, 
 who afterward became celebrated at the Theatre 
 Frar.yais. Sarrazin had .just been playing comedy 
 in a strolling company. The jonrney was channing. 
 If we may believe Dr. Procope, the poet and come- 
 dian, iinding themselves withont resources at the inn 
 of a little Bnrffnndian village, the two determined 
 to perform a tragedy in hve acts. Oh, profanation ! 
 they mntnally agreed on Andromache. This trage- 
 dy was therefore announced with all the flourish of 
 trumpets the i)lace afforded. Tlie great day arrives 
 — the theatre, which is fitted up in a ball-room, is 
 filled in less tlian an hour. " ^Ye are playing fur great 
 stakes."' said Piron ; " let us not lose the G;ame." 
 The curtain rises, the comedian bows to the audience. 
 "Gentlemen, the actors are dressing — in the mean- 
 time we will give you a specimen of our art, a little 
 comedy which we have composed." No sooner said 
 than ail innkeeper's girl appeal's, who serves a most 
 copious su]»per, our two adventurers take seats at the 
 table, all the while cajoling the girl who sits down 
 beside them. They commence an intenninable dis- 
 cussion on love and women, on the follies and vani- 
 ties of the world, the whole moistened with generous 
 wine. At first the Burgundians knew not how to take 
 all this ; but soon seeing the merry rascals with so 
 good an appetite and so thirsty, they entered into the 
 spirit of it. An Homeric laugh rings through tlie 
 room — every one becomes merry. The comedian 
 and tlie poet redouble their spirit and sallies, to say 
 n<»thiiig of their Immpers; tliere was nothing even 
 t<»thcsimj)licity of the maid Mt'flu' inn which di<l not
 
 94 riRON. 
 
 inspire tlicm. In fine the trinnipli was a magnificent 
 one. Never liad the liui-gnndians taken so good a 
 lesf^on in p]iiloso])hy. Everybody departed contented, 
 and tlie two ])]iih)Sophcrr) passed tlie night under the 
 tal)le as a full coni])letion of the lectin-e. 
 
 On his return to Dijon, rmr gay adventurer aban- 
 doned himself to pleasure with fatal indolence, saying 
 with Tibullua: "It is in this that I am a good chief 
 and a good soldier." In truth, he had nothing to do. 
 lie carelessly awaited fortune, but fortune withdi-ew 
 further than ever from the threshold of the ai)Othei*ary, 
 For the sake of something to do, he entered the office 
 of an attorney, whence lie levelled epigrams against 
 all tlie people of Dijon who were at all celebrated. 
 His father himself was not spared ; the poor apothe- 
 cary was represented, spectacles on nose, armed 
 from head to foot, offering battle to Apollo, who 
 turned his buck i^pon him. It was about this time 
 that Piron joined the archers of Beanne. In the 
 eighteenth century, tlie gentlemen of Beaune were 
 not all men of wit. Piron found it a barren soil, if 
 not for Bacchus, at least for Apollo. It was a fertile 
 field for epigram ; but a joke to l3e intelligible to them, 
 must needs be broad. Piron dressed up a jackass as 
 an archer, and dragged him by main force to the ti-ain- 
 ing-ground. " Here," says he, " is one of the company 
 whom I met as I came along." — ^The animal began to 
 bray, and the archers looked at one another with vex- 
 jition, like people who have let tlieir secret be fonnd 
 out. In the evening, all the archers except the jack- 
 ass went to the theatre. As the actors spoke some- 
 •vhat low, the spectators began to cry, " Londer, 
 louder; we can't hear I" — " It is not for want of ears,"
 
 GOES TO PARIS. 95 
 
 c'xclaimed Piron. The indignant audience threw 
 theraselves on tlie poet, who made his escape witli the 
 greatest difficulty in the world, exclaiming, "Alone 
 I could whip them all." — In sober eanioit, twenty 
 rusty sw(jrds were dra^\'n upon him. The next day, as 
 he returned to Dijon, he mowed down vigorously all 
 the thistles which he found along the road. Some of 
 the people of Beaune meeting him slashing away in 
 tliis manner, asked, "What are you about?" — "Par- 
 bleu! I am at war with the inhabitants of Beaune, 
 and am cutting off their provisions !" — ^The war lasted 
 a long time ; it was as celebrated as the battle of 
 Fontenoy. To this da}", the gentlemen of Beaune do 
 not relish pleasantry on the subject. 
 
 11. 
 
 Piron's gayety, however, slipped away little by 
 little with his youth. His star had not, so far, been 
 bi'illiant. Over thirty, he found himself wiiliout 
 resources, withrmt hopes, not knowing what to do. 
 Indolence, so pleasant and careless in the spring-time 
 of life, when we saunter along on the greensvv'ard, 
 or on the fallen rose-leaves, when we can gather a 
 bonf[net of wild flowers on every path, when ]\Iargot 
 or Joan opportimely pass along the road — indolence 
 becomes a galling chain at the harvest-time. Poor 
 Piron saw with vexation the ripening ears he could 
 not reap. lie began to regret his wasted prime, and 
 with the noble ardor for labor which was seriously 
 enkindled in his soul, he set out for Paris, the oasis 
 of his poetic dreams. Alas, he found Paris a deserti 
 "Behold, then, my bark in the midst of an unknown 
 sea, the s])ort of the winds, the waves, and the rocks'
 
 96 PTRON. 
 
 It leaked on all sides, and I was abont to sink whon 
 poetry caine, whether for good or ill, to my aid. It 
 vras my last plank; but I did not know what .Viii<l 
 of plaiik it was." — lie knew well that it was a plank 
 of safety; but before touching dryland, the plank 
 floated far over the agitated waters. 
 
 Behold him at length at Paris with no other bag- 
 o-a'Tc than his wits. I forgot — he had letters of reconi- 
 mendation ; but these, he remarked, were not notes 
 payable at sight. Eebnffed at the very first, it was in 
 anc;er lie made a boniire of the rest. As one of these 
 letters would not l)urn, he augured something good 
 from it, and therefore took it to its addi'ess, that is to 
 say, to the Chevalier de Belle Isle. Tlie chevalier 
 was on the look-out for copyisis to transcribe his intei*- 
 minable memoirs. He did not condescend to allow 
 Pu-on to be presented to him. — "Let him present his 
 handwriting and not his person to me." — "He was 
 perniitted," says a critic, "thanks to his good hand, 
 to co])y this tiresome trash, at forty sous a day, in a 
 dilapidated garret, having a soldier in the French 
 Guards for a neighbor. At the end of six months' 
 steady toil, he had not yet received anything of his 
 moderate stipend. He hit upon the idea of writing 
 a petition in verse, and fastening it to the collar of a 
 favorite dog of the chevalier's. On a second at- 
 tempt, he was disdainfully paid, M-ithont their a]>- 
 ]»earing to suppose that the verses came from him. 
 I'here was not a single one, down even to the 
 secretary of the chevalier, who did not look down 
 upon him; but the poor poet was soon revenged; 
 this secretary came one evening, with three or four 
 of his friends to the ganet where Piron was copying,
 
 AN AUTHOR OF A THOUSAND. 97 
 
 to read to them a tragedj' which he had written, 
 Piron listened in liis corner. At the end of the 
 piece, after considerable applause from three or four 
 of his friends, Piron joined in the conversation with- 
 out asking permission, and criticised all the scenes 
 like a man of wit and sense. TJie author carried off 
 his friends, without saying a word, hut soon returning 
 alone to the garret, offered his hand to Piron, and 
 said with emotion, " Monsieur, I thank jou for 
 having opened my ejes ; after what you said, I liad 
 hut one course to pursue ; that was to burn my trag- 
 edy. I come to you with clean hands." — There are 
 still at the present day critics of good sense and good 
 faith ; but are there still authors who throw their 
 pieces in the fire ? 
 
 This brave fellow set to work to find a career for 
 the talents of Piron. Le Sage and Fuselier had lost 
 their brilliancy at the Opera Comique • their genius 
 began to show the effects of old age. People began 
 to complain of always hearing the same song. Piron 
 appeared tliere at a fortunate moment ; he seized with 
 a bold hand the sceptre of broad humor. His first 
 farces, however, were not very happy. — " At that 
 time," said he, when eighty, after a good-natured 
 retrospect of the past, " I made comic operas every 
 niglit which failed every day." — A decree was mean- 
 wliile issued at the suit of the Theatre Franmh, 
 wliich reduced the Opera Cojnique to a single speak- 
 ing actor. How was that to be got over pleasantly ? 
 Piron accom])lished it hy a master-piece of wit, 
 satire, and phil(jsophy, of comic opera. I'or this 
 inaster-])iece, Ilarleipdn Deucalion^ he was paid six 
 hundred livrcs. Deucalion, the only mortal escaped 
 
 D
 
 0>'^ I'IK'ON. 
 
 from tlie Dcliij::o, was ,i capital character for a piece 
 in whicli tluM'c could be but one speaker. l*irou in- 
 troduced anions; his actors Punch and the parrot; 
 these could s])eak in spite of the decree, which had 
 not thoug'lit of them. The poet afterward puts 
 Pyrrha, Apollo, Cupid, the Muses, and Pegasus, on 
 the stage, who ]>lay their parts m'cII, and express 
 their thoughts by airs, songs, and symbols. Who 
 could fail to recoiirnizc Pegasus by his asses' ears, 
 and his turkeys' wings? This monologue had an 
 incredible success ; it contained scenes of real com- 
 edy, an indescribably-strong flavor of the Bourgeois 
 Gentilhomme, and the Medicin nialgre lui. The 
 laughers were on the side of Piron against the actors 
 of the Theatre Fraoigais, who could not find a bet- 
 ter mode of revenge than by ordering a piece from 
 the poet. Crebillon the Tragic, was their embassa- 
 dor ; but success intoxicates and confuses the mind ; 
 Piron believino; himself called to hio;h dramatic des- 
 tinies, set laboriously to work to produce a lachrymose 
 comedy, Les Fils Ingrais. Would you believe it? 
 this counterfeit gayety, -which sticks so close to trag- 
 edy, has been bequeathed to us by Piron, for Nivelle 
 came after Piron. 
 
 The comedy had but a partial success. Piron fell 
 fi"om tlie summit of his illusions, and found himself 
 again in his garret, poor as usual. Poetry never' 
 visit's poets in garrets, but in their blooming days of 
 youth. Kow Piron was thirty-five, with no money 
 in his pocket, nor love in his heart. Some small 
 change in the one ; some loose amour in the other. 
 The poor poet had always cause to complain of for- 
 tune and of love. The one came to him under the
 
 MADEMOISELLE CHEEE. 99 
 
 disguise of alms: the other of some actress, witlioiit 
 liearth or home, who liad left her heart amid the 
 tinsel of the stage. Once oidv was Piroii's heart 
 seriously interested ; it was for Mademoiselle Cliere, 
 who, altlioiigh an actress, was still a woman. Pirou 
 sighed for six weeks ; he almost made an elegy ; 
 he wrote a pretty epistle ; the cruel one ended by 
 relenting ; so that at the end of six weeks, the 
 happy hour struck for Piron. Behold him making 
 his wav with a beatinij:; heart to the dwellincr of the 
 fair! lie, though so fond of liis supper, did not 
 think of supper that night. lie rang, was admitted, 
 and usliered into a boudoir which dazzled him. 
 Scarce had he entered, when the fair Chcrc appeared, 
 in a charming deshabille. — "Is it you, Bimbin ? I 
 did not expect you so soon." — "I know very well 
 that it is not yet eleven ; but what would you have 
 me do? my legs would keep pace with iny heart. 
 Ah, you mischievous girl, let me kiss those roguish 
 hands ! But you are uneasy." — " Yes ; the chevalier 
 was to come at ten ; he sent me this morning twenty- 
 five louis ; he is in a fair way to ruin himself for me. 
 I begin to pity him. Xow he does not like 3-ou ; for 
 he knows I have a weakness for versifiers. If he 
 comes, talk to me l>eforc him of some pretended 
 mistress ; ajipear to Iju indifferent to me ; he will go 
 awa}' contented without boring ns too long. That 
 was a ring, was it not ? It is he. Have done, P>im- 
 bin, and amuse yourself with poking the fire." — 
 The chevalier, who was a Poitevin gentleman, soon 
 entered, pii'ouetting, and hmnming an <)])era-tune. At 
 tlie sight of Piron, car(;lessly stretched on a lounge, 
 he frowned aud rattled his sword. — " Monsieur,"
 
 100 riRON. 
 
 saiil lie, getting excited, "yon arc not here, I imagine, 
 for the love of God ; I am not altogether a simpleton. 
 I gave madame twenty-five louis to-day. Yon must 
 give me as mncli or be off." — "Yon arc losing yonr 
 wits!" exclaimed the actress; "twenty-five lonis ! 
 don't yon know that he is a poet 'i "— Piron, for the 
 first time in his life, conld make no answer. — " The 
 fellow is very reasonable," said he to himself ; " it 
 appears that here one pays as he goes; as I have 
 not a son, I will be off."— He took np his hat and 
 departed. 
 
 Another time, Piron was almost in love with 
 Mademoiselle Leconvrenr, bnt it was again a failure. 
 But we at least owe to it a i)rctty epistle : 
 
 TO MADEMOISELLE LECOUVREUR, 
 
 Who played the part of Angelica in my comedy of VEcole des Peres. 
 
 A sculptor, one of ancient date, 
 
 And the Coustou of his day, 
 A Venus made, of charms so great, 
 
 So great, they led his mind astray. 
 " Venus," he with fervor prayed, 
 
 "Thy glory only gave me skill ! 
 To my devotion lend thy aid. 
 
 Breathe life here by thy potent will! '* 
 Venus to his prayer lent ear : 
 
 With life the marble 'gan to move. 
 Before his wond'ring eyes appear 
 
 An idol, not a thing of love. 
 Soon his passion was returned ; 
 
 A thousand envied him his bliss. 
 That bliss supreme, by genius earned, 
 
 The world is all alike in this. 
 Shepherds upon the trees inscribe 
 
 The story that I just have told ;
 
 EPIGRAMS ON VOLTAIRE. 101 
 
 And let this truth yoor hearts imbibe, 
 That love moves stone,, now, as of old. 
 
 * * * -ic . * 
 
 Sweet L«couvreur, to this my tale 
 
 Let me a new ailusiiJn make. . ' : ■ ; , 
 
 Angelica 's my wor"k of art, 
 
 And 3'ou with life have bid it move ; 
 
 My fable which is true in part, 
 
 Would all be true, would you but love. 
 
 But the fair Lecouvreur would not. 
 
 Piron consoled himself for love and fortune in the 
 company of those joyous apostles of the gay story and 
 the mei'ry song, who founded that celebrated acad- 
 emy of mirth, the Cave. Piron M'as by no means 
 the worst boon-companion ; he was wit personiiied. 
 Grimm has said of him, " he was a machine of sal- 
 lies, points, and epigrams." On close examination, 
 Ids jokes were seen to crowd together in his head, 
 burst out like a rocket, and bolt out of his mouth by 
 the dozen. In word-cond>ats, he was the stoutest 
 athlete mIio ever existed. His repartee was always 
 more terrible than the attack. This was wliy M. de 
 A'oltaire was as afraid of Piron as of fire. 
 
 I shall pass over the epigrams of Piron on Voltaire 
 iu .silence ; Piron had the best of it ; but I would not 
 williiijrlv foi-jj-et this little scene at the chateau of tlic 
 Marquis of Mimcure. Tlie marquis liked Piron; 
 the marchioness Yoltaii'e ; hence the}"" sometimes 
 met at tlie same door. One moi'niug, Piroii found 
 Voltaire alone at the fire-place of the saloon, 
 fitrctclied at his case in a great ai'm-chair, with letrs 
 
 '5 " ""■ "^f->^ 
 
 extended on each side, and feet resting on the and- 
 irons. I'iroii bowed five or six times, to indicate 
 that he wimted liis place bv the fii'c ; A'^oltaire
 
 102 
 
 riuoN. 
 
 answered by a slii^^ht nod; Piron bravely seized an 
 arm-cLarr, and.rel]od;ir beside tlic liearth ; Voltaire 
 took out liis \VateI^, 'Piron his snuff-box ; the one 
 took ^ til c tov.gs, the otlier snuff ; the one blew his 
 nose/ the other sneezed*: Voltaire, i-ettinir tiied, 
 be«;an to gape with all Ids nught; Piron, elated, 
 began to laugh ; Voltaiic drew a ci'ust from his coat- 
 pocket, and crunched it between his teeth Mitli an 
 incredible noise ; Piron, without losing time, returned 
 to the attack : he found a flask of wine in his pocket, 
 and drank it slowly with a most bacchanalian smack. 
 At this M. de Voltaire took offence. — " Monsieur," 
 said he to Piron, in a dry tone, and Mith the air of a 
 grand signor, "I understand raillery as Mell as an- 
 other ; but your pleasantry, if it is such, passes the 
 limits." — " Monsieur, ir, is so far from a pleasantry, 
 that my flask is empty." — "Monsieur," replied Vol- 
 taire, '* I have recently come out of a sickness M'hich 
 lias left mo with a continual desire to eat, and T eat." 
 — "Eat, Monsieur, eat," said Piron ; " it is perfectly 
 right ; for my part, I have come out of Burgundy 
 with a continual desire to drink, and I drink." 
 
 I can not forget either the joke Mhich Voltaire 
 took to heart so long : it is a part of literary history. 
 Voltaii-e was reading Semiramis to a ciicle of audi- 
 tors, among whom was Piron. The tragedy con- 
 tained a good many verses from Corneille and Ra- 
 cine. Every time one came from the lips of Vol- 
 taire, Pii-on made a very low bow with the greatest 
 seriousness. At last Voltaire, out of patience and 
 obsei-ving a mocking smile on everybody's lips, asked 
 Piron the reason of his bowing. The Bnrijundian 
 poet immediately replied, without any appearance of
 
 ONLY A rOET. 103 
 
 pi-e;ueditation, " Keep on, moiisieni-, don't mind me ; 
 it is merely because it is my practice to salute my 
 acquaintances." Semiramis was played some time 
 after, with very little success. Yoltairc, meeting 
 Piron in the lohbv, asked him what he thouo-ht of 
 liis tragedy. " I think you would like very well for 
 me to have been the author."' The charming part of 
 all Piron's repartees was, that he was cunning and 
 malicious, without appearing to be so. 
 
 At that time, Piron went occasionally into society, 
 dining here and there at a great mansion, lie knew 
 very well that it Avas his wit which M-as invited ; as 
 he said, "They hire me on wages." lie went ever^'- 
 where without bending the knee. One dav, at the 
 liouse of some marquis, whom 1 have forgotten, a 
 nt»bleman made way for him, to enter the dining- 
 room before liim. The marquis observing this cere- 
 monv. addressed the nobleman: "Oh, Monsieur the 
 Count, tloiTt be so ceremonious; he is only a poet." 
 Piron repelled the insult like a man of spirit. He 
 raised his head proudly, and went in first, saying, 
 '* Since our titles are known I take my rank." 
 
 Piron, bewildered by a failure and a triumph to- 
 gether, took it into his head that his forte was trage- 
 dy. He conq)leted Callisthene, but Callisthene fell 
 dead at once. Every poet has displayed some pe- 
 culiar cliaiacteristic on the stage. Coi-neille, gi'and- 
 cur and hci'cjism ; Racine, passion ; Crebillon, terror ; 
 \'<tltaire, ])hil()Sophy or humanity. Piron wanted to 
 take Iiin ])]ace in the sunshine of genius; he bi-ought 
 • III the stage the ijigantic and the strange, with 
 the idea that "the highest gift of tragedy is to ex- 
 cite admiiation." Thus in C'alli.sthcne, Alexander is
 
 1 01 riRON. 
 
 only a ciniel tyrant, because a philosopher docs not 
 choose to adoi'e him as a god. Jiysimaclius fights 
 Avith a lion; Leonidas devotes himself to death, tluit 
 Alexander may have a crime the more on his sdul. 
 "To make this piece succeed,"" Voltaire said, hel'oie 
 Piron's epigrams, "it would be necessary that all the 
 spectators should be like Cato or Socrates/' Here 
 Voltaire is more polite. Callisi/ient', which is a pro- 
 fanation of liistory, fell before the good sense of 
 the spectators. Accoi-ding to Piron, the following 
 incident was the true cause of the failure of the trag- 
 edy. The poignard, with which Callisthcne was to 
 pierce liis bosom, was in sucli bad condition that the 
 liilt, guard, and blade, all came apart, so that the ac- 
 tor received the weapon by piecemeal from the hands 
 of Lysimachus. A general laugh arose at the fatal 
 moment, when the actor staljbed himself, holding 
 the fragments o))eid3^ in his hand. " Everybody 
 laughed but the make-believe dying man and my- 
 self. This was the true poignard stroke which slew 
 my \)00v .'Callisthhiey This is, however, a real poet's 
 reason.* 
 
 Piron wanted to revenge himself for these two fail- 
 ures by another traged3\ He was an obstinate poet 
 who never was willing to abandon his ground. He 
 composed Gustave Wasa, which will keep its place 
 if not on the stage, at least in his works. Gustave 
 is the entire history of the Swedish revolutions. 
 Kever before the modern melo-drama wei-e so many 
 
 * Piron, who often had to complain of the actors, exclaimed one 
 day, " Really those rascals there would make the Scripture itself fail 
 if they played it, and yet it is a piece which has kept its ground for 
 bevcuteeii hundred years."
 
 FERNAND CORTES. 105 
 
 tragic incidents combined in one piece. " Among 
 so manv events," says Piron in his preface, " there 
 could not fail to spring up a number of those brilliant 
 occurrences called by the ncologists dramatic situa- 
 tions, which arc always well received on the modern 
 horizon of our theatres." In fact only taking the 
 fifth act of Gustave, you would have enough to make 
 fifty tragedies on the old pattern. In this pell-mell 
 of passions and incidents, in this chaos illumined 
 here and there by ra^s of light, there are certainly 
 pathetic scenes, bursts of grandeur, noble thoughts, 
 fine verses. The inspiration of the great Corneille 
 has, sometimes, descended even to Piron. 
 
 Fernand Cortts followed Gustave Wasa. This 
 heroic tragedy was badly received. It was g, bad 
 conception of Piron to throw the interest noleiis vo- 
 hns upon the Spaniai'ds. Wlij^ make Montezuma an 
 imbecile who kisses the hands which enchain him, 
 the f(»ulish slave of his people and his enemies, arm- 
 ing himself for both, a lover paralyzed by an Elvira 
 who despises him, and whose ej'es — 
 
 " Like to proud conquerors, disdain their conquest ! " 
 
 For Piron Mexico was merely the pi-omised land 
 of the Spaniards. While awaiting these glorious 
 missionaries this beautiful country was only a poor 
 corner of the world, getting along as it could, with- 
 out God, without laws, without arts. Hero, how- 
 ever, is a terrible contradiction. Do you know why 
 this mes.siali, Fernand Cortes, came ? For the sake 
 of the fair eves of Elvira. Instead of a messiah, we 
 have only a knight-errant, an adventurous ])aladin, 
 who sets out In di.'-covcr a wnrld f<>r tin; honor of his
 
 lOG riRON. 
 
 lady, M"lio fiijjlits as a liero out of siniplo f::all!intiy. 
 I am well pleased that love should scatter his tluwera 
 through a traj^edy, but I do not wish tlicni to buiy 
 up its heroes. 
 
 111. 
 
 The Cafe Procope during the last century was, as 
 you know, the best literaiy gazette in Paris. The 
 contributors were Desfontaines, Frcron, Duclos, Carle, 
 Yanloo, Marivaux, Boucher, Ilanieau, Crebillon, La 
 Tour, Piron. During a long period, the latter was 
 chief editor. The strife was, who should have a 
 corner of liis table, a spaik of his wit. Picture to 
 yourself a modern Hercules, a head covered with 
 thick locks, a half-closed eye, a benign countenance, 
 a mouth with the corners satirically turned up, a 
 tolerabl3'-expensive dress (Piron piqued himself a lit- 
 tle on his elegance, and was at times dis})osed to play 
 the fine gentleman), a shirt-frill which had already 
 done duty at a city dinner, and over all this a certain 
 indescribable air of chagrin and weariness, and you 
 will have before ^on Piron at the Cafe Pi'ocope. — 
 " It is sui'prising," said Doctor Procope, " that so gay 
 a mind should dwell in so j^-loomv a ]od<z;inf>:." — A 
 greater physiognomist than the doctor would have dis- 
 covei'ed what was the matter with Piron. The poor 
 man was fatigued and confused Avith the hai'lecpu'nades 
 of his mind, lie no longer took any interest in those 
 somewliat grotesque witticisms which he broached 
 foi- the amusement of Parisian cocknej'S and literary 
 loungers. His poetical nature took offence every 
 moment at his buffconerv. This was the leason he 
 wrote tragedies; but it was <»f no ur^e ; he could not 
 
 iD
 
 A poet's misery. 107 
 
 propitiate the tearful inuse ; the poet could not de- 
 throne the buffoon. And besides, Piron was poor, 
 always poor, and, even if we are poets, we bear in 
 tlie end with difficulty the dark mantle of povert}-. 
 Moreover, Firon was alone, and nothing is so bitter 
 as the solitude of Pai-is, the solitude of a garret, of a 
 fireless hearth, of a window without the sun ; nothing 
 so bitter as the sio;ht of that deserted threshold which 
 misery alone has crossed. A hand for ever blessed, 
 but which was always concealed, that of tlie Marrpiis 
 de Lassay, paid every year five hundred livres to the 
 attorney of Piron, but this M-as the best part of the 
 poet's income ; the publishers and the actors did not 
 give him as much. Piron, when thinking over the 
 Metromanie, had not a single crown for the day's 
 expenses. Gilbert was never reduced to so little, 
 and yet Gilbert was never abandoned by love, like 
 Piron. Alas ! not a single mistress in all this disti-ess ; 
 not a single white hand to come and support this 
 heavy brow ; never a gown or a petticoat on that 
 wretched bed ; never a sympathizing heart to con- 
 sole this poor heart of his, which groaned in silence ; 
 never a bouquet to perfume this sad chamber; never 
 a tender look, to revive sunken hope ; never a single 
 kiss for all these hidden tears! Do not talk any 
 more to me of the misery of Gilbert : that grief had 
 only the duration of a dream of pride and angei'. 
 Put the trrief of Piron! God knows how lingering 
 and pitiless it was ; l)ow it assumed all forms to toi- 
 ture hiju ! In the evening, it followed him stcj) by 
 fitej) to his chamber, or rather he fomid it ci-ouched 
 iip(tn his liearth. — '"Good vwu, mine host," said she 
 U< bim. giving him an iiy hand; "so you li;ivc
 
 108 riKON. 
 
 spent your crown and yonr epigram. All, old prodigal 
 that Y<Mi are, why did you not i-eserve five sons for a 
 fagot, or bring home some compassionate girl with 
 yon, who would have driven away the M'inter of your 
 garret? You pass for a wit, hut you are nc^thing but 
 a fool, Monsieur Piron. See Voltaire and all the rest, 
 how thev have i^ot ahead of von. At the theatre 
 your tragedies are hissed ; garlands are thrown on 
 theirs ; in society they are grandees ; 3'ou are but a 
 playhouse drudge ; they have mistresses, M'herc are 
 yours? they throw money out of the window — 
 make your purse jingle a little ; they belong to the 
 Academy, you would have a veiy ill reception there. 
 All that you have got at Paris has been your gray 
 hairs. What have you got to say to that, my poor 
 IJurgundian poet ? " Piron's sole response is weepiiigly 
 to letire to his sorry couch. In the morning, he seeks 
 some rhymes from his muse, a ■ story, an epistle, a 
 scene from a corned}' ; but the muse is most frequently 
 chilled in this poor chamber of the Pue-St.-Thomas- 
 du-Louvre, before a few pieces of old lodging-house 
 furniture, in the neighborhood of an old woman and 
 a parrot. When Piron opens the window, to relieve 
 his weariness, the rhyme, already rebellious, escapes 
 thi-ough it ; he descends in pursuit ; but it is not 
 without trouble that he catches it again, sometimes 
 at the corner of a street, sometimes at a friend's lii'e- 
 side. 
 
 In this sorrv dwelling, where M. de Buffon and M. 
 Yoltaire would not have been able to breathe one 
 hour, or write one line, Piron was nevertheless visited 
 by some celebrated personages ; but pity, i)ity poor 
 ]^iron ! The nobleman who would have honored
 
 THE METROjNLVNIE. 109 
 
 liimself in honoring the poet, spoilt his action bj an 
 ahns umvortlij of a nobleman and of a poet: on 
 leaving, he deposited, a few lonis on the chimney- 
 piece ! Only one nobleman — but that one was a 
 great writer, Montesquieu — visited Piron without 
 giving him alms ! 
 
 At last, after five years' obstinate perseverance, the 
 Mctromanie^ refused at first by the actors, obtained 
 the honors of the stage and the applause of the spec- 
 tators. Pii-on is not the sole author of this com- 
 edy ; the celebrated Mademoiselle Quinault, who had 
 gained an ascendency over his mind, gave him good 
 advice after the first reading. She did it so well that 
 Piron recast the entire piece. " Patience, patience," 
 said she to him at the second reading; "it will be a 
 masterpiece ; but you must remodel twenty scenes ; 
 give more love to the lovers ; more reality to the Ca2n- 
 Uyul (an ofiicer of Toulouse) ; more liveliness to the 
 first act, for in a comedy it will not do to wait until the 
 fifth act for a laujrh. Take out those uncouth i-hvmes 
 and those vulgar sentences; omit those somewhat an- 
 tiipiated jokes ; read over the Fernmes Savantes, and 
 I i)redict that all will go well — I, who would be 
 shocked at being a ^femme savante ' myself. Patience 
 is genius." The reason which falls from a pretty 
 mouth is alwa3's listened to. The Mctroinanic is the 
 work of patience, good counsel, and talent, but not of 
 genius. I shall, ])erhaps, cause offence if I speak 
 with sincerity, if 1 undertake to appeal against the 
 unanimous verdict uf the eigiiteenth century, which 
 has j)roclaimed the Mctroinanie to be the greatest 
 masterpiece of comedy. No ; the Mctrouianie is 
 Mot a maslcrpiecc ; il i> a <'li;irmin<' comedv in the
 
 110 riRON. 
 
 best style, in wliich there is gajety of tlie ti-ue stainp, 
 vividly-colored ])ictures, good scenes, sliai-p sutij-e, 
 verses worthy of Moliere, jioints of Jiegnard ; but 
 there is still a void in this piece ; that void is a 
 want of hnnian natni-c that is not made sufficiently 
 apparent. I'iron's first idea of the Mctwmanie was 
 merely an epigram on A^oltaire. The occasion is 
 known. A mischievous poet of Brittany, named 
 Desforges INfaillard, published his verses in the Mer- 
 cxire, over tlie signature of Mademoiselle Malcrais 
 de la Vigne. Voltaire, caught in this snare, the first 
 of the Avits, responded to the coquetry of the Breton 
 by verses to Chloris, perfumed madrigals, gallant 
 epistles. It was soon known with whom the poet 
 liad to do. Piron made an epigram ; the ei)igram 
 gave birth to a piece in one act, and at last from this 
 act sprang the Metromanie. There is a curious book 
 to be written on the history of the ideas working in 
 the minds of poets. 
 
 Success consoled Piron a little in ins sorrow, but 
 success at fifty comes a little late. And with success, 
 there was also bitter criticism, and soon, thanks to 
 critics, actors, jealous authors, the Metromanie was 
 consigned to oblivion. Three months after the repre- 
 sentation Piron wrote, " I see well that I can do 
 iiothino; more in the world until after I am dead." 
 Bergerac, in the age of quibbles, would have said 
 liere, " 1 must die, so as not to be buried ; " or, " I 
 am a dead man if I live always." 
 
 He was none the richer ; but if fortune did not 
 follow glory, glory leads love in her footsteps. Love 
 at fifty ! Better late than never, saj's the wisdom of 
 nations. So one evening after supper, Piron was
 
 A MATCH. Ill 
 
 ruminating on I know not what in Gallet's sliop 
 (Gallet, the gay song-writer, the merry tippler, Avas, 
 besides and above all, a grocer), when a damsel en- 
 tered, who asks for coffee and matches. Gallet hav- 
 inir ffone out, Piron undertook to serve the demoiselle. 
 '' Is that all you want ? " Gallet, enteriiig at that 
 moment, laughingly said, "Mademoiselle ought to 
 have a husband in the bargain." — " Excellent," said 
 Piron, " if the damsel \vill take up with any kind of 
 wood for her arrow." The demoiselle blushed, and 
 de])arted without saying a word. 
 
 The next morning Piron had scarcely risen when 
 she entered his chamber. " Monsieur," said she, all 
 in a tremor, " we are two children of Burgundy. I 
 liave loncc wanted to see a man of so much wit, and 
 liaving learned yesterday that it was you with whom 
 I had to do in M. Gallet's shop, I have come to-day 
 unceremoniously to pay you a visit. Oh, monsieur, 
 liow weary you must grow liere. I was very nmch 
 afraid of findinji; some handsome la<!v from the thea- 
 tre here ; but, God be praised, you live like a Trappist. 
 Have you never thought of making an end of this, 
 Monsieur Piron ? " Piron, completely stunned by 
 tiiis talk, answered, " Alas, mademoiselle, I leave 
 the cai-e of that to La Camai'de, but, if you please, 
 wliat do you mean by that ?" — "I wish to say, iiave 
 you ever thought of marriage ?" — "Xot much, made- 
 moiselle ; ]»ray sit down while I light the iire." 
 '' ^'ou don't know. Monsieur Piron ? it will make you 
 laugh ; so nmch the woi-se ; I shall speak ])lainly. 
 If your lieart has the same sentiments as mine. ..." 
 Pir(»n, more and more astonished, looked at tlie lady 
 in silence — " In a word, Monsieur Piron, I come to
 
 112 nuoN. 
 
 offer 3011 my lieart and my liaiul, not forgetting my 
 life annuity of two thousand livrcs." 
 
 Piron, contrary to his custom, took all this seriously; 
 he was touched to find at last a compassionate soul ; 
 the Youne; ffirl had tcai's in her eves ; he embraced 
 hor with warmth. " I leave to you," said he to her, 
 '"all the preparations for the Avedding. Gallet will 
 write our epithalamium." — "You see me. Monsieur 
 Piron, the happiest girl in the world. I did not hope 
 for so happy a conclusion, for — I do not wish to con- 
 ceal anything from you — I am — I am fifty-three." 
 — " "Well, then," said Piron, with a slight shrug, " we 
 have over a hundred yeai's between ns. We w^ould 
 liave done well to have met sooner." 
 
 You see that Love played Piron all sorts of tricks ; 
 he deserted him in the best days of his life, when he 
 might have appeared to him on a path strewed with 
 spring roses, in the sweet and merry company of the 
 graces, to the music of the pipes of the lively and 
 smiling Erato ; and to complete his mockery, Love 
 came to visit the poet mider the frowning aspect of 
 an ancient maiden, when the poet was only expecting 
 death. 
 
 The marriage went off gayly enongh. This old 
 maid was good-natured ; she was a devoted sister, 
 friend, and servant, to Piron. lie became so habit- 
 uated to seeing her make the coffee in the morning, 
 to hearing her graceful prattle in the chimney corner, 
 lie was so charmed with the enthusiasm she had for 
 his writings, that he avowed himself the happiest of 
 husbands. lie was no longer alone ; he was no longer 
 reduced to a single crown a day, and could refuse to 
 go out to dinner when the weather was bad ; he could
 
 HIS WIFE DIES. 113 
 
 now and then bnj a comedy of Moliere, and a tragedy 
 of Corneille ; he could in his turn give ahiis, not on 
 a chimney-piece, but at the corner of the street ; he 
 could at last receive his friends at his own hearth, 
 like a grandee. One nmst have felt the want of a 
 crown to comprehend this prosaic happiness of the 
 poet. 
 
 But there is no happiness so humble but that it 
 lias its reverse ; the good old wife of Piron was struck 
 with paralysis five years after marriage ; she lingered 
 for five more in this condition ; she died, carrying 
 with her the bitter regrets of Piron, and the two 
 thousand livres amniity. AVill it be believed ? never 
 did a husband M'eep more sincerely the death of his 
 wife. 
 
 The poor poet did not remain alone ; thaidis to a 
 niece who came to him out of compassion, not know- 
 ing moreover where else to go. This niece was Piron's 
 last support. lie was almost blind ; she led him 
 cverywliere, without complaining of his whims ; she 
 wrote out his verses, read to him those of others ; in 
 a W(ird, was liis second sight. 
 
 Every year Colic, Panard, Gallet, and the rest of 
 the joyous band, celebrated Piron's birthday. The 
 one which occurred two years befoie his death was 
 the most delightful of his life. From the l)ieak of 
 day, verses and bouquets showered in upon him, and 
 old friends and songs revived his sunken gayety. 
 They had crowned him, in spite of himself, with lo.ses, 
 myi-tles, and laurels. " I still tiiink that 1 see and 
 liear liim," says Dussault ; " he was Anacrcon — he 
 was more, lie was Pindar." Suddenlv, a ncwlv- 
 arrived guest approached near Piron ; farewell to 
 
 lU*
 
 114 riiiON. 
 
 verses ami bouquets, to songs and crowns. The new- 
 comer was a sad, proscribed man, a soul in pain, an 
 unfortunate genius, a man for ever celebrated ; it was 
 J. J. TiOussean ! Piron seized Jean Jacques' liaiid, 
 j)laccd it upon his licart ^vitll a cry of joy, and with 
 a stentorian voice, i-aised tlie JVunc dirtiittis servum 
 imim, Domine ! — " So it is you at last, my dear 
 Itousscau ! Oil, thou man of head and heart ! And 
 so the barbarians have burnt your Emile. So much 
 the better ; the incense of such a holocaust must needs 
 have delighted the angels! But how caaie you to 
 think of coming to see me, for you are far from going 
 everywhere? Is it to contrast wisdom with folly? 
 l>y-tlieby, do you pardon me for those epigrams ? 
 What would you have ? my wine is sharp — " — " I 
 do more," interrupted llousseau ; "I am waiting 
 for others, joyous nursling of Bacchus; spoilt child 
 of the Muses ! Be always the same ; always Pi- 
 ron ! You were born mischievous, you were never 
 wicked!" 
 
 Piron replied, and for an hour there was a dazzling 
 display of fireworks. iS'ever had his wit thrown off 
 a more brilliant shower of bon-mots. Jean Jacques 
 never returned. — "You will retui-n," said Dussault 
 to him, as they descended the stairs. — " IS'o," he 
 answered, " this steady fire fatigues and dazzles me ; 
 I am all out of breath. What a man I It is a 
 Pythia on its tripod ! " — " Ah, my friends !" exclaimed 
 Piron, as soon as Jean Jacques had gone, " pardon 
 me these tears; you see I am weeping like an infant." 
 Piron was a man of sensibilit}-. 
 
 In 1735, the Academy was desirous of honoring in 
 a worthy manner the glory of Piron. He was unani-
 
 THE CnUKClI AND THE ACADEMY. 1 1 5 
 
 mouslj elected * without having made the usual vis- 
 its. M. de Bongaiiiville, who presented himself 
 for admission, did not neglect the visits. — " I was 
 under the impression," said jMontesquieii, " that you 
 were making the visits for Piron," — " What are your 
 claims r' ashed Duclos. — "A parallel hetween Alex- 
 ander and Thamas Khouli-Khan." — " We have not 
 read it." — '' But, monsieur, I have another claim : I 
 am dying ! " — Duclos smiled, and replied, " Do you 
 consider the xVcademy in the light of extreme unc- 
 tion ? " Tliis M. de Bougainville with the old Bishop 
 of Mirepoix made war on Piron. lie prepared the 
 arms ; the old prelate went to the hing, Louis XY., 
 to remind him that Piron had been guilty of a master- 
 piece of libertinism. '* I beg you, sire, to refuse your 
 sanction to this act of the Academy." — Madame de 
 Pompadour took up the defence of Piron, but the 
 devotees were so determined, that the king had not 
 the force to resist ; so the name of Piron was for ever 
 erased from that famous list. After that dav, he 
 wrote liis epitaph, the most celebrated of epitaphs. f 
 As soon as Montesquieu learned the king's refusal, 
 lie repaired to the court, and advocated the claims 
 of Piron with so much eloquence that the king at once 
 signed an order for a pension of a thousand livres for 
 the aged poet. Madame de Pompadour added five 
 liiindi'ed more from her pocket-money. The Count 
 
 * Before voting, the claims of Piron wc-rc canvassed. Fontenclle, 
 n 'arly <li.*af, and almost a Imndred years old, asked La Chaussec what 
 was goinK on. The latter took a piece of jiajjer, on which he wrote, 
 "They are diHCUHHing M. Pirou. We are all agreed that he well merits 
 the chair; but he lias written his Ot/c, that 0(/c you know of."—" Oh, 
 ye*," naid Font<-n<-llc ; "if he has written it, he must be well lectured, 
 but if hif liaH not done it, he can not be adniittcil." 
 
 f " Hero Uc» Piron, who waH nothing, not even an Academician ! "
 
 JIC) riuoN. 
 
 de St. Florentiii and the Marquis de Livry followed 
 this good exain|>le ; so that Piron suddenly recovered 
 his annuity of two thousand livres, which had ceased 
 with the life of his Avifc. In addition, he regulaily 
 received the anonymous pension of M. de J^a^-say, 
 and, besides, his recei})ts from the sale of his woi'ks 
 and his plays averaged a thousand livres a-year ; so 
 that he was almost rich.* Do you know then what 
 he did? He tuined devotee! As a first sacrifice — 
 I will not say to God, hut to his confessor — he burnt 
 a l)il)le, the margins of the pages of which he had en- 
 livened with lamentations and epigrams in his peculiar 
 style. He then set himself to translating the psalms 
 and wa-iting odes on the Last Judgment. He said in 
 relation to this, " It is better to preach from the ladder 
 of the gallows than not to preach at all.'' — This edify- 
 ing old age opened the doors of the religious world 
 to him ; he was even received by the Archbishop of 
 Paris ; but the archbishop was not thereby secure 
 against the epigrams of the poet. One day, in pres- 
 ence of a large company, the archbishop said to him 
 with a nonchalance which betrayed sonie little vanity, 
 " Well, Piron, have you read my charge ? " — " No, 
 mon seigneur, have you ? " 
 
 All are not austere who wish to be. Piron in 
 spite of himself, was lively until death. Like Voltaire, 
 he lived to be eighty-three and a-half. His father 
 had sung his birth ; poets were found to sing his 
 death. Imbert composed a lachrymose elegy on the 
 sultject, which would have heartily amused the de- 
 funct. His niece was full of love and solicitude for 
 
 * Besides these, Madame Geoffrin sent him, as a new-year's gift, hia 
 stock of sugar and coflee for the entire year.
 
 A POSTHUMOUS DEATH. 117 
 
 him. Althongli lie had become stone-blind, he always 
 saw clear through his niece's ejes ; however, Xanette 
 having married Capron, the musician, concealed the 
 marriaire from hiin out of regard for his feeble state, 
 fearing that he might think that, since she was mar- 
 ried, she Tuight consequently some time neglect or 
 abandon him. For three years she received her hus- 
 band every day at the old man's table, fancying that 
 Piron was not £Lware of his presence ; but Piron knew 
 all, and said to his friends, "Kanette has the parcel ; 
 1 shall have a heartv laugh after my death." This 
 ]»arcel was his will, which commenced with tiiis line : 
 "• / declare my nieee^ Madame Cajyron^ my sole and 
 entire heir:- — This is worth more than all his jokes. 
 
 Poor Burgundian poet ! Love did not find him 
 out until the age Mhen one no longer loves ; and for- 
 tune only visited him in time to enable him to have 
 something to bequeath. 
 
 lY. 
 
 Piron is one of the original men of the eighteenth 
 century, lie has not distorted his face to make him- 
 self resemble this man or that. Alexis Piron he Avas 
 born ; and, Alexis Piron, died. He had great com- 
 passion for those sorry rhymesters such as Lemiere or 
 L'l Ilarpe, who sometimes steal success, thanks to 
 a certain family likeness with Voltaire or llacino, 
 which they gain by copying a line here and a scene 
 there.— "I have," said he, "more right to be proud 
 of a fjiilure than they have of a success." — A profouiul 
 study of the Purgundian jujct reveals many bohl 
 attempts in the domain of art. In the first place, 
 Piron wished, by a somewhat hazardous conflict be-
 
 118 rru'oN. 
 
 twecn the different human passions, to bring a smile 
 on tlie lips and a tear in the eye at the same time. 
 Men's minds, however, wei-e then but ill prepared to 
 agree with the imiovator. They thought it very ill- 
 advised of him to desire to overthi-ow the harriers 
 placed between Moliere and Corneille. The scheme 
 has since been tried with more success, but it is well to 
 remember the attempt of Piron. In the second place, 
 in Ila/'lequin Deucalion, the poet lias brought in 
 l^lay all the charms of fancy, lie dared to be a poet 
 at his ease, fearless and unshackled. Rameau, the 
 author of the music of Harlequin Deucalion, took, 
 lie said, a magmficent delight in the i-eprescntations 
 of this little masterpiece ; and there is in truth much 
 magnificence in its composition. If we could blot 
 out a few vulgarisms, it M'ould be one of the most 
 charming and fanciful conceptions in French litera- 
 ture. Finally, Firon has somewhat renovated rhyme ; 
 he allowed himself, to the great scandal of the Abbe 
 Desfontaines, to put j)lt'ates and soujnrdtes, mai and 
 clmrme, in juxtaposition; in his songs he rhymes 
 twelve times in og and twelve times in vent, without 
 stopping. Moi-eover, Piron has not always regarded 
 the cesura, and has without ceremony allowed the 
 sense of a line to pass into the next. We must, above 
 all, be grateful to Pii-on, for having attempted at a 
 time M-hen an affected jargon prevailed, to bring 
 again into favor the ancient French verse, bequeathed 
 by Marot. Unfortunately, Piron was more vulgar 
 tlian simple. However, one can not deny him a 
 piquant turn, full of boldness and fj-eedom, a true 
 ])liilosophy and point, Avorthy of his ])redecessor. In 
 the Quenouille Merveilleuse, he thus speaks of love:
 
 A PARALLEL. 119 
 
 The roguish hoy, his sole delight 
 Confusion, thus unwinds each night 
 The thread that every day is wound ; 
 This, the sisters three, in daily round, 
 Must wind again without respite. 
 
 In another tale, he portrays in an agreeable manner 
 the diverse natnres which contend within ns : — 
 
 My being into two natures is rent 
 Some elfin sprite, upon malice intent. 
 Sets them by the ears to quarrel and fight, 
 While mine is the loss, and his the delight. 
 Dogs and cats very much better agree 
 Tlian these two odd natures that make up me. 
 One clings to earth ; to heaven one does tend, 
 Tlius they bicker, thus they ever contend. 
 But all my evil does not come from those ; 
 A much worse evil disturbs my repose : 
 A third nature comes, a decision to make 
 Of the case, hut's puzzled which side to take. 
 Still doubting, and still quite undecided, 
 Becomes, like me, in two parts divided. 
 If wisdom's skill no remedy can find, 
 A thousand natn es will divide my mind; 
 So with the two natures now I am done ; 
 I am content to be no more than one. 
 Let it be understood, tliat, from this date, 
 I'm but one nature, without any mate. 
 
 These are sufficient to characterize the manner of 
 Piron, M-hich has some analogy with that of Gresset. 
 Tliere is a little more apparent or ill-disgnised labor 
 in the first; a little more freedom, not in the ideas, 
 but in the verse, of the second ; in both the same 
 general features, the same clouded sky, tlic same 
 limited horizon. Tbe parallel might be pushed far 
 between these two poets who lived and shone at the 
 same time, pretty much in the same way, who were
 
 120 I'lIiON. 
 
 irrellfj^ioiis in their joutli, devotees in tlieir last clays, 
 and authors of two of the four comedies of their aijo. 
 "VVe should find an analogy almost as striking in the 
 details of their lives and works ; hiit I leave the 
 tracing out of it to others. I wish also, in passing, 
 to contrast with that of' Piron the curious face of 
 ^carron. At first sight the two heads arc illumined 
 by a peculiar ray of gayety which I can not descrihe ; 
 but by degrees this deceptive gayety vanishes, its 
 rays become effaced, and nothing is left hut the refiex 
 of the heart ; and as the heart suffers you behold that 
 gloomy sadness which hides itself and devours its 
 tears under a forced laugh. 
 
 Piron, who Avrote prose in a very original style, 
 has passed this \ory queer but true judgment on his 
 own poetry : " These are but rhymes which have 
 been tacked to the prose which gayly circulates at the 
 end of a repast." Like Yoltaire, Piron wanted to 
 be universal in poetry — tragedies, comedies, poems, 
 odes, epistles, tales, eclogues, idylls, ])astorals ; he 
 has tried everything in his range. If the liarvest 
 lias not been abundant, he has at least gathered some 
 golden ears which will long make him remembered. 
 
 Piron's poetry lacks scope and sunlight ; he wanted 
 tlie white wings of love to transport him to the celes- 
 tial regions, for, without love, Piron remained with 
 Ins feet nailed to the ground, cultivating his genius 
 l)etween four walls. His youth, moreover, had been 
 fatal to poetry ; and as is the j'outh, so the poet. 
 Poeti-y is the mirror of the poet's youth ; for poetry 
 is a beautiful ijirl who does not forget. See that she 
 sometimes thinks of heaven her former liome. If the 
 poet passes his youth in the dark, poeti-y will heat
 
 THE rOET PEXITENT. 121 
 
 her wings in the dark ; if he spends his joiith in a 
 tavern, in the train of gross pleasures, his only pur- 
 guit will be the muse of jovial huinor, he will excite 
 lano-hter ; but the fountain of tears is a divine foun- 
 tain. If he passes his best days in love — that noble 
 and tender love of Petrarch, that noble and passion- 
 ate love of Jean Jacques — a ray from heaven will 
 illumine his work. After love, it is solitude that is 
 needed for the youth of the poet — that rural solitude 
 which introduces us to the works of God ; the desert 
 rock against which the noisy vanities of the woi'ld 
 are broken ; the dense forest, Avhere one hears his 
 soul sing in the magnificent concert of the breeze, 
 and the storm, and the leaves, and the birds ; the 
 brow of the hill, on which the sun at his setting casts 
 a last look. This solitude Piron never looked for; 
 this love Piron never found. Therefore in his po- 
 etry Nature never even shows the hem of her robe, 
 and the heart is never there. "With love and soli- 
 tude the poet should combine thoughts of heaven. 
 God himself is only a source of wit to the profane 
 youth of Piron. AVhen he sought God at the end 
 of his days, it was too late, not for his soul, but for 
 his poetry. In vain did he translate psalms with 
 pious meditation and in serious verse ; the divine in- 
 R})iration could not 1)0 ti-anslated. God loves and 
 blesses those poets who seek hun during their best 
 days, in the full bloom of youth, in the first budding 
 of the soul ; CJod ])erhaps is severe U) those who for- 
 get bim amid the vain joys of earth, who i-emember 
 liis name only at the threshold of the tomb, who 
 oidy bow their heads before his might when beneath 
 the snows of death.
 
 THE ABBE PREVOST. 
 
 In tliG time of tlic Abho Provost, abbes were 
 agreeable pagans wlio lived gajlj witbont tbe bounds 
 of tbe cbnrcb. Tbeir interpretation of scripture dif- 
 fered from tliat of tbe })resent day. Tbej frequented 
 tbe court, tbe balls, tbe operas ; tbey wore masks, 
 intrigued, and said tbeir prayers after supper. Tbey 
 did not trouble tbemselves tben about keeping diaries 
 and writing cbarges: tbe answer of Piron to tbe 
 Arcbbisbop of Paris is mx'H known. 
 
 Tbe Abbe Prevost M^as always sincere, Mdietber 
 witb Benedictines or soldiers, wbetber be prayed to 
 God or to bis misti'css. He represents in turn Des- 
 grieux and Tibei'ge ; and do not tbese two cbaracters 
 of bis novel correspond witb tbe two natures wbicli 
 were constantly at strife in tbat beart at once so great 
 and so feeble ? Desgrienx and Tiberge are action 
 and reaction — tbe folly wbicb escapes control, the 
 reason wbicb takes tbe upper band. Tbe novel-writer 
 could not express tbe contradictions of bis lieart and 
 bis life but by painting bimself under two contrast- 
 ing figures. Some bave attempted to draw a paral- 
 lel between Marion de J.ornie and Manon Lescaut ;
 
 mS ItOMLANTIc; LIFE. 123 
 
 the^' have said tliat Marion de Lonnc was the object 
 which the Abbe Prevost wished to delineate. They 
 are mistaken. Marion de Lornie always knew what 
 she was about, Manon Lescaut never ; the first lis- 
 tened to her vanity, the second only to her caprice; 
 the mistress of Cinq Mars looked for greatness, the 
 mistress of Desgrieux only for pleasure. A more 
 curious ])ai'allcl would bo that between Manon Les- 
 caut and Virginia. In the eighteenth century, the 
 rich and goi'geous nature of the tropics Avas for 
 the poets what the East is to us — an ideal zone to 
 which our most chei-ished day-dreams tend. Ber- 
 iiardin do Saint Pierre's heroine was born in a scene 
 i^imilar to that in which that of the Abbe Prevost 
 died. The two novels are connected by the same 
 poetry of love and natural scenery. Virginia dying 
 in all her purity is still the sister of Manon Lescaut 
 dying crowned with sullied roses, but who is saved 
 throuirh love. 
 
 What a poetical, romantic, and singular existence 
 was that of the Abbe Prevost, Mdio was thrice a 
 Jesuit, twice a soldier, a long time an exile, always 
 a lover, whether in the n}arshes of Holland, the fogs 
 of England, the cell of the cloister, or the Avine-shops 
 of Pai'is! A gifted, haj)py, inconstant being, such 
 as tlie ])citv was pleased to create on a day of mel- 
 ancholy gayety, with more heart than head, more 
 poct^_)' than wit, more dreams than reflection — such 
 are the piivileges of those beautiful creations which 
 o\j>and in all their strength and all their splendor, 
 lluwci's which bloom in a fine season, and have felt 
 in tlicir warm mornings the dew, the suidight, and 
 the storm.
 
 124 Tirio Aunio trkvost. 
 
 For tlio Abbe Provost, life Avas a romance and a 
 journej. Merolj' to relate Iiis liistorj'^ wonld require 
 an entii'c volume ; it is a task worthy of temptiiii!; a 
 poetic mind. How n)any charming c{)isodes, how 
 many picturesque contrasts ; Avhether, as the hero, on 
 a line April morning, \vhile the birds are singing, he 
 escapes from the convent to assume the uniform of a 
 guardsman ; or whether he returns, heail-broken by 
 an infatuated passion, to knock at the doors of the 
 monastery, lienceforth his tomb, tlie saddest of tombs, 
 that of the heart. All men here below pursue chime- 
 ras : fortune, glory, love, poetry — chimeras wliich have 
 not grown old since the golden age, and which always 
 entice ns to all the dangers of the shore. Did the 
 Abbe Prevost think of these ? Manon, his dear 
 Manon, was the pei'sonification of his chimera ; she 
 was the enchanted image ever before his ej^es, 
 whether he was singing in the guard-room, whether 
 in revery or pi'ayer in liis cell. His chimera was a 
 mingling of love and poetry; if he was permitted to 
 follow her, to love hei', to lose her, to love her again, 
 he asked no more. What mattered gloiy and fortune 
 to him? Manon! Manon! it was his dream, it was 
 his life. Yes, Desgrieux was himself, he who pur- 
 sued this charming image — and like the image of 
 happiness she escaped him as soon as he seized her. 
 
 Has Manon Lescaut existed ? is she a dream of 
 the poet ? is she a recollection of the lover ? What 
 a beautiful histoi-y for delicate intelligences would 
 this he which should inform ns how a book is formed : 
 the first inspirations, and their dazzling effects, the 
 I'outes chosen, the unfrequented side-paths, the hajipy 
 hours of labor, the fatigues and despairs, the reviving
 
 LOVE AT FIFPEEN. 125 
 
 ardors, and at last the final pages in which the njau 
 of genius pours out his soul ! 
 
 The Abbe Prevost wrote his book in London, dur- 
 ing his exile, at the age of retrospection, at the age 
 when one's dreams are only with tlie past. Manon, 
 Lescaut is a reminiscence, a reminiscence of his 
 country, but, above all, of his heart. Do you ask for 
 the proof? It is on every page of the book; the 
 proof is the verity of the recital and the verity of the 
 passion. A dreamer can never attain that. Goethe 
 wrote Werter with a recollection of the time when 
 he was twenty ; the Abbo Provost put his entire youth 
 into Manon Lescaut. The finest romances arc made 
 by destiny, by chance, by God himself. The proof 
 is also to be had in every page of the life of the 
 Abbe Prevost, who passes incessantly from Tibergc 
 to Desfjrieux, and from Desjijrieux to Tiberaje. But 
 look at his history. 
 
 Fran9ois Prevost d'Exiles was born in xipril, 1697, 
 at llesdin, in Artois; his fathei', kiuij^'s proeeureur, 
 was liis first tutor. lie was soon placed under the 
 Jesuits of llesdin, who wei-c happy to have at their 
 lessons a youth so mild and ingenuous, full of zeal 
 for religion and science. When tlie scholar was 
 fifteen, his father sent him to complete his studies 
 at Paris, at the College d'llarcourt. On this first 
 joiu'ney he met a young girl whose name is un- 
 known ; perhaps she was none other than this pretty 
 ManoM, so fresh, amiable, and lively, at the open- 
 ing of the romance. You have not forgotten the 
 cliiirmiiig picture of this first rencontre. The king's 
 jH'oeeureur wanted to mukc his son an abbe; the 
 parents of the young girl were sending her to Amiens 
 
 11*
 
 126 TIIK AI5IJK I'KKVOST. 
 
 to become a nun. T.nt see how the future abbe 
 met tlie future nun. Sucli arc tlie sports of des- 
 tiny. The schohvr timidly advanced toward her who 
 was ah'eady tbe mistress of liis lieart ; she was very 
 willing to postpone her entrance into the convent to 
 the n)orrow, in order to have the pleasure of snpping 
 with him who discoursed so Avell about the tyianny 
 of parents and the luxp})iness of love. What was 
 the first consequence of this meeting ? Did the two 
 j-oung people content themselves with sup])ing to- 
 gether at the hotel ? The inn scene narrated farther 
 on perhaps indicates what must have passed at this 
 first interview. Whatever it was, Provost ai'i-ived 
 without mnch dela}^ at the College d'llarcourt ; but 
 did the pretty girl reach the convent? 
 
 The Jesnits, astonished at the intelligence of Pre- 
 A'ost, his gentleness, and liis personal chai-ms, caressed 
 him, and decided him on his novitiate. His heart 
 beat A'agnely at the recollection of Manon. Her 
 form, so fresh and smiling, appeared to him at the 
 opening door of the world. But he had as yet only 
 the desire for holy joys. Heaven spoke more loudly 
 than Manon. However, one moi-ning, when he was 
 scarcely sixteen. Provost, bent sadly over a folio, 
 heard the casement shaken from the flap])ing of a 
 bird's wing against it. It was a swallow, who had 
 mistaken the window for a place to build her nest. 
 
 Kothing more w'as wanted to change the life of the 
 studious scholar. He opened the window ; he saw 
 over the roofs the sky, the sun, a clump of tree-tops 
 swayed gently by the wind. He set himself again 
 to study ; but the place in which he was, suddenly 
 appeared so sad, so sombre, so desolate to him, that
 
 CAMP AND CLOISTER. 127 
 
 lie rushed out as if lie had lost his wits. "When he 
 found hiniself in the street, he asked himself where 
 he should go, with some terror at the recollection of 
 the stern figure of his father. He said to himself 
 that he should never dare to see him again ; he did 
 not dare even to write to him. Did he search for 
 Manon in the lab\'riiith of human passions which is 
 called Paris? lie has not said so; it is allowable to 
 doubt whether he was faithful to the recollection of 
 his first love. 
 
 You see that the romance of life commenced early 
 with Prevost. AVe have no particulars of this page 
 of his youth. "We only know that after some days of 
 poetic vagabondizing in Paris he enlisted as a simple 
 volunteer, hoping to make his way in the army. He 
 conducted himself bravely, but did not achieve for- 
 tune. He took part in the last battles of Louis XIY. 
 He saw the war ended without the hope of gaining a 
 runic. In his impatient ardor, not wishing to remain 
 a soldier during peace, he hurried into seclusion at 
 La Fleche, among the Jesuit fathers. He wished to 
 renounce the seductions and vanities of the world. 
 Touched bv the i-emonstranccs of his father, he swore 
 that he would henceforth live in the austere solitude 
 of a cloister. 
 
 As long as the winter lasted, he was pleased with 
 this life of labor and refiection. The gloom of 
 November, the snows of January, fortified him in 
 tiiese wise resolves; he wished long to enjoy these 
 aiist(!re pleasures, the perfumeless lilies gathered. at 
 the foot of the cross. Ihit tiie spring returned ; " I 
 am lost," tiiouj^dit Pn'vost, as the first ray of tlu; sun 
 full on his forehead, llu went to confos to the
 
 128 TIIK A15TJK PKEVOST, 
 
 diroctor : '^My fatlici", iny lieart is :ii;-:iin opon to tlic 
 scHluctioiis of the woild. Save nic ! prevent nie from 
 always listeniiii^ to tliose tleceitfnl jojs wliicli entice 
 me to niv ruin ! I wish to live with vou ; to live for 
 (rod in tlie sacred paths in which yon Avalk !" 
 
 After this confession, Prevost connected himself hy 
 oath with the order of the Jesnit fathei'S. For some 
 days, a renewed fervor inflamed his heart and mind ; 
 he composed an ode in honor of St, Fi-ancis Xavier, 
 hut the ode was scarcely finished when this fine 
 fervor vanished. The image of Manon had re- 
 turned to float before his eves like a fairv M'ho prom- 
 ises a thousand enchantments ; he had heard the 
 voice of this siren in his heart, lost amid dangerous 
 rocks. She cried to him, " Come, come, come ! " She 
 stretched out her arms to him ; she sang, and she 
 cried again to him, " Come ! " lie threw himself on 
 his knees ; he leant his forehead on the marble of the 
 altar; he pressed his lips vehemently to the crucifix, 
 but what had they met? — the profane dreamer! — 
 the fresh and fragrant lips of Manon ! 
 
 " No ! " he exclaimed, " no ! I am not born to 
 ])ray, but to love ; the shade of the cloister is a leaden 
 cloak too heavy for my shoulders. Oh, my God ! 
 grant me a little sunshine and a little love ! It is not 
 a shroud that my lieart needs, but another heart to 
 beat against it ! And, as he said these words, he saw 
 advancing toward him, in all the grace and attract- 
 iveness of her sixteen years, the fi'esh beauty with 
 whom he liad supped at Amiens. — "I will find her 
 again," said he, stretching out his arms. Saying 
 these words, he went out into the cloisters of the 
 abbey. Seeing the door open, he departed, without
 
 love's labor lost. 129 
 
 notifvinir finv one. A second time he had quitted 
 God for the world. 
 
 He had learned during his first campaign that 
 Manon had not followed any better than himself the 
 wishes of her parents. A soldier of Amiens had 
 informed him that this pretty girl was at Paris, living 
 upon the revenues of her beauty. Prevost hastened 
 to Paris, lie sought Manon everywhere ; he did not 
 find her. What would he not have given to see her 
 again, though but for an instant ! — this charming 
 creature, so seductive and perverse, whom he had 
 again adorned with his poetic imagination, lie again 
 entered the service ; but this time, thanks to some 
 patronage, he left for the war with a rank. It was 
 the most romantic, adventurous, and singular period 
 of his life. Some sketches and some letters of his 
 on his soldier life have been preserved. " Four j-ears 
 were passed in this business of arms ; active and sus- 
 ceptible to pleasure, I shall avow in the words of M. 
 de Cand)rai, that wisdom demanded many precau- 
 tions which escaped me. I leave it to be supposed 
 what nnist have been the heart and sentiments of a 
 man between twenty and twenty-five who wrote 
 Clcvt'land at thirty -five or thirty -six." 
 
 He long sought for Manon in vain ; Manon, his 
 ideal, she who was to charm his eyes and speak to 
 his heart. Xot l^eing able to find her, he sought to 
 deceive himself: this one has her eyes ; that one, her 
 month ; one smiles like Manon ; the other is very 
 ]ii;e her. Pnt it was no use for him to l)liiid and dis- 
 tract himself; his h(;art wouhl not recognise th(Mn ; 
 these wretclu.'d portraits only served to rcmiml him 
 ()f the beloved form, to niake him regret her tho
 
 130 THE Ani'A) IMIKVOST. 
 
 more. Ill vain did lie seek to deceive liis lieart; 
 true passion can not be deceived. 
 
 One day lie was not tliinkint^ of lier, so far was lie 
 carried away by the current of madcap adventures; 
 lie was snp})ing at a tavern, in merry company, hi 
 a neigliborini;- room a party were enjoj'iiig tiiemselves 
 in a still noisier manner. lie listened to the peals of 
 laughter, the gay speeches, the merry songs ; he rose 
 from the table, approached the door, and cast a sur- 
 prised look upon the animated spectacle. Among 
 the three or four women who were drinkiiiir and 
 singing, he saw one more beautiful and none the less 
 madly excited than the i-est. — " It is she ! '' he ex- 
 claimed, pale and trembling. He entered resolutely, 
 sword in hand, ready for anything. The men were 
 too drnnk to notice him. — "It is yon, it is you ! " he 
 exclaimed, pausing before her whom he had so long 
 sought for. The pretty girl began to laugh at the 
 top of her voice. — " I know more than one," answered 
 she ; " but, as for you, I don't know who you are." — 
 " Ah, you do not know me ! " said he, leading her to 
 the end of tlie room ; " and yet I have loved you 
 more than my life ! I have loved you at the foot of 
 the cross, on the field of battle, everywhere where I 
 have borne my heart. Alas ! you do not recognise me, 
 and I weep in finding you again ! " — " You weep," she 
 murmured, with the air of a Avoinan wlio is not ac- 
 customed to tears. — "Ah, now ! " slie continued mourn- 
 fully ; " you are not a cliild now ! — a sword and 
 mustaches!" — "I will not quit yon," said he, press- 
 ing her to his heart ; " I will follow you everywhere, 
 even to the end of the world ! But you do not live 
 fco far off ; where do you live ? " — fcihe hung down her
 
 THE BIKD HAS FLOWN. 131 
 
 head, and answered with a tender voice, '• TTliere 
 you win." 
 
 "Alas ! " thouglit Provost, "she is no longer what 
 1 had dreamed ; bnt what Jiiattei- what she is ? 
 I have fonnd her again, and I love her! '' — Tie bore 
 her off withont any ohstaclc. He passed more than 
 a year with her, in all the enchantment, all the an- 
 guish, of such a love. lie had to watch his mistress 
 sword in hand. She loved li'nu, but she could not 
 answer for herself, for she had acquired the habit of 
 living without caring for aught besides pleasure. 
 Poor Prevost more than once surprised her on the 
 point of sacrificing him to his friends. It was of no 
 use ; she escaped from him. lie doubtless wearied 
 her with too niuch love. Mistresses are like the 
 birds, who some fine morning fly through the window 
 to sing elsewhere. On seeing the cage empty. Pro- 
 vost threw up his arms in despair. "Adieu!" said 
 he, weejung, "adieu! cruel one! naught is left mo 
 but to die." It was then that he went to the Bene- 
 dictines of St. Maur. — " This sad denouement l)rou"ht 
 me to the grave ; for it is this name which I give to 
 the honorable order among whom I buried myself, and 
 where I renuiined some time so effectually dead that 
 my friends and parents were ignorant as to what hud 
 become of me." J)o not suppose that he could forget 
 his mistress in his retreat. This siren, who had en- 
 ticed him to more than one shipwreck, always sang 
 to this weak heart, inhabited only by recollection. 
 I*ious lectures, severe austerities, ecstacies of prayer, 
 cciiild not detach him from this a<loied image. 
 
 lie was but twenty-four; beheld lirmly until thirty- 
 one to the plank of safely of tiie cloister, lie then
 
 132 Tin<; aubk prkvost. 
 
 wrote : — " I know the weakness of my liearf. T ninst 
 watch unceasing!}'. I perceive l)nt too well of wliiit 
 I may again become capable, if 1 should lose sight 
 a nuunent of discipline, or even if I should legard 
 with tlie least complaisance a certain image which 
 but too often presents itself to my mind, and which 
 would still luive but too much power to seduce me, 
 although it is lialf effaced. TTow much it costs to 
 fight for the victory after one has long found delight 
 in allowing one's self to be conquered ! " 
 
 To still farther discipline his heart, he threw liim- 
 self into theological discussions and severe stud}', 
 lie passed into all the establishments of the order: 
 at St. Ouen of Honen, at the Abbey du Bee, at St. 
 Germer, at Evreux, finally at Paris, whei-e he preached 
 with pi-odigious populai-ity. At St. Germain-des-Pres, 
 to distract his mind a little, and escape fi'om himself, 
 at least by recollection, he composed his first ro- 
 mance, the Memoirs of a Man of Quality. IJis 
 brethren knew that he had passed tlu-ough a stormy 
 youth ; all came to him in the cloister evenings to 
 relate to them some of the stories of his early life. 
 It was a pleasure but too sweet, which he could nei- 
 ther refuse to others nor to himself. He was repri- 
 manded. Not willing to acknowledge to himself that 
 lie wished a third time to abandon the cell, the Abbo 
 Prevost asked to be transferred to some less risid 
 branch of the order ; he wanted a little libeily, if not 
 complete and entire liberty. Kelying on his request, 
 he escaped premeditatedly from St. Germain-des- 
 Pres ; the brief which he expected was not fulmi- 
 nated ; and fearing the consequences of this thii'd 
 desertion, which was mure sei-iuiis than the uthcj's.
 
 DRAWING FROM LIFE. 133 
 
 lie fled to England, and thence to Holland, resolved 
 henceforth to live where it should please God, trnst- 
 inic to his wit and his star. 
 
 Did he see liis mistress again before his departure ? 
 He has not told us. We should think not. Accord- 
 ing to one of his letters, he met near Havre a com- 
 pany of girls of the town, who were about to be 
 shipped to America : this picture carried hiui l)ack, 
 in spite of himself, to his tavern amours. '' Alas ! " 
 be exclaims, '' we have loved moi"e than one whom 
 contrary winds have shipwrecked on these desert 
 sliores." 
 
 Arrived at London, he hastened to complete the 
 Memoirs of a Man of Quality, which for some 
 time furnished him with the means of subsistence. 
 Its success sui-passed all his hopes. To give a higher 
 price to a second edition of this book, he thought of 
 adding to it, in the form of an episode, some new 
 history : he sought for a subject, a hero, a heroine, 
 an intrigue, a denouement. The image of his dear 
 mistress was, as he himself lias said, but half ef- 
 faced : the farther he withdrew from her, the more 
 did she become imbued with poetic attributes; niem- 
 oi-y has inmmierablc prisms, and shows only the 
 diarming side of love pictures. Here was a heroine 
 aliea<ly found — an adored portrait which he could 
 still paint with love. For a hero he had only to paint 
 liimself. A little imagination to color the truth, and 
 there was the romance. The scene which he had 
 witnessed at Havre had struck' him ; his mind inces- 
 santly returned to it, as if Ik; 1i;h1 si'cn there some 
 form which was n<»t a stranger to him : what a ter- 
 rible and |.(>L-tic concbi.^ioii ! I)id ni>t I'lvvDst write
 
 134: I'liK A P.!:;; pkkvost. 
 
 liis romanco uiuler the overpowering influence of liis 
 recollections? There is no nsc of examining his 
 books, his journal, his letters; there is no use of con- 
 sulting his Memoirs; you will stop with nothing de- 
 cided on this delicate point. 
 
 "What is certain is that lie took his work seriously ; 
 he })ut his heart and his tears into it : the book com- 
 ])lcted, he did not foi'get it like the others; ho loved 
 it, and consulted it in his days of sorrow, as we con- 
 sult a fiiend who knows our most cherished secret. 
 Among other proofs of this love of the writer for his 
 book, the criticism mav be seen which the Abbo 
 Prevost made himself on Manoii Lescaut in his jour- 
 nal, Le Pour et le Contre. " It contains nothing 
 but pictures and reflections — but true pictures and 
 natuial sentiments. I say nothing about the style ; 
 it is Katui'C herself who speaks." 
 
 There is this sad feature about Paris, that in the 
 chances of her thousand streets we meet a thousand 
 times the form we Nvish to escape, and never the one 
 Ave hne. How many a time has the living memorial 
 of a spring-time love been pursued in vain through 
 the wilderness of the great city ? 
 
 In the preface to a curious book, The Continuation 
 (yf the lUstory of Manon Lescaut and the Chevalier 
 Desgrieux (for some one, himself or somebody else, 
 })erhaps La Clos, has dared to write a continuation 
 to this masterpiece), it is related that the Abbe Pre- 
 vost, on his return to Paris, after six years of exile, 
 after the success of Manon Lescant, met on the Pont 
 Neuf, on a windy day in autumn, his fii'st mistress, 
 lier, perhaps, whom he had picjusly interred in the 
 savannahs of America. The Abbe Prevost had a
 
 A LAST SAD LOOK. lo5 
 
 lady on his arm ; was she anotlier and a calnier 
 passion ? was slie a friend of yesterday-, some fine 
 lady smitten with the author after liaving road liis 
 romance ? No one knows. All of a sudden, the first 
 mistress passes rapidly by, without recognising him. 
 Tiiinly clothed, especially for tlie season, she had all the 
 trouble in the world to protect herself fi'om the gusts 
 of wind. The Abbo Prevost recoixnised her bv her 
 gait alone, although years had come sooner on her 
 than on him ; pale and emaciated, having undergone, 
 as Prevost saj^s somewhere, the ravages of time and 
 of love, she was always pretty, at least in her lover's 
 eves. As soon as he i-ecoi^nised her, he made a 
 movement toward her, with a fearful beating of the 
 lieart. "What is the matter?" asked the ladv to 
 whom he had given his arm. lie had forgotten her 
 for the moment. lie checked hinu^elf in despair, 
 casting a look of desolation on this fickle, charming, 
 and unfortunate girl, who was flying before the wind 
 to go he knew not where, nor perhaps she. AV^hat 
 would he not have given to throw himself in her 
 arms, and know from herself if she had remembered 
 him durini; this loni; absence! 
 
 Why liad he not on that day the force or the cour- 
 age of ins })assion ? J)oubtless he did not dare to 
 thus represent a family scene before all the ])assers- 
 by of the Pont Xeuf ? Perha])s he fearetl tt) distress 
 lier who was at his side ; perhaj)s the Imur ot" wistlom 
 had at last arrived for him who had so long >tri\cii ; 
 jjerhaps, in fine, he wished only to find his dear mis- 
 tress, the lirbt an<l the best loved, hut to K»se iicr im- 
 mediately after, aftitr having once m<iie opened his 
 heart to hei', like those who come to gaze again with
 
 l;)0 •nilO AI!I!i: J'KEVOST. 
 
 bitter jilerisnrc on tlicir native land, l)ut have no vsrish 
 to dwell therein. 
 
 AVh}' not pause here at so poetical a phase of this 
 literary portrait ? Whj' seek the Abhe Prevost else- 
 uherc than in liis immortal work ? The whole of the 
 Abbe Provost is there — all his genius, all his heart. 
 AVhy follow him to his other romances, and into his 
 other 3'ears ? It M'ould be but to paint him less amia- 
 ble, alwaj's writing, but without love and without re- 
 flection. Why tell you that he died of apoplexy while 
 passing through the forest of Chantilly, like a good 
 citizen who has acquired a rotund paunch ? His 
 destinj' was, however, sti-ange, even to the end : a 
 physician of the village gave him a cut with a scal- 
 pel, out of love to science ; the Abbe Prevost, who 
 Avas only in a lethargy, revived to be present at his 
 own death.
 
 GE:N^TIL-BEliXAIlD. 
 
 FoRTTXE, a little more than a century ago, amnsed 
 liersclf by taking by the hand an amiable poet, who 
 started out one fine morning, penniless, trusting to 
 chance and Providence, lie was the clerk of a 
 2yroceureui\ named Pierre Bernard, and the son of a 
 poor provincial sculptor. Voltaire, according to his 
 custom, had baptized him in his peculiar fashion ; 
 he sent Bernard an invitation to supper at Madame 
 Duchiltelet's : — 
 
 For Pindar's and Cythera's sake, 
 This to Geulil-Bernard I write, 
 " Art of Love," on Satnrday night, 
 Witli "Art to Please ' will supper take. 
 
 Bernard was born at Grenoble, at the same time 
 with Bonis X\^. "It is strange," lemarktHl ^ladame 
 de l*ompa<lom-, at a latei- period, " that two lovers of 
 quality should have been born for me in the same 
 Bcjison — a king and a poet." Bove and })oi'try sur- 
 pris<'d Bernard in the very morning of life. On 
 leaving college he passed some time al the countrv- 
 
 12*
 
 i'^O GENTIL-BEKNAKD. 
 
 Jiousc of an niiclo ; there he foniul a Claudine to his 
 taste. Slie was a ]^i-ctty peasaiit-giil, 
 
 Wlioso unbound liair in careless ringlets fell, 
 Crowned with sweet roses, end the wild harebell. 
 
 Slie was tlie cousin and the liandniaid of the cure 
 of tlie parisli ; if Me ai'O to trust Jjernard, slie dis- 
 pensed witli the sanction of priest as well as of 
 notary in her tender moments. After having had 
 an amour with Claudine, and turned off some licen- 
 tious stanzas in her Jionor, Bernard started for Pai-is, 
 the land of his dreams, where he had to ensconce 
 himself in a lawyer's den. The Marquis de Pezay, 
 having business in this office, was astonished on I'e- 
 marking the happy humor of Bernard. He was theii 
 a good-looking youngster, of magnificent figure, with 
 a face half jocose, half i-eflective, " the favoi-ite of 
 gay grisettes." Thanks to the Marquis dc Pezay 
 (the soldier, not the poet), he made rapid advances 
 in the M'orld, gaining the good graces of even tiic 
 most fastidious. But in the midst of this success, 
 he departed for the Italian wars with Pezay, nnder 
 the orders of the Marshal de Coigny, whose secretary 
 he became. lie fought well for a poet, but sang 
 hi? combats badly. On returning from the cam- 
 }»aign, he was received by Mademoiselle Poisson, who 
 was on the point of becoming Madame Lenormand 
 d'Etioles ; according to her, he was received as a wit ; 
 his own version gave him quite another vocation in 
 the house. It was thei-e that he met Bernis, that big 
 devil of an abbe, whom the profane dame had dubbed 
 her feather- footed pigeon, on account of his lai'gc feet 
 and manifold cooiugs.
 
 BERNIS AND BERXAIJB. 139 
 
 "Wlicn T3ernis and Bernard met, as the cardinal 
 expresses it, " at tlie door of that rebellious lieait 
 wliich was to rule the world,"' they had both already 
 strongly-marked characters, lleriiis was devoured 
 with pride and ambition ; Bernard, though lie never 
 became a cardinal, was, for all that, the wiser of 
 the two ; he knew that glory did not give her 
 favors gratis ; he contented himself with amours, 
 with little songs, and little suppers, all in private. 
 They both followed their own course, without digres- 
 sions and without obstacles, the one with joyous 
 carelessness, the other with blind ardoi", both meet- 
 ing now and then, on account of a rhyme or a wom- 
 an, with Euterpe or with Madame de Pompadour. 
 "Well, where are we. Monsieur Abbe?" — "Faith! 
 I iiave arrived at the Academy." A little later. — 
 '" Here I am an ambassador." Soon after, " minister." 
 Finally, "Alas! there is nothing more to be gained ; 
 they have made me cardinal. But how is it with you, 
 Bernard!" — "Always Gentil-Bernard, as Voltaire 
 says." — "And as the women say." — "Ah, you happy 
 j)0ct! Do you want to belong to the Academy ?" — 
 "Heaven defend me from it ! it is moie in your line, 
 Monsieur Abbe." 
 
 Bernard was always true to his character, lie A\'as 
 to the very last the French Anacreon, i-ousing at the 
 sound of clinking glasses and songs, seeking the in- 
 spiring bubbles of champagne, but never the " bubble 
 reputation." lie made verses for the service of his 
 love-affairs, but for no other ])urpose. lleha<l a hor- 
 ror of ]>rinters and publishers ; it was of no use to 
 try ; he would never consent to make up a little vol- 
 unu! (;f his small ])o('ms. ("oiild wcj find a poet of
 
 14(^ GENTIL-BERNARD. 
 
 SO lunch sense in onr own day ? 8till, it is more 
 than ever time that we should understand that God 
 has pjiven poetry to the greater part C)f ]ioets as the 
 dew to the Hower. Be, thei'efore, the poet of j'our- 
 self, of your love, of your soi'row, and of your great- 
 ness ; sing for your heart, but sing for yourself, and 
 no one will complain of your song. Of what use is it 
 to nnveil to others the mysteries of your soul ? A 
 little modesty, if you please. Do Jiot thus present to 
 every comer your soul in undress ; do not thus pro- 
 fane your purest love, that Mhich conceals itself in 
 the virgin forests of memory. 
 
 Fragments of Bei-nard's poem, The Art of Love 
 appeared during his lifetime, hut to his great son-ow. 
 The publisher Leronx had slipped very fi-equently 
 into the saloon which Bernard frequented, and fi"om 
 liearing him read and re-read it, had almost com- 
 mitted it to memory. 
 
 Bernard refused all favors which men are generally 
 proud to obtain. lie would not become a member 
 of the Academy. lie refused, like Bameau, titles of 
 nobility. — " Let me see ; what can I do for you, my 
 dear poet ? " said Madame de Pompadour, on her 
 arrival at power. Bernard contented himself with 
 kissing the hand of the marchioness. — " Go ! you are 
 a fool ! you will never be good for anything ! " — '• 
 Madame de Pompadour got along better with the 
 ambition of Bernis, who, through it, so well flattered 
 lier taste. — " Ah, he is not one to stop on the road ; 
 he is not like you, mourning for his Claudine. 
 "What fancy has taken you, to love that peasant- 
 girl ? " — " Love is the god of contrasts and ex- 
 travagances, marchioness. AVhcn one begins with
 
 THE IkLiRSHAL DE COIGNY. 1-il 
 
 a shepliei'd-girl, one finishes •u-itli a queen. I began 
 with Chandine ; have I not got as far as — '' — '' Tlie 
 Bastile ! " exclaimed Madame de Pompadour, with a 
 smile of ill-omen. Bernard bit his lip, and departed 
 with the lesson. lie well knew that in love, play- 
 ing with wit is playing with fiie. He was ali-eady 
 one of the most silent of lovers about his good for- 
 tune, drinking at leisure in his heart all the intoxi- 
 cation of life. But, from that day, his heart was an 
 abyss of darkness to the M'orld. He did not publish 
 abroad a single mistress except his Claudine. 
 
 J>ernard remained for ten vears attached to the 
 house of Coigny, where he was sometimes badly treat- 
 ed. The marshal on his death-bed reo;retted hav- 
 iiig abused the remar]^able good humor and ever- 
 amiable smile of the poet. He had never allowed him 
 to eat at his table ; he had maltreated him time and 
 again for his abstraction, his amours, his verses, and, 
 above all, for his bad writing. He sent for him, gave 
 liim his proud hand, and said to his grandson : " I rec- 
 onnnend M. Bernard to you, who is worthy of all your 
 protection and of all 3'our friendship. I have neglected 
 liim too nnich ; do not do the same.'' — The fortnne of 
 the poet was bettered somewhat by the will of ]\[. do 
 Coigny ; it im])roved still more from day to day. Ber- 
 nard, all the while contending against the favors of 
 fortune, died with an income of fifty thousand livres. 
 It was a trirte alongside of his friend the cardinal, 
 wIjo in hi.s best days had a revenue of half a million. 
 
 "When Bei-nard was aj»pointed secretary-general 
 of the dragoons, about 174U, Voltaire, who exercised 
 all the amenities of literature toward all ])oets and 
 men of letters on a small scale, wrote to him as fol-
 
 142 OENTIL-BERNARD. 
 
 lows : " So the secrotarv of love is secretary of 
 dniixooiis ! Our destiny, my detir friend, is more 
 agi'oeable than that of Ovid ; so, too, your Ait of 
 Love seems to me better than his. You say that the 
 fortune of M. de Coigny [the grandson of the mar- 
 shal] has wings ; see, then, how all the winged gods 
 combine to favor you. But if his foi'tune has wingiJ, 
 yours has eyes ; we will no longer call her blind, 
 since she takes such good care of you. Ileniembcr 
 me in the midst of your laurels and myrtles." — Ber- 
 nard was already called the French Ovid, on account 
 of his Art of Love and for some charming poems, 
 such as the epistle to Clandine. At that time, peo- 
 ple doted on everything ; they doted on Bernard. 
 All the women had learned ihis epistle to Clandine 
 from the mouth of Bernard. — "Ah, poet," said Ma- 
 dame Forbin to him one day (if we may believe 
 Bachaumont), "I know your epistle by heart; but 
 M'hat can I do to make your heart forget it ? " — 
 They \vere thus jealous of Clandine ; but they were 
 not jealous of Celiante, of Zelie, or of any other cele- 
 brated rival. This epistle to Clandine, which com- 
 niences like a tale of La Fontaine's, tin-ns by degrees 
 into an elegy. The poet, after having listened to the 
 most-gay and most profane I'ecollcctions of love, ends 
 by abandoning hinjself to the inspii'ations of his heart. 
 As this epistle is the best page in the history of Ber- 
 nai'd, I detach a few lines, not indiscriminately, from 
 it: 
 
 Is she tlio less fho child of morn 
 For blooming in a iKirron field ? 
 My love's the meadow's fairest tlower. 
 There in \i\'j youth I saw Clandine, 
 And, seeing hor, all loves were seen.
 
 THE ART or LOVE. 143 
 
 Ilere the poet relates, in the taste of the time, how 
 they intoxicated the good curate, in order to intoxi- 
 cate themselves at their ease ^ith the profane cup. 
 
 How many a kiss, liow many a vow ! 
 'Twere vain to count them, well you know. 
 The dawn sees fewer flowers expand. 
 
 At last the poet comes to hid Clandine adieu : the 
 heart suffocated with pleasure, revives a little under 
 a pure ray of love : — 
 
 I leave thee to thine idle hours, 
 
 When from thy lonely cot thou'lt see 
 
 The woods and streams, the lawns and flowers, 
 
 That heard my youthful vows to thee. 
 
 Claudine, wilt thou be true to me ? 
 
 These last verses show the same tender and poetic 
 sentiment which inspired Andre Chenier. We find 
 in them the lirst trace of tliat lachrymose vein which we 
 have too nmch cultivated since. Out of these four 
 verses, we should at the present day make eighty. 
 AVe should, perhaps, gain some rays of the setting 
 sun, a bit of skv, a melancholv star. Bernard is too 
 firmly rooted to the earth to thiidv of that : he seeks 
 lieaven only in his mistress's eyes. 
 
 The first verses of \\\e Art of Love also trace in 
 vague outline the life of Gcntil-])eriiard. It is well 
 understood, that to comprehend the history of a poet 
 we must read and re-read his verses rather than his 
 hiogra])hy, which only relates to the extei-nals of his 
 life. In his verses, the poet here and there lets out 
 the truth ; he uncoiisciou.sly reveals himself; he scat- 
 ters without thinking, all the treasures of memory.
 
 144 GKN'in.-l!i;i;.\AIMt. 
 
 like tlic painter wlio is surprised to find that lie has 
 given the eyes or the mouth of his mistress to 8t. 
 Cecilia or Joan of Arc, Sec these first vei'ses of the 
 Art of Love : 
 
 Coigiiy, I'vo soon, and victory, and war ; 
 But things likt; those transcon<l my power far. 
 I've seen the court, I've passed my spring away. 
 Mute at the feet of idols of the day. 
 Bacchus I've seen, nor made liis joys my song ; 
 Nor to Apollo owned submission long. 
 Daphne I've seen ; my song shall bo of love ! 
 
 To comprehend how Gentil-Bernard understood love, 
 it is necessary to read his entire poem. This Art of 
 Love is rather the Art not to Love, or, still more, the 
 Art to Love no more. Oljmpia and Cj'thera, Venus 
 and her nymphs, the whole mythological machinery 
 is there, in action, for the last time. Unfortunately 
 for love, the most apparent symbol of the ])oem is the 
 girdle of Venus. Gentil-Bernard, who is scarcely a 
 Christian, sees love nowhere else. But of what use 
 is the A7't of Love, as if there was a school of love ? 
 Love is a pure dew Avhich descends from heaven upon 
 our hearts, when it pleases God ; love is, thei*efore, 
 a surprise, a divination, an extempore science. A 
 woman tells more about it with a look or a smile than 
 all the Ovids and Gentil-Bernards in the world. 
 
 Madame de Pompadour, who, in spite of herself, 
 felt a secret liking for Bernard, succeeded in exiling 
 him a little way from Paris. She appointed him 
 librarian of the chateau de Clioisy, where she had a 
 charming little house built for him, which was called 
 by the poets of the time the Parnassus of the French 
 Anacreon. Bernard, who was never alone in his
 
 CHOisr. 145 
 
 exile, resigned liiinself to it with very g- > /] grace. 
 Lonis XV. rarely entered this library, or Bernard 
 either. — " AVhat should I do among all those dead 
 men?" he said gavlv to his friends. One dav he 
 wrote to Yoltaire : "Send, therefore, to the poor 
 grave-digger of Choisy your beautiful poem with the 
 iliustratiuns. I keep a grave always open ; but these 
 dead people will return again like spirits." 
 
 Louis XY. lancied Bernajd by fits and starts ; he 
 always received him with a good grace, and had no 
 objection to hearing his verses ; but Bernard did not 
 like Louis XV. so near by. If we may believe a letter 
 of Bertin, the king condescended to be jealous of the 
 poet — in respect \o love, be it understood. Madame 
 de Pompadour went sometimes to forget, at the side 
 of Bernard, the king, the Jesuits, and the Parliament. 
 In h'xiJonrneyto Burgundy^ Bertin, in passing tiie 
 Chateau de Choisy, poetically recalls the pleasant 
 pastin^-.': of Gentil-Bernard : — 
 
 'Twas there, surrounded by the loves, 
 
 Whf)se minister he was so long; 
 
 He turned <>],.; Ovid's art to song. 
 
 At eve hi- dor.ned his ivy crown ; 
 
 And all ihi la^ rs uf the day 
 
 His pupil, wl.cn her task was done. 
 
 With oiir sweet kiss v/oul.1 wel' repay. 
 
 The ]iupil v.Ts sometime.] Madame do Pompadour* 
 Imt wl.-en s'le was absent, CTcritil-BoiTiard had no 
 time to com])lain. And besides, as liis wines were 
 worthy of his wit, he had his friends continually 
 chatting about him. At C'hoisy, as at Paris, the 
 librarian brfaki'-istjd. dined, and supi)ed heartily 
 every day, *Aliich i' narvellous for a poet. 
 
 1 .';
 
 146 NV;xiTIL-BRRNAED. 
 
 "NVlu :. Bacclnis anvl Cui)i(l (pardon inc for return- 
 iiii; to tlieso old idols ; hut by dint of brushing oif 'he 
 dust which covers them. I am cauii'ht bv them in spite 
 of my.-o^: ) — when Bacchus and Cu]>id gav^, Gentri- 
 l^ernard timo. to breathe, he recalled the startled 
 muses. To this we owe tliose Anacreontic odes, 
 gallant epistles, and licoatious fantasies, which tV-) 
 cuniiing poet cared not to have printed, knowing 
 well that the- woidd be all imprinted on the heart, 
 under the cover of the screi^n. 
 
 All these poems, by good right styled fugitive, are 
 far from being original ivith Gentil-Bernard, who was 
 little more than an agreeable copyist of the songs of 
 his predecessors. Innumerable poets had, before him 
 passed into the same pretty garden, to gather there 
 these vmhallowed roses. Without si)eaking of those 
 older and better known, iiernard has some resem- 
 blance to Sannazar, the king of the sonnet and the 
 canzone^ the charming sacred and profane poet; 
 to Pontanus, the poet of the graces ; Francini, 
 who sang G3 little bvit who sang so well ; Strozzi, the 
 sweet eleg'-it; Buchanan, the vagabond, who died 
 weary of life, although he had loved ; in fine, to 
 some of the pleaJng FrencL poets of the sixteenth 
 century. 
 
 In the v:^:i?..T.e of his works, Gentil-Bernard nar- 
 rates almost all the fickle changes of his lio.-.r*. 
 Sometimes ho sinews his hamlet : — 
 
 "O" 
 
 &■ 
 
 Naught can outshine 
 This cot of mint-.. 
 Landscape so l)right 
 Would give delight 
 K'en to VVatteau !
 
 MADAME DE LONGPKE. 147 
 
 Sometimes he laments being at court. He i,-^ almost 
 the only poet of his time "who has not siuig- the 
 laurels or the virtues of the king. lie sang Love, 
 who is tiie kino; of kiuirs. Louis XV. tlwefurc, 
 found him more witty than all the otliers. Most gene 
 rally Bernard warbled over the good gi-aces of Olyra- 
 pia, the absence of Themyra, the kisses of Galatea, 
 the Trianon of Cythera, Pleasure, tlie roses of Aurora 
 and Eirlea. Once onlv did the tears of the divine 
 sentiment in his heart prevail over all these wanton 
 papsi<tus; he had seen Bathilda, that is to say, 
 Madame de L'»ngpre, who had taken refuge in a 
 convent, tu lament fur ii faithless lover: — 
 
 A pure and holy (lame I feci, 
 
 That makes me worthy of the shrine 
 
 Where I have boldly dared to kneel. 
 
 A worldly fire consumed my heart, 
 
 My bark was on a dangerous sea, 
 
 My very tastes were scarcely free 
 
 Inveigled by the siren's art, 
 
 To-day a change has o'er me come ; 
 
 My bark has touched on other ground. 
 
 Which, led by voice of doves, I've found. 
 
 The wlmle of this epistle is charming. Love descends 
 too quickly from the celestial regions, which, however, 
 ne usually d<>es when he follows ]>ernard. At tlie 
 coiinnencement, one thiidvS that he is rising to the 
 ccstacies <>f the archangels; "but," exclaims the 
 ])<>et, " we shall always have time t(j sigh up there." 
 — Imaires full of ''race and boldness are found in 
 this c])istle, which appear as if t]>ey had been taken 
 from the Song of Songs, 
 
 Witliin iho caplive roses' bower, 
 
 'I'lie 'jiie which gave my Ik art its wound,
 
 148 GENTIL-BEltNARD, 
 
 Amid n thorny bush is found, 
 
 Wliirh muirds tlio sud coin|)laiiiin^ flower. 
 
 Uo'iKird at a ri|)i'r uoc was struck with tlio bcauti 
 fill l>Oi trv (»f the Bihle. lie translated Solomon tbi 
 the anuisenient of INFadame de l*oni])adonr. In this 
 undcrtakini;' he was ha])]iier than A'i)ltaii-e; he liad 
 tlie art of repyxlueini;', with all thrir oriental grace, 
 the charming images of the song and of \oliiptnous 
 pleasure. The huining wind which swept over the 
 harp of Solomon has touched even tlie lyre of Gentil- 
 r>ei-nard. Of this entire book of oriental ])oems, hut 
 two dialogues have come down to us, Etna and 
 Atnintha. Gentil-Bernard valued this hook highly 
 if he ever valued anything; hut the poor poet had 
 a devout niece for liis heir, who burnt everything as a 
 sacritice, except rhe will, 
 
 Gentil-Bernard was extinguished, with his glory, 
 some years before his death. lie awoke, a madman, 
 in July, 1770, but he had the happiness not to l)e con- 
 scious of it, lie lived for some years in this condition, 
 under the care of his niece. Tlie cause of this almost- 
 rational madness, so calm and gentle was it, had made 
 some noise in the world. The Chevalier du Chatellux 
 has remarked, that if all the men attributed it to the 
 passion of the poet for Olympias and Coi'innas, tlie 
 women, on the other hand, ascribed it solely to his 
 devotion to go(,)d wine. — "This remark is not to be 
 despised," says Grimm. Must we pity Gentil-Ber- 
 nard? AVhat mattered, after all, this delirium? This 
 lialf-sleep of the intelligence is the preface to death. 
 Gleams of intellect returned to him at long inteivals. 
 Thus, one evening that he was present at a rejiresent- 
 ation of hir- opera ; he asked his neighbor the name
 
 POETS OF THE XYIIITll CENTUKY. 149 
 
 of tlic piece and of tlie actress. — '■''Castor a i~ Pnllh'-^.y 
 and " Mademoiselle Arnoiild." — "Ah I" lie exL!;aiT>:u, 
 "niy glory and my love." — One night, when he wae 
 eallini; Clandine, liis niece told him he wc.s dreaininar.' 
 — '"All, yes," said he, " for I have seen happiness." 
 
 He died without fear and without repi-cach — 
 Ilappy poet. — without care about glory and without 
 care about death. 
 
 IIa\e we n(.)t treated with too much contempt the 
 love-i><»ets of the cii^hteentli centurv? Those lituTiT 
 free-thinkers who admij-e the vigorous and ilowbig, 
 laugli at all this triMip of pretty po..!. , who co>>t.d 
 in the luxuriant i)aths (»f Paphos arr. 'jy /'I'.ra, humbly 
 reclining at the f<»ot of Parnassus, wIjI.' ' they took good 
 care not to scale. Xow, at tiie prei-uit time, with 
 the excei>ti(>n of three or tom- poets, who have some 
 heart and s<»ul, what have all these '^i.-cased Chat- 
 tertons done for us? Gentil-Bernard e?.i\;- of Paphos, 
 Cy}»rus, Madame de Pomjia'V -iv, Ovid, ti;3 Graces, 
 A nacrct )n, tiie 1« (cks of Dap' u , "';« /.aTids or Themyra, 
 the lijts of Chiudine. All i) 'r has passed away as 
 (piickly as bou<pR;ts jducked under tiie sun's ra,ys; but 
 tell me what do (»ur lugubrious geniuBCS sing to their 
 fair ones? Is it lo\e, beauty, grace, ) y.^th ? Tliey 
 blng, that is to say, they bewail over, the bitterness 
 of life ; tliey wee}) for tlieir vanished i!ki.si(»ns : they 
 gritan over the rough road f)f life; in fiue, instead of 
 fiinging of love, it may be said that they sing of 
 death. Not a flash of gayety in these stormy hearts; 
 not a ray of joy in these dark souls! Yt)u might, 
 lu'i-e and there, sec a tolerably-pretty blue eye, if a 
 tear «lid n<»t rise t<i moisten it, but this tear which 
 veils the Mne eve is poetry. 
 
 lii*
 
 loU GENTIL-BEKNAKD. 
 
 Ir tl:!K sliglltj/;r^s'i'rZ, I luivc drawn Gentil-Bernanl, 
 orscitȣthing like lihn, aniied and equipped. I liavo 
 neglected many details, a madrigal licre, a good 
 cajing there. I ought, perhajis, to liavc told you 
 that his inspii-ation Avas rebellious, and tliat he would 
 much rather have caught a rose or a kiss than a 
 rhyuie ; that, in spite of his hci-culean frame, he 
 dressed in a finical style, loving triidcets above eveiy- 
 thing. Fhially, I have shoM'u you the poet ; if you 
 love him, you will go farther; his works arc exposed 
 to the insults of the Quais. There is still in existence, 
 as if by miracle, a pretty little London edition, clothed 
 In morocco ; do not fail to get a copy, for that one, 
 which is very choice, doubtless has passed through the 
 delicate hands of some pretty marchioness of 1780. 
 Do not foi-get to buy this little book, which is one of 
 the last memorials of the gallantries of France ; give 
 a little space in your library — your cemetery, as 
 Gentil-Bernard said — to this precious volume, which 
 still preserves the fragrant dust of the boudoirs. On 
 opening this graceful volume, you will inhale an an- 
 tiquated odor of this poor eighteenth century, which 
 ended so badly ; you will see again on the frontispiece 
 all the pretty Cupids of Cythera, sharpening their 
 MiTOws p.ii'l f'l^h glances ; you will touch with respect 
 the littiC blue ribbon marking the most amorous page ; 
 in line, yon will r-^e hovering around you the shadow 
 of that sweet smile, which for fifty years hung on all 
 the pretty mouths; that enchanting smile which tied 
 for ever v ith the so\u of Queen Marie-Antoinette.
 
 FLOJtlAN. 
 
 Is it not a strange sight, that of a captain of dra^ 
 gocjns, singing tenderly and chastely the loves of 
 shepherdesses in the midst of the society of philoso- 
 l)hei's without faith, poets without a muse, abbes with- 
 out a God, on the eve of 1793 ? Tlie idyl flourishes 
 ami<l ruins — what would it be good for elsewhere? 
 When Nature sings, the poet listens ; wlien all is 
 
 NoTK. There are here ami there agreeable poi t." to be found, whom 
 criticism, fithcr through contempt or forgetfulnees, has allowed to slum 
 ber too Ioiik l>y the side of the literary highway. It is a chance if some 
 syin|»atlu'tic souls have raised i modest tombstone to these poor for- 
 saken, to declare in few words liieir virtues and their works. It has 
 often happened that they hav. found readers if not critics. 'I'hus 
 Florian, lianished with some injustice from the field of letters, has 
 found innumiT:dile places of refuge. He has been translated into all 
 languages. There is not a village in France which does not con- 
 lain some fragments of his works. His books are understood by 
 cvervbody, like ail books which speak to the heart. Last year on the 
 s^:i(*hi«re at Norniandv, while a beating rain compelled me to remain 
 in the small tavern of a fisherman, I discovered on the chimney-piece, 
 N linn l'oiiipiliu.1, whidi served to divert my attention a little from 
 the bail weather. 1 Was ind<dcntly abandoning myself to the charm 
 of the nympli Fgeria, when an old sailor who was smoking and 
 drinking on the opjMisite side of the fire, began ti> talk to nie about 
 tlie book in a thundering voice. He had read it with enthusiasm in 
 the most tender years of his youth; now that old age had come he 
 put his spectacles astride his no.se to read it still.
 
 152 FLORIAN. 
 
 silent, tlic slio})lior(l resumes liis liantboy or his song 
 Yir<;-il did not sing until the Italian land was be- 
 dewed with blood and teai-s. Did Floi'ian wish to 
 oj)pose the impurity and irreligion of his age by 
 celebrating the palmy days of innocence ? Did he 
 hope to bring a blush to the cheeks of these dissolute 
 nobles, and these sinning marchionesses, by the art- 
 less picture of the loves of the golden age ? No. 
 Florian sung as a po<vt, without knowing in what 
 country and for Avhat pe(.)ple ; he in\'oked the recol- 
 lections of his youth, and the shades of his dearly- 
 ioved books ; he sought in his heart the fountain?, of 
 tenderness, and in his imagination idyls full blown. 
 He sang far from the world like a solitary shepherd. 
 The principal charm of his romances is tliat they 
 transport us far from the world : almost from the 
 commencement we travel on the win<>:s of the wind 
 toward unknowu lands. Soon in the midst of a vast 
 solitude, whsre we leave here and there all our rec- 
 ollections, we hear the sound of a pipe or a bag- 
 pipe, we inhale the distant fragrance of the flowering 
 meadows. Soon the wind u- -n which we are borne 
 drives away the mornin:;mist. We discover abcautiful 
 valley, clothed with fresh venlure, where iiretty white 
 sheep, decorated with rose-colored ribl)ons, are scat- 
 tered about. We must admit that the si)ell is so strong, 
 that we lose all knowledge of the past. The past flies 
 us like a confused ima<>;e : we even go so far as to ima- 
 gine that formerly, in a better time, we lived among 
 these shepherds, these shepherdesses, and these sheep. 
 And we are as happy as children. The most per- 
 verted among us are delighted with this enchanted 
 existence, which passes so softly in this solitaiy val-
 
 ms FAMILY. 153 
 
 ley, shiided by nistling elms. Souls, tlie deepest 
 sunk in evil, at the sight of these innocent pleasures,, 
 again find Avithin themselves the spring of their 
 youth, lung since dried up. There is not an abaii 
 doned girl who does not feel she is somewhat of a 
 shepherdess, and shed a sweet tear, forgotten in the 
 bottom of her heart, a sweet tear of the repentant 
 Magdalen, at the sight of Estelle and Galatea, so 
 ])eautiful from their purity, so happy from thei" 
 innocence. 
 
 Tlianks to his god-mother, Florian was named 
 Jean-Pierre — just the name for a shepherd ; thanks 
 to his father, he was named Claris de Florian — just 
 the name for a bucolic poet. lie came into the world 
 in a poetty chateau of Basses-Cevennes, built by his 
 grandfa tiler's vanity in s})itc of the patrinonial for- 
 tune. He came into the w^orld in 1755, in the 
 spring, as you may well suppose. The spring which 
 111' has sung so often, was ever his best season. He 
 gathered his first roses and his first laurels in the 
 fspring. Death, however, came to seize him in the 
 autumn — Init death was mistaken that time, or 
 i-ather death came appropriately in the autumn. To 
 die in the autumn, when the swallows depart in 
 searcli 'tf better countries, when the flowers give out 
 their last fVagrance, when the yellow leaves strew 
 tlie deserted ])ath — is not that the last dream of the 
 makers of eclogues? 
 
 The Fiorians had lieen distinguished in various 
 ways, but especially in arms. This very family 
 count('(l iiinong its ranks several brave captains, a 
 icarni' 1 hisho]), and innuinerabk canons. The 
 t'atjicr itl' i.ur story-ti'llci' ivposi'd from thr liitigiies
 
 154 FLOEIAN. 
 
 of his ancestors. He liad married by chance, as it 
 always liappens, a pretty Castiliaii, Gilletta de Sal- 
 gues ; and for him and for her the days passed away 
 in the indolence of country life. The grandfather of 
 Florian, not having a chateau in his head like the 
 poet's, the warriors, and the canons, took the notion to 
 build one on his ground, and in this work had ex- 
 pended his last crown, consoling himself with the 
 idea that his brothers the canons would do him the 
 favor to die and becpieath him their i)roperty — but 
 in those times canons were in no hurry to die. Be- 
 sides the great uncles of Florian, wishing to appease, 
 by a pious work, the Heaven which they had 
 so many times oflended, in dying constituted God 
 and his saints their sole legatees. 
 
 Florian's education w^as nedeeted. A little Latin, 
 less Greek, some scraps of theology, and you have it 
 all. Without Voltaire, who became his master at 
 eleven, Kature would have done the rest. Flo- 
 rian was well prepared to become a man of Nature^ 
 as he was afterward called, like Jean Jacques. lie 
 passed through infancy in the midst of rural occupa- 
 tions. The first sight which charmed him was a 
 sunset. The theatre was a beautiful valley of Lau- 
 guedoc, bordered by the Cevennes. Innumerable 
 scenes animated this theatre. Now it was the herds- 
 man driving his cows to the meadow — now the 
 shepherd leading his sheep to water — the shep- 
 herdess going to the fields with her sickle, or glean- 
 ing after the harvest ; and then the dances under 
 the elm, and the hunters coursing over the fields, 
 and the sports of the shepherdesses. lie was an as- 
 Giduous observer of all the changes of Nature — he
 
 HIS yOUTH. 15 
 
 f. 
 
 followed tlie seasons in all their caprices. At ten lie 
 sauntered alone like a monk of La Trappe, reading 
 witli passionate delight the first chapters of Telema- 
 chus, adoring Calvpso and all the Nymphs together. 
 without speaking of the chambermaid of the chateau, 
 whom, said Yoltaire, it was necessary to turn out of 
 doors on account of him, and in spite of him — 
 dreaming of a distant isle, to people it with all the 
 blond fairies of his young imagination. Never did 
 scholar play truant better. There was a little spring 
 about half a league from the chateau, which flowed 
 from the foot of the mountain over a bed of pebbles, 
 shaded by some old cherry-trees, where he went 
 more than a tlnjusand times to forget his Greek and 
 Latin lessons in its murmur. As you see, the idle 
 revery which makes good and bad poets, seized Flo- 
 rian in the very morning of life. In a letter to 
 Ducis, he relates that in the happy days of the 
 past, he was not so much absorbed by the ecstacies 
 )f contemplation as not to perceive, during a certain 
 month of June, that the cherry-trees bore cherries ; 
 he avows even, with his accustomed candor, that he 
 gathered without reinoi-se all that he could get at. 
 St. Augustine did not do otherwise at twelve. You 
 will remember tlie pears stolen by the future bishop 
 of IIipj)ona. — Florian did not confine himself in the 
 study of Nature and her fruits to the spring by the 
 clierry-trees. lie poetically followed the course of 
 tlie brook — lie mysteriously lost himself in the lab- 
 yrinth di' the grove. If he met a gleaner moved by 
 Rvrnjiathy, he gleaned with her. Jf he met a herds- 
 >nan, he pulled the ribbons out of his slioes to tie 
 rMiiiid Ihi' nccl: <»f tlic pi'ottiest and whiti'st of tlie
 
 156 FLORIAN. 
 
 ltinil)s. People have their reasons f<-r becoiniiig pas 
 toral poets. Tims in this tcnvlei- a;j;(;, when the rriir- 
 701' of the soul ardently ])reserves all impressions, 
 even the most coniused, Florian stored away in his 
 imai^ination these scenes of Mature which he de- 
 scribed at a later pei'iod, by di])pin<^ into the book 
 of memory. The pretty white slieep yon have seen 
 in Kstelle ; in an eclogue he has called the gleaner 
 Ruth. 
 
 In relating to yon this bucolic infancy of Florian, 
 I have no intention of making a pastoral romance. 
 I pass over even a good dozen of idyls, I give you 
 only the heads of the chapters. I forget the moon- 
 lights, the rosy-fingered auroras, the magnificent 
 evening storms. Besides, I have not spoken to you 
 of the chivalric instincts of this child who was con- 
 nected with Spain by his mother. Gilletta sang to 
 her dear Jean-Pierre the legends of her land : the 
 Ines of Camoens, Ximena the faithfid. Even wliil", 
 listening to his mother, Jean-Pierre lisped theSpai- 
 isii tongue, and dj-eamed of becoming a super]> 
 chevalier, armed for the defence of his country, and 
 the honor of his lady. Without thinking of it, Gil- 
 letta begins this grotesque epic which is called Gon- 
 salvo de Cordova. Gilletta died ; but Florian fum- 
 bled over the Spanish poets as if in search of his 
 mother's shade. 
 
 Voltaire had married one of his nieces to one of 
 Florian's uncles. Thanks to this uncle, who foresaw 
 the approaching poverty of the Castellan, Jean- 
 Pierre was received by Voltaire as a scholar. He 
 was eleyen yeai"s old wben he entered the court of 
 Feruey, <»r rather tJie Tlicha'aJ ^A t!ie patriarch, us
 
 AT FKRNET. 167 
 
 the pliilosopliers called it. Yoltaire was |>l:uniig 
 cliess with Father Adam. He was expendiug liis 
 forces on little verses, little letters, and little stories, 
 as a strnirirle ao-ainst oblivion. Putlier Adam con- 
 demned yonng Florian to the composition of them-^s, 
 and as the latter was often puzzled to put in Latin, whrt 
 lie did not imderstand very well in French, he went 
 slvlv to Yoltaire to beg him to construe his seiitevce. 
 A^>l.aire construed the sentence so good-naturedly 
 that he went bacV thinking that he had made it 
 Iiimst'lf. Yoltaire was amused with Jean-Pierre'o 
 candor — he ]tlayo 1 truant with his scholar. Ho 
 awakened in him gayety and wit. He somewhat 
 changed the man of Nature. From the date of his 
 sojourn at Ferney, Florian dreamed somewhat less, 
 he sported somewhat more: he even followed so well 
 the lessons of his master, that he imitated even the 
 satirical -mile of the old philosopher. " That is right," 
 Kiid 'v'oltaire, " assume the appearance of having 
 wit. and wit will come. At Ferney the Iliad gained 
 the (lav over Telemachus : we no louo-cr have adored 
 nvmphs but superb heroes; the ardor of combat 
 triumphs over chaste affections — Hector and Achilles 
 lilleil Florian's head, as the nymphs had filled his 
 heart. He undertook to renew their exploits in Yol- 
 tuire's garden. There was in this garden an im- 
 mense bed I if |)oppies with variegated heads. 
 Every time that he passed by them, he gave a side 
 glance at them, muttering in a low tone, "There are 
 the faithless Trojans: they shall perish under my 
 blows !'' II u gave to every pop]iy the name of a son 
 of i*ri;im, and the most l)eautiful of all he called 
 Hector. The great day arrived. He eiiteivd bravc- 
 
 \ {
 
 !>*>' ;; 
 
 ^ FI.ORfAN. 
 
 ly on tlic fiold of battle, armed witli a wooden sabre, 
 lie cut off the heads rit!;ht and left of a thousand 
 })oppics. In vain did Xanthus in his fury strive to 
 oppose his passai2;e. lie braved the waters of Xan- 
 tln.s. Already Deiphobus was no more, Sarpedon 
 c^A,*ed his eyes, Aster()})is fell beneath his blows ; 
 the lield of battle was strewn with the dying and 
 the dead. But that was not enough : Hector re- 
 mained, the murderer of Patroclus still raised his 
 haughty head. He sprang toward him. Tender 
 Andromache, tronil>le ! Hector must perish. But 
 inst then Yoltaire arrived. He had been watching 
 the young hero half an hour. He saw him with in- 
 dignation cutting the heads off of his fine popjucs : 
 he arrested him in his exploits. Florian, qu'te sur- 
 prised, told him that he was rehearsing the Iliad. 
 Voltaire laughed heartily, and left him in peace to 
 continue the war of the Greeks and the Trojans. 
 
 At Forney, Florian saw how books are mad';, his 
 chivalric instincts were effaced. The sword of w.iich 
 lie dreamed was transformed into a pen — the field of 
 battle into a sheet of paper. However, before being 
 a poet, Florian became a ca])tain of dragoons. Vol- 
 taire thought that there quite enough rhymsters in 
 France ; he dissuaded Florian from poetry, and sent 
 liim to the Duke de Penthievre, with a petition to liim 
 to make something out of his scholar. The duke 
 made him a page. Behold Jean-Pierre in the midst 
 of all tlie fetes and splendors of the world, if not of 
 genius. Instead of the chateau of Femey, which in 
 truth had somewhat of an incomprehensible air, we 
 liave the magnificent chateau of Sceaux, or the 
 poetic one of Anet. Florian, at a later day, evoked
 
 MAKTYK TO LOVE. 
 
 150 
 
 its historicrJ associations ; and in rather bad verse, 
 recalled the trvct that Ilenry II. had built this chateau 
 for Diana of Pciliet:. 
 
 i'rom bcLnc; a page of the Duke de Penthievi-e, 
 Florlan Trent to the school of Bapaume, where he 
 Tc:iste'l his time in intrigues. At seventeen, ]iot 
 Imo-^ing exactly what to do with himself, he re- 
 tunicd to Forney. x\t last, thanks to Yoltaire, the 
 Didce dc Penthievre gave him a captain's commission 
 1 1d? reirlment of dra2;oons. As the war was finished, 
 liiC young officei-s fought a great deal among them- 
 selves to expend their ardor, which did not prevent 
 them from being the best friends in the world. 
 Florian fought marvellously. He carried his sword 
 as the shepherds their crooks, with quite as much 
 jxrace. Kut\vithstandini>; his bucolic instincts, he 
 shed tlie blood of his equals with sufficient coolness 
 on account of any sort of face that came along. 
 AVhile in gan-Lson at Maubeuge, he fell desperately 
 in love with a beautiful canoness, who was sensible 
 of his martyrdom^ as he himself expresses it. He 
 wished to marry her by beat <>f drum, like a trne 
 captain of dragoons. Marriage then seemed to hira 
 tlie princijjal cliarin of love ; but his family re- 
 strained liim in time from this impulse .vhich car.- 
 from Ills heart. 
 
 From the date of this affaii", which always survived 
 :n his mind, he detached himself by degrees from 
 nis foolisli and boisterous intimacies. He sought 
 solitude to listen to the bcal!:i£rs of his heart, and the 
 fnvt indications of poetry, ri his di?cc"rso, before 
 llie Frcneli Acadcnij, }.e t]iii3 recalls this hap])y 
 tiiue. " When I was :» boluier, wLc:t a delight it waa
 
 100 FLORIAN. 
 
 to iv,e after a noisy drill, to silent!}' witlidraw to the 
 shade of the clni-trecs to re-read the Georgics ! Un- 
 til then ho had not written a line. One day he 
 jieard that the academy liad given as a subject for 
 the poetical prize, the abolition of servitude in the 
 king's domains. " I took," says Florian, " my sensi- 
 bility for inspiration, my heart stood nie in place of 
 talents, and my piece gained the ])rize." This little 
 poem was entitled, Voltaire and the Serf of Mount 
 Jura. The glorious laureate abandoned liis regi- 
 ment, and came to Paris to seek other successes. 
 Galdtca and Eddie were already ripe in his imagi- 
 nation ; but before gathering them, he gave himself 
 np to the attractions of the theatre. Encouraged by 
 ]\r. d'Argental, he made some harlequinades for the 
 Comedie-Italienne. Soon, however, his love for the 
 canoness re-echoed in his heart, he yearned for the 
 vales of his native land. He recalled the pastoral 
 (f Cervantes, he re-read Cxessner, lie wrote Galatea. 
 About the same time, thanks to Telemachus., and 
 above all to the Inca^ he commenced his poetic ro- 
 mance, N'uma Pompilius. 
 
 After his romances and his comedies, he had 
 a.othing more to do, unless to give alms. M. de 
 j'snfiiiivre, who was the most compassionate of the 
 dukes of those days, made over the rents of his best 
 estate to Florian to dispense to the poor. It wa« 
 coi'tainly the first time that a nobleman had taken a 
 gentleman into his service to dispense alms. Florian 
 discharged his office admirably. He scattered 
 benefits with the solicitude of a iather for his chil- 
 dren. He left among tlie p<:)or many a recollection 
 of his passage here below.
 
 niS FKIENDS. 
 
 !G1 
 
 After AVltaire, Gessner, tlie Dnke de Peiithievre, 
 M. d'Ariicntal, ho had for friends agreeable i)oets, 
 \vb(j fur tiie most part tliouglit, or pretended to think, 
 tlieniselves great poets. Tliey were Aniault, Delille, 
 Ducis, Mannontel, Funtanes. Florian partook of 
 tlicir faitli. In his pretty fal)le, tlie Shejjhcrd and 
 the N'ujht'ingale^ he exclaims, speaking of Delille : 
 
 Worthy rival, anil surpassing 
 Oft Ausdiiia's famous bard. 
 
 If he has not elevated Delille above Homer, it is on 
 accouiit of the rhyme. 
 
 In lii.- letters, as in his minor poems, "\ve always 
 find an a<lmiring friendship, which is not common 
 among poets, and at tlie same time a primitive 
 modesty. lie writes to Gessner: "I shonld so like to 
 jiass fur your scholar, but I am far from that good 
 [(osition ; and my poor Gcdatea^ rich as she is on the 
 ]»aid<s of the Tagus, is not worthy to possess a little 
 flock on the mountains of Switzerland." 
 
 Despite liis friends and his liking for short jour- 
 neys, Florian r.ften sought solitude. The Duke de 
 Tcnthievre had abandoned to him the summer-house 
 <»f the chateau at Sceaux : he passed his best days 
 there in study and contemplation. lie made his 
 ])<»etical promenades in the paths of Aulnay, with 
 his sp<irtive troop of shepherds and she] "herd esses, 
 listening with his whole soul to the distant bagpipes 
 of hi-^ native land. 
 
 At Paris lie was among noisy friends, lively mis- 
 tresses, little suppers; but at the chateau of Pen- 
 thicvcre,Flurian again became a great simple-minded 
 chihl, lost in he iimocent joys of Nature.
 
 I'j2 FLORIAN. 
 
 T luivo iii>l spoken of the unknown fr!eii s of FoV 
 rian. The pastoral poet was adored in secret by a 
 nuiltitude of niarcliionesses who reposed tlieir over- 
 fatiii-ued liearts in his tender eclo£2;nes. These poor 
 niareliionesses of the reign of Louis XV. liad almost 
 all skipped over tlieir youth, Tliey had spoiled their 
 springtime by rouge, patches, powder, and hoop 
 petticoats, in reading Galatea and Estelle they found 
 again, as if by enchantment, that youth with rosy 
 cheeks which they had a glimpse of, as one has a 
 glim])?e in a mirror of a graceful and distant form, 
 half hidden by the whirl of the waltz. In reading 
 Florian all these poor neglected women, already 
 turning pale at the approaches of the Revolution, felt 
 themselves young for the first time, their cheeks 
 were withered, but the soul, long buried under an 
 exterior, seared by profane loves, bloomed like the 
 violet beneath the snow ; the mouth was dead, but 
 the heart lived. They had commenced with Crebil- 
 lon the Gay, they would fain end with Florian. 
 
 An old marquis — the last marquis — having still, 
 in spite of the reign of terror and his eighty yeai-s, 
 that mild and intelli£rent smile which died with the 
 eighteenth century, has given me the full benefit of 
 his recollections for this poiii'ait. He often saw 
 Florian in 1TS8 ; and if he is to be believed, F^lorian 
 was not the pale and fair complexion poet, with 
 a melting, pure smile and hesitating speech, such 
 as we see him through his works. He was of dai-k 
 complexion ; he was gay ; his conversation had 
 much playfulness and satii-c : he had wit or an epi- 
 gram always at hand, but scarcely ever a gallant 
 speech : however, the Princess de Lamballe was ac-
 
 MODEL SHEPHERDS. 1 C3 
 
 customed to say : " I like better to hear him than to 
 read him. His face was cut on the model of Parny's ; 
 it was rather less animated, but quite as striking. 
 Florian had purity and simplicity only in the soli- 
 tude of the fields — as soon as he entered the world 
 he became almost a Don Juan. Two natures inces- 
 santly struiTSled within him, the child of the moun- 
 tains and tlie captain of dragoons, the pastoral poet 
 and the hero of the Comedie Italienne ; and it is 
 under these difierent aspects that we must study him. 
 M. de Thiard said, and plenty of others after him, 
 that in all the shepherd scenes of Florian, a wolf 
 was wanting. In fact we are put out with Nemorino, 
 for nifJ'ing no attempts upon the innocence of Es- 
 telle. This innocence gets off too easily. We should 
 not be ?3rry to see thi:. spotless lamb in the grasp of 
 the wolf, tnough the wolf shoidd eat her. But Florian 
 was not so much of a shepherd as has been ima- 
 gined ; as regards gallantry he was really almost a 
 captain of dragoons. The little abbes and the poets 
 of the time ha<l not left him so much behind. Have 
 you an idea who were the models of his sheplicrd- 
 essc ? Neither more nor less tlian the actresses of 
 the Comcdie-Italienne. Mademoiselle Camille, wliom 
 lie has sung more than once, has sat for Estelle. It 
 is thir, same Mademoiselle Camille whose portrait b<9 
 has thus drawn : — 
 
 Who is Camilla, do \'ou ask ? 
 
 A creature lively, gay, and loving ; 
 A fairy bcneuth Cu|)iil's mask, 
 
 'Twixt town and court for ever roving, 
 Turning ail luails but her own. 
 Light Mho lri|H through life alone.
 
 1 CA FLORIAJT. 
 
 Laughing still at each new lover. 
 
 Gay and free her way she wends ; 
 Grace and wit around her hover, 
 
 She conies — each knee in homage bends. 
 A little bag is all she carries. 
 Slips in each heart, no longer tarries. 
 
 But forward where her journey tends. 
 
 In reference to liis works as to liis life, it is espo- 
 ciallv necessary to l)rina; forward those tliinirs which 
 are neglected. We will pass rapidly ovtir JV^uma^ 
 (xonzalv >^ William Tcll^iiW of which belong to an 
 iuunature literature, which we nnist condenm, with- 
 out pity for SDnie pretty ])ictures and some grace- 
 ful passages. These songs are solemn puerilities : 
 they are historical pieces in pastel. The h :roes of 
 these strange epics are at the most only lit to tend 
 sheep, and are afraid of wolves at that. In Switzer- 
 h.nd, at Eome, in Spain, Florian saw nothing, hut 
 an eclogue. Once only, doubtless as a change, he 
 has seen fit to put the heroic trumpet to his lips in- 
 stead of the rustic pipe. His Summary of the E^- 
 taUishnicnt of the, Moors^ is one of the best chap- 
 ters of the history of Spain. AVe will pass raj)idly ovur 
 Galatea and Estelle^ so much despised, but so much 
 like a fairytale — an enchanted world, a refrerhing 
 oasis. We will pass ra])idly over the twelve JVovcls. 
 Tliese little romances, intended by the author to re- 
 call to ns the private history of all countries, at least 
 remind us that we have a heart. Florian told stories 
 marvellously well, as ]\[armontel says, in speaking of 
 him, Natm-e said to him, Tell stories. One of his 
 little romauces, Claudine, is a mastei-picce of Na- 
 tui-e and sentiment. Tlave you ever read anything
 
 HIS TALE3 AN."' PO.^:iiS. 105 
 
 CO tiinjile and toucliinc; ns tliis so well-kri-v -^'U song 
 T\-hich Claudine sir.g8? — 
 
 Poor little Joan. W'^srierl I sigh, 
 
 Who once s^ng so gay ! i*]y love's far away ; 
 
 Sad and alone. Nothing have I 
 
 Why hast naug'it, to -.ay 1 To others to say. 
 
 Do you know anything more simple and tender 
 .an tiiis Lalla 
 r^/.nember? — 
 
 tiian tiiis ballad of Robin Gray, a stanza of which I 
 
 My father argued sair; My n:iOT:':er didna speak; 
 ]^ut she lookit in my face till my heart was like to break : 
 Sae they gied him my hand, though my heart was in the sea; 
 And ii-^ld Robin Gray was guderaan to me. 
 
 Amono' the thino;s which are neo-lcctcd iz the 
 '^'^oks of Flurian, ?r9 to be found hi,e poen:,.' in verse, 
 his fugitive postry, ?.'is trfrslation of Don Quixote, 
 and of the episode of Ines de Castro, the eulogy on 
 Louis XII., his Mes in verse, a,nd an Anacreontic 
 tile. Although tbo ,*.:.sderay bestowed the prj. 3 
 •jp(,>n his poems, they aru the attempts of a tyro wliich 
 do not promise much — no imagination, no entliu- 
 ciasm, no grandeur; occasionally agreeable verses, 
 but oftv-ncr poor hemistiches which go hobbling along, 
 j)icking up f long the road bad enough rhymer^ His 
 fugitive poems ?..!'0 of a piece with the r;thcrs ; how- 
 ever we mu.'jt reco.^riiee the charminir crace and 
 ])lcasing v.nconsbamt, of the minor poets of the time. 
 IliH tivuisiation of Don Qrixo^e is only a pretty piece 
 of ]>uerility ; Corva^tOti would have been sorry enough 
 to have seen liis licro In sncli French costume. Tiie 
 tran.slati(jn in verse of the opi&cJy of liies do Castrc
 
 166 FLORIAN. 
 
 is more happj. Wc do not find in Florian tlie 
 grand .^ur and splendor of the l*ortngnese poet, but 
 almost ahvjivs the sentiment ^vllicll inspired liim. 
 Thns the strophe which commences Assi como is 
 rendered with a trul^ Floj'ianesrpie grace, as the 
 jlower too early reaped. The enlogy on Louis XII. 
 was worthy of a prize from the Academy ; that is to 
 say, worthy of the poems in venie. The stories in 
 verse are light and gracelo! satires, '.'.'hich harm no 
 one. The Anacreontic story is charming : it is called 
 the Muses. Thalia is walking at the foot of Pp,r- 
 nassns in search of a lover. Instead of a lover kLo 
 meets a fair, half-naked child, who is running after 
 hutterflie='. ?nd taking a cruel pleasure in piercing 
 them ^ifh ], ks. Thalia asks why he is so mischiev- 
 ous. The child replies that tired of doing nothing 
 he does evil. The beauty and spirit of the child 
 chanii the Muse, who begs him to go with her. IIo 
 picks up a little bag, throws it over his shoulder, and 
 gives Tlialia his hand. What have you got in your 
 bag, my child ? Nothing but my playthings, lie 
 commences an enchanting song which has neither 
 air nor words. Ai'rived at Parnassus, Thalia, jeal- 
 ous of her sisters, resolves to conceal the child from 
 them. She imprisons him m an orchard enclosed by 
 hedges. There she passes all her days in teaching 
 him to read : we are not told w^hat book. Soon, 
 however, the poor Muse sighs uneasily as she regards 
 her scholar. The child profits marvellously by this 
 first success. " M:\7iima," he says to her, " you carry 
 in your hand a clianning mask, which is always 
 langhing, give it to me or I shall die of grief." — 
 " But," says Thalia, " it is the attribute of my divin-
 
 LOVE AMONG THE MUSES. IC'7 
 
 ity." — " So much tlie woree !" smswers the traitor. 
 The poor Muse gives tlic mask, and the rogue con- 
 ceals it ill Ids bag. This is not all. Thalia has only 
 taui;-lit him cctmedv, he wants to know evervthinij; — ■ 
 music, dancing, philosophy, and even astronomy, it 
 all turns to swma account. " Open the orchard for 
 me," says the traitor, "that I may go and learn from 
 all your sisters ; once learned I will return to re 
 main with vt>u for ever." Thalia gives him his liber- 
 ty. and he goes to trouble the heads of fJl the other 
 Muses — even Melpomene can not escape. She too 
 htves tlie joyous child. Xow comes jealousy wliich 
 ]>uts all Panuipsus in disorder. The arts are despised, 
 tlie dances and concerts interrui)ted. Meantime 
 Minerva visits the Kine Sisters — she finds a pro- 
 found silence. The 'Muses, scattered, pensive, soli- 
 tary, blushing, hide themselves. At last they re- 
 assend)]e to sing the j^raises of their protectress ; but 
 their voices are in discord. They have forgotten 
 their songs. Xot one of them has her attributes, the 
 chihl has taken all, and turned them into ])lavthings. 
 All of a sudden this fatal child spreads his wJiite 
 wings, from which all his stolen goods are suspended. 
 He takes liis flight with a lauo;ii. " Adieu !" savs 
 he to the Muses; "don't forget me: my name is 
 Love, and it always costs something to make my ac- 
 (piaintance. 
 
 On succeeding to his patrimonial inlicritancc, 
 Florian had received nothing but debts. It was 
 jxirtly on tliis account that he tried the theatre, autl 
 tiie theatre made his fortune. Tln'oni^hout his com- 
 ('(lies and Iiarle(|uinavles, he remained faithful to hie 
 Ltyle. He maib; the echtgue flrturish even on the
 
 IGS FLOEIAU. 
 
 boards of the Corned ic-Italicniie. IIow do joii sup- 
 pose lie inctaiiK^rpliosed Ilarleiniiii into agoodjSensi- 
 Me fellow 'i li! ivl'ereiK'e to this, eome one said : " You 
 are Ilarlo(|uir., iiiy luastei-, and you weep!" This 
 Harlequin of Florian's, however, weeps with as good 
 a grace as the other Harlequins laugli. In his 
 dranui, Florian belongs to the seliool of Marivaux, 
 He lavishes at once all the little sensibilities o{ his 
 soul, and all the little o;races of liis mind. It must 
 be confessed that this mind is not that of a master ; 
 but on the other hand the scholar has a certain 
 charm of original sim})licitj. In other respects there 
 should be no misapprehension : the drama of Flo- 
 rian should with justice, and in si)ite of La llarjie, 
 be condemned to oblivion ; it has lona' since only 
 been a drama for children, Fh^rian, who rehearsed 
 all his comedies at M. d ' Argental's house, played 
 the partof IIarlc(piin with much gajety and feeling. 
 The M-orthy Carlin did not play better if we may 
 believe the gazettes af the times. 
 
 The most ardent and most delightful dream of the 
 poet of Estelle^ was an armchair at the Academy. 
 Oh, my poor poet, so enamored of solitude, of ver- 
 dant mountains, of shaded valleys, of babbling s]>rings, 
 what do you want in this Academy so dismal and 
 noisy ? AVhy seat yourself in the shadow of the 
 pedant called La Harpe ? You, who sang so well 
 in the shadow of the elm-trees ? Florian liad the 
 Academy fever more severely than any one else ; 
 f )r ten yeai's he sighed only for the Academy. At 
 last the Academy to(.»k pity on him — pity, that is 
 almost the word. He succeeded the Cardinal de 
 Luynes. His reception was most brilliant, thanks
 
 FLOKIAN AXD LA FONTAtN^E. 169 
 
 especially to the presence of the Duke de PenthievTc, 
 the Duchess of Orleans, and the Princess de Lani- 
 balle. Ilis discourse was again an eclogue. .I'o- 
 riau relates therein hou^ he became a poet. "Tlio 
 song of the birds, the murmur of the waves, the 
 tranquil calm of the woods, all spoke t>,< me of 
 poetr\-. The tree arrested me beneath its shade, the 
 solitary tuuntain wlrlah I Irid hitherto S(»ught to 
 qneueh u\y thirst, I now soi.ght for my pleasure ; 
 the deserts even, the rugged mountains, the unculti- 
 vated an'.l wild h.aunts, had charms for i ;g : 011 vas 
 euibeliislj-d to my eyes. I at last felt iNature.'" On 
 this day the happy academician first made Icnown 
 his fables. He Mas applauded ; he was declared by 
 the Academy to be the siiccessor of La Fontaine. 
 Tiie Academy had not much to say on that day. 
 Xo one has succeeded to that masjuificent heritaore : 
 yU>rIan himself is but a faint copyist, lie has cre- 
 at<;:i nothing, he has tran>hited German and especial- 
 ly f*.ji.:!:ish apologues. Thus the ingenious fabulist 
 Acl.,>-Triai'te loses all his charm in Florian's verse ; 
 v'.i can hr/.'.lly understand the point of his fable. 
 3f.y.ve\ er, in dufault of creative genius, it must be ad- 
 mitted tliat Florian's fables possess nature and sim- 
 ]»licity. It is not, as in La Fontaine, the peculiar 
 attraction of the story, the ingenious disposition of 
 the cliaracters, the perfect dialogue, in fine, that 
 comedy in a hundred different acts, which is notli- 
 ing h'ss tlian the comedy of life; but l)eneath all 
 this there is something more. Florian has found 
 scenes worthy of come<ly. La Fontaine always gives 
 us the scciios of life, Florian sometimes that of the 
 hea:t. 
 
 15
 
 170 rLOivix\:T. 
 
 The F-l->lc cf I'krian ]ia=i n cluinii from its sweet- 
 iiess :iiid clearne'33. It liiis the tender freslmess, the 
 pn?-ii:g briliif.nLj, the clear Line color of the peri- 
 ■wialvle ; but like tlie periAvhilN-le it wants strength. 
 It is the easy stvle of a second-rate author. AVe 
 must not coiilbuutl this facility with the appearance 
 of facility which conceals the labor of the great 
 nuisters. 
 
 The life of Florian was im idyl alrac/st to the end, 
 in spite of the dragocns and the actresses ; but the 
 Ivc\'olution cani-j to 3p'"'il this idjd in its most beauti- 
 lul rla,n2,:-". Dow cor.ld it well be finish fd in face 
 of the Tec'roriscs, in face of Marat, that surgeon, who 
 with the guillotine for a scalpel, stalked throughout 
 France ; in face of those terrible journalists who 
 wrote so many epitaphs ; in face of that maddcu'/l 
 people who gave a loose rein to all the passions, good 
 and bad, great and little. 
 
 Banibhcd, like many others on account of ]>is 
 name, Florian took refuge at Sceaux in 1T93, :-fid 
 there in solitude he sang still, as Avell as he C(.v'i.j, 
 the shepherdesoes and. the ilv'lds ; but the sans-c::- 
 lottes of the neighborhood, aug'zring ill of him from 
 his alms-ixivin<>: and dreamv ai.-, ]r!fv)rmed the Com- 
 mittee of Public Safety, that the f^ivner chevalier T)e 
 Florian had coiicealed treasm-e, and vras affected M'ith 
 the aristocratic fever. Thereupon the poor pastoral 
 poet was conducted to La Bourbi\ In this hideous 
 prison, which gave up its inmr.tc3 only to the guillo- 
 tine, Florian, although quivering witl) terroi", found as 
 ever shepherdesses and elm-trees. He still sounded 
 the rural pipe. Like Tt<>ucher, like Chenier. he 
 Bang to the end. lie, however, escaped the scaffold,
 
 niS GENIUS. 
 
 171 
 
 but not death. Death liad marked him on tiie 
 threshold of La Bom-be, and counted upon him. It 
 was in vain they told him on the fall of liobespien-e, 
 " Tliuu art saved." It was in vain they received him 
 on his return to Sceaux, with a fete got up out of his 
 romances, the ]>rison had more than half killed him. 
 lie ended by dyinir side by side with a poor jioeni, 
 William TcZ^, which he had finished in prison. 
 
 Does not tlie poet of the elms himself offer us 
 the figure which best paints his jKietic destiny ? 
 Is he not a ficxible elm, nuurishiuir its branches 
 in the wind, the sun, and the dew ? At first Xature 
 cradles it in her bosom, it stretches out its arms to- 
 ward Heaven, the Heaven which l>estows life upon 
 it, in the sun. wind, and rain. It grows, it ex- 
 ])ands ; it timidly ]>uts forth its green shoots while 
 miu'i.iuring the sweetest songs. A tempest comes 
 which overthrows it. The temjiest past, it scarce 
 tries to raise its head, the sun's force fails, and 
 it dies half verdant and half withered. You will 
 pardon me the simile : as you know, Florian com- 
 menced by cradling his growing genius on the 
 bosom of Nature. lie stretched out his arms to- 
 \\i\i\\ poetry, which is the heaven of the poets. 
 The jtoetrv of S])ain !«hed her abundant dews upon 
 liiiii. the tree i)ut forth its swaying branches, the 
 brandies expanded beneath the infinence of Fcnelon 
 and Voltaire; soon all the winds, good and bad, 
 make tlie tree incline- by turns and murmur, now 
 tender romances, now langiiishing idyls. Thus Flo- 
 rian admired a pastoral of Cervantes, and, full of 
 ardor, sets to work to translate it. He re-reads 
 Ttit'hiachH.s, and wTites Numa. Inspired by Gess-
 
 172 FLORIAN. 
 
 ner and ]\I()ntein.ayor, lie writes Edelle. ITe is 
 entlmsiastie aUnnt tlie Incas j and ai'ter the Tncm 
 conies Gonstih'o. Xeed we say tliat his poems and 
 tales in verse are the children of Yoltaire ? But wo 
 must likewise ailiiiit, that amon<i; all these foreign 
 rays whieh cross and o|)])i>se one another, we al- 
 ways discover the icenius of Florian. y^a recognise 
 at each page this sweet child of the fields, often a 
 dj'eamcr, soinetiiiies playful, who smiles with so much 
 tenderness, who climbs the mountain to hear more dis- 
 tinctly the herdmaivs pipe and the shej 'herd's reed, 
 who reposes with snch a melancholy charm by the 
 banks of the cherry-tive soi'ing to collect his thoughts, 
 t(i listen to the first symphonies of his soul, those 
 distant songs which carry ns away on the clouds. 
 Every page of the tender poet carries us back to 
 the tair morn of life, when our souls so joyously ex- 
 panded to the sun. Every scene i'eo})ens to us 
 through the entangled thicket of the passions, the 
 clear vista toward the dawn of love, and the clear 
 ether of the sky ! 
 
 Apro]>os of similes there is one a thonsand times 
 better than mine. The rpicen, Marie- Antoinette, 
 forgot in the perusal of Florian the lirst murmurs of 
 the Ilevolution. "In reading Florian it seems as if 
 I was eating milk porridge." This reflection is not 
 exactly that of an ingenuous mind, bat it is just and 
 pointed.
 
 DOUFFLERS 
 
 < »x a fiiif spring morning, in the middle of tlie 
 siirliteenth centurv, in tlie countrv about Lnneville. a 
 young chevalier, of alxnit twenty years of age, was 
 giving a Ioo.se rein to his large English horse, inspir- 
 ited bv the excitement of the chase and tlie odor of 
 the fresh pasture. Some score of hounds of all va- 
 riety of form and color, scattered through the valley, 
 ke}>t u]» a lively echoing cry. Our clievalier followed 
 them with his eyes, without troubling himself about 
 the damage they wei'e doing in their wandering 
 course. What nuitters the harvest, when the llower 
 dazzles and intoxicates us — when one is profoundly 
 ha]tpy ^ lie was happy, hapjiy in the enjoyment of 
 tlie nioniing, ha]»py in the enjoyment of the pure 
 Hky, tlie verdant landscape, in the fullness of perfect 
 free(him. Every nuin once in his youth — perhajis 
 l»nt once — has seized with a liasty grasp as it glided 
 l)y, that sweet hap|)iness, which, like a ray of a 
 Kpring-day sun, drinks in the dew on the primrose 
 of till' meadow. 
 
 Tills young chevalier was Stanislaus de Boufflei's, 
 wlio liiid passed Iiis iiifancv and early youth al the 
 
 15*
 
 17-i BOUFFLEKS. 
 
 court, of Liinoville, under the eye of his mother, the 
 celebrated Marchioness de Bonfflers. He had lived 
 without care, pui-snino; his studies in the open air, 
 badly cnou^-h brought up I)) the Abbe Porquet, 
 " who could not repeat his Benedicite, although he 
 Mas almoner to the king of Poland." As may be 
 seen, Bouttlers had in his mother and his tutor, two 
 guardians easy to content ; two guardians who 
 forgave everything in a yiiuth of spirit, and our 
 young chevalier knew well how to obtain forgive- 
 ness. 
 
 His time was passed in riding, hunting, and dan- 
 cing. " When I think of this court of Lunevillc,-' 
 said BoutHers, when he had grown old, " I seem 
 to be thinking of some pages of romance rather than 
 some Years of my life." He was a handsome youth, 
 full of grace and of a fine figure, having a sally or 
 a madrigal ever on his lips. He danced marvellous- 
 ly, painted prettily, played tolerably on the violin, 
 brought down a deer splendidly. I came near for- 
 getting that he picked up here and there some 
 crumbs of literature and science, at the foot of the 
 table of the court Avhere the guests Avere Voltaire, 
 Madame Duchatelet, Montesquieu, St. Lambert, 
 Pi-£sident Ilcnault, M. de Tressan, Madame de 
 Grammont. The Abbe Porquet himself, although 
 his tutor, succeeded from time to time in getting the 
 better of the laziness of the chevalier. The Abbe 
 P<n"(pu;t Avas a quasi man of letters, deficient in 
 Kcai'cely anything but wit, science, and imagination. 
 He taught all he knew to his pupil. It sometimes 
 liapj)ened that he led him into a world unknown to 
 both of them — into transcendental metaphysics —
 
 THE CHIEF GOOD. 175 
 
 eHpcrliniiifin pliilosopLv. Tliu8 on the moriiino,' that 
 Bunliieis, as we have described, was galloping away 
 on his line liorse, the Ablie Purquet had i>roposed to 
 liini tlie question — a question a thousand times solved 
 hv tlie urreatest minds, and vet always to be solved 
 anew — AVhat is the chief good here below? "I 
 shall be delighted to studv this grave questiori," 
 Boufflers had said ; " I therefore intend to mount 
 my hoi-se, and meditate upon it in the open air/' So 
 he had gone off with his dogs, leaving the abbe 
 standing. The lu'ave almoner, as he beheld him dis- 
 appear in the cloud of dust raised l)y his horse's gal- 
 lop, said, shaking his head, " There goes a youth who 
 M-ill pass his life on horseback, but who will never 
 make his way in the world." 
 
 Let us resume our ride with the chevalier. Who 
 knows if we shall not find with him the solution to 
 the aldje's question? After a thousand bonnds over 
 the grassy ])lain, through woods and cornfieUls, the 
 horse stopjied, entirely out of breath, at the corner 
 of a little clump of elms and oaks. His horse had gone 
 so well for three hours, that the chevalier did not 
 attcmi»t to urge him fnrtlier. lie leai)ed off gayly 
 on the grass, took oft' his Ijridle, and allowed hiiu to 
 browse on the edge of the wood. For himself, after 
 liaving called some of his dogs, he began to break- 
 fast tjn a partridge and some bread, washing the whole 
 down by some quatfs of water from the neighboring 
 spring. " A horse, a dog, a little grass in the sha<b', 
 i» tli(^ chiel" good," he muniiure-l afrer his lirst 
 libation. 
 
 r>et me ] taint with a single touch, the landscape in 
 whirh out- <heva1ii;r was enjoying so much hapjii-
 
 1 70 BOUFFLKRS. 
 
 iiess. A little valley, recedinii; iK'twccn two lii'ils, 
 crowned v;ith large, tliiekly-k-axi'd ti'ees ; a little 
 hamlet reattcrcd cheertully mi tiie horizon, uliere the 
 eye rested ujioii a clmrcli s])iiv. In the valley s>oiiie 
 woo^ls enclo.siiig liehl-^ ot' iiiiri|>e grain and elowr, 
 here and tlie)'e an oi'cliard whitiMU'd with blossoms, 
 a large meadow tiiroiigli wliirh a lazy stream was 
 flowing, a lew i-nstic bridges, a (juiet herd of red and 
 brown cows. In the distance, in the direction of the 
 little handet, a chateau, the crrav towers of which 
 were alone perceptible above the trees. Finally 
 above all. the smile of heawn, the cheerful rays of 
 the sun, the music of the lark, the expansixe joy of 
 Kature. " Yes." exclaimed Boufflers, o-ivino; him- 
 self up heart and soul to the scene, " a horse, a 
 dog." 
 
 The words died on his lips in spite of himself. 
 There appe-.ired, as if by magic, on the skirts of the 
 wood, a young and pretty ]K'asant-gii'l, "vvith a co- 
 (piettish looking ca}*, a white Ixxldice and red ])ctti- 
 coat, with a pot of milk in her hand. " Delightful," 
 he exclaimed, raising himself to see her lii'ttvr: 
 "one might thiidc that it was a fable of La Fontaine, 
 I forgot that after a dog and a horse, a woman should 
 l)e considered the chief good, and this one comes in 
 the nick of tune." 
 
 He saw with joyful heart that she would have to 
 pass close to him in order to cross the brook on a 
 little wooden l)ridge, or rather on two boards an- 
 swering as a l)ridge for nimble feet. ITe rose to 
 rnT-ot her. "'vYhat did he say? "What did she an- 
 swer? I vs'as not there: I don't know. Accord- 
 iuiT to him, she had a verv pretty mouth, and conse-
 
 Irl-r 
 
 ALINE. 17 
 
 qnentl} a great deal of wit. Her name was Eliza- 
 beth, he called her Aline. She was sixteen, and the 
 daughter o^ a farmer of the valley. The chevalier 
 wanted to kiss her. The horse neighed, tlie dogs 
 l)arked, slie defended lierself like a hird trying to 
 ily from the hirdcatcher, the pot of milk fell, she 
 i;a\e a sweet, sharv* crv : l»nt the kiss M'as taken. 
 "Oh, Heavens!" she exclaimed with girlish fright, 
 taking np her pot, " more than half the milk is 
 spilled.-' — •' Wait !" said BoufQers, " that is only lialf 
 a misfortune." 
 
 lie went and filled the pot at the fountain. On 
 his return he was so wildly gay and tender; he 
 talked nonsense so well that xVline was induced to 
 remain iov a short half hour ; she listened to him in 
 delighted surprise, as to the sweet murmur of a 
 fountain, the twitter of a Imllfineh. It was better 
 than this, for it was love that spoke. IS^ever had 
 love spoken under more favorable circumstances. 
 The breeze, still fresh, spread a perfume of pure 
 ha]>piuess over all, the bee buzzed gayly about the 
 watiM'-lilies of the brook, the flocks of pigeons flew 
 across the meadow joyoiisly beating their wings. 
 
 " My dear Aline, I wish I was yoiir brother; that 
 is not, however, exactly what I want to say." — 
 "And I should like to be your sister." — " All, I 
 love you at least quite as much as if you were." 
 On hearing this she allowed him tf) kiss her a second 
 time without much resistance. AVhile conversing, 
 Boufflers leaned over tlie edge of the brook, and 
 gathered a red and white daisy, a s])rig of jirim- 
 I'ose, a green blade of reed grass, a s])rig of thyme, 
 and marjoram a forget-me-not, and some other little
 
 ITS B( UFFI.KUS. 
 
 Ilowcis, tviiiii- the Avliulc tuo-ether with a Lit of 
 rii,-h. '• I slioiild like to offer you a throne with tliis. 
 lUit.'' he eoiitiiiiied, attachiiii:' the hoiiiiuet to tlio 
 h()(Uliceof Aline, " it' I couhl, thit^ boni|uet wniihl l)e 
 none the better ])hice(l." 
 
 Aline said every moment that she was j^oini;;. "1 
 must realJij (j<i vow ;''"' but she still remained — lier 
 feet rooted to the grass, her eyes a;lancinii; in the 
 brook. Some woodeutters came alonij. " Adieu," 
 said she sadly. " Adieu, my dear Alhie. Adieu, 
 adieu." 
 
 She took up her pot, siirhcd, and slowly withdrew. 
 '' Ah," said I>oufflers, " why can not 1 iro with her 
 everywhere — always with her 'f" lie followed her 
 with his looks, M'hicli she stealthily returned ; but 
 she was soon lost in a thicket of beeches; he still 
 cauo-ht a g-lim])se of her coquettish bomjct, lier light 
 ]>etticoat, a liand which gave a last signal of fare- 
 well — and she disa])peared. 
 
 The chevalier, without fear ami without rei»roach, 
 leaped on his horse, whistled to his dogs, ami sigh- 
 ing took the i"oad to Luneville. A little this side of 
 it he came across tlie grave Abbe Porquet, reclining 
 under an old elm-tree, and intently perusing St. Au- 
 gustine. "I have to keep a somcAvhat distant w-ateh 
 over yi >u. Where did you come from, vagabond ?" ex- 
 claimed the abbe to him, rising. "I liave taken, may 
 it please you, a lesson in philosophy in your al)sence. 
 You have talked a ijreat deal to me about tlie sovereign 
 good : I have found three things to-day, a horse, a dog, 
 and a woman." — " St. Augustine has enumerated two 
 liundred and eighty-eight opinions on this subject. 
 I'liiJu.sophers can not agree on this chapter. Accord-
 
 THE CHIEF GOOD. 179 
 
 ing to Crates the sovereign good is a prosperous 
 vovaj;;e ; accordino- to Arclivtas, it is wiiinin<i|; a 
 battle ; according to Chrvsippus, it is the building 
 of a sui)erb edifice ; according to Epicurus, it is pleas- 
 ure ; according tu Palenion, it is eloquence; accord- 
 ing to ileraclitus. it is fortnne ; according to SinidU- 
 ides, it is a friend ; according to Euripides, it is the 
 love of a beautiful Nvonuin. The ancient philosophers 
 were no wi<er than you are, monsieur le chevalier. 
 We will, if you please, continue oiu- lesson as Ave re- 
 turn to the house. The sovereign good, monsieur, is 
 God ; God, who alone can, at all hours and at all 
 seasctns, respond to the aspirations of our souls, the rest 
 is all vanity. What is human friendship, the glory of a 
 battle, the love of a beautiful woman ? a little smoke 
 which passes by and blinds us. All is vanity, all is de- 
 cepti< m. Where we seek for liberty, we find only the 
 slavery which is imposed by grandeur. T\"here we 
 f^eek peace in si.ilitude, we find only disfpiiet and 
 agitation. Where we seek j^leasure, we find only 
 bitterness. Mistaken good, shadows, illusions ! The 
 Soul is wortliv of heaven ; all that is eartldv is un- 
 worthy of it. The soul is formed to love God, to re- 
 turn to heaven its true home. God has revealed 
 himself everywhere, to the most barbarous nations. 
 Hear Seneca: Nidla qulppe, gens unquamy — "Oli, 
 tiie devil, if you talk Latin, you will not know what 
 you afe saying; for my jjart I will not listen any 
 longer. Come, all this about a Latin ])hrase, I will 
 sjtai'e you the rest. To end the matter, I amof y<»ur 
 opinion : the sovereign good is God ; ])ut God is ])hiced 
 too high for me, and meanwhile, until I rise; to licav- 
 iii, you will not consider it amiss, my dear ubliu,
 
 1 80 BOUFFI.ERS. 
 
 tliat I should look for the sovereign irood in a irood 
 lioif-c, a pretty woman, and a tine dog. ()li, if yon 
 knew how brio-litly the sun was sliinins: yonder." — 
 "■ Be off, you profane fell"w. he off sinner, i^ive 
 tlie rein to your had passions I" Thereupon IJuuliiers 
 spurred hi^ horse. 
 
 It was all over with ]iiin,hc had found the soverei,i;-n 
 srood of the wc.rld — love and poetry. On that day, 
 tlie only one in his life, he was in love, he was a 
 ])i>ct ! However, once airain, in his old ag-e, we shall 
 lin<l him a poet, thanks to tJiat sublime magician 
 called memory. 
 
 II. 
 
 The rest of his days, the abbe, the chevalier, the 
 Marrpiis of Boufflers, was only a man of wit, more 
 or less of a rhymster. He was content with the in- 
 heritance of the Grammonts, the Bellegardes, the 
 St. Simons, the Ilichelieus. There are plenty of ablies, 
 chevaliers, and manpiises, who could, I imagine, 
 live brilliantly on a much smaller one. Saint Lam- 
 bert had surnamed him Yoisenon the Great. There 
 is his portrait. 
 
 Bouiilers had not an opportunity to return to the 
 valley of the milkmaid. At the end of a few days 
 he had to leave for Paris, in obedience to the orders of 
 King Stanislaus. " "What was he to become in 
 Paris V A bishop, said his mother. He gallantly 
 entered the seminary of St. Sulpice, with a lively 
 song on Ins lips. The seminary was not the exact 
 counterpart of the valley of Luneville. One did 
 not meet there in the morning, under a smiling sun,
 
 Ti:r JIOMANOE O? ALTNE. 181 
 
 a prcttj milkmrad with a red petticoat. Onr cliev- 
 filier was at first most heartily wearied. He soon 
 l)egaTi to regret liis unrestrained lihtrtv, his English 
 horse, his bonnding dugs. As he conld not pray to 
 God sincerely, he did not pray at all. It was nioi-e 
 simple and more catholic. He wished to get ont of 
 the place. Hom' conld he do so ? How do so withont 
 scandal, or how give ])iquancy to the scandal ? Bonf- 
 flers took counsel with himself. Tlie idea struck him 
 of writing ont his adventui-e with Aline. He tiimmed 
 liis pen, and devoted himself to it. " I give myself 
 up to yon, my pen. Until now I have led you ; lead 
 me now, and command your master. Eelate to me 
 some history which I do not knoAV. It is the same 
 thing to me whether you commence at the middle 
 or the end." This is the prettiest commencement 
 j)ossible for a French tale. What is strange is, that 
 the pen, thus master of a lawless mind, commences 
 simply at the beginning. But let us continue : " As 
 for y<,)U, my readers, I notify you in advance, that it '3 
 for my i)leasure, and not for yours, that I write. 
 Vuu are surrounded Mith friends, mistresses, and 
 lovei-s — you are not obliged to resort to me to anuisc 
 yourselves; but I, for my part, am alone, and M'ish 
 to get as good company out of myself as I can." 
 The entire story is in this chai'ming tone. If it was 
 in twelve volumes it would be read with delight, 
 l>ut it scarcely contains twelve pages. You will 
 readily understand that the ]ien has nothing better 
 to relate than the story of the mi]k-))ai]. By little 
 and little, einl)oldene<I hy tlir ti-nlli nf tlic iirst ]')age, 
 ir Jaiinc-lies into all tjic fantasies of fiction ; it seeks 
 to t.-rnicnt I'xiutlleri-, 1)y rc|»r('S(.'nting to liiin under
 
 182 "BouvFLi::;;s. 
 
 pleasant r ictaiiio3i?hc?es, tiro evor-Bmiling furm of 
 Aline. Now slie is an adcmble nuirchione??, now 
 a quoon of (-Jolconria, at last a little dhl woman — ■ 
 still amiable, cli-^l in ])alm-leaves. Time undertook 
 to make a liistory almost out of this little story. 
 I)Outtlers divined his life so well that he has sketched 
 it out th(U"e in broad Hues. 
 
 This story forms the entire works of JJoufilers; 
 what he siibseqiienilv wrote was but a islight ara- 
 besque to frame this pretty pastel. 
 
 Boufflers remained but a short time at St. Sulpice. 
 lie went into the w<irld, even the nay world : he 
 went to Versailles. Accord inii; to Ijachauinont, he 
 read his storv to Madame Dubarrv. She was so 
 charmed with tlie milkmaid, that she conceived 
 from that moment the idea of havino:; cows at the 
 Trianon, of milking them M'ith her })retty and al- 
 inc/st royal hands, and im certain days, when en- 
 nu"ed, dressing: herself in a white bodice and red 
 petticoat, in order to charm Louis XV. once more 
 by till? pastoral disgniise. 
 
 In less than a few weeks the story spread from 
 n.oath to mouth, from great lords to nuirchionesses. 
 Mv>re than a thousand manuscript copies were scat- 
 tered about Versailles and Paris. The seminary of 
 St. Sulpice itself was not exempt. Everybody was 
 outraged, and everybody applauded — l}t>ufflers at 
 the head of them. The story was printed and signed 
 with the initials of the name of the author. When 
 the scandal, going beyond the bounds of the semi- 
 nary, the Abbe de BonfHers became again the Che- 
 valier de Boufilers. One fine moraing he laid aside 
 the bands, mounted on horseback, and set out gal-
 
 LETTER TO GKIilM. 183 
 
 lantly, his sword by Lis side, for the campaign of 
 ilauover. King Stanishms had bestowed npon him 
 fi-om childhood forty thonsand livres revenue in 
 l>cnefices. How could an abbe aljandon such bene- 
 lices? Eeassnrc yourself. At the same time that 
 he to(jk the swurd, he also assumed tlie cmss <>f 
 Malta, the strange privilege of participating in the 
 performance of the holy offices in surplice and in 
 nnif.'rin, otfering thus the cm-ions spectacle of a pi-ior, 
 captain of hussars. He wrote a letter to Grinnn on 
 tliis subject, of which tliis is the best/ passage : — 
 
 " I was on the high road to furtnne. "Who k:r. ws 
 but that a lew more intrigues miglit not have placed 
 Hie at the head <»f the clergy ? But I likod better to 
 be aid-de-camp in the army of Soul»ise. Trahit 
 una quernqne volvjjtas. Do you count as nothing 
 the cry of indignation, which was raised at the free- 
 dom of my conduct ? Thev were the fools who cried, 
 you will tell me. Truly so nnich the worse. It v.ould 
 have been better if they had been the people cf 
 sense, for thev would have made less noise. Tno 
 fools have the advantage of numbers, and it is thr.t 
 which decides. It is no use f«ir us to make war 0:1 
 tlicm, we shall n«>t weaken them; they will ahvays 
 be tlic masters. Always the kings f>f the universe, 
 tliey will continue to dictate the law. There will 
 n:)t be a ]>raftice <^>r a usage introduced of which 
 tliey {:re not the authors. In iine, they always force 
 the jteople of sense to speak, and almost to think 
 like themselves, because it is in the order of things 
 that the con<jUL'red should sp-ak the language of their 
 coufpierors. In accordanct; with the extreme vener- 
 a*i(m, with which you sec that I am imbued for tho
 
 184: BOVFFTKKS. 
 
 &npreme power of lools, am I \n'on}^ fur seel^ing t< 
 be in ftivor with tlicm ? and slionld I not regard iny 
 reconciliation Avitli the sovereigns of the world as 
 tiie best act of idv lifo ( l^ardon nie foi' divertino; 
 mvself a little in the course of my reasonin2:s, it is 
 to aid niyselt^ and yon as well, in snp])orting their 
 tedionsness ! Moreover, Horace, yonr friend and 
 yonr model, permits ns to laugh in s])eaking the 
 truth ; and the first philoso])her of anticpiity was 
 snrelv not Ileraclitns. I onu-ht, von will tell me, in 
 kccordancc with my res]>cct for fools, to have quitted 
 mv callino- withont assmninij: another; but fools have 
 told me that one must have a calling in society. I 
 proposed to them to take that of a man (»f letters. 
 TLey told me to take care not to do so, for I had too 
 mnch wit tor that. I asked them what I shonld do 
 then, and this was the reply : ' Some ages ago we 
 W'ished you to be a gentleman ; it is our will at pres- 
 ent that vvery gentleman should go to the war." 
 Thereupon I had a blue coat made, assumed the 
 cross of Malta, and was off." 
 
 L'otifflcrs was brave in war, and gay, but too much 
 of a philosopher. After a sword thrust he reflected. 
 A soldier shoidd not i-etlect on the field of battle. 
 Boufliers, l)esides, always had another profession in 
 addition to his a]>parent ouc — a libertine abbe, a 
 philosophical soldier, a satii-ical courtier, a di]ilomat- 
 ic song-writer, a reimblican courtier. In 1702 he 
 emigrated, and from the dejiths of a savage solitude 
 undertook to defend liberty. lie wrote a book on 
 fvce will. At the end of his career, having run well 
 Ihrruofii t^jC romid t»f follies, he wrote on hvmcm 
 reazon^ i.i the tnie style of an academician.
 
 TURNS PAINIER. 185 
 
 After t]i3 campaign of Hesse, lie made a j'.vr.rnoy 
 ill Switzerland, staff in Land, his bag^rago on his 
 hack, a true artist journer. Yon liavo read the 
 account of this lonrnev in liis letters to his mother, 
 charming letters where every word says something. 
 As a painter of pastel portraits, Bonfflers achieved 
 innnmeral)le snccesses at Geneva. lie only n>ked a 
 crown a day to paint a husband, but he painted the 
 porti-ait of the wife in the bargain. 
 
 On his return from his journey in Switzerland, the 
 Marshal de Castries had him appointed governor of 
 Senegal, and the island of Gorea. There everybody 
 was content under his rule, except himself. lie soon 
 returned, abandoning himself body and soul as for- 
 merly, to the intoxications of a careless youth, all 
 blooming with amonrs, jokes, and trifling verses. His 
 youth lasted nearly iifty years : it seemed as if time 
 passed without touching him. He was of the small 
 number of thse who lived thirty yeai'S in a quarter 
 of a cc^.turv. He religio'isly followed all the frivol- 
 ities nf iVisluDU — cluiiis of three colors, gold and sil- 
 ver end)roidei-v, bugles and spangles, wins with 
 (pieues and tVizzled, in line, .is he said himself, they 
 liad then discovered the important secret of imtting 
 on a nuvn's back a ])alette garnished with all tints 
 and all shades. "These coats," said Grinnu, " give 
 our young ])eoi)le at the cnurt a decided ad\antage 
 over the finest of Xurend)erg ddUs." 
 
 In 1788, somewhat wearied with noise, dress, fetes, 
 and women, Boufders. at last siding with age, and 
 oncludingthathehad reaclu d fifty, made the prelim- 
 "iiary visits necessary for iMlmission to the Acadi'uiy. 
 lie alrc.idvbelonjred to the academics of Xancv and 
 
 IG*
 
 186 liOUFFLERS. 
 
 Lyons, liic Fivncli Academy received him as ac 
 old spoiled child. His discourse was painfully serious. 
 lie \ve!it I'jiek to the drluirc, the creation of the world, 
 to cliiios — a louij,- road leading to nothing. Here 
 ends ]>(UilUer8, the true JJoutilers, of whom liistory 
 will ivtaiu ])leasant recollections. The Academy was 
 the tdud) of that wit which might have rivalled Ilam- 
 iltou in grace, and V(tltaire iu ])oint. So here lies 
 the Chevalier de Bouttlers, not the only one whom 
 the Academy has killed. 
 
 There is alr-o another ]>ouflle,rs, known under the 
 name of the llarquis de Boufilers, who married, was 
 dei)uty to tlic states-general, tuunded a cluh with 
 lyialouat and La Kochefoucault, wrote a treatise on 
 free v^ill., became an agriculturist, and died soberly 
 in 1815.* But this one has nothing in common with 
 ours. It is the same, you insi.st, it is still the Buufflers 
 Avho loved so poetically the; fair J^l'Jl.! ;■> the valley 
 Avith her pot of milk. You are right. I'ou remiiul 
 me of a last trait which I will relate to y<ui. But a 
 word iirst, in i)assing, in judgment of the poet and 
 ] lis. work. 
 
 BoufHers was the li'V' and soul of the gay and dis- 
 solute society, wh'.cb, 1T90, dispersed for ever — ■ 
 tlie society which lived on joy and festi\ ity without 
 care for death, lie skimmed lightly in his vagrant 
 career (t\er the gilded reign of Madame de Pompa- 
 dour, llu' iiiiiierial sway of Madame Dubarry, the 
 adorable grace of ]\[arie- Antoinette. He was tlie 
 choice wit of the court of the king of Prussia, and 
 
 * He Jipcl at Paris, and was buried at Pore la Chaise, where h-.s 
 totnh is to be ri-copiiiscd I'V Ihis inscri|)tic)n, worthy of an anci'J:'.'. 
 j/iiilosopher : " Ni/ frit /ids, heUcvc that 1 am asleep"
 
 A TRANSLATOR. 18T 
 
 of the kinir of Poland. lie was evervwliere in tlie 
 same season, but particularly on the roads: he was 
 ihc most indefatiirable traveller on dry land of his 
 lime. It was said of him : " lie is the most errant of 
 kniiihts ;" and everybody knows the charming re- 
 mark of another wit. M. de Tressant met him on 
 the hiiifhway. "Chevalier, I am deliifhted tu hud 
 yuu at Jiome !" In turning over at random the 
 slight Collection of Eoutiiers, we shall find the echo 
 of his tiuie, already antiquated, the scentless roses 
 with which he decked the bodices of liis noble 
 mistresses. 
 
 But must we look fei-ther into his work? His only 
 production, worthy of a poet, is the piece entitled 
 the Heart, in which the wit makes us almost pardou 
 the licentiousness. Champlbrt called all this coufec- 
 tiouary. It is well enough when the poet says it 
 himself to some indolent duchess ; but these gay 
 warbliu^rs can not easily obtain auditoi'S without their 
 appropriate accessories. It was in this that the 
 charm of this improvisator consisted, as he always had 
 some rhyme and wit at his comm?nd, in t-.u'i* for 
 Madame Dugazon, the Prince du Ligne, the Duke 
 de Choi.seul, Madame de Luxembourg, Madame 
 ]>ranchu, the cat of Madame * * *, the Duke de 
 Xivernais, or for any other passing fancy. 
 
 After having tried his liand on light poetry, lie 
 undertook to translate the odes of Horace, Seneca's 
 !^[axims, some verses of DaTilc's P;.r,x!isr, some 
 9r\v.v/i\y. of Ariosto. ^fay these poets pardon liiui I 
 H»* ^'lUn translated the ideas, he has not l)een alilc 1o 
 reproduce the col.jr wliich is tlie life, s])l('udor, and 
 ])eri'imie of all ]»oetry.
 
 ISS BOUI'KLKRS. 
 
 After verse ctiine prose, Mhicli is not of tlie worst. 
 li,oinein])cr tlic letters, rcMiKMn))er Aline. There ure 
 other letters and nther tales. We can still iind a 
 charm in vc-ivikUw^ f/w Derr/'sc. A/t^ytsf an in- 
 terest, too, in some ])aji-es of philosophy torn out of the 
 Universal Encyclopedia, and from his work on I^Ve3 
 Will. This latter work, such as it is, deserves notice. 
 At an eai'lier age, l^ontHers would liave written ii 
 clianning book upon this subject, in the style of 
 Sterne. lie announces at ihe start that he is ])a8- 
 sing through unknown regions to an unknown end. 
 lie loses himself at the very first step among the 
 thousand barren ])aths of metaphysics. It would 
 have n;>cded nil the ]iowers of his youth to have 
 lined tli...;y ])aths with tlowers and to have en- 
 ticed us within tlicMu. lie has, however, here and 
 there ])iOserved the ingenious turns, the delicate 
 grace, tht gav reasoning of his time. He throws no 
 light on the subject, but he sometimes approaches 
 the pith of the matter in a hai)})y manner. He 
 scatters, by chance, I imagine, ideas which are ima- 
 ges, arguments which are pictures. His lK)ok is 
 nseful in this respect, that it proves that the Innnan 
 mind will never rise to these inaccessible heights. 
 
 A graceful little volume could l)e made up from 
 the thoughts which Boufflers has scattered along the 
 highways. 
 
 " It is with the riches of thought as with other riches : we 
 liecome more avaricious as we become richer. 
 
 " The ])hilogo])her deprived of his wealth, resembles an ath- 
 lete slri|i|)ril for comliat. 
 
 "No one knows ll)e wortli of his own mind. It is strange 
 thai the poorest are the most <;onfent.
 
 POSTKAIl J!Y THE PKINCE DE LIuKr\ 1S& 
 
 •* The man of letters alone of all men, according to the beau- 
 tiful expression of one of the ancients, lives with unconcealed 
 aims. 
 
 " Habit is a second nature. There is, i)erhaps, a third, 
 which is called imitation. 
 
 " Fame likes people to make advances to her. There are 
 some of whom she would not know what to say, if they did 
 not take the trouble to tell her. 
 
 " Hope is a jiaymentin advance on all goods. 
 
 " Kinjrs like better to be amused than adored. 
 
 "It is only divinity that has a sutficient fund of good nature 
 not to be wearied with all the homage wjiicli is rendered to it." 
 
 Among tlic many descriptions of 13(,miHcfs, I 
 ovtract some lines Ly tlie Prince de Ligne, avIio 
 kiiuw thoroniihly the heart and mind of everybody. 
 " M. de ]5onfilers thought mnch, but unfortunately 
 it was ah\'ays <>n the passing topic. One might well 
 wish to collect all the ideas which he sijuandered 
 together with his time and his mone}'. Perhai)S lu^ had 
 ^';'>ic genius than he could control, when the lire of 
 his youth was in full force. This genius must have 
 lxi,n, not only independent itself, but must have 
 coi.trolled its possessor ; therefore was it that it 
 siivne at once with the ca[)ricions brilliancy of a 
 ^'ill-o'-the-wisp, a perfect and refined delicacy, and a 
 Wiiht grace which is never frivolous. The talent of 
 giving ]>oint to an idea by means of antithesis, is 
 one of the distinctive qualities of nis mind, to which 
 nothing is foreign. Happily he does not know 
 everything. He lias plucked the flower of all knowl- 
 edge, and he will sm'])rise by his ])rofundity tiiose 
 who thought him su]ierlicial, and by his snperhciali- 
 ty all those who have discovered how pi'ojbund he 
 C'.uld be. The basis of his character is an unljoundeJ
 
 IDO BOUKFLERT. 
 
 goodness of heart. ITe could not support the idea 
 of a surtbriug l)cin<;; he would deprive hiinccl: of 
 hrcad to su})port even a wicked person, and above 
 nil an encniv. '■'■Poor rofjue P'' he would %.ij. lie 
 had a servant on his estate whom everylio-iv de- 
 nounced as a thief, in spite of which he alwa\>' re- 
 tained her; and being asked why, answered, "^.rho 
 would take her ?" His lauijh was like that of a child, 
 lie carried his head somewhat inclined. He had :i 
 habit of twisting his thumbs before him like Harle- 
 quin, or rubl»ing his hands behind his back, as if he 
 was warmin"- himself. His eves were small ani] 
 pleasing, and had a smiling expression. There was 
 sometliing peculiarly amia])le in the expre.ssivni of 
 his face. There was a graceful simplicity, gayut}', 
 and artlessness in his manner. He had sometimes 
 the stupid looks of La Fontaine. You would saj" 
 that he was thinking of nothing when he was thin!:- 
 ing the most. He did not willingly put himself 
 forward, and was all the more ap})reciatcd for his 
 modesty. His manners were so thoroughly amiable, 
 that he never showed any malice except in an occa- 
 sional look or smile. He so much distrusted his turn 
 for epigram, that he perhaps leaned too nnich to tlie 
 opposite side. He seems to be pr(jfuse in his praises 
 in order to prevent his satirical vein from displaying 
 itself." 
 
 This slight portrait represents Boufflers at tlie ap 
 ]^roac]i of age, Boufflers, after he had become an 
 acr.lemician, father of a family, a politician. 
 
 In spite of his worsh'p of liberty, he deserted the 
 Conbtituent Assembly on the 10th of August, and 
 departed witii his family, like a true phil()Sf)pher
 
 EXILK, 191 
 
 who sr.linntv to everything, for the court of Prussia 
 whore he Avas received with open arms hj Prince 
 licnrj. From there he went to the court of Poland, 
 'Anere he was desirous of founding a French colony. 
 His emigration, which lasted eight years, was not al- 
 together insupportable. He lived, although at the 
 court, and in a time of war, a rpiiet, almost a studiocis 
 life, playing with his daughter, and showing her how, 
 for better ur worse, rhyme is joined to reason; loving 
 his wife, whom he had married, a widow, who was 
 handsome, and had none too nnich sense; walking in 
 the open air, rain or shine, accoi'ding to his custom. 
 Although almost the same as an exile, he still kept 
 horses and dogs ; he was, therefore, the least to be 
 pitif (1 of all tlie emigres. 
 
 In 1800, he returned to France, but no longer as 
 courtier or deputy, scarce even, academician ; he was 
 altogetlier undeceived in regard to the vanities of 
 life ; took refuge in a little country estate, which he 
 almost transformed into a farm; aiul became an a ""ri- 
 culturist, in all the simplicity of the patriarchs. He 
 built a little, planted a great deal, and cultivated 
 after his style, that is to say, as an optimist. His 
 harvests were fine; so were his vintages. He had 
 remained faithful to the friendships which he had 
 formed in his happy days. — '' Here is my rhyming dic- 
 tionary," said he, pointing to his plough and harrow; 
 'Mu?.'(; are my poems," said he, pointing to his wheat, 
 his cabbages, his hay, and his oats; "here," he con- 
 tinu'il, "I am always nobly inspired ; I commune 
 with Nature ; it is a ])ir>us work, which will gain me 
 paidon fur all my trilling productions."
 
 192 nOUFFLEKS. 
 
 III. 
 
 But I am impatient to arrive at tliis last picture, 
 which will couiplete my sketch of ]>uufflers. 
 
 Amid the ever-recm-riiig follies of his long youth, 
 Bouillers had now and then found time to ask newtj 
 of Aline, who had not exactly become queen of Gal- 
 conda. lie has related in A-arions ways, in holh 
 prose and verse, her real history. In 1800, on 
 returning from Berlin to Paris, he was desiruus 
 at all hazards, of seeing Aline again, or, at least, 
 the scene of their early love ; he wished to rein- 
 vigorate his poor heart, beaten by a thousand rose- 
 water tempests, in the fresh fomitains of that spring- 
 like love which had surprised him in the morning of 
 life. 
 
 He stopped at Lnneville. But where was the en- 
 chanted ]Kdace of Stanislaus? the court of Madame de 
 Bouillers i The poet took a horse at the post-house, 
 and followed the road to the valley. It was in the 
 spring; he fonnd natnre again all fresh and balmy, 
 as heretofore; the same verdant and leafy crowns 
 on the two hills ; the warbling groves ; the fields 
 already waving with the harvest; the budding or- 
 chards ; the smoking hamlet ; and the spire losing 
 itself with the music of its bells, in the sky. — "There 
 is but one thing wanting here," murmured Boufflers, 
 " it is Aline, it is my love, it is my youth ! It is in 
 vain that nature sheds abroad all her treasures, and 
 sings in all her varied notes ; she will never be Lr:t 
 the frame, whereof the passions of man will form the 
 picture. But ^vhy do I speak so seriously ? I have 
 the air of a philosopher, Alas ! is it a philosoph.31
 
 ALINE IN OLD AGE. 193 
 
 vlio should return here ? Come, let us be young 
 still, if it be possible !" 
 
 Boutilers asked a moment's youth from the magic 
 power of memory ; he dismounted from his horse, 
 stretched himself out on the grass, in the shadow of 
 the old elm-tree, on the bank of the brook, and looked 
 toward the skirts of the wood, as if Aline were 
 to reappear with her pot and her red petticoat. 
 It was in vain that he souglit to deceive himself; 
 he was not enough of a poet to see shadows. — 
 "Ah, yes!" he suddenly exclaimed, "the Abbe Por- 
 quet was right : God alone is unchangeable ; God 
 has not made our souls for earth, except when we 
 are twenty, and meet an Aline upon the road. 
 
 He wished to pursue his disenchantment to the 
 end ; he remounted his horse, with the intention of 
 breakfasting ut the little cottage, where he should, 
 doubtless, l-jarii some news of the heroine of the sole 
 romance of his life. He dismounted at the threshold 
 of a S'trrv inn, whose sign gave no good promise. 
 He entered, and called for something to eat, seating 
 liimself, at the same time, at a rustic table, still wet 
 with the last bumper. The hostess began forthwith 
 to break the eggs and tu scrape the chicory. Boufllers 
 wanted to speak to her aljout Aline, Avithout knowing 
 how to begin, when he saw a good old farmer's wife 
 enter, in a woollen petticoat, Avh(» apju'oached the lire 
 with an eartiien jxtt in hei'hand. — " I am notdeceived ; 
 it is indeed she; it is Aline: it is Elizabeth!" 
 
 The old fanner's wife let iier ])itcher fall with sur- 
 ])rise; but this time Boufllers did not sjiring foi'ward 
 t) pick if up. — "What! it is you, monsieur the chev- 
 alier! Heavens! what a meeting! niy heart is all 
 
 17
 
 194 BOUFFLERS. 
 
 ji a flutter!" — "This meeting does not equal the 
 first one," said Boutflers, looking at his pt>or Aline 
 fi'om head to foot; "neither is it a pot of milk to-day." 
 ' — " It is indeed true ; we hud iiot gray hairs down 
 there by the brook." — " Give me a kiss," said Bouf- 
 €eir., "this time we can do so before witnesses." 
 
 They embraced with a warmth which touched 
 tne hostess. — "You will breaktast v/itli me." — "Yes, 
 if you will come and breakfast at my house, two 
 steps from here ; yoii know a widow of sixty-seven 
 is not much to be feared ; come, I have much to say 
 to you." 
 
 Boufflers paid the hostess the value of some twenty 
 omelettes and thirty salads, and followed Aline, who 
 had loosened the horse's bridle to lead him. Tlie 
 poor woman was so delighted that she talked without 
 stopping to take breath. — " Only think, that evei-y 
 time that I see a fine horse, the adventure of the 
 spilled milk immediately comes to my mind. Xow, 
 even on seeing this one, I immediately thought of 
 you. Ah, if you knew how often I have passed Ijy 
 there, for the mere pleasure of it! I knew very 
 well beforehand that I should not meet you, but 
 I was none the less happy in passing. "We acted 
 very foolishly there ; but, as the proverb says, ' Fooling 
 with two is always agreeable.' I have no regrets ; we 
 are young but once; you could hardly believe how it 
 has filled my life ; every year, in the first days of 
 spring; but you are going to laugh and ridicule me; 
 it is all the same — you must know it — I go, led by a 
 supernatural power, and gather a nosegay on the 
 bank of the brook. Ah, yours has lasted a long 
 time ! Come and see thf nosegay of the past year."
 
 PAST MEMOAIES. 195 
 
 She took Boufflers bj the haud, and led him to the 
 alcove iu which her bed stood, and showed him a 
 faded nosegay fastened to the serge curtains by a 
 consecrated branch. — " You can not think," said 
 Bouiflers, sighing, "how this recollection of my 
 youth has always embalmed my heart ; it has been 
 more than the half of ray life ; so much so, that being 
 still young, and hardly expecting to see you again, 
 but seeking to deceive myself, I wrote a story which 
 is called Alhie ; the first pages are true, but the rest 
 is only a romance." — " Tell me that story ; I am 
 curious to know what you can have imagined about 
 me." — "I have not made you a saint of the calendar, 
 but I have painted you under such fresh and at- 
 tractive colors, that evervbodv has adored you in 
 Paris, in the provinces and elsewhere." — " I have 
 no doubt of it. ^Vhile I was so heartily loved, 
 I was peaceal)ly planting my cabbages, rocking my 
 babies, and thinking of you. This has not prevented 
 me from being tolerably happy; however, for some 
 years back everything seems to be leaving me. I 
 am a widow; I have lost two children, the field which 
 supported me has been divided among others. I 
 have, however, a happy disposition; and when I 
 have wopt and prayed to God, the time still passes 
 happily enough." 
 
 While she was speaking, she lit the fire. Boufilers 
 cast liis eye about the room. An antiquated chamber, 
 a broken j)avement, some worm-eaten beams, between 
 which the spider had here and there spun his wcli ; an 
 old oak dressi-r, rudely carved, covered with common 
 earthenware and ])e\vter jdattei's ; small windows, 
 protected on the outside by osier curtains ; a healthj
 
 196 BOUFFLEKS. 
 
 odor of pure water and brown bread ; a gigantic fire- 
 place ; two colored prints on the mantelpiece, under 
 a rusty gun, covered with dust; in a word, a de- 
 lightful atniosj>ln.'re of good homely poverty, such 
 was what UoutHers found in the house of his asred 
 Aline. 
 
 Thev breakfasted (javlv, each, however, concealins; 
 a touch of melancholv. After breakfast, Boufflers 
 asked to see her little farm. lie coin})i-ehendcd for the 
 first time in his lite the calm and serious pleasure the 
 earth atiurds to those who cultivate it. lie vow'ed to 
 consecrate his last davs to airriculture. 
 
 The two uld lovers embraced for the last time; the 
 parting was touching ; both shed tears ; they com 
 mended each other to God, with true devotion. At 
 last, BoutHers mounted his horse and rode off. The 
 liorse, who had fared at least as w^ell as his master, 
 the horse who had had the best of clover and the 
 best of oats, would have traversed the little valley 
 at a single bound ; but Boufflers held him in check, 
 wishino- still to breathe leisurelv all the intoxication ■ 
 of memory. 
 
 He returned to Luneville, pale and exhausted ; he 
 liad been a poet that day, for the second time in his 
 life. How many better known i-hymers are there 
 who have not ':een poets even once in their lives ?
 
 I^IVAEOL 
 
 Ix 1774, during a Ijeautiful sunset, an exiled 
 country squire, turned innkeeper, was walking with 
 a serious air before a little inn, at Bagnols, in Lan- 
 guedi >e, and admiring seven or eight pretty children, 
 very happy and noisy, whose father he believed 
 himself bv fjood riirht to be. lie was admiring at the 
 same time a beautiful vine that he had ])lanted be- 
 tween the door and the Avindow. A little woman, 
 rather pale, having at her breast her sixteenth child, 
 came out of the inn. ller fifteenth child, crying, 
 clung to her petticoat ; two others, both very nearly 
 of the same age, followed her to the threshold of the 
 door, ])ulling the ears of a big dog which seemed 
 resigned with gO(xl grace to the infliction. It was a 
 very blooming and happy family. They all formed 
 a circle around the poor dog — one got upon his 
 back, another liamessed him with reeds — one fast- 
 ened a bell to his paw, another threw a cat ujion his 
 back ; finally they all threw themselves pell-mell upon 
 the ground with the ])oor beast, crying aloud, frolick- 
 ing, and acting like kittens ])laying with the cinders. 
 There was not one e^en to the child at the breast 
 
 17*
 
 11)8 RIVAROL. 
 
 will) did not wish to be of the party. He stretched 
 out Iiis little arms, made such a i oise, and cried so, 
 that his mother was obliged to seat liim upon the 
 dog, who took good ca-re, like an intelligent creature, 
 as he was, not to move. " I have not counted them," 
 said the father, " but I think they are all there ex- 
 cept our three big boys at school, and our dear 
 Antoine." — " Nor have I comited them," said the 
 mother, with a smile : " but I know very well that 
 there are twelve here out of the sixteen. But where 
 is Antoine?" She looked through the fig-trees of 
 the garden. "He is gone as usual to gossip with 
 your cousin's daughters." — "It was worth the trouble 
 truly to send him for so long to the Jesuits at Avignon. 
 He who was called the handsome abbe will be aban- 
 doned by monseigneur the bishop to our own re- 
 sources, if he continues to neglect his Latin in this 
 way. But here comes Antoine back." 
 
 The innkeeper's wife went out to meet the eldest 
 of the family. He was a tall youth of eighteen, of 
 a noble and channing expression of face, of ardent 
 and enterprising mind ; in a word it was Eivarol. 
 "In truth, my dear child, during nearly the six 
 weeks that you have been back with us, you have 
 forgotten all your learning." — "Learning!" said 
 the young Bivarol, who already knew how to speak 
 well ; " do not be afraid : a man who thinks, always 
 knows more than one who learns : a man who acts 
 is worth a thousand times more than a man who 
 thinks ; in proof of which, there is my father who 
 has mounted on a stool to get a bunch of grapes — " 
 — " Your father does not Imow what he does, and 
 you do n't know what you say. But to sum up, some
 
 AN mNKEEPER OF QUALITY. 199 
 
 common sense is necessary. Now, that you know 
 Greek and Latin, do you think of passing your ■ life 
 in idleness like a gentleman ?" — " Why not?" said 
 Kivarol, tossing his head with an air of natural 
 pride. "" But it is necessary that you should be some- 
 thing in the world, I imagine." — "Well," exclaimed 
 the young uum, '" I will be a count." — "- That is as 
 good as anything else," said tlie father, smiling; 
 " but count of what ?" — " Count of Rivaroi — it is 
 all simple enough. I will set out for Paris witli all 
 the ready money to be had in the cottage. My 
 mother will manage my affairs so well that there 
 will lie more than usual. Once in Paris, I will 
 elbow my way to greatness : I will make my for- 
 tune, i»repare the way for my brothers, portion my 
 sisters, marrv a duchess, elevate your tavern into a 
 nuinpiisate." — "What nonsense!" said the inn- 
 keeper's wife, with a sigh. " He is no longer a child 
 but a man wIkj has taken leave of his senses. Your 
 father is the cause of the mischief; for if he had not 
 preached to his children the glories of a fanciful de- 
 scent — " — " Fanciful I" exclaimed the Coi'sican, 
 I'aising his head to the height of the dc)or of the 
 inn, '"Carlo Ri\an>li. my great-grandfathei', was a 
 gran<l duke of Italy ; Jacobi llivaroli, my gi-and- 
 father, was governor of Corsica for six months ; 
 moreover, my father held a fief on the river d'Orco." 
 - — " All this does not prevent your having been inn- 
 keejter of Bagnols for nineteen years. Do youi* 
 best, there is the escutcheon of your children." 
 And the innkee])er''s wife jxunted to tlu; liush of 
 mistletoe, hanging over the inn door. 
 
 As he had said he would, the yom)g IumiioI soon
 
 209 RR-AROL. 
 
 set out fur Paris, accompanied by two law-students, 
 whom he scarcely knew before. They made the 
 journey gayly, sometimes on foot, sometimes in a 
 coach, sometimes in a wagon, according to fair 
 weather, rain, or their purse which often prescribed 
 the simplest conveyance. In spite of his purse, Riv- 
 arol had scarce lost sight of the paternal roof ere he 
 assumed the airs of a great lord. "When asked his 
 name at an hotel, he answered with the greatest 
 coohiess, the chevalier, count, or marquis of Ilivarol 
 and his friends. lie arrived at Paris toward the 
 end of the autumn of ITT-t — boldly alighted at the 
 Hotel d'Espagne, making his title ring louder than 
 his crowns, without disquieting himself the least in 
 the world about the morrc>w. However, soon after 
 his arrival in Paris, he met certain sclioolbov- 
 friends who had drank their pint at his father's 
 tavern. He feared that his title of Count of Rivarol, 
 announced before them, would be received with 
 ridicule. To prevent this, he took another and not 
 so high-sounding a name, calling himself M. de Par- 
 cieux, with the consent of the academician of that 
 name, who thought that lie belonged to his family, 
 thanks to his wit, and the recommendation of D'Al- 
 cmbert ; but sometime after, a nephew of the savant 
 required him to prove the right he had to bear that 
 name, which he could not do. Let Grimm speak : 
 '• Pie has avenged himself very nobly in taking that 
 of the chevalier de Pivarol, which they say he has no 
 better right to, but which, it is to be hoped, that he 
 will content himself with, so long as he is not forced 
 to seek for anotlier." 
 
 Almost on his entrance into the literary world, he
 
 HIS DAJNTTE's rXFERNCJ. 201 
 
 Bct to ^vork to stilly and translate Dante, a labor 
 "wbich hs compared to that of the young artists who 
 copy the designs of Michael Angelo. In spite of his 
 natural indolence, he strongly recommended the toil 
 of science to writers. " To write, one should show 
 himself armed at all points, like Minerva issuing 
 from the head of Jupiter." 
 
 Ilis translation of tlie Inferno continues the most 
 spirited of all the translations. Captivated by the 
 wild beauties of this poem, Rivarol has raised 
 liimself to the height of the poet. Buffon said, " It 
 is n< »t a translation, it is a continued series of creations." 
 It must be sai<l that subsequently Rivarol originated 
 this expres>'i<»n in regard to Buffon — dignity of style. 
 Kivarul, however, did not flatter all the productions 
 of this great man. He said of his son : "He is the 
 worst chapter in the natural history of his father. 
 Between the son and the father the whole world in- 
 tervenes." 
 
 During the iii-st years of his sojouni at Paris, he 
 lie lived no one knows how, but always gay, lively, 
 and sportive. He was met evei'VAvhere where 
 talent had the entree^ in the saloons, the cafes, the 
 theatres, and the caveau. The caveau was then a 
 fiinoky den, like the entrance of Avernus. In this 
 lamp-light of Parnassus, according to a verse of 
 Lcmierre, liixarol was soon the favorite talker. It 
 was tliere that the young Marquis de Champcenetz 
 registered the first of PivaroFs witticisms. By 
 slow degrees he glided, under the cover of certain 
 jMM-sons who t.ok a fancy to him, into the saloons 
 most difficult of access. In that heydav of aristoc- 
 racv, if his name di<l not save liim entirelv, his
 
 202 RTVAROL. 
 
 genius protected his name. He pfiid his way bj 
 bokl assurance while still ^young. He knew that a 
 man who had tlie will ccmld always find a sminy 
 place in this world. More than one poet had lived 
 even before his day, like La Fontaine's fox, at the 
 expense of those who listened to him. To speculate 
 on flattery was a vulgar business, quite unworthy of 
 Kivarol. He preferred to speculate on satire. The 
 world, he used to say, was a vast arena, where good 
 and bad, wolves and lambs, were mingled together. 
 I will be vicious, 1 shall be feared ; I will make my 
 fortune. At each scratch of my claw, they will ap- 
 plaud me — at each growl and bite, they will throw 
 me a bone." This system succeeded to perfection. His 
 first sarcasms were repeated from mouth to mouth. 
 Buffon, who liked satire, and who feared it, i-eceived 
 Rivarol with a thousand marks of favor. A great 
 number of wits and distinguished persons sliowed 
 the same disposition as M. de Buffon. The contest 
 was who should have Eivarol at his table — who 
 should carry him off to his country-house. Voltaire 
 invited him to pass a summer at Ferney. E.i\arol 
 had no Ioniser anv reason to troidjle himself about 
 his larder. He lived, therefore, very much as he 
 fancied, happy in his indolence and carelessness. 
 He rose at two o'clock in tlie afternoon, dressed 
 himself, went out into society, and always made a 
 resolution to go to work the next day. 
 
 Panckoucke offered him fifty crowns a month to 
 write for the Mercury. " Yery well," said Eivarol, 
 with the indifference of a lord; "with these fifty 
 crowns I will pay a secretary and a valet." As he had 
 said, so he did. This secretary and valet aided
 
 HIS PKETENSIONS KIDICULED. 203 
 
 wcnderfiilly his aristocratic pretensions, " This Panc- 
 koiicke has given me a secretar}^, as if it was worth 
 the trouble to preserve my wit; it is only those who 
 have a meager stock who do so, like Champfort and 
 his like." Champfort, who was far from being a 
 beggar in wit, was not of the calibre of Kivarol. 
 Champfort was witty only at certain times, when he 
 had sharpened liis wit. and prepared it in the morn- 
 ing. Itivarol was always witty. 
 
 He did not hnd everybody disposed to admire or 
 to fear him. The greater part of the men of letters, 
 Marie-Joseph Clienier at their head, made fierce 
 war on his titles of nobility, and his literary titles. 
 Marie- Joseph Chenier wrote a good sharp satire 
 against him, two lines of wliich recur to me : — 
 
 Of Literature the hope forlorn, 
 A Quixote and intriguer born. 
 
 One reproached him with having been born in a 
 kitchen, another with not having put salt enough in 
 his sauces ; and a thousand other insults in the same 
 style. They even produced at the Yarietes a piece 
 of buli'o<.)nery ridiculing him and Champcenetz, 
 This Champcenetz was a marquis, one of the favorites 
 of the school of Rivarol, living in the same errors — 
 witty enough when his friend was not by, serving 
 him as comrade in his good and evil adventures, re- 
 tailing his wit, and weakening its effect. " My 
 inorji-l'Kjhl ^'' Tlivarol used to say. 
 
 Tu a Letter of M. the President to M. the Count 
 
 of , dated from tlu; chateau of Crcuset, Ilivnrol 
 
 has dis]»layed his talent in sharp and bitter criti- 
 cism. He attacks the Abbe Delille, for his poem of
 
 204 EIVAROL. 
 
 The Gardens. It is the only sensil)le critique of tlie 
 time. "While the Mercure de France,, the Almanach 
 des 3fuses, and other c^azettcs, with some literary 
 pretensions, were l)]in(lly lavishing; a thousaTid enthn- 
 siastic epithets on the lively ahhe, ending by calling 
 him a second Virgil., Rivarol, armed with his wit, pro- 
 nonnced an opinion which seemed very severe then, 
 bnt is without appeal at the present day. He com- 
 mences by defining these works, too nnich lauded in 
 social circles and suppers, which the great day of 
 publication despoils of all artifice and prestige. — 
 "•Tliey are like s]X)ilt children, passing trom the hands 
 of women to those of men." — Tie reaches tlie action 
 of the poem. — "In the first canto, the poet undertakes 
 to control the water, the flowers, the shades ; in the 
 second, the flowers, the waters, the shades, and the 
 turf; in the third and fburtli, he still controls the 
 shades, the flowers, the turf, and the waters." — ^The 
 critic afterward regrets that M. Delille should have 
 neglected that sensibility of the ancients which so 
 poetically animates the pictures of nature, that sweet 
 and dreamy melancholy of the Germans, which dif- 
 fuses an infinite charm, that richness of the English 
 imagination, which colors all with freshness. Rivarol 
 deplores the mode of life of the bucolic poet. — "It is 
 in solitude, that we penetrate the depths of ^Nature. 
 M. Delille is a merry little abbe, ])rouder, perhaps, 
 of his smart speeches than of his good verses; he 
 cultivates solitude only in some fashionable by-street. 
 It was in the fields that Virgil exclaimed, ' O uhi 
 campi!'' and M. the Abbe has never walked in the 
 fields. There is, therefore, nothing in the poem of The 
 Gardens which could be the work of a great master,
 
 HIS LITERARY JUDGirENT. 205 
 
 not n single pleasant reminiscence of the Georgics. 
 M. the Abbe ought to have carried away from his 
 intercourse with Yir^il the luminous loii'ic which en- 
 chains the thoughts, the beauties, and the episodes to 
 the subject, the secret thread by which mind di'aws 
 mind over its invisible course." 
 
 Iiivar<jl was a great literary judge, but has not 
 committed to writinghis critical iudscments anv more 
 than his happy sayings. He was contented with 
 scattering them here and there over the world, ac- 
 cording t(^ the caprices of his fancy. Such M'ords of 
 his, liDwever. bad more of an echo than the long, 
 dull, and jiedantic arguments of Marmontel, or La 
 ]Iarpc. There is scarcely anythin.g of Rivarol's, in 
 written criticism, but his essay on Dante, which is 
 still the best thing extant on this magniticent poet, 
 I refer those curious in literature to it. There are 
 still to be found, by diligent search, certain scattered 
 notes on French or ft)reign ])oets. 
 
 In 17S1, one evening in April, the wits, the iihil- 
 osophers. the great lords, and the great ladies, were 
 stnitting u]t and down the saloon of the Duchess de 
 Coigny. On this evening, Tiivarol. mIio was to read 
 his journal, that is to say, talk right and left, kept 
 them M'aiting l(»nger than usual. As soon as lie en- 
 tered, a dee]) silence ensued. Everybody looked at, 
 and listened with interest to this great man of genius, 
 who rivalled the philoso])hers in reasoning, the fine 
 ladies in grace, the wits in keenness, the great lords 
 in dignity. lie entered the saloon like a baron on 
 liis domains. 
 
 Almost as soon as he entered, Mhile an air of Phil- 
 id'.r was being played on the harpsichord, IJivarol re- 
 
 18
 
 206 RIVAKOL. 
 
 rparked a yoniig woman, whom lie had already met, 8 
 pale English or German beauty, whose head bent in 
 i-e\erv, would have made Ossian smile and weep. 
 PJvarol, suddenly iouched to the heart, was, absorbed 
 in the contemplation of this flower of sentiment; 
 seeinfj her i)ass on the balcony, still more sad and 
 meditating, he could not refrain from following hei-. 
 lie who was afraid of nothing, he who had never 
 trenil>lL'(l, 1h'c-;uuc i)ale and agitated ; he was on the 
 point of turning back; however, lie relied on his 
 readiness of wit, and went at all hazards, and leaned 
 on the balustrade, within a step of the young lady. 
 He wished to speak ; he could lind nothing to say ; 
 he had fallen in a few moments deeply in love with 
 this strangei-. T^ow Love is the least eloquent of all 
 the gods. As he appeared to be studying the revo- 
 lution of the planets, the young lady slowly left the 
 balustrade, and re-entered the saloon, hununing in a 
 voice somewhat harsh the last notes of the song of 
 Philidor. — "AVhy should I trouble myself about 
 her?" muttered liivarol; "she did not come here for 
 me; this nnisic reminds her of some fine beau; some 
 Arctic passion, dipped in the waters of the icy sea." 
 He, in his turn, re-entered the saloon, where a 
 great void was already felt. — " Come, Monsieur de 
 Rivarol," said Madame de Coigny, "you, who make 
 up the gazette of our times so well, tell us what is 
 iroing on at the theatre and the government, at the 
 Academy and at Ycrsailles."— "At the Academy," 
 said Eivarol, " Champfort has had his say, and has 
 spoken like a book. It is a pity; I hoped better of 
 Champfort at the Academy; he is nothing more 
 than a sprig of lily, grafted on a poppy-head."—
 
 HiR wrr. 207 
 
 "Alas, tlie poor Academy!" said the Abbe de Ilas- 
 tignac ; " Champfort was only wanting to its glory ; 
 that Academy which has not given a thought to 
 Rousseau and Diderot." — "Rousseau and Diderot I" 
 exclaimed Rivarol excited ; " they would have dis- 
 tin-bed the silence of the dead ; for even they, in 
 their writings, have stirring appeals and rhetor- 
 ical action, after their fashion ; they do not appear 
 to be writinii:; thev are always, as it were, at the 
 tribune, the very reverse of many who have the ap- 
 pearance of writing when they speak." — "If there 
 was an Academy of good talkers, M. de Rivarol 
 would be its President," said the Abbe de Baliviere. 
 Rivarol l)owed. — " Monsieur the Abbe de Baliviere 
 is like tliose people who are always going to sneeze ; 
 he is always going to be witty." — The abbe, thinking 
 it was a compliment, bowed in his turn. — "Monsieur 
 de Rivarol, 1 expect an epigraph from you to inscribe 
 in my book on morals." — " You mean an epitaph," 
 said Rivarol, with refined ci'ueltv. — This time the 
 abbe aekinjwledged himself l)eaten. — "Always jest- 
 ing, always a wag," he murmured, as he disai)peared 
 in the crowd. — "But," said the fair stranger, with an 
 English accent, "Monsieur de Rivarol can not fail tu 
 become a member t)f the Academy, for the wits as- 
 semble there." — "Ah, madame," said Rivarol, "I 
 know tliat it is a decided advantage not to have done 
 anytliiiig, Init one should not abuse it." — "ITow, Mon- 
 siein-de Rivarol I who, then, is more accomj)lished and 
 witty than yourself? Your conversation is a book al- 
 ways open — " — "At the same page," said Rulliicro. 
 who had just arrived. — "Good evening, Rulhii-re," 
 said Rivarol, a little nettled ; " it is always your way of
 
 208 KrVATIOL. 
 
 aimoimciiif>; yourself; I iiin here; why should wc 
 put on gloves ? In your criticism, the other day, 
 you cuffed me with the hand with which you were 
 writing." — M. de Grimm was then announced. — 
 "Tlic devil!" said the Al)be de Eastignac, approach- 
 ing Eivarol, " M. de Grimm apjK'ars to have given 
 the citizen of Geneva a good dressing, in a letter to 
 ]V[adame Necher."— " He must have taken great de- 
 light in writing that letter," said Rivarol, "for little 
 minds triumi)li ever the faults of great geniuses, as 
 owls enjoy an eclipse of the sun."— "Take care!" said 
 the Abb^ de Rastignac, "M. de Grimm has great 
 readiness of wit." — "Pshaw! there is nothing so un- 
 ready as readiness of wit."—" What news is there, 
 Monsieur de Grimm?" asked the Marchioness of 
 St. Charmont, "what do they say at Versailles?" 
 — "Nothing nuich," said Grimm, "there's the 
 king's joke" on tlie Abbe Maury. Tlie illustrious 
 abbe has preached at Versailles, as everybody knows." 
 — "On what subject, on what text of Scri])ture?"— 
 "Does the abbe ever think about Scripture? It 
 was all profoundly political ; he wanted to give the 
 kins: some lessons in finance, and the administration 
 of government. 'It's a pity,' said his majesty, on 
 leaving the church, 'if the Abbe Maury had only 
 talked to us a little about religion, he would have 
 siDoken of everything.'" — Rivarol resumed the con- 
 versation, and talked for nearly half an hour, in a 
 ])hilosophical and satirical vein on the ordinary topics 
 of the day. Madame de Coigny having made a sig- 
 )ial to him, he went to her. — "Yon do not know, 
 chevalier, that that charming English lady whom 
 you see down there is very much struck with your
 
 TRUTH AKD FICTION. 209 
 
 person ; she has come and asked me your address; 
 I do not know whj. Take care of yourself, the 
 English are very queer sort of people." — "I will 
 take care," said Rivarol, buried in his thoughts. He 
 immediately resumed his former conversation in a 
 loud voice : " The newest thing is a romantic little 
 story, not at all known, which much resemljles the 
 amours of Ore billon the Gay. I will narrate it with 
 fictitious names." 
 
 With these words, Eivarol cast an amorous glance 
 on the pretty English lady. He resumed as follows : 
 " It was in one of the three or four beautiful and 
 fashionable saloons, where the mistress is more a queen 
 than a marchioness. There were a great number of 
 agreeable people, and among them a certain adven- 
 turer might be remarked, who was much admired, on 
 account of his Avit according to the women, for his 
 shape according to some malicious men. On that 
 evening, our adventurer, whom I will call if you 
 like, tlie Chevalier de Saint Sorlin, was much less 
 ])ri!liant than usual. lie scarcely got out four jokes 
 in the space of two hours. What was the cause 
 of this melancholv chanije ? The chevalier was 
 in love. Xear one of tlie Avindows he had caught 
 sight of a beautiful stranger of the most attract- 
 ive charms, lie approached her in the recess 
 of tlie window, hoping to have an opportunity to 
 Bpeak to her at his ease. But how can a man talk 
 Avhen lie is in love, especially when just surjiriscd by 
 love? However he managed matters so well that 
 lie attracted the attention of the handsome stranger. 
 Slie condescended to lift her large blue English eyes 
 and look at him. 'J'he next day, toward noon, as ho 
 
 18*
 
 210 Rn^AROL. 
 
 was pacing his clianibei', and meditating on all the 
 charms of those beantiful eyes, there was a ring at 
 tlie door. The valet had gone out, so he went and 
 opened it himself, What is it that he sees on the 
 staircase ? The beautiful English eyes. Like the 
 tragedy heroes, he can hardly believe his eyes and 
 ears. The lady was a romantic English woman. 
 She had found our friend to her taste. She w-as a 
 widow, and consequently free, and she came to offer 
 hiui her libei-ty, her heart, lier hand, and her income. 
 ' In consideration of what ?' asked tlie chevalier. 
 ' Marriage,' replied the lady. ' Permit me to fall at 
 your feet, and kiss your hands.' — ' On one condi- 
 tion ; the most beautiful woman in the world can 
 only give what she has. Now when she has nothing 
 in her heart but ennui, ennui is all she bestows. If 
 I should be in that unfortunate condition, SM-ear 
 to me that we shall separate from one another for 
 ever after the first quarter of an hour of ennui.' — 'I 
 swear to you !' A kiss ratified the oath. In a few 
 days they are to be married. Meanwhile pray tell 
 me, ladies, what you think of such a marriage ? Will 
 that couple love one another ?" 
 
 Madame de Brancas answered thus : "Yes, cer- 
 tainly, like a great many others ; but they will not 
 live six weeks together ; for, though they lived on 
 ambrosia in Mahomet's paradise, they would have 
 some quarters of an hour of ennui. Do not believe that 
 two destinies will follow the same road in perpetual 
 harmony! "When the one would dream in the shade, 
 the other will want to expand in the sunshine. From 
 this or something else will come the first quarter of an 
 hour of ennui. But after all we did not come into the
 
 THE ENGLISH LADY. 'ill 
 
 world ir:eroly to amuse ourselves. Is not that your 
 opinion, my fair cousin ? I think that the counsellor 
 must be of the same opinion." 
 
 The next day, toward noon, a ring Avas heard 
 at Rivarol's door. As he no longer kept his valet, 
 he went and opened it himself, fancying that he re- 
 cognised the step of his sister. He was not a little 
 surprised to hehold his pretty English woman of the 
 previous evening. '* It was no fiction then," said he, 
 Lowing. After a \erj graceful courtesy, the lady 
 passed without ceremony into the antechamber. 
 " Xo, monsiem-," said she, " no, it is not a tiction. I 
 am wearied ; I do not know wiiat to do with myself. 
 You have taught me a very original mode of occup}'- 
 ing my mind." — " Madame, I did not anticii)ate so 
 mucli lui])piness: it was Heaven whicli inspii'ed me. 
 iJo me the lionor to walk into the parlor." Tlivarol 
 gently took the hand of the lady to conduct her. 
 Tlie lady allowed herself to be conducted, with a 
 smile. " You do not know who I am. I will tell 
 you in a word. I was left a widow after having been 
 married two years to a poor Welsh baronet, avIio 
 made somewhat of a hole in my f )rtune." — " And, 
 in your heart," said Ivivarol. — " Such damage is not 
 irreparable." — " It is very cold in this parlor," re- 
 plied Ilivarol ; "suppose we step into the bedroom." 
 The hidy i-aised her head proudly so as to dispense with 
 a Te\)]y "Your wishes shall be iulfilled in every 
 respect, my lady. I engage myself from the j)re8- 
 ent moment to be ever at your service." — " My for- 
 tr.ne is slender." — " Mine is nothing at all. I live 
 from liand t<» mouth, although like a lord, it is true 
 that I alwavs dine out ; but that is a consideration
 
 212 KIVAROL. 
 
 which amounts to nothing in a marriage contract."— 
 '• You have what is better than fortune, "vy^it iind 
 genius, which at the present day are almost ec^ual to 
 a throne." — ''Yes, a tlirone whose every step is a 
 breakneck one; l)ut with you, my hidy, a man would 
 rise far beyond a throne." 
 
 Three weeks afterward, Eivarol blindly married 
 this romantic lady. Slie was a sort of a blue-stock- 
 ing wlu) came from London, where her face had 
 gained her some success. She was nut an English 
 woman at all, but was born in the Vosges, at Rennr- 
 emont. Rivarol, however, always called her my 
 lady^ so as not to let the world think that he had been 
 deceived ; for scarcely had he been married before 
 )ie discovered that mij lady was no other than a well- 
 known adventuress who had taken him at liis word, 
 not well knowino; what to do with herself This coun- 
 terfeit noble woman had succeeded, by dint of in- 
 triinie, in irainino; admission to the soirees of Madame 
 de Coigny. Hivarol himself never succeeded m 
 learning her origin and adventures, but he soon 
 knew too well that the little fortune of which she 
 had spoken, with such a prudent air, was reduced 
 to zero. You can easily imagine, that between Riv- 
 erol and my lady, the first quarter of an hour of en- 
 nui soon made its appearance. There was not even 
 a honey-moon; the red moon soon displayed its ih- 
 omened crescent over this ill-sorted marriage. In a 
 letter dated in the first days of his marriage, Rivarol 
 wrote to M. de Lauraguais : " I have seen fit to slan- 
 der Love, and he has sent me Hymen to avenge him." 
 With my lady, evil days had come to Rivarol. 
 He had never had money except accidentally, thanks
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 213 
 
 to plaj, love, or friendship. He had always lived 
 at the expense of his neighbor. lie Imd lived mag- 
 nificentlv at the house of Madame de Polio-nac, at 
 M. de Bntfon's, at M. de Brancas', at the finest 
 mansions in Paris, and the finest conntiy-seats in the 
 provinces. They disputed with each other the privi- 
 lege of entertaining this singular man, who paid his 
 reckoning with the small change of his wit. All his 
 powerful friends thought themselves well paid. He 
 was not one of those vulgar parasites who administer 
 long draughts of flatterv to their hosts. Rivarul al- 
 ways had great freedom of manner. He flattered 
 no one. Before a lord he assumed the airs of a lord. 
 He never shrank from the truth, however bitter it 
 might be. Kow, how was he to live, as he was no 
 longer single ? The noise caused by his marriage 
 troijl)led him a great deal. He was pitied and less 
 sought after. He attempted to make himself a home, 
 where he would find consolation in labor; but he 
 was lazy, and his wife violent. 
 
 After some matrimonial storms, Rivarol gradually 
 retrinu'd to his old mode of life, and began to run 
 about the world without troubling himself about liis 
 wife. My lady, whose anger was constantly in- 
 creasing, fell sick. Her life was even in danger. 
 Kivarol remained insensible, telling everybody that 
 a woman so well i)ickled was ^n-e to last until 
 eighty. "Wearied with continually hearing bitter 
 complaints, he abandoned his home to follow ^fa- 
 nette, another adventuress of easy access, whom he 
 uncer<;inoniously made his mistress. He was, liow- 
 ever, cruelly ])unished for his ba-^e aband(»mnent of 
 one whom he I'ud taken under hi^; iirotofti'^n Oru-,
 
 214: KIVAROL. 
 
 fine morniiic; lie read in tlie Journal that the French 
 Academy had just decreed the prize of virtue to the 
 servant-maid of M. de Itivai'ol, f<>i' haviui^ nursed 
 and taken care of Madame Tlivaro], who had been 
 abandoned by her husband. That -was enough to 
 crush for ever a man of feeling. liivai'ol was only 
 a man of wit — he carelessly laughed it off. 
 
 He was soon pardoned in a Avorld whei'C virtue 
 was no lono-or a title of noT)ilitv. He found another 
 home with Manette, whose laughing prattle some- 
 times charmed him. This second retreat was not 
 free from storms. Manette had travelled a great 
 deal. She had left the marks of her light footstep 
 in Italv and England. A woman who travels lets 
 her heart travel too. Rivarol was jealous and fickle. 
 It often happened, according to Garat, that he took 
 his gentle mistress by the hair of her head, Avith a 
 most gentle intention of ])itching her out of the 
 window; but he I'ccollected himself in time. Ma- 
 nette was an amiable copy of Manon Lescaut, who 
 had come from her province, ignorant and poor, but 
 very pretty. She had understanding, but especially 
 the understanding of love ; besides she had studied 
 at the school of So])hie Arnould. May I not insert 
 this charming epistle to Manette? — 
 
 O thou, Munette, O thou ! to whom all books are sealed, 
 Who never yet hast read two words in one of mine ; 
 To whom e'en prose and verse have never heen revealed. 
 Who knr)west not if ink and paper do combine 
 
 The causes both of good and ill — 
 If other poppies blow, and other laurels twine, 
 
 Than those with care the gardeners till ; 
 Who knowest not a quill when parted from its goose; 
 Who often tendered me, some knotty point to loose,
 
 A GRAMMARIAN. 216 
 
 Youi scissors : or some scraps of thread, with dcxt'roiis skill 
 ^ly odds and ends of chat to patch and stitch together ; 
 Ah, keep for me, I pray, this ignorance for ever. 
 
 Those nothings that your head doth fill. 
 
 If aught should make you grow more wise, 
 
 To you small gain from it would rise, 
 
 While all my happiness you'd kill. 
 Have ever taste for me, such as in fruit we prize. 
 
 And spirit we from rose distil. 
 
 lu his pjreat Discourse on the Universality of the 
 French Lanfjuagc^ Ilivarol, then actually Count de 
 liivarol, showed himself a truly profound granmia- 
 rian. De>]tite all the jealousy of the journalistos who 
 wrote,against the journalist who talked, there was but 
 <tiie cry of admiration throughout the gazettes, there 
 were,howevor. for all that, as usual, bitter criticisms, 
 like that of Garat. This discourse is a noble monu- 
 ment for our tongue. It is the work of a sagacious, 
 reasonabh'. and original mind, rejecting with disdain 
 tlie old frippery of the common places of rhetoric 
 and i)hilosopliy. He runs over the history of lan- 
 guages witliout stojiping too long at the writers of 
 jMiuderous toines. like Vosius, Bochart, Brigant, Geb- 
 elin, who wrote to be ivtid by no mortal man. The 
 learned and the «nperficial may follow Hivarol with 
 tlie same ease. He tjuides us throuah the labyrinth 
 with a Itetter clew than Ariadne's, that of his bold 
 and Imiiinous intellect. 
 
 lie ended by takinn: a irreat liking to the lihil- 
 osophical study of languages. It is known that Lei!>- 
 nit/. wished tliat the peo]»lc of the world were di- 
 vided accoi'ding to their languages. lie was even 
 <lcsirouis of makinir a ireoo;ra])hical chart on this T)lan, 
 Iliviiro], thinking the idea an ingenious one, said ihal
 
 216 RIVAKOL. 
 
 he woultl uiidcrtiikc Leibnitz's chart, provided thai 
 he was imprisoned in Mahomet's paradise, ■\viih- 
 ont women, and guarantied the h'fe of a patri- 
 arcli. Even in a paradise of Mahomet, Rivarol 
 could not have resigned himself to the laborious 
 scrapings of the pen : he would rather have talked 
 to himself. Such indolence is to be de])lored when 
 we reflect that this intellect, eager to talk on evciy 
 subject, and to talk v/ell, had a far-reaching horizon 
 in the regioas of philosophy. A little good resolu- 
 tion, pen in hand, he might, perhaps, Avho knows, 
 have arrived at the knowledge of the primitive lan- 
 guage, and the derivation of all the second aiy 
 dialects, which are spoken throughout the globe. 
 How much would he not have left besides in all 
 departments ? For it was only by caprice that he 
 wished to shine as a linguist. He was especially 
 poet and philosoijher : he talked politics like a great 
 statesman. To express in a word how much his intel- 
 lect was prized, I will recall the remark of the Duke 
 de Brancas, who when solicited to subscribe to a new 
 edition oi iha Encyclopedia^ replied, "The Encyclo- 
 jyedia ! of what use is it since Rivarol visits me V 
 
 This Discourse on the Universality of the French 
 JLangiiage^ obcained the prize of the Berlin Academy. 
 Frederic ordered his academy to receive Kivarol. 
 He wrote to him himself a very laudatory letter. 
 Kivarol replied in verse, he could not do less. It ia 
 in this epistle that these pretty lines are found : — 
 
 For me — of Nature the abandoneJ child, 
 Nursed by the hands of indolence and ease, 
 Unnerved by pleasure — it must be my doom 
 To find at once oblivion in the tomb.
 
 niS FAMILY IN PAKIS. *317 
 
 Notwithstanding his pcrious vrritings on language, 
 morals, and politics, llivuvol did not abandon the 
 6eei)tre of wit. He alwayc scattered wit). qz,^v. hr.iius 
 his sparkling showers. Ke incessanllj pursiied his 
 friends and his enemies wi'h his piquant satires. 
 One day, at the Palais Koval, he saw Fkrian pass 
 before hiiu, wirh a nf.aniu^.cript sticking half out of 
 his coat-pocket. " Ah, Monsieur de Florian," he 
 cried to him, wiih his mocking smile ; " if you wi.?-o 
 not known, how you would be robbed !" About the 
 same time he dined at Mudame de Polignac's, vhere, 
 while they were c-xnectiii;! ^c-mj witty remark, lie 
 blurted out some groi?3 Gcipldi'LV in order to see 
 how the guests woidd look. Tlicre was fi goneral 
 exclamation: "Thai; is jutl the way. I can cot 
 say M.iytiiing ctupid without seme one 's ci jin^ out, 
 'Str»p thief'"' 
 
 For i?ome years still, P.ivarol continued to be Iho 
 most redour'rtlile pamplileteor, whether he wi-Aq or 
 spoke. Ilis father having died, he si-ir.moned to 
 him a brother and two of his sisters, gaye them titles 
 according to his custom, spent his last ciown on their 
 toilettes, and ijrought them out iu the fashionable 
 world, where they hv.no, wi-hout haying to wait too 
 long, suitors in marilcre. This was what Rivarul 
 expected. The b.'c.hjr also m.itde his way well. 
 lie became major-goneral. Hi-arol said of him : 
 " He would have been the v/it ci ar.y other family, 
 lie was tlie fool of ours." 
 
 As tile lievolution apprc?ch"d, Lc might have hvA 
 a fine career by nuikiug liimself the ])aiii|ild<'tcjr of 
 the peojil*'. Tills lie 'tus.lidn^d doing. Jle despised, 
 Bfiy.H a biographer, the p liticsci tho strccU and of the 
 
 ■ a
 
 21S KI\ vKOL. 
 
 tavu"";. He took vp t.ie detcnce of all that Llind no. 
 bility, who i-p.d been his companions in pleasure. It 
 must be adi'iitied that M. de ^[aurepas liad already 
 paid hin; royally at so nuich for every word and 
 every line. It nnist be admitted that Queen Marie- 
 Antoinette, vrho soug-ht arms and orators to Gup])ort 
 the tottering throne, had summoned Rivarol to Ver- 
 sailles. Accordingly, on his return from the palace, 
 Rivarol, without losing time, wrote against Mirabean, 
 and thundered violently against " this chimerical 
 equality, which over-excited brains wanted to establish 
 in the finest country of Europe. While lulling the 
 people to sleep with tales of the golden age, you rivet 
 their chains more firmly for the future. You give 
 them the raire of the lio.i, without arming them wiin 
 his strength. Absolute equality between men will 
 always be a myf-f;ery •>! ilie philosophers. The 
 clj7-rch constantly builds up, but the maxims of the 
 innovatoi'S tend only to destmction — they will 
 niin the rich without enriching the poor. Instead of 
 the equality of property, we shall soon have only 
 the equality of misery." In order to describe Mira- 
 beau in a word, he said : "This Mirabeau is capable 
 of anything for money, even of a good action." 
 
 The Duke of Orleans despatched the Duke dc 
 Biron, to gain him to his Ciiuse, He refused. The 
 king himself had recourse to Rivarol. One moniing, 
 M. de Malesherbes was announced. Rivarol rose 
 resDectfully. '' I come," said the ex-m lister, " in 
 behalf of the king, to propose to you an interview 
 with his majesty, for nine o'clock this evening. The 
 kinc:, filled with esteem fur vour talents, has thouirht 
 that considering]: the difficidt circumstances in whicli 
 
 O
 
 Loms xvr. 219 
 
 the state is plat.-ed, he might Ciaim them." — ''Mon- 
 sieur," answered •Rivuroi, " the ]>"in£r has had perhaps 
 ah'eady but too maiiy counsels. I have but one to give 
 I'-ini : If he wishes to rei^n, it Is time that he should 
 act the king ; oihervoise A; icilt ne no longer kingP 
 As we- L-ee, Tlivarol preserved his freedom of 
 speech. He did not consider himself obliged to any- 
 body, ev-i:n to tho hing. He wiis punctual to the ap- 
 pointment. "Sire," said he to this king, who only 
 knew hov*- to listen ; " pardon me if I venture to speak 
 the truth." And after this ])reamble, Hivarol looked 
 aro\md liim, as if truth had been ill at ease before 
 the throne of Louis XYI. "The state is beggared, 
 sire, tliere is its weak side. M. jSTecker is a charla- 
 tan : his report is a trap to gain conlidence, without 
 anything i-csulting for the good of the state. The 
 ri^tables are called together, plenty of ciphers for a 
 case of simple subtraction, llely on it, sire, when 
 one wislies to prevent tlie horrors of a revolution, 
 one must desii'e and carry out a revolution himself. 
 The ])arliaments and the philosophers have com- 
 menced the mischief, especially the ])iMliamcnts ; 
 tiiev formed l»v an esprit de corps a barrier of selfish- 
 ne.-s, which ahnost always opposed the royal power. 
 If I h;id lieen king of France, I should not have 
 exik'd tliese memboi-s of parliament, but should have 
 had them takm to Cliarcuton, where they wouhl have 
 been treate<l like limatics. It is better, wlien (jiie 
 i.' condemned to command a great i)eo])!e to ctunmit 
 sin njtparent injustice, than to see the sceptre of power 
 ])roken in one's liands. Weakness is worse f^r a 
 kitii; than the tvrai\nv which maintains order. For 
 yon, sire, there remains for you yet to — act the ling.''
 
 220 KIVAKOL. 
 
 The kino; did not understand a word of this dis- 
 cdirse. lie disniis«ed Rivarol, and declared tliat 
 he would consider it. Rivaroi pushed farther and 
 farther into tlie arena, became more and more ardent 
 in tlie strno-c'le ; he let loose all his wrath and all his 
 wit on the Orleans faction. He was soon informed 
 that there v/as a great deal of talk at the club des 
 cordeliers of strino-imi; him a la lavterne. He did 
 not care to brave the danger, but departed quietly 
 for the chateau de Manicamp, where hi;^ old friend 
 the Count de Laurao-uais had already taken refuw. 
 li was a noisy solitude, full of lackeys and equi- 
 pages. Hence Rivarol continued his pamphlets, 
 l:ie Acts of the Apostles^ with Champcenetz, his 
 Theory of Political Bodies^ his National Journal^ 
 Solomon of Cambray. It is also at this time that 
 his history of General La Fayette dates, whom he 
 calls General Morpheus. The celebrated Burke, 
 somewhat later, reading these political writings of 
 llivarol, exclaimed, with enthusiasm, that they 
 ■would one day be placed along side of the annals 
 of Tacitus.* 
 
 • The Earon de Tbcis, who had often seen Rivarol in 1791, at 
 Maiiicarrip. has been iiind enou'jh to note down liis remiiiiscpiices for 
 me. I sliall reproduce but tliis one from ell these precious notes, 
 which well display Kivarol's manner about that time. " His Hcldres? 
 inspired confidence. He disseminated about him an atmosphere of 
 happiness and pliilosophy. He had an open countenance, a sonorous 
 voice. His con 7crsat;i-.n was brilliant, and inpid as li^litnin?. If the 
 conversation became serious, this came man, co remarkable for his 
 lovely sallies, suddenly became an c'oquent orator, but always sen- 
 sible : then relurnimir to his habitual di.^pisition, and as if he re- 
 pented of havini^ talked sense loo long a time, he ended with some 
 brilliant witticism. " M. (]e Theis haa otill fresh in his memory the 
 personal apfjearance of Hivcrol. " Hs was tali and comely, had 
 e noble manner, Gne features, an eagle glance, a delicate and smilingr
 
 ris ExnV: 221 
 
 Meanwliile Kivarol, fearing to be discovered b}' tlic 
 Bans-culottes of the revolutionary inquisition, resolved 
 to expatriate himself, like so manv others. He sum- 
 moned Manette to him, and departed for Flanders in 
 her joyous company. At Brussels he wrote again in 
 defence of the king, wlio had just been imprisoned. 
 From Brussels he went to London, where he left 
 Manette ; from London to Hamburgh, where he re- 
 mained some years. He was much sought after by 
 foreigners, b}"" emigrants, and by the small number of 
 the learned who chanced to meet there. While there 
 he wrote for the Spectateur du Iford^ but as usual, 
 pai"simoniously. The lines which follow will give you 
 a just idea of the voluptuousy«r niente that had seized 
 Rivarol : " Indolent to excess, Rivarol had already 
 passed the period when his dictionary was to have 
 been finished, without having a single article in it 
 ready. Fauch, a printer, at H':.mburgh,took him to liis 
 house, lodged him there, shut him in, put sentinels at 
 his door, and forbade enii-ance to the listeners with 
 whom Rivarol liked to oVLrroimd himself; in a word, 
 he forced him to write. IMvarol, a prisoner, supplied 
 matter slowly, but furnished, at last, to Fauch's work- 
 men three or four pages a-day, by drawing upon a 
 large stock of thoughts scattered in his portfolio, or 
 
 mouth; and to cr').vn all r\ fine brown head of hair. He had the Iiest 
 liair of any man of h!.-* '.i.rjc. He showed orinina! elci^ance in his dress, 
 ahh(M):;h it was ah'sy? simple." M. do Theis sau- u very bea\itifui 
 wmiian at Mar.ic.m;:, wh-.' iiad come privately Iosco Ri\arol. He was 
 not alii ^ to discover wnelhcr or no it was Madame Rivarol. The 
 joiirnahst lovi-d mys'ery in every thine, he opened to no one tiie vast 
 voliiiiie of his I rivutc life. He had a reason for tiiis, for it was one 
 ■i( llic K<Miid:iliius volniiicH of his epoch fertile in scandal. M. de 
 Theis al>'o saw the son (T Kivarol, whu was called Kaj)liael, and was 
 as beautiful n" K.ipiiael must fiave l/een at ten vears of age.
 
 223 KivAKor,. 
 
 ratlier, in little ticketed l)ai;-!^, wliore It was his ens 
 toni to throw thoni. Thus was Rivarol delivei'ed, at 
 the end of thi'ce niontlis, of his preliminary dis- 
 course.'' 
 
 I will also copy the conclusion of a letter of lliv- 
 arol's, tonching his indolence at Hamburgh : "It is in 
 vain for in}' laziness to plead its ancient privileges. I 
 treat it like an old accpiaintance. I work as much as I 
 can, but never as much as I would wish to. A taran- 
 tula, named Fauch, as sharp after a page of text as a 
 dog after the cpiarry, is continually on mj scent. My 
 Iriend, one must make his track of sadness in this 
 lower woi-ld, in order to have some claim in the other. 
 I have, I think, marked my own sufficiently deep."* 
 
 From Hanibnrgh, Rivarol went to Berlin, where 
 he resolved to live until the end of what he called 
 the saturnalia of French libertv. He was received 
 by the king of Prussia better than a Condc or a 
 Moritmorcncy would have been. lie fonnd at Ber- 
 lin, as at Paris, a brilliant auditory to hear him talk 
 politics or the belles-lettres. He even fonnd friends, 
 whicli had not bc<n his fortune at Paris. Among 
 othei-:-, he cited the embassador of Sweden and M. 
 G'.jaiiie.'a. He made liis peace willi Delille, and some 
 other exiles, whom he had formerly bitten to the qnick 
 
 • One of Riviirol's sisters, given by hirr in tnnri'iai^e to the Banin 
 il'Angol, \v;is the mistress of Lum ;-.ir!.'?.; s"-.- h;i(l followrd this 
 cencral in his exile, to (iait:ii<e wilh faitlifiii love, his evil (nrtiines. 
 She often wrote to lier brother: "Draw Duinoiirit^z from his tomti ; 
 hy whnt he has <lone, we may jti<!ge what lie will d i," she repcateil 
 inres;i:inlly. Kivnrol, ioi|M)iluri((l, wrote to his si.strr; "Opinion liillcil 
 l)ijnioiiri(Z when ho quilted Frnr.ce. 'F'ell him, ther'^fore, a-! a friend, 
 lo net the part of a dead man ; it is the only one wl-ich it suits him to 
 play ; the more he writes that he live.s, the more i>h>.linately will 
 they >?lieve him U lie dead."
 
 niS DEATH. '2'Zi^ 
 
 in his Sv^1:ii'cs ; "hut liis most delightful friendship at Ber- 
 lin wa;5 that with the Princess Olgorouska, wlio loved 
 the sciences, scholars, and poets. The princess 
 was still youno- nrettv enough. She lavished her 
 fortune royallj like a Russian princess. It will be 
 readily undeibtood that Kivarol found this mode of 
 livinir in excellent taste. " One can at least console 
 one's self," he wrote to Paris, " for being far from 
 one's country, and above all from one's wife." It 
 was quite ten years since he had heard the latter 
 spoken of. It must be admitted he was never the 
 first to broach the subject. His son was in the ser- 
 vice of Denmark. 
 
 He was attacked mortally on the 5th of April, 
 1801, some saj by a violent fever, others by an in- 
 flammation of the chest. He was only sick seven 
 days. All that was illustrioui} in Boi'lin, at court and in 
 city, showed their friendship and devotion. He was 
 sensible to the last moment, and died like an ancient 
 philosopher, surrounded by friends and flowers. His 
 death has been difierently related. According to Sul- 
 pice de la Platiere, he died fully impressed with the 
 truth of the immortality of the soul, never los'jig his 
 serenity, accustoming himriolf to the idea of death sur- 
 rounded by the flo\\cr,'5 of spring, having a parterre 
 of roses in sight, and at last expiring witii theLO 
 solemn words : "My IrieU'l^, beheld the great shadow 
 aiijjroaches, tliese r"/6ca are about to change to poj*- 
 pics : it is time to conteiiqjhate eternity." 
 
 According to the O'lli-n" of his works, he died like 
 a sage of (ire- ce. Tlie eve of his death, forc-flceing 
 liis ap|»roachIng end, he had himself taken to the 
 (•<-M:itry-.seat of the Piiiicess Olg<.in»uKka. He was
 
 224 klVAROL. 
 
 desirous that liis chamber should be strewn Avith 
 flowers, his bed drawn to the window whence 
 he could see a garden and a brook. " Here I am," 
 he said, "between the four elements," alluding to the 
 brook, the garden of roses, the air which caressed 
 his burning forehead, the love of tlie princess. Di-iJng 
 the evening he had moments of delirium, demand- 
 ing Attic figs and nectar. The princess wished to 
 take hi? hand, he was dead. 
 
 Finally, according to Madame de Tlivarol, who 
 saw fit to write about him after t\^•enty years of ab- 
 sence, he died in a very ])rosaic manner, uttering 
 furious cries, which were heard diirinrj three days 
 from one end of the city of Berlin to the other. I 
 would push gallantry very far in order to give cred- 
 ence to an account by a woman, if it was not Madame 
 de Ilivarol writing about her husband. 
 
 What is beyond doubt,is that Ilivarol died yor.ng, 
 leaving behind him only the fragments scattered 
 here and there of a splendid work. His ideas hava 
 left traces of their passage, his style is of the grjiid 
 school, by turns pompous and energetic, always ori- 
 ginal, not avoiding enough the play of words and 
 jingle of sentences. But what will live above all of 
 this man, who only showed what he could have dono, 
 is his pure and simple wit, the tra'i'iion of his eliarp 
 and genial eloquence. In a word, Ilivarol w:ll live 
 in political and literary } istory because Iw v:as th"^ 
 finest talker of the eighteenth centuij.
 
 THE CHEVALIER DE LA CLOS. 
 
 Fancy to yourself, in 1760, at the time when 
 Sophia Amonld made her debut at the opera, nnder 
 the reign of Madame de Pompadour, a young man, 
 grown jD-ale from dreams of heroic glory, studying the 
 actions of the most illustrious captains, already re 
 nowned for his bravery, because he had fought in a 
 duel, in despair of displaying himself on another 
 field of battle; by turns proud and happy to feel in 
 his grasp the hilt of a sword, to discover in books the 
 science of v/ar. 
 
 Xow behold another portriiit: — A chevalier of 
 1766, representative of the roues of the Regency. 
 We are at the opera, at the debut of Mademoiselle 
 Beaumesnil. A pastoral is represented. Our chev- 
 alier is in :i 1)().\, ill fiur and good company. They 
 call him zevalier : he :ipy)lands the actress, and ex- 
 claimo adoahle! He dioappcars from the box, to go 
 and (ifi'er his congrutiil.-.uons to the debutante. On 
 approaching, he repc-its to her some impertinent 
 verses. Mademoiscllo Beaumesnil, in her delight, 
 promises to receive him at h<2r tuivate levee. He re 
 turna to the box. where hii- long absence is already
 
 226 TiiK cii::vali1':k pk la clos. 
 
 a cause of complaint. In tliat box thei-j is a lad j of 
 forty, and a yonng girl just entering on life. 
 
 Do yon see, in a room in furnished lodgings, at 
 Grenoble, about 1779, a man who is already gray, 
 althuugh still yor.ng? He is seated at a littie table, 
 where he is writing rapidly, sometimes interrogating 
 his memory, sometimes turning ovei- Clarissa IJai'- 
 lowe^ the Hellgieuse., and the Noxiv-ille Ildoise. 
 It is nndnight; a small lamp throws its faint light 
 upon him. A malicious smile passes now and then 
 over his lips. Lavater would have said that this 
 man, who is wj'iting a satire in the style of Petronius, 
 is taking vengeance. It is a satire on the world in 
 which he has lived, on the world which has opened 
 its heart to him. Why should lie seek revenge? 
 From caprice; because he has discovered that at the 
 bottom of the cup was jioison ; because, dwelling in 
 the hearts of women, he found the hell that was there 
 concealed. But, believe it, he sought vengeance, 
 because, as a poet has said, he felt the shores of 
 youth gliding- .^way. 
 
 '89 has struck, like the funeral knell of the eigh- 
 teenth century. Let us follow this man, who is begin- 
 ning to be old ; but who, by his actions, wishes to 
 persuade himself that he is still young. Let us follow 
 him, step by step. Do yon see him, at first, in those 
 noisy orgies of the Palais Royal, S' ated at the right 
 of the prince, whose councillor he is. — "Libert}'! re- 
 public I" cry all these men of wit after supper, who 
 fancy themselves proud Romans; "Liberty! repub- 
 lic!" — The cry issues from the Palais Royal, like a 
 cannon-ball, against the palace of the Tuilei'ies. Fol- 
 low the most excited of them all. Beliold him di'awing
 
 A REVOLUTIONIST. 227 
 
 ap Willi Brissot tlie famous petition of the Cliarrip do 
 Mars, calling for the trial of Louis XYI. 1'hat is not 
 all ; he makes himself the orator of the street, like 
 Camiile Desmoulir.s, on the day of the taking of the 
 Bastile ; he draws in his train all the passions of the 
 mob. A moment ago, he demanded the trial of the 
 kinir; it is the head of Louis XYL that he now 
 demands. The oratoi"s of the clubs are jealous of the 
 orator of the street, they imprison him to rid them- 
 selves from his furious ambition. Is it over? 
 
 Xo ; on the fifth of October, 1803, do you see that 
 man at Tarento who is dying, worn out by every 
 passion, good and evil ? On the previous night lie 
 had still fought. Grateful France will not, perhaps, 
 inscribe his name on a triumphal arch ; but v.-ill she 
 forget that the general of artillery, Chau-Ierlos c>e la 
 Clos, author of the Liaisons Dangereuses^ fought 
 heroically for her, on the Ehine and in Italy ? 
 
 Thus is this life of La Clos a varied picture, by 
 turns, as we have seen, a stern soldier, caring only for 
 his sword ; a gallant chevalier, frequenting gay soci- 
 iety and the tside 'ccnes, a writ/^r of satire and scan- 
 dal; an impassioned orator; at las'., a great captain; 
 arid yet in this introductory sketch, we have only 
 point'jd out the principal outlines. Let us examine 
 more clo.v;ly this complex figure. 
 
 Aparc i'l'oni a very brilliant paradox, by the author 
 OT Barnave^ v.-y find no literary mention of La Clos. 
 It Gsoms K3 if Ihe future was desirous of forgetting 
 thi:; r.'ime, v.fiich it would lie ujijust to bury in the 
 LtninonH Dr, u/ereusps. This romance! may be niithiiig 
 more than a curious monuim'iit ol" a ju-riiKJ which 
 liar, disafipcarod ; but has not La Clos raised himself
 
 2SS8 TIIR CIIEVALrER DE LA CLOS. 
 
 from this sad moiimnent by liis Icanied investigations 
 on artillery, and, above all by his glorious camjxiigns? 
 La Clos is unknown to the new generation ; and this 
 io;norance docs them honor; none but a few scholars 
 and men curious in literature hunt up his romance. 
 I have not been able to discover an engraved portrait 
 of him. The king had, at En or Neuiily, a fine por- 
 trait of La Clos; only one other exists, a crayon 
 sketch, in three tints, drawn by Carmoutel, during 
 an evening at the Palais Royal. It is a full-length 
 portrait, which I have been permitted to see, as a 
 priceless curiosity. La Clos is seated near a back- 
 gammon-table, leaning on his elbow, and thoughtful, 
 but it is not the game which occupies him. His face 
 bears the impress of about forty-five. It is a counte- 
 nance more intelligent than beautiful ; the lines are 
 strong, but a little sharp. That which first strikes 
 the eye is a prominent forehead, a scrutinizing 
 eye. an expression philosophical to excess, betraying 
 neithei- warmth of soul nor good nature. He, per- 
 haps, committed the grave f^iult of being profoundly 
 conscious that his ]>ortrait v.'as being taken, a general 
 failing, and from whicl) men of wit are not exempt. 
 J)urin<r this ei^-bteenth centurv, v.'lu^u no one believed 
 in anything, their very nnmc, tJie name of their father, 
 the most noble part of their heritage, was no long(a* a 
 sacred thing. In that very liteiature in which titles 
 were so cleverly ridlcalod, the M'riters emulously as- 
 sumed names having an air of nobility. In all r.r:cs, 
 men have taken pleasure in inconriGtency. Fonte- 
 nelle and Crebillon set the example; it is well brown 
 that their real names were Le Bouvier and Jollyot. 
 A nobi.ity <>i the pen was then seen to dawn. Some
 
 CHAUDERLOS. 220 
 
 sincere men, some frank natures, not liavinp; entirely 
 lost their family pride, as Piron, Diderot, Gilbert, 
 were content to make their names simple as they 
 were illnstrious ; bnt how many others have made 
 illnstrions a name not borne by their fathci-s ! Yon 
 would be surprised if I should make a catalogue 
 of all the names, thrown aside like old garments that 
 did not fit the figure. Thus, you know Poqaelin 
 and Arouet, but do yon know M. de Bouvier, M, 
 Carlet, M. Farad is, M. Pinot, M. Carton, M. Claris, 
 M. Pierres, M. Jollyot, M. Caron, M. Xericault? 
 At the last day, the destroj'ing angel, not having in- 
 scribed these writers under their true names, will 
 himself have much trouble in recognising Fontenelle, 
 Marivaux, Montcrif, Dnclos, Dancourt, Florian, Ber- 
 nis, Crebillon, Bcaumarchais, Dcstouches. 
 
 The wit and the general, my present subject, was 
 called neither more nor less than Chauderlos. How 
 could one make such a name illustrious by anything 
 fhort of conquering the world, or discovering anotlu-r? 
 The Iliad^ and all the other epic poems, cov.ld never 
 h^ve transmitted so unfortunate :i name to posterity. 
 If Bonaparte had been called Chauderlos, St. Helena, 
 tliat poetic symljol of all inndern gloiy, v/ould not fill 
 all the avenues of the nineteenth century, 
 
 Chauderlos did not wish to undertake to make his 
 father's name illriStrious. His mother was a Demoi- 
 selle La Clos; he found it moD sii.iple and more con- 
 venient to call hiin>elf de la. Clos, and <.-A'cn the Chev- 
 alier de la l/los; lie did "^o, and n'-body oonipl.ained. 
 
 Pi';rre And)roif:c C'lfvudcjlos, Chevalier de li 
 Clfis, was born at Ami'-i' in 1741, and died at 
 Tarento, in ISO.']. Thn.4 h.^ ['assed through -ill the 
 
 20
 
 230 THE riTKVAr.ii:u dk i,a clos. 
 
 pleasures flie follies, and tlie graiukmrs, of the mobi 
 curious lialf-century in the histoiy of France. His 
 father, a gentleman, or small proprietor, of Pieai'dy, 
 designed him for a soldier; La Clos entered, as a 
 candidate, the corps of engineers, where he "was ap- 
 pointed a sub-lieutenant, at eighteen. lie made his 
 finest campaigns in the hotels of 1760, from the ante- 
 chamber to the oratory. 
 
 A nuin of noble stature, ex})ressive countenance, 
 very gallant figure, accustomed at an early oge to ths 
 manners of good society, and theatrical intrigues, 
 liandling well his sword and pen, bold even to im- 
 pertinence, witty even to satire, he passed in the 
 gayest manner through the world, from conquest to 
 conquest. 
 
 lie tried the vanities of literature. He made his 
 debut in poetry, like Rivarol and Rulhiere, by a fan- 
 ciful epistle to a fashionable young woman. His 
 Jl^pistle to Mar<jot is equal to Voltaire's minor poems, 
 for its ease and wit. Widely known in the theatrical 
 M'orld, he availed himself of this advantage to pro- 
 duce a comic opera. He had been led into this easy 
 style of composition by an American, then in fashion, 
 M. de St. George, who rested himself from his duels 
 by composing musi..'. It has not been forgotten, that 
 tliis music was more ingenious than learned, display- 
 ing more spnght'iness than character. La Clos had 
 rc-id many romances : he borrowed the subject and 
 title of his opera from a romance of liladame Ricco- 
 boni, Ernestine. It will be remarked t/sat La Clos 
 did not display much invention. During tlie rrpre- 
 Hentation (I (;o -lOt say the first, for tlvre were not 
 two), La Clos and lit. George, like good fellovvs who
 
 ai'e ready for anything, walked up v.rA down, boaiiid 
 the scenes, pulling- tlie actresses' bouquets to ])ieces, 
 and promising them a good supper if the piece failed. 
 Doubtless, ttiey wanted to sup, but they did not ex- 
 pect to be taken at their word. Never was comic 
 opera more merrily hissed by the pit: toward the 
 middle of the piece, the whole audience attempted 
 variations, which prognosticated the destiny of ^r- 
 nestine. The piece was saluted at the fall of the 
 ciu'tain by a chorus of hisses. — " If we had not already 
 licaten one another," said the poet to the musician, 
 "' I could find gi-eat pleasure in cutting your throat." 
 — "And why miiie?" said the furious American, 
 who had not the courage to jest over his defeat; "for 
 you nuist ackno^^'ledge that it was your words which 
 lost all." — "Trulv! Do 3-ou ima<j;ine that thev lis- 
 toned to the words ? The music was quite sufficient !" 
 The two collaborators had assumed a sort of hu- 
 morously-menacing attitude, when the ])retty Mad- 
 craoiseiie Olympia, who played the part of Ernestine, 
 threw herself between them in alarm. — "I am lost I" 
 she exclaimod despairingly; "'tis the second time 
 this week I have been hissed." — "Do not crrieve," 
 said La Clos ; " with such eyes as yours, you can al- 
 ways recox'er yourself. Come and sup with me." — 
 " 'With ire !" said St. George, seizing the actress. — • 
 "Witi. neither of you," said she, repelling the mn- 
 ?!ir:an ; " I do n. t want to hear anything moi'c of yon ; 
 a man who has made me sing, f(( ti ta hi to tl — 
 that's worth the tronble of singing, truly I" — "You 
 are right," said La Clos;' "it is suju'rannnatod ninsic, 
 unw.^i-thy of hO sweet a mouth. You would jiavc 
 done better fx) liave pp"ken my words without singing
 
 232 THE CHEVALIER DE LA CLOS. 
 
 tliem." — "Ah, I advise you to talk in that style. 
 You have forgotten, then, how I was received when 
 I sang — 
 
 Wine is tlic cause of love, 
 And love the cause of diink. 
 
 Saj'ing these words, Olympia ran oif and disap- 
 peared in the recesses of the park of painted pa- 
 per. While La Clos pursued her, St. George sought 
 the other actors of the piece. Not one of them 
 would sup in his company, so desperate had been 
 the failure. It mi<fiit have been called a field of 
 battle, where the vanquished thinks only of retreat. 
 In vain did the authors pursue the actors as far as 
 their dressing-rooms, they could not find one to sup 
 with them. As they met again at the door of the 
 theatre, they looked at one another, with a peal of 
 laughter : " Shall we not sup ?" said La Clos. 
 
 St. George took his ai-m and led him to the 
 Cafe de la Regence. They entered wnth elevated 
 heads like conquerors. As they passed haughtily 
 by a group of chess-players, they jostled a spectator 
 who, in preserving his balance, pushed his neighbor 
 on the chessmen. It was Jean-Jacques Rousseau who 
 turned round furiously: "You intend to insult me^" 
 said he, pale and gloomy, fancying that he saw his 
 imaginary enemies ; for at that time, like Pascal, 
 lie saw everywhere an abyss, or rather death. 
 " Corbleu, monsieur," said La Clop, who did not 
 know the face of the celebrated philosoj)her of Ge- 
 neva, " do you know who I am ?" Everybody 
 t'lmed toward La Clos, with a movement of lively 
 and resj^ectful curiosity, the players themselves
 
 THE EEIGN OF THE rHiLOSOPHEKS. 23^ 
 
 raised their heads — " Know that you must not 
 speak to me without respect, for I am an unsuccess- 
 ful author." 
 
 Grimm, alhiding to this opera, says, that the genius 
 of Pergolese could not have sustained such words. 
 Bachaumont is not more favorable. " The author 
 has prudently remained incognito ; excellent music 
 would have lost all its value, adapted to this ilat and 
 detestable opera." 
 
 La Clos was not desirous of trying the chances of 
 the stage a second time. He cast himself still deeper 
 into the follies of the age, passing from the side 
 scenes to the boudoir, from the boudoir to the wine- 
 shop. 
 
 However, in this fine time they were no longer 
 content with seduction — the reign of Richelieu 
 began to wane, Jean-Jacques had arrived. A thou- 
 sand idlers around him echoed his words. Every one 
 vrao f-.nxious to preach in his turn. There was preach- 
 ing everywhere except in the churcli, everywhere 
 in fashionable circles, in boudoirs, even in bed-cham- 
 bers. More than one philosopher of the side-scenes 
 wrote his pamphlets against the manners of the age 
 on the knees tf an actress. La Clos wanted to be 
 heard. He had raised the veil of the; passions of 
 society at the saddest hour, as Diderot had raised 
 the veil of those of tlie c.t^iveiit. He mended his 
 pen, and witliout pity for the society which liad 
 nursed him softlj"- on its guilty breast, illumii.atcd its 
 li'.'itnres with a horrid glare by writing rh^ Li<iisov.s 
 l)an(jei'en.'if.'<. (/n^billon the Gay, who at'AV every- 
 thing in a laughing mood, liad written of the same 
 fK>ciety ; but his books were a deceprfvc nnrror, cov- 
 
 20*
 
 20 1- THE CIIKVALIEB DlC LA CLOS. 
 
 erod with roses and giiuze, wliicli reflected onl^ 
 agreeable scandals. lu place of these pretty patches 
 or' color, .indderdy appears a painter without tinsel, 
 who treads uiider foot the gauze and roses to repro- 
 duce the truth in all its nakedness. At lirst glance, 
 however, ha\'e we not still the heroes and heroines 
 of Crcbiilon : there is the same smile and the same 
 grace, silk and velvet, gold and flowers — nothir.g is 
 wanting. But look closer. Do you not see the 
 lijart which struijriJ'les and contends with evil ? Soci- 
 ety went every evening, after supper, a step toward 
 ruin. It had been playful in its vices, it had com- 
 mitted, laughingly, as in a freak, crimes prettily- 
 colored and 2)erfumed ; it ended, from being a gay 
 sinner, with becoming seriously criminal, for the sole 
 pleasure of committing crime. It was then that La 
 Olos seized it for his picture. Seeing itseif in this 
 gloomy picture, society became frightened at it. 
 However, wi!l it be believed \ Far from coverins; 
 its head with ashes, it took pleasure in ^'azing oi; 
 the features the painter had ]'e})roduced in y.U 
 the horrible truth which issues from an impure 
 fount:un. 
 
 The novel of La Clos was read, therefore, ".'.'it-h 
 avidity and v.'i'h terror. Everybody wisned to ?,j-.i 
 the man who wrote thus. Far from shutting the do'.-r 
 on him, th3y invir*?<i Idm to enter. La Cios hud 
 said to every one, ''I know you under your manl:/* 
 And all, Sv.?Ang a man who knew all secrets ?«o v/e.i, 
 fa-ttered him in four lest he might speak too lor- 1 
 Without disguising the names. 
 
 The success of the book was prodigious. csfuc:?,lly 
 m the saloons. It even formed a literary cpocli, hA
 
 LIAISONS DAA'GEKEUSES. 235 
 
 ti.e most difficult critics, Grimm for example, admit- 
 ted from the first, that it required a vast and diversi- 
 fied talent to write such a book. The novel appeared 
 mider this title : "Z<?.5 Liaisons Dangereuses^ or Let- 
 ter's collected in Society, and published for the bene- 
 fit of others, by M. C. do L ;" with this motto : 
 
 " I have seen the manners of my time, and I have 
 ]Miblished these letters." Grimm thus announced 
 this book to the soveixiigus of the north : " There has 
 not been a work, not even excepting those of Orebil- 
 lon, in which the disorder of principles and manners 
 of what is called good society, and which we can 
 scarcely after all avoid calling so, has been described 
 with more truth, boldness, and wit. !N"o one will, 
 therefore, be astonished at all the ill that the women 
 feel obliged to say against it. However great the 
 pleasure which the perusal has given them, it has 
 not been without some degree of chagrin. How can 
 a man pass for anything else than a monster, mIio 
 knows their secret so well and keeps it so badly? 
 ]Iowever, while they detest, they fear, admire, and 
 fete him; the man of the day and his historian, the 
 model and the painter, are treated almost in the 
 same manner. Whatever bad opinion mc may have 
 of Parisian society, we would find, J inuigine, very 
 few intrigues as dangerous for a yoimg person as 
 the perusal c>f the Liaisons DangeiNiusKsP 
 
 We will refriiin from recalling the scenes of this 
 novel, much better calcuhited to depiave than to re- 
 form its reader.' ; but we recognise in it an energetic 
 painter, more ocoujiied witli the outline, idea, and 
 character, tlifui die color. Wi- can not Iim. niucl'. ad- 
 iTiire the naivete and even the stupidity of (V'cilo
 
 •23() THE CIIEVALIEii DE I- A 01.08. 
 
 Yolanges. A man of mediocre talent has never 
 dared to portray a stupid woman. There are such ; 
 Cecile Vohmoes forms the hapi);est contrast to Ma 
 dame de Mertenil wlio is the demon of wit. An- 
 other, not less happy contrast, is the romantic virtue 
 of Madame de Tourvel, opposed to the fine vices of 
 the Viscount de Yalmont. 
 
 La Clos is not entirely the author of his hook. 
 Without Clarissa Ilarloioe^ the Nouvelle Ilaloise^ 
 and the Itellgieuse^ who Icnows Avhether he would 
 have written this novel, many of the pages of whicli 
 are merely echoes? We perceive Richardson, Jean- 
 Jacques, and Diderot, in the Liaisons Dangereupes. 
 La Clos was ]iot endowed with that creative genius, 
 which inspires an original work without foreign aid. 
 La Clos was a man of wit, who could see the world at 
 the moment Truth diffused her light. After having 
 seen, he wished to paint, but scarcely knowing how to 
 oketch,he tookthe pencil of theEnglish romance-writer, 
 the palette of Diderot, and the brush of Jean- Jacques. 
 Influenced by trutli, indignation, or the love of no- 
 toriety and scandal, guided by these illustrious mas- 
 ters, he succeeded in producing a living work. For 
 the back-gronnd, we discover at once that La Clcj 
 has contented himself with transporting the charac- 
 ters of Clarissa JIarlowe to Paris. He has dark- 
 ened them, and that is his secret. His true merit is 
 to have framed them after the manner of the time. 
 As regards the form, we at once recognise the pas- 
 sionate, flowing, energetic expression o^ \\\e liouvelle 
 TTeloise. As for the color and the truth they are de- 
 rived the Religieiise. This remark of Grimm pf.inta 
 La Clos in vivid colors : " If Ilctif de la Bietonne
 
 TL^KNS KEBIOUS VfRYTm. ?3? 
 
 is t}jc J^ousseau of the giittor, Chnuderlos de la Clos 
 is the Ptetif do la Bretoiuie of goc-d society."* 
 
 In 17S2, when he published the Liaisons Dan- 
 gereuses^ La Clos was, doubtless, man-ied. On this 
 point particularly, details are entirely wai^ting. 
 Michaud, in his dictionary, which it would be vseful 
 to supersede, contents himself vv'ith saying : *•' A good 
 son, a good father, a good husband.'' What became 
 of his children ? 
 
 In ITSf), W3 find Chauderlos de la Clos a warrior. 
 a serious writer, endeavoring to caf^t into oblivion 
 the Liaisons Dangereuses by a paper before the 
 French Academy, wliich had proposed a eulogy on 
 Vauban as the siibject for the prize in eloquence for 
 that year. At that time. La Clos no longer read 
 Itichardson, but Polybius. His paper has this motto : 
 " Endeavor to make your discourse useful rather than 
 brilliant." La Clos is very ftir from being the eulogist 
 of Yauban. lie admits that the illustrious marshal 
 originated the art of properly attacking a j)lace, but 
 he condemn;', him for having passed all his life in 
 fortifying without discovering the art of fortification. 
 lie accuses him (the accusation has been refuted in 
 the Journal des Savants) of liaving sunk fourteen 
 hundred and forty millions with terrible prodigality, 
 " to build up with one hand the fortresses which he 
 80 readily threw down with the other. Who could 
 praise him, after liaving cost France more tl an half 
 
 • While writing this, a contemporary ot" La Clos, the 3ame \vh: 
 has alre^.ly piv» n me a si^ht of tlie author of the Jjl/.i.iiiits I)inm;t<: 
 euaei, in the drawing of Carniontcl, assures loc that all the characters 
 of this romance arc portraits from life. The incidents took place at 
 Grennl)!e, as La Clos has related thern, with the exception '-f a few 
 episodes which may be reminiscences of liie youth of the novelist.
 
 23S TllK CllKVALIKU DE LA CLOS. 
 
 of the present natioiuil debt, and leavhiii; a portioi* of 
 lier frontiers exposed ? The system of M. de Yau- 
 ban is no more than a system of bastions, known a', 
 the end of the fifteenth century, and reguhirly em- 
 bodied ns early as 1567 in the citadel of Antwerp." 
 AVhen he wrote this memoir, still worthy of being 
 consulted,* La Clos was at La Rochelle, where 
 there was doubtless an academy ; for the memoir is 
 signed, Chauderlos de la Clos, of the Academy of 
 La Itochelle, 
 
 In ITS 7, La Clos again became a poet, of which 
 he gave evidence by a lively whimsicality on Oros- 
 manes, in reference to the tragedy of Yoltaire. We 
 regret that we have not been able in spite of all our 
 researches, to discover the collection of La Clos's 
 poems, in which the man must, doubtless, here and 
 there, appear beneath the poet. 
 
 Up to 1789, La Clos lived always a gallant aiul 
 a satirist, alwavs loved and sou2;ht after in the 
 fashionable world which he had described. During 
 the earlier storms of the Kevolution, he raised his 
 liead, and once again turned against this poor soci- 
 ety, to which he owed the splendor of his youth. 
 He became intimate with the Duke of Orleans, the 
 misguided prince M'ho evoked tlie tempest, and who 
 died without fear, lie wrote ])olitics in violent news- 
 ])apers, among others in the Journal of the Friends 
 <>f the Constitution. ^ He always v»'ent straight for- 
 ward, without fear and without regret. lie drew up 
 
 • Cnrnot, the member of the convention, published observations on 
 tliis tiKTiioir. 
 
 ^ .lnurn;il of tliR Jacobins, at a later date Journal of the Frier.ds 
 or ratbrr the enemies, of the Constitution.
 
 /KATOR OF TIIK CLUES. 23& 
 
 vrith Brissot tlie petition of tlie Champ de Mars, 
 which called for the sentence of Louis XYI. On 
 that day the orator harGug-ntd ^3 rabble, and at- 
 tracted to iiim all the passions of the streets. "Will 
 it be believed ? This success ',rith the mob turned 
 the head of him who had shone at his ease in gilded 
 saloons, among silk gov.-ns and broidered coats. lie 
 placed his eloquence at tlie service of the clubs, and 
 ■wherever he sa'.r the people assembled he turned 
 orator, and poured forth bitter sarcasms against the 
 nobilit}'. 
 
 After having made his marl: in Jul)-, 1T89, at the 
 club of Montronge, which was the club of the Or- 
 leanist nobles or Encyclopaedists, La Clos showed 
 himself very powerful by his eloquence and bold- 
 ness at the club of the Feuillants, at the Palais 
 Royal, at the Hill of the Mills. 
 
 The political career of La Clos commenced there- 
 fore with the first movements of thellevolution. He 
 liad lived fur several years in intimate familiary with 
 the Duke of Orleans, who appreciated the resources 
 of the military genius of the captain of artillery, as 
 well as the philosophical and satirical wit of the nov- 
 elist. "VYe can not say whether La Clos, who was a 
 reckless revolutionist, labored for liberty or for the 
 Duke of Orleans ; perhaps he labored for both. It 
 is beyond doubt that he displayed up to the death 
 of the king, in the clubs, the journals, and on tlu- 
 field of battle, the boldness inculcated by Danton. 
 
 He had ended by withdrawing from the tern 
 pest, wishing Uj breathe in freedom " fai' IVoni llu 
 saturnalia of liberty." But as soon as the country 
 wa-; declared in danger lie resumed service. II-
 
 £40 TUE CHEVALIER DE LA OLOS. 
 
 was appointed colonel of artilleiy under the old 
 General Luckner, We may aceoixl La Clos tlie en- 
 ■^irc ;;,dory of the campaio-ii, for the general allowed 
 Iiiniself to be governed by his colonel. 
 
 TTowever, as it was desirable to get rid of a man 
 as dangerous for his genius as his boldne.-'s, he was 
 on his return from the campaign, appointed governor 
 of the Frencli establishments in India. But how- 
 could he lose sight of the great drama in which he 
 played a part ? He chose to remain on the stage. 
 
 After the 5th and 6th of Octo1)er, he went over to 
 England with the Duke of Orleans. He returned 
 to France only to be imprisoned. His military genius 
 consoled him in prison. He sent Robespierre some 
 suggestions on political reform, which tlie too cele- 
 brated orator embodied in his own speeches. La Clos 
 obtained liberty to go to La Fere, to make ti-ial of a new 
 species of projectile, which was, accordiiig to him, more 
 terrible than a thunderbolt. The trial succeeded as 
 he wished, and surprised all the officers present. 
 Eut at Paris they thought him a dangerous man, and 
 sent him back to pjrison. His jjroject was aban- 
 doned, and, as an historian remarks, " is among the 
 number of forgotten inventions, which will return to 
 us some day from abroad." 
 
 Much astonishment has been expressed, tliat La 
 Clos should have escaped the fate of the Duke of 
 Orleans, since he was arrested as an Orleanist. Bi- 
 ographers, who were his contemporaries, declare, that 
 nc owed his safety only to his talent and address. If 
 liabbe, and some accounts of the time, are to be be- 
 lieved, La Clos was the author of I'obespierrc's 
 speeches. This is a point of history v hich can not
 
 EOBESPIEREE A TLAGIAKIST. 241 
 
 be discussed liere. We have scarcely formed an 
 opinion; we shall, therefore, take care not to express 
 any on either side. We have, however, had the 
 curiosity to study the style of La Clos in the Journal 
 of the Friends of the Constitution^ in the Gallery of 
 the States-General^ where we recognise him between 
 Mirabeau and Ilivarol,his fellow-laborers. We have 
 re-read Robespierre's speeches, and, why should we 
 not speak out ? Robespierre appears to us to be wholly 
 comprised in La Clos. It must not be forgotten that 
 in three or four important speeches, Robespierre sur- 
 prised everybody, especially his friends, who did not 
 ]>elieve in his eloquence. But, it will be said. La 
 Clos, after the death of Robespierre, would have 
 avowed himself the author of the speeches. Why 
 should he have done so ? La Clos was above the 
 need of this still perilous gloiy ; and besides, it 
 would have been the avowal of an act of cowardice. 
 Wc nnist, however, believe, since some one was 
 found to record it, that La Clos must have said so, 
 tliDUgh it might have been but once. 
 
 This man was always ready for anything. After 
 the 9tli Thermidor, Tallien, fearing him in his turn, 
 and wisliing to put him out of politics^ gave him 
 the supervision of mortgages. La Clos, according 
 t<» his custom, marked his tenure of office by re- 
 forms. Director of mortgages ! a curious position in 
 those vears of Vmble, when no man's land was 
 par red. 
 
 I{'>nai>aite, having become first consul, a])pointcd 
 La Clo.s gcTUM'al of a biigade in the army of tho 
 lihine, where ho distinguished himself among tho 
 bravest. \\v |ia.--sed thence into Italy with Mar- 
 
 21
 
 243 'iiiK ciii:v.\r,Ti:R de la clos. 
 
 inoiit, and took part tlieiv in tlic most i2;lorious feats of 
 ann>i. I)Oiiai>aite, observinir that La Clos luid Itceii a 
 ])n»t()un<l stndont of inankiiid, gave liiin, on hit? retni'n 
 to France, some missions of the most delicate character. 
 At hist, to ijive a strikini; proof of his esteem, lie ap 
 ])ointed him coimnander t)f the artillery destined for 
 the coasts of Italy. Scarce, however, had La Clos 
 arrived at Tarento, Avhen he sank, overcome by ten 
 vears of nnremittinar strui^i^les. lie died without 
 thinking of death, his mind preoccupied with the 
 future glories of France. One of his officers pro- 
 posed for his epita])h these six glorious words: 
 " Good citizen, brave soldier, loyal friend.'" 
 
 A strange destiny was theirs who commenced their 
 career under the reign of Madame Duban-y, and 
 closed it under that of Bonaparte ! a picture sketched 
 out by Boucher and finished by David ! 
 
 On the first publication of the above essay on 
 Chauderlos de la Clos, I received a note couched in 
 the following terms : — 
 
 " You have appreciated La Clos justly ; your 
 statements are for the most part exact ; but why 
 have you not opened the Almanac of T'wenty-Jive 
 Thousand Addresses V 
 
 I opened the Almanac in question, and found 
 there, Choderlos de la Clos^ eligible^ 15 Rue dePro- 
 vt'noe. I went to the Kue Provence, where I learned 
 that M. Choderlos de la Clos had died during the 
 past year. I was directed to his brother-in-law, M. 
 
 Ij de T , whose garden lies under my Min- 
 
 dows. On my return I found a card at my house 
 from M. B de T . T went to his residence.
 
 MARRIAGE. 24S 
 
 Altliough only connected by marriage, M. B de 
 
 T is a true member of the family of La Clos by 
 
 his wit. 
 
 He told me what I knew, and what I did not 
 know. 
 
 The father of Choderlos ae la Clos was of Moorish 
 descent. 
 
 I had said, on the authority of the Biography of 
 Michaud, "A good son, a good husband, a good 
 father." The following is tlie history of his mar- 
 riage : Mademoiselle Duperre was one of the noblest 
 and fairest heiresses of La Bochelle. As her mother 
 was dead, she did the honors of the house of M. 
 Duperre. She learned one day that M. de la 
 Clos, the author of the Liaisons Donfjerexises^ had 
 come to La Bochelle to pass at least one season, hi 
 order to continue his studies on artillery. "Xever," 
 she exclaimed, with horror, " never shall M. de la 
 Clos be received in our house." La Clos answered 
 tlic officious friend, who repeated the remark to him, 
 "I am thinking of marrying; and intend to marry 
 Mademoiselle Duperi-e before six montlis." In fact, 
 six months afterward. La Clos was the brother-in- 
 law of the young sailor, who became afterward the 
 Admiral Duperre, minister of marine. 
 
 La Clos had three children, two boys and a girl. 
 The three are now dead without issue. The eldest 
 died at twenty-five, colonel of artillery ; the younger 
 dird last year, in Paris, eligible, as tlie Almanac of 
 7\i^irnty-five Thousand Addresses testifies. He suf- 
 fered much from attacks, almost always imjust, made 
 upon tlie memory of his father. These attacks upon 
 the father reached the son. M. Charles de la Clos
 
 244 TllK CIIKVALIKll DE LA CL08. 
 
 collected evcrvthin2: wliieh cduUI aid in the full ap- 
 preciation of his father. 
 
 The auth(ir of the Liaisons Dangereiiscs died at 
 Tarento, general of artillery, poorer than Malfilatre 
 and Gilbert. France was not then rich, at least in 
 ready money. He died prondof the triuinphsof his 
 countrv, deeply saddened by the destitution which 
 threatened his wife and his three children. Fortune, 
 doubtless, took care of them. The last La Clos died 
 with an income of fifty thousand livres. 
 
 I hope, some day, to communicate to the public 
 some very curious letters written by La Clos to his 
 wife, especially the farewell letters of La Clos the 
 Revolutionist, dated from prison, the 9th Thermidor, 
 (he was to die on the 10th,) and the farewell letters 
 of La Clos the Soldier, dated frem Tarento. 
 
 A. H.
 
 GHETEY. 
 
 In July, 1726, an old German cure, a rosy canon of 
 Notre -Dame de Presburg, who was passing through 
 Blegnez, on a journey to Liege, suddenly paused on 
 his route in that village, at the recollection that a 
 well-beloved niece lived there, surrounded by the 
 poetic associations of country -life. It was after ves- 
 pers on a Sunday, and the old cure, who had heard 
 at a distance the solemn sound of the bells, soon 
 caught the notes of the violin. — "That is he," he ex- 
 claimed, " that rogue of a fellow is solacing himself, 
 and his wife as well, for tlie troubles of life, by playing 
 on the violin." — As he said these words, he resumed 
 his course, in the direction of the lively sound of 
 tlie violin. Meeting a peasant, he asked him, " My 
 friend, does not Jean Noe Gretry live there on the 
 otlier side of the church, at the end of the hedge?" — 
 "Yes, Monsieur le Cure," said the peasant, whose 
 legs showed a slight disposition to keep time to the 
 tune ; " the best inn in the conntry. In faith, you 
 may driidc there, if it please you, beer and brandy to 
 yniir liking, and, if your heart is so inclined, he will 
 give you a dance with some pretty girls, who are 
 brisk ones too. if that is to your taste." 
 
 21*
 
 24G GRETltY. 
 
 Tlie cure kept on his way. — "Tlic devil!" said lie, 
 " my iiei)liew is a wicked fellow ! he intoxicates his 
 noiirhbors in all sorts of ways. It is a misdirected 
 cliai'ity ; but, after all, giving; these poor creatures a 
 little diversion is a sin which the Deity himself 
 absolves with a smile ; so let us see what is going on." 
 — As he i>assed the last column of the chin-ch, an 
 unexpected sight, as by magic, met his eyes. To 
 liave some idea of the surprise of the old cure of 
 the austere cathedral of Presburg, fancy to yourself a 
 festival by Teniers in a landscape by Berghem. 
 Call to mind a Flemish Gayety^ with its rural deco- 
 rations, its lively colors, its simple joys, its boisterous 
 mirth, its picturesque carelessness! On the first 
 glance, the cure saw through the openings of the old 
 elm-trees, and at the end of a most verdant la\VTi his 
 nephew, Noe Gretiy, who, perched on the top of a 
 barrel, was playing in a style to turn the heads of 
 the most obstinate of Flemings. All the blooming 
 youth of the country were dancing noisily around 
 him ; there were even, here and there, some women 
 beyond the prime of life, and even superannuated 
 lovers, who forgot their age in grotesque pirouetting. 
 Nothing could be more animated, more gay, or 
 more delicious, than this spectacle; but this was not 
 the whole of the picture. Before the cottage of 
 tlie tiddler, botii jjicturesque and rustic (a cottage 
 Avhich all the week was the dwelling of a small 
 farmer, and became on the Sunday a tavern for 
 carousing), half a dozen tables were seen scattered 
 about, to which the dancei-s resorted in tums, to toss 
 off a pint of beer, or discuss a slice of ham. In the 
 inside of the cottage, the graver tipplers of tlie village
 
 A FLEMISH PICTURE. 
 
 247 
 
 were playing at cards and talking of by-gone days ; 
 in the distance, the herdsman of Blegnez, who was 
 desirous of taking his part in the festival, played on 
 the bag-pipes, as he drove back to the stables the 
 dun cows and bellowing bulls ; the cuckoo threw in, 
 now and then, his mocking song ; the bullfinch his 
 melancholy strain. The sky was blue enough for a 
 Flemish sky ; the declining sun seemed to smile on 
 all these rustic joys ; the plain gave to the passing 
 wind the perfume of its floweiy meads ; nothing was 
 wanting to the picture. I could describe to you with 
 l)leasure the follies of the dance and the Olympian 
 roars of the drinkers ; but your imagination is i-icher 
 than my pen. I return to my old cure. I had for- 
 gotten the swing, which gayly decorated with ribands 
 and flowers, was suspended between a barn and the 
 trunk of an old oak, over a rich clover-field, which had 
 just been reaped. As the canon passed, a pretty 
 girl of sixteen or seventeen was allowing herself to be 
 swung by a young lad in his Sunday finery, mIio ap- 
 peared to be looking at her with all his eyes. M. le 
 cure passed quickly along, loAvering his eyes, but, cure 
 though he was, he lowered them a little too late. — 
 "Good heavens ! good heavens !" he muttered between 
 his teeth. lie kept on all the while, recommending 
 liimself to Providence. Tri]tj)ing by the side of the 
 barn on tij)toe, he arrived during a country-dance, 
 almost unobserved, at the door of his well-beloved 
 niece. It was a good ten years since Mademoiselle 
 nifudonne Canij»inad(» had sutiered lierself, very 
 willingly, to be carried otf by Noc Grcti-y, whose 
 adventurous fortunes she had fullowed witli ])i<»u8 
 resignation. 1'hey were mai-rietl in llie presence
 
 248 GRKTRY. 
 
 of God, and before the notary; but the Cainpinado 
 family, notwitlistanding tlie marriage liad hardly par- 
 doned the young couple. The old cure, who M'ished to 
 forgive them before he die<l, had stoj)ped with this 
 design at the village of Blegnez. All that he had just 
 before seen, however, liad a little weakened his de- 
 sire of granting absolution. As he was crossing the 
 sill of the cottage, his niece, whom he had formerly 
 looked upon as the most timid and most devout of 
 the girls of liis chapter, suddenly bounced out in a 
 very pretty, but very loose deshabille, with a i^int of 
 beer in each hand, and a snatch of a song on her 
 lips. At the sight of her old uncle, she dropped 
 the pots of beer from her hands, but the last 
 words of the song lingered on her lips. " Oh, my 
 uncle !" she exclaimed. " Noe ! Noe ! come and 
 embrace our uncle." And with these words she 
 threw herself, completely overcome, into the ariris of 
 the old cure. The fiddler, in spite of his taste for 
 music and the dance, abandoned on the instant liis 
 dancei's and his violin. " Oh, my dear child," said 
 the cure, " what a hell you live in !" — " In faith," 
 said Noe, " if hell was as merry a place as this, you 
 might spare your Latin, uncle. But you will take a 
 little pint of beer, will you not? What have I said, 
 beer ? I forgot that I am addressing a cure. Wife, 
 go do^vTi as quick as you can to the end of the cel- 
 lar: there are some bottles left there for special occa- 
 sions ; and is not this such an occasion ?" 
 
 The uncle was, doubtless, about to make his prot- 
 est, when a dozen dancers, not knowing what better 
 to do with themselves, and induced besides by cuh- 
 osity, boisterously advanced to the door of the cot-
 
 NOAII AND HIS WESfE. £'49 
 
 tage. " Heavens !" exclaimed the cure, " I have 
 not yet readied the end. So, so, nephew, 1 
 hope that I shall not presently be forced to dance 
 with you." — " Come, come, uncle, Heaven would 
 not frown on such an act ; but your legs need not be 
 uneasy on that score. To prove my good intentions 
 to you, I will yield you my place, where you may 
 preach a sermon to our young girls at your ease, it 
 will be like another song, but I will not guaranty 
 a great number of converts. Meanwhile, let us drink 
 a cu]> and salute this fine sunset." 
 
 Tiie wife of tlie fiddler, with charming grace, had 
 just presented a mould-incrusted bottle, and glasses. 
 Koe made the cork fly like a man who understood the 
 business, poured out with great freedom, and, willing 
 or not, the old cur6 must needs drink two glasses in 
 succession of choice white wine, full of fire, and 
 M-(irthy of a German canon. " Uncle," continued 
 Xoe, '• had not my godfather good reasons for bap- 
 tizing me by the name of Noah ? I have not planted 
 the vine myself, but I have cultivated it. Come, it 
 is not enough to empty one's glass to-day, we must 
 liave a tune on the violin. But where is Jean ?" — 
 •' "Wait," said the mother, with an afiectionate smile, 
 "there he comes with some young; birds." 
 
 Jean was a pretty child (»f seven and a half years, 
 wlio had all the grace and roguislmess of his age. He 
 smiled 5is he caressed three young thrushes, without 
 Appearing to care about monsieur the cure. " Come," 
 said Xne to him, "embrace your uncle; but first of 
 all let those birds go. Have I not sjxtken to you 
 oftci. enough of tlie wickedness of l)ird-catching?" 
 And as the child resisted, he continued: " It' yon
 
 C^O GRETRY. 
 
 will mind mc, T will let you off of your _o:rarnniar 
 lesson.'' The chikl still resisted. "Well, let ns see, 
 YOU shall come Avith me and play a tnne on the 
 violin." 
 
 This time the child ^vas persuaded. He glanced 
 sadly at the birds, and suddenly opened his hand, 
 IVom which two Youns; thrushes flew to an old elm: 
 the third lighted with great difficulty on the tliatch. 
 "INfay Gud guide them," said Noe, resuming his 
 violin. The child had lost no time. He sprang like 
 a cat up the staircase to his little room, took down 
 from its hook an old violin, wdiich his father had 
 come across in the course of his travels ; and, as he 
 descended, w^as already tuning it. The old cure 
 stopped him as he passed. " How," he exclaimed, 
 " a violin in the hands of a child of seven ? Ah, my 
 son, what a fatal destiny ! At your age, you shonld 
 have only the censer in your hands. You should 
 sing only the pi'aises of tlie Lord. Are you not one 
 of the choristers?" continued the uncle, playing with 
 Jean's curly locks. " Ah well, yes," said Jean, making 
 a charming face, " chorister ! that is as good as any- 
 thing else." — "He is a wild boy," said the mother, 
 "we do not know what to do with him. He will 
 hear of nothing but the violin." — " ]>ut that is no 
 callbig. Tell me, my deai-," resumed the cure, " will 
 you follow me to Presbm-g ? I will give you a bene- 
 fice there." — "What a pretty little canon!" ex- 
 claimed the mother. " Me a canon!" exclaimed the 
 child, running off. 
 
 The little devil incarnate leaped on the cask where 
 his ftither was waiting f<»r him; and there, his locks 
 flying in the wind, and his cmintenance lighted np,
 
 FIRST PRIZE AT LIEGE. 251 
 
 he set to work to scrape in the best style, an uul 
 coiintrj-dance. The good canon couki not retrain 
 from smiling. He took his niece's hand, and with 
 an air half-serious, half-comic, said to her : " Ah, 
 my niece, my poor Jeanne ! what a child yon have 
 there ! You are in a line road, with a fiddler on one 
 side and a fiddler on the other." — "Come, come, 
 uncle, all roads lead to Rome ; and one can reach 
 there as well by a good stroke of the bow as by a 
 fine sermon. Is it a great evil, forsooth, to gladden 
 once a week the hearts of all these good peasants for 
 a little while ? But do not let us talk any more about 
 it, let us think only of the joy of our meeting." 
 
 The old cure listened to reason without further op- 
 position ; he turned somewhat unconsciously toward the 
 dance. The festival went on notwithstanding the can- 
 on's presence. The supper was worthy of the festival. 
 He left the next day very well pleased with the hos- 
 pitality of his nephew. lie left with a benediction 
 on the modest cottage which sheltered the joyous 
 family. Jean escorted him to the next village, all 
 the while gathering flowers, and frightening away 
 the sparrows. " Farewell," said the uncle, as he 
 dropped a tear, "may Saint Cecilia protect and 
 God guide you ! Ah, that Gretry family," he re- 
 sumed a little farther on, "are predestined to be 
 fiddlci*s." 
 
 Four years afterward, the young rogue, who was 
 not twelve years old, carried oflt' the first prize for 
 the violin, at Liege. lie was a true prodigy in those 
 days, in which j^rodigies were not common. As 
 there wei'c no newspa])ei'a, this triumph did not go 
 beyond the province of Liege. Jean Gretry "liiainef^
 
 252 GKKTRT. 
 
 only that hiilf-cclebrity wliich makes ardent luinds 
 ^vlvt^•lled ; hnt it was sufficient to cai>tivatc the 
 lieart of a young lady of Liege of high birth, who 
 was liis noblest and truest glory. He nuii'ried her 
 in the happiest days of liis youth, and hence we 
 have Andre Gretry, whose history I am about to 
 relate. 
 
 It was not without a reason that I commenced with 
 this little Flemish picture. I was desirous of seek- 
 ing Gretrv's true cradle: there are certainly cnrious 
 researches to be made in the genealogies of poets 
 and musicians. Who knows if four generations were 
 not necessary to perfect Mozart or Moliere for the 
 world? Who knows but tliat poetry, which is also 
 music, is a treasure slowly amassed in families, a 
 sacred lieritage of which God alone appoints the 
 lieir? Every poet arrays himself somewhat in the 
 old clotlies of his grandfather. But it is time to 
 come to Andre Gretry. 
 
 He was born at Liege the 11th of February, 174L 
 He entered on life, or rather on music, very young. 
 He was scarcely four years old when he was already 
 sensible to musical rhythm. One day, while he was 
 alone in the chimney corner, one of those boiling 
 pots, about which the German poets have sung so 
 well, fixed his dawning thoughts by its monotonous 
 song. At the same moment the cricket chirped be- 
 tween two broken hearth-bricks, the cat slumbering 
 on tlie cinders, made audible her measured pui-r. 
 This domestic symphony at first amused the child. 
 He looked around him to assure himself that he was 
 really alone. He surveyed with an animated eye 
 tlie pewter plates on the dresser, the yellow curtains
 
 ANDRE GKETRT A CHORISTER. 253 
 
 of the alcove ; two old violins, released from service, 
 liung as glorious trophies over the chimney-piece; 
 find ins: himself alone with the music, he beo:an to 
 dance with all his might. After the country-dauce, 
 lie was desirous of investigating thoroughly the secret 
 of the music, and so upset the water of the kettle in- 
 to the intensely-hot coal fire. The explosion was so 
 violent that the poor dancer fell to the gromid suffo- 
 cated and scalded over almost his entire Ixxly. He 
 was taken, half-dead, to his maternal grandmother's, 
 a coimtry-house in the neighborhood of Liege, where 
 he passed two delightful years. He was there with- 
 out a master and without cares, entirely at liberty, 
 ransacking the country morning and night, loved by 
 all for liis gracefulness and pretty face, and (must it 
 be believed?) loving already, he does not say whom, 
 but many girls, large and small, at once — loving 
 already too much (it is himself here who speaks) to 
 intrust it to any of them ! 
 
 Jean Gretry, who had so derided the chorister- 
 boys, who was so good a philosopher at seven, at a 
 later date had all the weakness of the philosophers. 
 Tlius, he made his son, willing or unwilling, a choris- 
 tei'-boy at the collegiate church of which he was first 
 violin. Chorister-boy ! Gretry never could recall that 
 without a shudder! This w^as not all: poor Andre 
 was soon aband<ined to the most barbarous mnsic- 
 master that ever existed. In his Memoirs^ Gretry 
 recounts with bitterness all the toi'turcs he nnide him 
 undergo — tragi-comic tortures; lnit listen to him: 
 " He sometimes ]>lace(l us on oui- knees on a round 
 log, 80 that <in the slightest motion wc; tumbled 
 uvcr 1 have seen him nuifllr the head of a child of 
 
 22
 
 254: GRETUr. 
 
 six years in an cnonnons old peruke, and fat^tcn liins 
 np in that coiulitiou an'ain.st tlic wall, sonic feet from 
 the ground, and thei-e force him h\ blows of a nxl to 
 sing the music which he held in one hand, aiul beat 
 time with the other. Tlie })oor child, although he 
 iiad a very pretty face, resembled a l)at nailed to the 
 wall, and rent the air with his cries." Andre Gretry 
 passed from four to five years in this horrible inquisi- 
 tion. Thanks to his master, he was but an indifferent 
 scholar in music; but another master, the master of 
 all the great artists, chance, came to his aid. A 
 company of Italian singers i)assing through Liege, 
 performed there tlie operas of Pergolesi. Gretry at- 
 tended all the performances, and became passionately 
 fond of Italian music. Ilis father was so charmed with 
 his progress, that he wanted him to sing, at all hazards, 
 some sacred nmsic at the church on the following Sun- 
 day. It was an Italian air on these words of the Virgin : 
 "iVbn semper Hvper jpratd ca-'itaflorescitr'osa.'''' Every- 
 body was astonished, and cried, "What a prodigy! 
 How comes he to sing so ? It is worthy of the opera !" 
 His old master himself could not avoid smiling. He 
 sang in this way every Sunday for many years. He, 
 liowever, had a susceptible heart, and became des- 
 perately enamored of all the Flemish blondes who 
 came h) hear him; he loved those most whom he 
 did not see; it was the hope rather than the memory 
 of love — re very rather than passion. He aliandoned 
 the song and the church for composition and solitude, 
 I will not recount all the little joys and all the little mis- 
 adventures of our musician. T will not tell you how 
 he stu<lled, like a true poet, the sound of the wind, 
 the rain, the storm, and the f )untain ; the song of the
 
 SETS OUT FOE ITALY 255 
 
 blnl^i, and the beating of the heart of a young German 
 o-irl of his neighborhood, who was induced bv the 
 love of music even to love the musician. It will not 
 do to linger too long over the infant efforts of love 
 and of genius. His first serious work (we are no 
 longer speaking of love) was a mass in music. This 
 was his triumph at Liege ; like his father before 
 him, he became the prodigy of the district. Fore- 
 seeing that he would get no farther if he remained at 
 Liege, he was desirous of setting out for Eome — for 
 tliat sun of fire before which the flowers of his genius 
 were to expand. One Palm-Sunday, on coming out, 
 after mass, the people of Liege all exclaimed, with 
 affectionate regret, " We have heard the farewell of 
 young Gretry." He went early in April, went for a 
 long time ; he went, poor bird of passage, to exile 
 himself far from his country, far from his family! 
 IJut is an artist ever in exile? The spring had come, 
 the good mother wept as she made ready the little 
 baf''£ra«'e of her son. The careless traveller was the 
 only one who diffused any gayety about the sweet 
 and calm Flemish interior. The father played the 
 saddest of airs on his faithful violin ; the dog himself 
 was restless. Li the neighborhood there was still 
 gi-eater sadness. The pretty German girl, almost al- 
 ways seated at lier window, shed a silent tear, which 
 came from the heart! She no longer sang, she no 
 longer laughed ; in vain did the s])ring again bloom 
 l)en('ath her window; the springtime of her heart 
 was blighted ! 
 
 Thus, at the end of March, 17r.7, did Andie (in'Iry 
 pet out on fo(»t, with knapsack on his back, and staif 
 in han<l ; with his eighteen years all frcs'li. pure, uRm
 
 Cot) GRKTUV. 
 
 crowned witl. hopes ; witli his father's hlessiiirjs and 
 liis mother's tears! lie had some travelling com- 
 panions, two pistols \vhifh had been given to hin\ 
 with the remark, "i?o^7/vV/o, arttliouhravcV an old 
 smnggler, and two students, one of whom was an 
 al,)he ; the hitter did not go very far. The smnggler 
 was named Tvemacle ; he was an old miser, who 
 made regnlarlj every year two jonraeys from Liege 
 to Eome, in company with yonng students ; he car- 
 ried into Italy the finest laces of Flanders ; he brought 
 back from Rome reliques and old slippers of the 
 P(»]X', which caused great joy in all the convents of 
 the Low Countries. Old Hemacle had a stout Champ- 
 enois youth as an honorary associate, who made it his 
 business to ferret out and beat the officers of the cus- 
 toms. This journey, or rather pilgrimage of Gretry's 
 is almost like a chapter of Gil Bias. The caravan 
 was one of the most grotesque : a dreamy musician, 
 who was always singing church-music ; a poor, sor- 
 rowful al)be, who looked back every minute toward the 
 steejile of his village ; a young medical student of the 
 liveliest kind, who amused himself with all the men, 
 and especially with all the women, whom he met on 
 the road ; a great drunken Chamjjenois, sorely smitten 
 vritli the taveiTi-girls after he had taken a pint; and 
 finally a miserly old smuggler, grave and silent as a 
 Fleming, and always in hostilities with the officers. 
 The first day, the rear-guard, that is to say the abl)6 
 arrised at the sleeping-place a long time after the 
 others; and the student predicted that lie would not 
 measure off twenty-five leagues with his delicate feet. 
 At the termination of the twenty-five leagues, the 
 f ooi- i^bbe lunied his back to the caravan, to reti-ace
 
 INN WELCOME. 257 
 
 his course to Lieo-e. Tlie caravan was none the less 
 gay for his absence. Old Eeraacle was soon en- 
 chanted with his 3'oung companions, on account of 
 two little adventures. One day, on entering an iini 
 to dine, a colossal German woman, the landlady of 
 the premises, jumped on Gretry's neck, gave him a 
 thousand caresses, and feasted him like a prince. 
 N'ever had Ilcmacle dined so well. At dessert, she 
 poured out liquem-s for every one, all the wliile ad- 
 dressing a thousand tender remarks to Gretry, who 
 did not understand German. — '"It is very fortunate 
 that it is not necessary to understand them," said he. 
 Remade offered to settle the bill ; she refused the 
 money; he did not give her another opportunity to 
 refuse it. Gretry at last understood that this good 
 hostess had a son of similar age and appearance, 
 studying at Treves; she had caressed Gretry in 
 honor of her son, like a good mother who must open 
 her heart at every remembrance. Now for the other 
 adventure : Some days after, at another inn, our 
 travellei-s took their seats at the table for supper; the 
 servant-girls are all in a flutter; all the kitclien 
 furnaces are blazing; chickens are decapitated ; hams 
 are taken down from the liooks ; the oldest bottles in 
 the cellar are disinterred. Gretry and tlie smugglers 
 know not what to think ; at last tlie student returns, 
 with a lancet in his hand. — "What have you been 
 about, scapegrace?" — "I have been bleeding the liost 
 and hostess, after M'hich I ]uit them to sleep." — 
 "Tinpnidcjit fellow!"— "Bah!" said he, with a burst 
 oflangliter; " tliey are as old as Time himself!" 
 
 Other adventures also occurred, to coiuiiicc Tiom- 
 acle that his fellow travel lei-s were \v<»rtiiv <.J' him. 
 
 22*
 
 258 GKKTKY. 
 
 Ever in dread of the before-mentioned officers, the 
 Ad sinnggler forced them to make a detour of some 
 leagues, to see, as he said with a disinterested air, 
 a superb monaster}', where alms were bestowed once 
 a week on all the ])oor of the country. On entering 
 the great hall, in the midst of a noisy crowd, Gretry 
 saw a fat nu»nk, mounted on a platform, who was 
 angrily superintending this Christian charity. He 
 hxiked as if he would like rather to exterminate 
 his fellow-creatures than aid them to live ; he was 
 just bullying a poor French vagabond who im- 
 plored his aid. When he suddenly saw the noble 
 face of Gretrv, he approached the young musician. 
 — "It is curiosity which brings you here," he re- 
 marked with vexation, — " It is true," said Gretry, 
 buwiug; " the beauty of your monastery, the sul)limity 
 of the scenery, and the desire of contemplating the 
 asylum where the unfortunate ti-aveller is received 
 with so much humanity, have drawn us from our 
 route. In beholding you, I ha\e seen the angel 
 of mercy. All the victims of sorrow should bless 
 your edifying gentleness. Tell me, father, do you 
 make as many ha])py every day as I have just 
 witnessed ?" 
 
 The monk, irritated by this bantering, begged 
 Gretry to return whence he came. — " Father," re- 
 toi-ted Gretry, "have the evangelists taught you this 
 mode of bestowini' alms, givini' with one hand and 
 strikiuiT with the other?" — A low murmur was heard 
 tlirouirli the hall ; the monk not knowing what 
 to say, complained of the tooth-ache; the cunning 
 student lost no time, but running up to him with 
 an air of touching compassion, " I am a surgeon,"
 
 THE monk's tooth. 259 
 
 he said, as he forced him down on the bench. The 
 monk tried to push him off, but he held on well. — 
 "It is Heaven which lias directed me to you, father." 
 ■ — "\Villin2: or not, the monk had to open his mouth. 
 — " Courage, father, the great saints were all martyi's I 
 the Savior was crucified ; and you may at least let 
 me pull out a tooth." — The monk struggled : " Never, 
 never!" he exclaimed. The student turned with 
 gi-eat coolness toward the bystanders, who were 
 all lauo-hirii; in their sleeves. — " Mv friends" — (he 
 addressed crippled travellei-s, mountain brigands, 
 and poor people of every class) — "my friends, for 
 the love of God, who suffered, come and hold this 
 good father; I do not want liim to suffer any 
 longer !" 
 
 The beggars understood the joke; four of them 
 sejmrated from the group, and came to the surgeon's 
 aid. The monk struggled furiously, but it w^as no 
 use to kick and scream ; he had to submit. Gretry 
 was not the last to come to his friend's aid ; the 
 malicious student seized the first tooth he got hold 
 of, and wrenched the head of the monk by a turn of his 
 elbow, to the great joy of the beggars, who saw them- 
 fielves revenged in a most opportune manner. — 
 "Well, fatlier, what do you think of it?" asked 
 Gretry, after the operation ; " I am sure you do not 
 now suffer at all!" — The monk shook with rage; tlie 
 other monks attracted by his cries, soon arrived, but 
 it was too late. 
 
 I pass over the love of Greti-y for tlie fair Tyrolese 
 in silence. lie at last arrived in Italy. — "No more 
 snows, no more mountains ; but an cnamelliMl im-a']. 
 on which young girls arc singing! It was tlic first
 
 Oj? 
 
 (30 G RETRY. 
 
 lesson in music wliieli I received in Italy. The song 
 of these lair Mihinesc has left an eternal echo in my 
 soul.'' — lie made his entrance into Home on a tine 
 Sunday in June, in the midst of a dozen pleasure- 
 carriages, in which blooming Iloman girls were 
 loviuii-lv singing and smiling. He was enchanted, 
 lie wandered until evening among palaces and 
 churches, the renown of which had long filled his 
 imagination ; but, nevertheless, in the evening, after 
 havinir seen these edifices, which are the wonders of 
 art; the fair Il(jman women, who are the wondei's of 
 nature ; and the exquisite sky, so pure and blue, 
 wliich seems one of the gates of Paradise, Gretry re- 
 called with a melancholy charm, the cloudy sky of 
 his dear country, the blonde Flemish girls of Liege, 
 the sweet and calm household of his father, and also 
 that pretty neighbor, who had with a tear bade him so 
 tender an adieu ! The most beantifid country in the 
 world to the traveller is always the country in which 
 his heart has blossomed. But patience! Gretry's 
 heart is hardly in its spring-time ! 
 
 Gretry made his debut at Rome in sacred music. 
 He drew his inspiration from the masters of sacred 
 art; from the amiable and graceful Casali, the grave 
 Orisicchio, the noble and austere Lnstrini. It was in 
 the second year of the reign of Clement XIII. Sacred 
 music had assumed profane airs under the reign of 
 Benedict XIV.; but the new pope, full of zeal for his 
 church, had called nnisic to order ; music had again 
 become serious ; resumed her sad and pious, slow 
 and vague solemnity : it was truly the music which 
 itscends direct to heaven on the wings of archangels, 
 alter having sanctified the hearts of sinners. Gretrv
 
 HIS COLLEGK CHUM. 261 
 
 like the divine Pergolesi, was initiated into the sen- 
 timent and the melody of this music. He commenced 
 a De Profundis^ which was to vie in grandeur and 
 solemnity with the Stahat ^ but as this De Profundis 
 was to be sung only at his own funeral, he was in no 
 great hurry to finish it, and it never was finished. 
 
 Tliere was a college in existence at Rome for the 
 students, painters, and musicians of Liege. Gretry 
 had, as a room-mate in this college, the scapegrace 
 student, whom he had as his travelling companion. 
 He was a very agreeable neighbor ; for example, 
 when Gretry, after having ransacked the Roman 
 Campagna in search of antique ruins, fell sick, the 
 surgeon, who made their room a complete cemetery, 
 remarked, in a tender- tone, as he felt his pulse : 
 "Ah, my poor friend, I have lost a tilia^ and I hope 
 you will have the kindness in case you die to allow 
 me." . . . Gretry contrived not to fulfil this request. 
 lie made the acquaintance of an organist who taught 
 liim to })lay on the harpsichord. He was a very 
 poor master, but he had a pretty wife, and all the 
 lessons were not lost. Gretry made such great prog- 
 ress that the poor man cried out one day, in a trans- 
 port, liis eyes filled with tears : " Dio ! O Dlo 
 santissimo ! questo e un prodifjgio da vero .^" 
 
 Sometime after Gretry was taken by an abbe of 
 liis acquaintance to the house of Piccini, wlio as- 
 sumed the ail's of a great genius toward our young 
 Fleming. He did not say a word to him, but con- 
 tinu(;<l to compose an oratorio, as if he luid been all 
 ahtne. After an hour's audience in this style, Gi-etry 
 left, not as he came, for he had come radiant with 
 hope. He did not lose courage, he luid still greater
 
 262 GRETRY. 
 
 ardor, "but he fell sick a<jjuin. Desirous of escaping 
 from his terrible rooni-nuite, and trusting to chance, 
 lie withdrew into the conntry about Home, commit- 
 tins>: the issue of his illness to God and to nature. 
 The next day, finding himself on the mountain cf 
 Millini, he entered the habitation of a hermit who 
 was good fellow enough, although an Italian. (It is 
 Gretry who says this.) The hermit received him 
 like a pilgrim, and advised him to establish himself 
 in his hermitage, in order to breathe pure air, and 
 recruit his streni>:th. Gretry shared his retreat foi 
 three months. This little pilgrimage completed what 
 study could not eifect. On leaving this little The- 
 baid, Gretrv felt himself all at once a ti'ue musician. 
 On the day of his departure, being desirous of com- 
 posing an air to some words of Metastasio, he felt 
 conscious that he was at last master of music, that 
 lie controlled it, that he had all its keys. '''' Ah^fra 
 MauroP'' said he to his hermit, " I shall remember 
 you to the day of my death." 
 
 On his return to Home, he set to music, for the 
 carnival and the theatre of Aliberti, the Ycndajh- 
 geiises. The musicians of the country cried out 
 scandalous: "What! has this little abbe of Liege 
 [Gretry wore the dress of an abbe] come to cut our 
 grass?" This made Gretry's triumph only the more 
 conspicuous. 
 
 He did not forget his friends or his family. lie 
 liad sent, in competition for the situation of chapel- 
 master, the corijltehor. lie obtained the place, but 
 did not leave; however, he soon quitted Italy. lie 
 left Home for Geneva. lie travelled with a German 
 baron who was of the most taciturn kind. They passed
 
 GOES TO PARIS. 263 
 
 over Mount Cenis together : they bravely descended 
 in a sledo-e drawn bv two Savoyards of twelve yeare 
 of asje. On arriving at Geneva, Gretry Imrried to the 
 theatre, to hear the French music, for which he had 
 no great liking. At Ferney, Yoltaire received him 
 like a brother. '' Go to Paris," said he to hiiu : '• it 
 is thence that your genius will soar to immortali- 
 ty." — "• You speak familiarly about it," said Gretry ; 
 '' one may see that you are accustomed to the 
 \yord." — '*!!" said Yoltaire, pleasantly; "I would 
 exchange a hundred years of immortality for a good 
 digestion." Gretry set out for Paris, after having 
 left a memento with the Genevese — the opera of 
 Gertrude. At Paris he felt somewhat out of his 
 element. As he was young, a good-looking youth, 
 and witty withal, he soon made friends, among others 
 Greuze and Yernet. In spite of these friends, who 
 were worth a great many others, he despaired of a 
 people who fainted at Rameau's music. The Prince 
 of Conti invited him, thanks to Yeniet, to give him 
 a 8j)ecimen of his music ; but the prince, after having 
 heard it, appeared to be very weary. Gretry re-en- 
 terel his hotel, completely cast down. Two anony- 
 mous letters vyere very opportunely ])laced in his 
 band. One was from Liege: "Hash man! are you 
 not going to contend with the Philidors and the 
 Monsignys?" The other (hited from Paris: "So you 
 tl)ink, honest citizen of Liege, that you are going to 
 enchant the Parisians':! Get i-id of that idea, n\y 
 dear t'elhjw ; jiack your trunks, and return to Liege, 
 to sing your caterwauling nnisic." After a year, 
 pa'i'^ed in ])Overty and sadness, Marmontel came tq 
 him with the opera of the Huron. Grptry, in de-
 
 264 GKKTKY. 
 
 spair, composed a sliort mnsical masterpiece for the 
 poet's sorry verses. The upei-a was soon played with 
 great success. In Paris it is all or nothing. The 
 evening before Gretry was an adventurer without re- 
 sources, the next day he was a great musician, every- 
 where sought after, everywhere applauded. His ti-i- 
 umph was rapid. He did not sleep that night. He 
 thought of his father. But that same night the poor 
 violin-player laid down to his last sleep. In the 
 morning, Greuze came and said, "Gretry, come wMtli 
 nie ; I want to show you a picture which Avill give 
 you great pleasure." He led him to the neiglibor- 
 hood of the Corned ie-Italienne, and there pointed 
 with his finger to a sign freshly painted, Au Huron^ 
 Nicolle^ Tobacconist.'''' Gretry who did not smoke, 
 entered the shop immediately, and called for a 
 pound of tobacco. " What fine tobacco !" he after- 
 ward exclaimed. 
 
 I do not wish to take you to all Gretry's operas, of 
 which there are as many as forty-four. You know 
 as well as I do that the TaMeau Parlant., Zeniire 
 et Azoi\ La Caravanne^ Richard Cmur-de-Lion., 
 Collinette-a-la-Cour., were for half a century heard 
 on all lips, on all harj^sichords, in all theatres, and in 
 all hearts. Yoltaire did not forget the young Flem- 
 ish pilgrim. He wrote a bad opera for him, which 
 did not inspire the musician at all. Voltaire acted 
 like a great wit, having learned that an opera of 
 Gretry's, Le Jugement de Midas^ had been ap 
 plauded at the Italienne, after having been hissed 
 by the nobility at Madame de Montesson's theatre, 
 he sent this pretty quatrain to the musician : —
 
 MAKRIES. 265 
 
 Gretry, our noble lords decry 
 
 Tliy songs that Paris loves to hear; 
 
 True, their chief" claims to greatness lie 
 Too often in their length of ear. 
 
 Grenze had one day taken Gretiy to the studio 
 of Gromdon, his old master. In this, as in all otlier 
 studios, there were nmnerons sketches, but there 
 was also a charming face, such a one as Murillo or 
 Van Dyck had never painted. It was the painter's 
 daughter, and undoubtedly his masterpiece. Our 
 good musician scarcely looked at any other picture, 
 but departed, exclaiming, "What a great painter!" 
 He returned to the studio ; so, too, did Greuze : but, 
 must I say it, Grenze was drawn there by a fatal 
 love, wdjich he tremblingly kept concealed in the 
 bottom of his heart. He loved his master's wife ; 
 but this is not the history of Greuze. In those days 
 the love which proceeded from a pure heart ended 
 in marriage. After the obstacles which are a matter 
 of course, Gretry married his dear Jeannette. He 
 arranged to his taste a delightful home, almost like 
 a Flemish picture. He realized the dream of his 
 early years. He grasped at ha])})iness with both hands, 
 and happiness, miraculously without doubt, took 
 her scat of her own accord at his hearth, altliough 
 glory was there already. It was a fine time for 
 them. Jcaiiuette, like an April bird, sang from the 
 dawn the charming airs of the musician. She 
 painted as an agreeable amusement, loves and shep- 
 herdesses in the style of I'oucher. The Love was 
 Greti-y, the 8hepherde^s herself. During this happy 
 time, all was roses and smiles, kisses and songs ! 
 Tiiey were soon blessed with three daughters — 
 
 23
 
 !2(iG ORETRY. 
 
 three charming flowers in the family-garden. I said 
 three flowers. You will see why. Jeannette nursed 
 them all, like a true mother as she was. Gretry 
 cherished them like three dreams of love. Alas, they 
 were but dreams ! 
 
 However, if the man had all the joys of marriage 
 and of family, the musician had all the more noisy 
 joys of pride. He was sung in all the four musical 
 countries of Europe. He was the man in fashion all 
 over Paris, even at the court, where he found a god- 
 father and godmother for his third daughter. The 
 queen was a great admirer of Gretry's face, which, 
 according to Yernet, was the faithful image of that 
 of Pergolesi.* 
 
 Gretry was therefore happy. Happy in his wiff 
 and children, in his old mother, who had come t'^ 
 sanctify his house, with her sweet and venerable 
 face. Happy in fortune, happy in reputation. The 
 years passed quickly away ! He was one day very 
 
 • It was about this time that he met Jean-Jacques Kousseau, wh'^ 
 was in his eyes the greatest man in France and Navarre. At a rcpre 
 sentation of La Fau.sse Mug'ie he heard those words within two step.*" 
 of him : " Monsieur Rousseau, there is Gn try whom you was asii 
 in:; aliiiut a littie while ago." Gr>'try rushed tnward Rousseau 
 " How l)a[)[)y I am to see you I" said the philoso()hpr to him. " I 
 thought that my iieart was dead, your music has fnund it living. 1 
 wis!i to know you, or rather I aheady knr)w yuu l>y your operas. I 
 wish to be your friend. Are you married ?'' — '-Yes." — "To a wo- 
 man of wit !" — 'No." — " .So I supposed.'' — " 8l)e is ihe daui^iiter of ? 
 painter, she is simple as Nature." — 'So I sup|>osed. I love artists, 
 they are children of Nature. I want to see your wife." Jean-Jacques 
 |>ressed (irctry's hand many times. They went out together, and. 
 passing throui>li tlie Rue Francai.i, Rousseau wanted to jump over & 
 heap of stones. Gri-lrv seized his arm : " 'I'ake care, Monsieur Rous 
 seau !" 'J'he philosopher, irritated, roiii^hly withdrew his arm. " Lei 
 me mike use of my powers!" He thereupon chose his own path 
 without troubling himself about Gretry, and Gretry never saw hir» 
 tnjre.
 
 HIS DAUGHTERS. 267 
 
 mucli astonished to learn that his daughter Jenny 
 was fifteen. Alas ! a year afterward the poor child 
 was no longer in the family, neither was happiness. 
 But for this sad history we must retm-n to the past. 
 Gretry, during his sojourn at Kome, in the spring- 
 time of his life, was fond of seeking religious inspi- 
 ration in the garden of an almost deserted convent. 
 He observed one day, in the summer-house, an old 
 monk of venerable form, who was separating seeds 
 witli a meditative air, and at the same time observing 
 tliem with a microscope. The absent-minded musi- 
 cian approached him in silence. " Do you like 
 ilowersf the monk asked him. — " Yery much." — 
 " At your age, however, we only cultivate the flowers 
 of life ; the culture of the flowers of earth is pleas- 
 ing only to the man who has fulfilled his task. It is 
 then almost like cultivating his recollections. The 
 flowers recall the l^irth, the natal land, the garden 
 of the family, and what more? You know better 
 than I who iuive thrown to forgctfulness all worldly 
 enjoyments!" — " I do not see, father," replied Gre- 
 try, " why you sei>arate these seeds which seem to 
 me to be all alike." — "Look through this microscope, 
 and see this l>lack speck on those which I place 
 aside ; but I wish to carry the horticultural lesson 
 still further." Tie took a flower-pot, made six holes 
 in tlie earth, and |>lanted three of the good seeds, 
 and three of the sjtottcd ones. " Recollect that the 
 had ones are on the side of the crack, and when you 
 come aii<l take a walk, do not forget to watch the 
 8talks as they grow," 
 
 Gretry found a melancholy charm in ictnining 
 freipiently ti> tlio garden <»f he convent. As he
 
 2G8 GRETRY. 
 
 passed he eacli time cast a glance on the old flower- 
 pot. The six stems at first shot up, each equally 
 verdant. The spotted seeds soon grew the fastest, 
 to his great surprise. He was about to accuse the 
 old inonk of having lost his wits ; but what was af- 
 terward his sorrow, when he saw his three plants 
 gradually fading away in their spring-time! With 
 each setting-sun a leaf fell and dried up, while the 
 leaves of the other stems thrived more and more 
 with every breeze, every ray of the sun, every drop 
 of de^\■. Tie went to dream every day before his 
 dear plants, with exceeding sadness. He soon saw 
 them wither away, even to the last leaf On the 
 same day the others were in flower. 
 
 This accident of nature was a cruel horoscope. 
 Thirty years afterward poor Grctry saw three other 
 flowers alike fated, fade and fall under the win- 
 try wind of death. He had forgotten the name 
 of the flowers of the Koman convent, but in dying 
 he still repeated the names of the others. They 
 were his three daughters, Jenny, Lucile, and An- 
 toinette. " Ah !" exclaimed the poor musician, in 
 relating the death of his three daughters, " I have 
 violated the laws of Nature to obtain genius. I have 
 watered with my blood the most frivolous of my 
 operas, I have nourished my old mother, I have 
 seized on reputation by exhausting my heart and my 
 soul, Nature has avenged herself on my children ! My 
 poor children, I foredoomed them to death !" 
 
 Gretry's daughters all died at the age of sixteen. 
 There is something: strange in their life and in 
 their death, which strikes the dreamer and the poet, 
 This sport of destiny, this freak of death, this ven«
 
 DEA.TH OF JENNT. 269 
 
 geance of Kature, appears here invested with all 
 the charms of romance. You will see. 
 
 Jennj had the pale sweet countenance of a vir- 
 gin. On seeing her, Greuze said one day : " If I 
 ever paint Purity, I shall paint Jenny," — "Make 
 haste !" murmured Gretry, already a prey to sad 
 presentiments. "Then she is going to be married ?" 
 said Greuze. Gretrv did not answer. Soon, how- 
 ever, seeking to blind himself, he continued : " She 
 will be the staff of my old age ; like Antigone, she 
 will lead her father into the sun at the decline of 
 life." 
 
 The next day Gretry came unexpectedly upon 
 Jenny, looking more pale and depressed than ever. 
 She was playing on the harpsichord, but sweetly 
 and slowly. As she was playing an air from 
 Richard Cceur-de-IAon^ in a melancholy strain, the 
 poor father fancied that he was listening to the 
 music of angels. One of her friends entered — " Well, 
 Jenny, you are going to-night to the ball?" — "Yes, 
 yes, to the ball," answered poor Jenny, looking to- 
 ward heaven, and suddenly resuming, " No, I shall 
 not go, my dance is ended." Gretry pressed his 
 daughter to his heart. " Jenny, are you suffering ?" — 
 " It is over !" said she. 
 
 She bent her head and died instantly, without a 
 Btniggle ! Poor Gretry asked if she was asleep. 
 She slept with 'he angels. 
 
 Lucile was a contrast to Jenny ; she was a beau- 
 tiful girl, gay, enthusiastic, and frolicsome, with 
 all the caprices of such a disposition. She wa£ 
 almost a portrait of her father, and possessed, be- 
 sides, the same heart and the same mind. "Who
 
 270 GRETRY. 
 
 knows," said poor Giv tiy , " but that her gayety may 
 save her." She was untortiiuately one of those pre- 
 cocious geniuses who devour their youth. At thirteen 
 she had composed an opera which was phiyed every- 
 wliere, Le Marriage d' Antonio. A jom-nalist, a friend 
 of Gretry, who one day found himself in Lucile's 
 apartment, without her being aware of it, so much 
 was she engrossed with her harj), lias related the 
 rage and madness which transported her during her 
 contests with inspiration that was often rebellious. 
 " She wept, she sang, she struck the harp with in- 
 credible energy. She either did not see me, or took 
 no notice of me ; for my own ^Jart, I wept with joy, 
 in beholding this little girl transported with so 
 glorious a zeal, and so noble an enthusiasm for 
 music." 
 
 Lucile had learned to read music before she knew 
 her alphabet. She had been so long lulled to sleep 
 with Grctry's airs, that at the age when so many other 
 young girls think only of hoops and dolls, she had 
 found sufficient music in her soul for the whole of 
 a charming opera. She was a prodigy. Had it not 
 been lor death, who came to seize her at sixteen like 
 her sister, the greatest musician of the eighteenth 
 century would, ])erhaps, have been a woman. But 
 the twig, scarcely green, snapped at the moment 
 when the poor bird commenced her song, Gretry had 
 Lucile married at the solicitation (jf his friends. 
 " Marry her, marry her," tliey incessantly repeated ; 
 " if Love has the start of Death, Lucile is safe." 
 Lucile suffered herself to be married with the resig- 
 nation jf an angel, foreseeing that the marriage would 
 not be of long duration. She suffered herself to bo ■
 
 DEATH OF LUCILE. 271 
 
 married to one of tliose artists of the worst order^ 
 who .have neither the religion of art nor the fire of 
 genius, and who have still less heart, for the heart is 
 the home of genius. The poor Lucile saw at a 
 fflance the desert to which her family had exiled her. 
 She consoled herself with a harp and a haipsichord ; 
 but her husband, who had been brought up like a 
 slave, cruelly took delight, with a coward's ven- 
 geance, in making her feel all the chains of Hy- 
 men. She would have died, like Jenny, on lier 
 father's bosom, amidst her loving family, after having 
 sung her farewell song ; but thanks to this barbarous 
 fellow, she died in his presence, that is to say, alone. 
 At the hour of her death, " Bring me my liar]) !'' said 
 she, raising herself a little. "The doctor has forbidden 
 it," said this savage. She cast a bitter, yet a suppliant 
 look, upon him. " But as I am dying!" said she. "You 
 will die very well without that." She fell back on 
 her pillow. " My poor father," nnirmuretl she, " I 
 wished to bid you adieu on my harp; but here I am 
 not free except to die I" Lucile, it is the nurse who 
 related the scene, suddenly extended her arms, called 
 Jenny with a broken voice, and fell asleep like her 
 for ever. 
 
 Antoinette was sixteen. She was fair and smiling 
 like tlie moin, but she was fated to die like the 
 others. Grotry prayed and wept, as he saw her growing 
 pale; but death was not stopped so easily. Cruel 
 tlidt he in^ he stops his ears^ there is no nse to pray 
 to hrni ! Gretry, however, still hoped. "God,' 
 said h(!, "will be touched by my thi-icc bitter tears." 
 He almost abandoned imi-ic in order t.» Iiasc more 
 *ime to consecrate to Jiii- dcur Ant<tinette. He anti-
 
 272 GRETRY. 
 
 cipated all her fancies, dresses, and ornaments, books 
 and excursions, in a word she enjoyed to her heart's 
 desire every pleasure the world could afford. At 
 each new toy she smiled with that divine smile which 
 seems formed for heaven. Grctrv succeeded in de- 
 ceivinjTj himself; but she one day revealed to him all 
 her ill-fortune in these words, which accidentally es- 
 caped from her : " My godmother died on the scaf- 
 fold : she was a godmother of bad augury. Jenny 
 died at sixteen, Lucile died at sixteen, and I am now 
 sixteen myself Tlie godmother of Antoinette was 
 the (jueen Marie- Antoinette. 
 
 Another day, Antoinette was meditating over a 
 pink at the window. On seeing her witii this flower 
 in her hand, Gretry imagined that the poor girl was 
 Buffering herself to be carried away by a dream of 
 love. It was the dreani of death ! He soon heard 
 Antoinette murmur : "/ shall die this spring^ this 
 summer^ this autumn^ this winter!'''' She was at the 
 last leaf. — "So much the worse," she said ; "I should 
 like the autumn better." — " What do you say, my 
 dear angel ?" said Gretry, pressing her to his heart. 
 — "Nothing, nothing! I was playing with death; 
 wliv do vou not let the children plav?" 
 
 Gretry thought that a southern journey would be a 
 beneiicial change ; he took his daughter to Lyons, 
 where she had fi'iends. For a short time she returned 
 to her ffav and careless manner. Gretry went to 
 woi-k again, and finished Guillaiirne Tell. He 
 went eveiy morning, in search of inspiration, to the 
 chamber of his daughter, who said to him one day, on 
 awaking: "Your music has always the odor of » 
 poem; this piece will have that of wild thyme."
 
 HTS LAST DAUGHTEE. 273 
 
 Toward autumn, she again lost her natural gavety. 
 Gretrj took his wife aside. — "You see your daughter," 
 said he to her. At this single word, an icy shudder 
 seized both. They shed a torrent of teal's. The 
 same day they thought of returning to Paris. — " So 
 we are to go hack to Paris," said Antoinette ; " it is 
 welh I shall rejoin there those whom I love." — She 
 spoke of her sisters. After reaching Paris, the poor, 
 fated girl concealed all the ravages of death with 
 care; her heart was sad, hut her lips were smiling. 
 She wished to conceal the truth from li(>r father to 
 the end. One day, while she was weeping and hiding 
 her tear>, slie said to him with an air of gayety : "You 
 know that I am going to the ball to-morrow, and I want 
 t<» appear well dressed there. I want a pearl necklace, 
 and shall look for it when I wake up to-morrow 
 morning." 
 
 She went to the ball. As she set out with her 
 niotlier, Pouget Delisle, a musician more celebrated 
 at that time than Gretry, said ra]itnrously : "Ah, 
 G retry, you ai"e a happy man! AVhat a charming 
 girl I wliat sweetness and grace !" — " Yes," said 
 Gretry, in a whisper, "she is beautiful and still more 
 amiable; she is going to the ball, but in a few weeks 
 we 6])all follow her together to the cemetery!" — 
 " AYhat a lioi-i-ible idea! You are losing^'our senses!" 
 — "Wriuld I were not losing mv heart! I had three 
 danghters ; she is the only one left to me, but already 
 I iinist weep for her !" 
 
 A few days after this hall, she to(»k to her bed, 
 and fell into a sad but hcantifid delii'ium. She 
 had fnimd her sisters again in this world; she 
 walked with them hand in iiand ; she waltzed in
 
 274 QRETRY. 
 
 the same saloon; she danced in the same quadrille; 
 she took them to the plav ; all the while recountintr 
 to them her imaginary loves. AVhat a picture for 
 Gretry ! — " She had," he says in his Memoires^ "some 
 serene moments before death. She took my hand, 
 and tliat of her motliei-, and with a sweet smile, ' I 
 see well,' she mnrnnirod, 'that we must hear our 
 destiny; I do not fear death; hut what is to becume 
 of you two?' — She was propped \\\) ])\ her pillow 
 M-hile she spoke with us for the last time. She was 
 laid back, then closed her beautiful eyes, and went 
 to join her sisters !" 
 
 Gretry is very eloquent in his (jrief. There is in 
 this part of his Memoires a cry which came from his 
 heart, and wrings our own. — " Oh, my friends," he 
 exclaims, throwing down the pen, "a tear, a tear 
 upon the beloved tomb of my three lovely flowers, 
 predestined to die, like those of the good Italian 
 monk I" 
 
 In order the better to cherish his sad recollections, 
 the poor musician played every day on the harpsi- 
 chord the old religious airs which he had fomierly 
 heard at Rome, as he walked in tlie garden of the 
 convent. 
 
 Madame Gretry resumed her long-neglected pen- 
 cil ; she passed her whole time in recalling the 
 graceful and gentle forms of her three daughtei'S. 
 The revolution had swept away Gretry's fortune. 
 Madame Gretry soon painted for the first-comer. 
 After the first tumults of the time were over, Gretry's 
 music was sang with more delight than ever. He 
 let Fortune take her course, and she 1)y degi*ees re- 
 turned him what he had lost. But of what use ifi
 
 Rousseau's hermitage. 275 
 
 fortnnt when the heart is desolate? He had not, 
 however, yet drained the cup to the bottom ; the lionr 
 had not come. He saw his dear Jeannette and his 
 old mother die! K'ow he was alone! He recalled, 
 as his grief grew deeper and deeper, the old hermit 
 of Mount Millini. — "To live alone, one must become 
 a hermit,"' he said. But where to go? There is, not 
 far from Paris, a l)eantitnl Thebaid, which a great 
 genius has made illustrious by his glory and his mis- 
 fortunes. This Thebaid is called Tlie Hermitage. 
 Gretry went to take refuge in the Hermitage ; it was 
 there that he would evoke, in the silent night, all the 
 beloved shades of his life ; it was there that he 
 would await death in gloomy pleasure! 
 
 Gretry found the rose-bush of Jean-Jacques at the 
 Hermitage. — I have planted it ', I have seen it grow. 
 — He found a landscape full of vigor and luxuriance, 
 which, by degrees, reconciled him to life. He aban- 
 doned music for philosophy. — "I am in the sanctuary 
 of philosophy. Jean- Jacques has left here the bed in 
 which he dreamed of the Contrat Social^ the table 
 which was the altar of genius, the crystal lamp 
 which lighted him in his garden, when he wrote to 
 his Julia. I am the sacristan of these precious 
 reliques." 
 
 In addition to this, Gretry found a friend in his 
 solitude, an (jld miller of tlie neighborhood, whose 
 rustic jargon and Picardian artlessncss charmed the 
 world-wearied musician. 
 
 T foi-got to tell you that CiretiT had not lost all his 
 cliildrcn. — "Fate has de])rivod ine of my thi'ee 
 dau^iiteiv ; but the di-atii of mv brollier lias just 
 given me seven children." — These seven chihlren
 
 27n GRETRY, 
 
 (iivti'v protected with his name and fortune. Grati- 
 tude, uatbrtunately, inspired one of his lieirs with an 
 epic poem on the ITermifagp* 
 
 He died in 181.'), in aiitniiin, with tlie flowers of 
 his uarden ; he died, leaving some good deeds and 
 master-pieces behind him, after having enchanted 
 Franco during half a century. Ask our grandsirea 
 witli how great a charm, how sweet a smile, and hoAV 
 gay a heart, they listened to him ! 
 
 Fontenelle said carelessly: "There are three things 
 in this world, which I have loved very miu-h, without 
 knowing anything about tlicni, music, ])aintiiio-, and 
 women." I am somewhat of his o])ini()n. We love the 
 more the less we know; the women know this but too 
 ■well. This hapin' remai'k of the Norman j)oet comes 
 very apro])os to my pen, which has no wish to be 
 scientific on pleasing music, whose chief merit is 
 gayety and simplicity. Gretry was almost a great 
 musician, as AVatteau was almost a great painter. 
 His inspiration has a gentle and tender reminiscence 
 of Flanders, and at the same time the grace and 
 gayety of Paris. He was of no school, but o])ened 
 a schofd himself. It was owing to him that Dalayrac 
 and Delia Maria sang. He sought truth rather than 
 display, sentiment rather than noise, grace rather 
 than force. He left his statue on the stage, and its 
 pedestal in the orchestra ; learned as he was, he pre- 
 ferred inspiration to science. " I want to make 
 faults," he said; "harmony will lose nothing by 
 them." At the present day a multitude of more 
 noisy masters have frightened away the gentle shade 
 
 • Thtse children had others, who at the present day call themselve? 
 De GrPtry.
 
 BECOMES A PIIILOSOPHEE. 277 
 
 of Gretrv ; tliev have smiled a little at the recoUec- 
 tion of the Za Rosiere^ and of Collinette^ but who 
 knows if some fine evening, after all their noise, 
 Gretrv mav not return to reanimate our sweetest 
 smiles.* 
 
 Gretry was a musician, poet, philosopher, every- 
 body has said so ; his memoirs have proved it. He 
 wrote in an unceremonious M'ay, in the deshal)ille of 
 a good citizen of Liege, but witli the unaffected spirit 
 of a richly-gifted nature.f 
 
 Having; jjrown old, he fancied that he could 
 no longer, as in his brilliant days, write his ideas in 
 music, so he wrote them in bad enough prose. No 
 longer being able to be a poet, he became a philoso- 
 pher, not a learned one, like Cond iliac, but dreamy, 
 elo([nent, paradoxical, like a disciple of Jean-Jacques 
 and Bernardin de Saint-Pierre. He had not read, he 
 had only loved. In place of seeking knowledge in 
 books, he sought it in himself, invoking his recollec- 
 tions, studying the contradictions of his heart. He 
 wrote three volumes under tliis terrific title. On 
 Truth ; a title which would have terrified Diderot 
 himself, tliat l)old navigator on uidaiown seas. Gre- 
 trv, who lia<l all the temeritv of io-noiance, com- 
 
 • Since these pii^cs wnc written, Richard Ca'ur-de-Lion has been 
 re[irn(lnce(l at the Opera Coinique ; anil at the present mcimcnt this 
 ever-frosh, ori^'iiial, and charming music, gives a poetic pleasure to 
 our musical recolleclions. 
 
 t Although a Flpriiint;, lie could say a good thing. David was al- 
 nioiit alwavK along.side of hitn at the Institute. 'J'he painter, one day 
 wearied with the discourses wliich were going on, auiused iiiuiself 
 with making a sketch of a young negro-girl. " Tliis sketch is to he- 
 come precious," haid Onilry to him. " Do you wish it to l)econie so?" 
 »aid Uavid ; " ihiMi write under it some idea in analogy with your 
 art." (jn'lry look the pencil and wrote the same moment : " One 
 \i tiilr if triMiil In fun liliirl:.i." 
 
 •21
 
 278 QEETRY. 
 
 meuced with these lines : " Music is a good prepara- 
 tioa for all the sentimental sciences ; the exact 
 sciences also, have some connection with the rela- 
 tions existing Ijetwcen sounds." The ancient philos- 
 ophers actually almost made astronomy a musical 
 science. They said that the stars in heaven are har- 
 moniously calculated sounds. According to Cicero, 
 there is but one harmony, which exists in the uni- 
 verse of which this of soimds is the image. Grctry 
 avows in commencing his huok, that he possesses 
 l>ut a limited erudition; but ""I possess an erudition 
 of sensation.'' He adds : " Without counting the 
 men of no moment, there are two sorts of authors as 
 of artists, the creators and the combiners. This 
 woidd prove that there is no unity in num ; that 
 he sins b}' that of which be has tou much as by 
 that which he needs ; that he is poor by his riches 
 as by his poverty." He does not stop to say whether 
 he is a creator or a combiner. With him one idea 
 leads to another. He marches on without turning 
 back ; Truth attracts liim, and he ever seeks her be- 
 fore him. 
 
 A little farther on he narrates the origin of his 
 book. lie was walking in the Cliamps-Elysees when 
 the sight of a group of children, who were playing 
 api)arently in a very serious manner, took him 1)y 
 surprise. What was the game? They were meas- 
 uring themselves two-by-two ])y leaning the shoul- 
 ders of one against the other, all standing on tiptoe 
 and crying, " I, I, am the largest I" And Gretry 
 said t(j himself: "These children will grow up, but, 
 nevertheless, they will be all their lives playing the 
 same game ; and this game which occupies them is
 
 BOOK ON TRUTH. 279 
 
 that of mar. in all ages. Yet it is easy to show that 
 man is incessantly striving to rise on tiptoe, hence 
 comes all our evils. We mnst re-establish the Truth 
 in all her splendor. AYe must incessantly repeat that 
 all without her is disorder ; that with her all is for 
 the best, under all moral points of view. Before 
 the Eevolution, the self-love of the subjugated man 
 cried to him, Raise thyself ! Now that he is up- 
 right, this same self-love should remind him always 
 to maintaiu his natural elevation." 
 
 But we will not follow Gretry through this strange 
 and confused dream in three volumes octavo. Gre- 
 try wrote better in music than in prose. As a ])oet 
 he was fresh and simple, light, graceful, and spiritual, 
 in a word, charming. As a philosopher he is morose 
 and sententious, ignorant, and no longer simple. 
 However, as the dust of folios did not always taniish 
 his amiable nnnd, Gretry has still his happy hours, 
 especially when he puts himself on the stage. 
 Every time that he is content to speak as memory 
 BUSirests, he throws over his boDk a final uleam of 
 youth and life which poetically colors these some- 
 what sombre pages ; they might be called the pallid 
 rays of a setting sun. But Gretry, unfortunately 
 choosing to be serious, cost what it may, heaps clouds 
 upon clouds ; and if the setting sun shows itself here 
 and there, it is almost in spite of himself.
 
 DIDEROT. 
 
 AViTo would ever dare to undertake to relate tlie 
 life «>t' Jean-Jacques, or that of Diderot ? Both have 
 v%'rittcu their confessions, Diderot with the most 
 fi-'iiikness, perhaps, because he confessed without 
 Avishing to do so. 
 
 Buffon, thinking of Diderot and of himself, said, 
 " The style is the man." He told the truth in utter- 
 ing a paradox. Yes, the character of Diderot is al- 
 wavs in his style, as his heart is in his books. 
 
 Always sincere, always influenced by his feelings, 
 lu-ver by patient reflection, Diderot wrote as he 
 spoke — with enthusiasm. A great poet wanting 
 rhyme, a great historian with the addition of pas- 
 sion, always in the forward ranks of thought, he was 
 yet a great journalist rather than a great writer. It 
 may be said that he took time neither to make his 
 pen ]i<»r to open liis desk. His desk was everywhere, 
 at Grimm's, at D'Aleml)ert's, at DTIolbach's, on 
 the Icnees of liis dear Sophia. 
 
 Thei'e it was that he chiefly wrote on every- 
 t:i;i:g great or small, on God and on the world, on 
 the arts, and on women. Bold even to insolence.
 
 HTs GEimrs. 281 
 
 adventurous even to folly, he always went forward, 
 guided bv his generous instincts, scattering with open 
 hands, the Truth which disenchants, the Light wliich 
 consumes, the Falsehood which consoles. 
 
 He was one of the first to paint as he wrote. His rich 
 palette is all tinged with fire and flames. His color 
 is fresh, even in its most delicate shade, especially 
 when he paints women ! And how well he knew 
 how to paint them ! What a fine, delicate, warm 
 touch I What superb lights, what a delicious back- 
 ground, what a beautiful genre picture as well as a 
 portrait ! He is at once an historical and an imagi- 
 native painter ; but the color intoxicated his eye, 
 and blinded him to his faults of drawing. 
 
 What constitutes his charm is that feeling, sen- 
 timent, poetry, animate each page of his works, 
 whether he is severe or familiar, whether he is wri- 
 ting a discourse or a letter. His style is lively. He 
 does not write, he speaks. He would have invented 
 the whole of Sterne, for he had still more than 
 Sterne, the intellect of the heart. Why had he 
 not the leisure to attempt some elegant verse, for 
 nothing was wanting in him but rhyme? Why did 
 lie not sometime awake a Benvenuto Cellini amid 
 his gold and diamonds ? So many othei*s have set 
 glass-jewels and chased pinchbeck ! 
 
 Diderot so far surpassed his brethren in arms that 
 he could, without astonishment, awake at the present 
 day, among ourselves, ])oets, dreamers, sul)lime 
 maniacs. Diderot is at once the connnencement of 
 Mirabcau. the fii-st cry of the French Revolution, 
 and the last word of all our fine dreams. He was 
 
 24*
 
 282 DIDEROT. 
 
 the truo revolutionist. At the tribune of 1789, he 
 W'oukl luive effaced Mirabeau and Danton; for when 
 he became impassioned in tlie worship of ideas, he 
 had all the magnificence of the tempest. None of 
 liis books can give an idea of his bold and seductive 
 eloquence. 
 
 lie passed his life in loving and lighting. Saint 
 Simon, Fourier, and George Sand, seem all to have 
 taken their points of divergence from him. In real- 
 ity this bold and adventurous philosopher, M'ho rose 
 by word and pen against the old society, had 
 thoroughly revolutionary habits. He went from his 
 wife to his mistress, from his mistress to his wife, 
 from his wife to other mistresses. For all this he 
 was none the less a sage, loving virtue, but following 
 all the fancies and all tlie impulses of his heart. 
 To live according to his heart w^as, so to speak, the 
 motto of his life. He left the compass to D'Alem- 
 bert, gallantry to Ilelvetius, pride to Voltaire, vanity 
 to Grimm, magnificent airs to Buffon, sarcasms to 
 D'lIoUtach ; for his own part he opened his heart 
 and lived happily. 
 
 He had the richest nature of the age, both in 
 head and heart. Behold how ideas of all sorts breed 
 tempests in that immense forehead. Tlie other chiefs 
 of the valiant army, which called itself the Ency- 
 clojjedia^ were present only to temper his warmth, or 
 profit by his conquest. All, Jean-Jacques himself, 
 are more preoccupied with laurels than with victory. 
 Diderot alone did not think of laurels. 
 
 A man worthy of glory for all ages, he nevertheless 
 came in his own proper time. The Deity had marked
 
 HIS GENIUS. 283 
 
 him with a fatal seal. The arms which he had seized 
 would liave broken in his hauds a century sooner or 
 even a century later. 
 
 He was the true philosopher of the eighteenth cen- 
 tury. He alone utters tones worthy of Leibnitz or 
 Malebranche. While Montesquieu and Raynal weVe 
 studying politics, Yoltaire tlie philosophers, without 
 'studying himself enough, Condillac psychology, 
 D'Aleuibert geometry, Butfon the pomp of ideas 
 ratlier than ideas, D'Holbach chemistry, Diderot 
 rose liisrher — he dared to create an entire world. 
 Jean-Jacques alone, by his sublime reveries, ap- 
 proaches him on these precipitous heights. I have 
 said that Diderot dared to create. It would be more 
 just to say that he dared to destroy. His work is 
 actually one of destruction, but not a sterile work. 
 After the mournful harvest of prejudice, the good 
 seed may be sown. 
 
 Ideas are Ijirds of passage which traverse the 
 world, carried along by a fragrant breeze, or chased 
 by storms. Sometimes the bird of passage is an 
 eagle, who is to strike with his unseen wing the 
 forehead of a philosopher or a hei'O. Sometimes it 
 is a light swallow Mdio shakes over poets and lovers, 
 his wings steeped in the dew of the meadows. Di- 
 derot saw the flight of the eagle and the swallow. 
 The great wing struck his forehead, the drop of dew 
 fell upon his heart. 
 
 The eagle had passed over him on a stormy day, 
 as over V<.>ltaire, over Jean- Jacques, over all nion in 
 advance of their age. 
 
 If we seek the origin of this fervid thought, which 
 under the name of Voltaire, Jean-Jacques, and
 
 284 DIl>EROT. 
 
 Diderot, nuide of old inonarcliical France, bigoted 
 and ruined, a new country, which will be free, 
 strong, and rich, we niust ask Vanini and Campa- 
 nella. Italy was the supreme mother before France. 
 In the same century she nursed at her teemiiii' 
 bosom all the great ])oets and all the great artists. 
 Human thought has also come to us from that en- 
 chanted land. Is not Vanini, that witty cynic, who 
 was the first to doubt and to scoff, who scattered 
 trurh by his biting speech, the beginning of Voltaire ? 
 And is not Campauelli, that bold soul, tliat daring 
 spirit, the precursor of Diderot? But why should 
 we search elsewhere than in our own land for the 
 fount'iin which, by degrees, has become a rivulet, a 
 brook, a river, to fertilize liberated France? Have 
 not Abelard and Montaigue, Descartes and Habelais, 
 caused the waters of health to leap from the i-ock ? 
 Fenelou, that pantheist of such pious melancholy, 
 who dreamed of a Calypso's island for his Eden, 
 was a brother of Diderot as Bayle was of Voltaire. 
 
 A light surrounded by darkness is all which the 
 mind can attain here below. We go forward, we 
 seek with a bold eye ; a luminous point strikes it, 
 and we exclaim, " Behold the truth !" We still 
 press forward, completely dazzled, the heart beating, 
 the soul in the eyes. Suddenly the darkness becomes 
 more black, we have made a step, but we remain on 
 the road. We are in despair, another ray shoots 
 across ; we still wish to follow, but it seems the sport 
 of him who knows all things. We soon gasp for 
 breath in this rugged land, and retrace our steps to 
 the point of depaiture where it is written, "The sun 
 of the mind shall not rise for thee."
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF THE XVHITH CENTURY. U.'^O 
 
 Diderot walked without fear in the darkness, lie 
 went far, but why did he say on his return, " Beyond 
 the visible path there is nothing?" The philosophy 
 of the eighteenth century was wanting in grander.r 
 and poetry. Its reason fastens us to the eartli, and 
 limits the horizon ; its enthusiasm never elevates us 
 up to the sacred region, in which the soul expands 
 at the breath of God. But what philosophy, except 
 that of Christ, is worthv to ijuide humanitv? That 
 alone is the philosophy of tlie heart and of the luind- 
 It is Heaven smiling upon weeping earth ; it is llie 
 horizon over which rises the Divine Light ; it is the 
 science of life — Love : it is the science of deatli — • 
 
 Hope I 
 
 To avail myself of the parable of the cvani;eiists, 
 the earth, this field of God, in which his bor.uritul 
 hand has sown the good seed. Love, Charity, and 
 Hope, was faithless to its Master. The tares s] ".ung 
 up among the good seed — the tares, that is to sav, 
 ambition, vanity, contention. The good seed was 
 near being choked in the field, without air iind 
 without sunshine, when Christ came and said to it, 
 "Rise up, I will sustain you against the tares ; and 
 in the time of harvest, I will gather you, while the 
 gleaners shall cast the tares into the fire." Thus was 
 it that Christ came and spake to him who needed 
 the air and sunshine, to Lazarus. What did he sny 
 to her who needed the Divine Love, to the M ngda- 
 len ? Weary with his joui'ney, he was resting on a 
 Btone in a city of Samaria ; it was at the sixth \.>mv: 
 a woman <tf Sanuiria came to draw water. Jesus 
 Baid mit<» her, "Give me to driidc. Who^uevor 
 drinketh of this water shall thirst again ; but wl.uso-
 
 286 DroEROT. 
 
 t'ver driuketh of tl»e water tliat I shall give liim 
 sluill never thirst : but the wuter that I shall give 
 him, shall be in him a well of water springing np 
 into everlasting life." And the Savior dropped on 
 the withered heart of the Magdalen a drop of the 
 liviuo; water of Divine Love, and the Mamlalen was 
 delivered from the impure chains of sensuality. Her 
 arms which had embraced none other than the devil, 
 were now stretched out to God. Christ had protected 
 and raised Lazarus. He pardoned the Magdalen, 
 and reopened heaven unto her. Every step he took 
 forced back the demon of evil ; each word which he 
 spt)ke proclaimed Divine justice ; and in his footsteps 
 Love, the earnest of heaven, the fair lily which 
 bloomed from a smile and a tear of the Divinity, 
 flourished again on this condenmed world as in its 
 tirst days. 
 
 Did not the philosophy of the eighteenth century 
 then comprehend, that before its time a God had 
 come on a pilgrimage here below, to speak of Love 
 to humanity in a nobler language than that of 
 the Enci/elojjedla. 
 
 The philosophy of Diderot, however, was that of 
 Plato. According to Plato, God gave us two wings 
 to rise unto him — love and reason. Are we not, ac- 
 cording to Diderot, to pass through life with these 
 \\\i) wings ? Yoltaire, less tender and less pensive, 
 placed reason before love. 
 
 Diderot was the most impassioned of the comba- 
 tants in this ardent army of philosophers, who, alx)iit 
 1760, agitated so noisily, who demanded entire lil> 
 erty — liberty of thought and of pen — liberty be- 
 foi-e the king, liberty before God. Diderot reached
 
 THE FKENCH PHILOSOPnERS. 287 
 
 the extreme limit at a single bound, but his enthu- 
 siasm often misled him. He had too much of the 
 artist for a philosopher. The head took the lead, but 
 the heart suddenly followed the head, and soon out- 
 stripped it. Even in thinking, he allowed himself to 
 be carried away by revery. His power consists in 
 his boldness, which surprised tliDse most inured to 
 battle. It is his disorderly impetuosity which has 
 all the majesty of the storm. 
 
 D'Alembert might be painted with compass in 
 liand, between Diderot and Voltaire, appeasing the 
 imj)etuosity of the one and tempering the passion of 
 the other. 
 
 Voltaire had the impetuosity of caprice, of anger, 
 of vengeance ; the lightning cleft the cloud, the 
 storm was expected, but the sky soon became serene. 
 
 As a striking contrast, represent to yourselves 
 D'Alembert, timid and discreet, not daring to utter 
 Jiis thought, scarcely daring to write it in the solitude 
 «)f In's study. Fontenclle, who had his hands b}^ no 
 means full of truths, took good care not to open 
 them. D'Alembert, an expanded echo of Fontenelle, 
 disseminated luit the rpiarter of the truth. Diderot 
 would have rather disseminated an error than retained 
 a truth in the hollow of his hand. We may compare 
 D'Alembert again to Montesquieu; we find the same 
 calmness and rpiiet. The Geometre-orateur of Gil- 
 bert is more a ])ortrait than a satire. A man ever 
 temperate, even in days of conflict, lie is the genius 
 of patience; he places Heason on the shell of the 
 tortoise. — "Tteason must never take the bit in her 
 teeth ; if she only progresses that is sufficient." 
 
 Diderot was a rigorous pantheist, loving God, and
 
 288 DIDEROT. 
 
 sayiiip; that the eartli was an ahar illnmined hy 
 ireaveii. Proud a8 a freeman, who can-ies with him 
 the nieinorv <>t' liis goxl actions, lie went on witiioiit 
 fear and witliont turnino; aside, sayin<; tliat of the 
 dastai'dly and tlie g'nilty none should follow hini. 
 
 Strange being! God liad given him everything — 
 enthusiasm, poetry, thoughts which flasl)cd from Ills 
 mind like darts of lightning, sentiments wliicli bloomed 
 in his heart like lilies upon the shores of the river of 
 life ! It is Man made in the image of God ! The 
 body was worthy of sudi a soul; grace accompanied 
 might; nothing was wanting to such a creature, 
 nothing, unless it was God himself! The ])rodigal 
 son had fled from the paternal mansion, without re- 
 taining a recollection, a pious recollection for the 
 benefit of his evil days ! 
 
 But why accuse him of atheism ? Atheist 1 is not 
 loving here below, loving God on high? Didei'ot 
 loved all his life the works of God. A man gifted 
 like himself might, in his houi-s of doubt, fall into the 
 eiTors of a materialism without danger, because he 
 animated matter with all his poetry. For him, mat- 
 ter had a soul; he said with children: "God is 
 everywhere; on earth as in heaven." — Tie never de- 
 nied the divinity; he only formed of it a changing 
 image. His Deity appeared to him under divei'se 
 metamorphoses. He saw him especially under the 
 form of a beautiful woman, still pure, already loving, 
 lier feet on earth, her look raised to the sky. Some- 
 times he seemed to hear him in the thousand voices 
 of the deep forest. He had not, like Cabanis, the 
 fault of wanting to explain everything. That was the 
 error of science, and Diderot did not assume the er-
 
 WHAT IS THE SOUL? 289 
 
 rors of a savant. He disavowed the impure mate- 
 rialism of La Mettrie. He had decked an altar to 
 public morality and private virtue. He loved his 
 family ; he spoke with emotion of his old father, the 
 cutler of Langres ; he wept at the thought of his 
 daughter. If he had his heart open to all passions, 
 good and fetal, he also had a heart oj^en to all 
 charities. He did not sing of Nature, the work of 
 God, like all the poets and philosophers of his time, 
 but he loved it. Ko one had in so high a degree the 
 profound feeling of universal life. This man, who 
 knew so mucli, who knew everything except the be- 
 ginning and the end, was surprised, astonished like 
 a child, at the sight of the woods wliich thought and 
 moved, of the waters which flowed on for ever, of the 
 harvest which each year regilded the earth. He 
 plucked an ear of wheat and a flower ; he looked to- 
 ward heaven ; he interrogated his heart. — " "What 
 are you about, my friend, Diderot?" asked Grimm 
 one day, when the philosopher stood thinking in the 
 open country. — " I am listening," he replied. — " Who 
 is speakiug to your'— "God."— "AVelH"— "It is 
 Hebrew: the heart understands, but the mind is not 
 j)laced high enough." 
 
 One evening all the philosopher were awaiting 
 supper at Ilelvetius'. They returned as ever to that 
 famous question, "What is the soul?" When each 
 one had iravlvor (jravelv uttered some fine-sounding 
 falsehood, Helvetius stamped with his foot to obtain 
 a little silence. He went and closed the window. — 
 "Niirht lias come on: brinf; me some fii-e." — A 
 Ijrazier of charcoal wivs brought in ; he took t lif tongs, 
 went to a candle-bracket, ami l»li'W u]Min the coal; a
 
 200 DIDEROT. 
 
 candle was liglited. — "Take awaj this god," said he, 
 showing the coal ; " I have tlie soul, the life of the first 
 man ! Xuw the lire which has answered my purpose is 
 to he found everywhere — in the stone, in the wood, 
 in the atmosphere. The soul is the fire, and the fire 
 is the life. The creation (»f the world is an hypothesis 
 much more marvellous than that which I have sought 
 to explain to you." — A\''ith these words, Helvetius lit 
 a second candle. — " You see that my first nuin has 
 transmitted life without the aid of a god !" — " You 
 do not see," said Diderot then to him, " that you 
 have proved the existence of God in seeking to deny 
 it; for I know very well that life is on the earth, but 
 still there must needs have been some one to have 
 lighted the fire. I fancy that the charcoal would not 
 have lit itself" 
 
 Diderot never denied God, for he saw him every- 
 where ; at the most, he doubted : now, as some one 
 has said, " To doubt is still to believe." 
 
 But how can we study him, with his thousand con- 
 tradictions? As a man of sincerity, in his life, as in 
 his works, he contradicted himself every day and on 
 every page. 
 
 Diderot is one of the great figures which shine out 
 predominantly in the picture of an age. He holds 
 an elevated place as an artist and philosopher in the 
 history of the arts and of ideas. His memory pos- 
 sesses an indescribable grandeur and charm. He is 
 the genius of paradox, the heroism of audacity and 
 of passion. He carries the eighteenth century on his 
 shoidders, as the Atlas of old carried the heavens ! 
 No one thinks of raising a statue to him, but has he 
 aot a temple — an eternal temple, although already
 
 THE EXCYCLOPEDIA. 291 
 
 rained, the Encyclopedia^ whence issued the revohi- 
 tion, completely armed ? 
 
 The ruins of the Encyclopedia will be piously 
 admired in future time, like the sacred fragments of 
 the Parthenon. When the architect is a great artist, 
 the temple survives the god w'ho was worshipped in 
 it. The philosophy of Diderot has fallen from the 
 altai'; hut his temple will never he thrown down I
 
 BOUCHER. 
 
 In the history of painting in France, during the 
 seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, we find two 
 scliools, or rather two families of painters, springing 
 up ahnost simultaneously, and holding alternate 
 sway. The one, grand and forcible, drawing the 
 sources of its life from the holy inspiration of God 
 and of Kature, which still adorns human beauty with 
 memorials of heaven, and with the splendor of the 
 ideal ; the other gracefid and coquettish, which does 
 not look for inspiration, which contents itself with 
 being pretty, with smiling, arid even charming at 
 the expense of truth and grandeur. The ol)ject of 
 its search is not the pure and simple beauty which is 
 radiant with the sentiment of divinity, it seeks only 
 to attract. The first exhibits Art in all her splendor, 
 the second is but the falsehood of Art. In the 
 seventeenth century, Poussin and Mignard were at 
 the head of these two families f>f art, as I have called 
 them. The one has the beauty of force and simpli- 
 city, the other that of grace and clevemess. Tliis 
 striking contrast was reproduced, in a feebler form, 
 in the eighteenth century, by the Yanloos and Bou-
 
 PAINTERS OF THE X ifiTII CEXTURY. 203 
 
 cliers. The Yaiiloos, thor.gli they did not await the 
 liour of inspiration, thoiigli they could not rise higli 
 enough to grasp the sui)reme beauty, set out with 
 the noble ardor of Poussin, and reached only theat- 
 rical display ; they stopped half way in their jour- 
 ney, but they at least preserved a remembrance of 
 their point of departure. When the power was at 
 default, the aim saved the work. We can not for- 
 get those natural artists who brought from Flandere 
 the freshness of their fields. Despite their noble ef- 
 foi'ts, serious art soon expired, overcome by the pro- 
 fane scho<»l of Watteau. Watteau, M-ho reigned 
 during the I'egency, gave, so to speak, the color to 
 his time. The painter, however, who most faithfully 
 represents art in the eighteenth century', is Boucher. 
 Is it not curious to study in Boucher, the caprice 
 which holds sovereign sway, without reverence for 
 the past, and without regard for the future? Bou- 
 cher, whatever may be the contempt of some, or the 
 ]>ity of otliers, will always hold a place in the history 
 of Art. We can not reject this painter, who reigned 
 for forty vears, overwhelmed with fame and for- 
 tune — this painter, protesting in his unrestrained 
 fi'oedom against the recognised mastei"S, o])ening a 
 Rcln»<»l fatal to all that is noble, grand, and beau- 
 tiful, and yet not devoid of a certain coquettish 
 grace, a certain magic of color, and, finally, a certain 
 charm before miknown. David, who was his ])upil, 
 always recalls, amid his statiK'S(pie Ilonians, the 
 Miiiliiig faces of I'oiiclier. Oii-odct himself, who 
 souglft for granilcnr an<l sentiment in sim])licitv, 
 lU'vi-r disdaiiu'd this jiainter. He solicitously col- 
 lected all his designs, In- lingered over them as over 
 
 fl5*
 
 204 BOUCHER. 
 
 tlie rccol.ections of the wildness of yontli. ""We 
 have grown old while surrounded by this p;raceful 
 exhibition of court shepherdesses. Shall we be able 
 to recover ourselves again? These are faithless mis- 
 tresses, long forgotten, who again present themselves 
 to us when we are wearied by the tiresome monot- 
 ony of marriage." It is esteemed good taste to con- 
 denm Boucher — 'W-e thus gain the credit of being 
 good and moral judges, but the honest critic will 
 recognise Boucher as the historian does Louis XY. 
 
 Mignard was the first in France to allow himself 
 to be seduced by tlie false attractions of that worldly 
 grace which proscribes art. Art only admits the 
 deception which is styled the ideal ; that is to say, 
 all that ennobles, elevates, and poetizes the truth. 
 Having to take the portraits of the ladies of the 
 court, Mignard did not paint them as they were, but 
 as they wished to be. Hence those smiles not of 
 earth which enchant us, hence those looks raised to 
 heaven, but still moist with pleasure. "We understand 
 how he became the most admired of all portrait- 
 painters ; he was false to truth, everybody knew it, 
 his models as well as himself; but no one was so ill- 
 advised as to reproach him for his gallantry. There 
 was not one of his duchesses who did not proclaim 
 her likeness a striking one. The false painters are 
 the painters of women. He thus, not only amassed 
 a s])lendid fortune, but funned a school, a charming 
 and dangerous school, which became extinct only 
 throujrh its abuse of fiilsehood. Watteau followed 
 the steps of Mignard, but with a more piquant and 
 delicate charm. Mignard had spoiled or adorned, 
 whichever you please, the great ladies of the court;
 
 PAINTEES OF THE XVniTH CENTURY. 295 
 
 Watteau took up the actresses, the citizens' femilies, 
 tlie peasant-girls. It would be impossible to say how 
 nu\ny charming and gay masquerade scenes he has 
 painted in the wantonness of art. Another falsifier 
 appeared, Lemoine by name ; lie perpetrated more 
 serious falsehoods of a mythological character. His 
 most serious and most remarkable production was 
 Francis Boucher, his pui^il, the falsitier jpar excel- 
 lence,, the most faithful portrait of his time. 
 
 Lemoine had studied more especially in the school 
 of Hiibens. Like that great master he had sacrificed 
 correctness of drawing to splendor of color. The 
 ceiling of the Chapel of the Virgin, and the Saloon 
 of Hercules, at Versailles, form his principal works. 
 Certainly, judging by these, he was an artist not devoid 
 of force and grace. He, however, at once plunged 
 into bad taste, in seeking richness rather than force, 
 magical eft'ect rather than beauty. 
 
 Lafi >sse, Jouvenet, Lemoine, Coypel, and De Troy, 
 were then masters of the prevailing school. AVatteau, 
 who, ill truth, was more of an artist than all of them 
 ]»ut together, i)assed in their eyes merely for a deco- 
 rative painter of the opera. He was, however, more 
 truthful iu his charming falsehoods than all those 
 masters who got hold of truth by the wrong end. 
 Since the death of Lesueur, France had been wait- 
 ing for a great painter. Lebrun had attracted the 
 attention which was tunied aside from Poussiu and 
 TiCsueur, whose sul)lime power was not recognised. 
 Study it! art was conducted as chance determined, 
 sometimes at Rome after Carlo INfai-atti and Alhano, 
 wliit were taken for great j»ainters, sometimes at 
 I'aris after I.elinin and .Nri'Miar<l, who were tlK»u<flit
 
 290 BOUCHER. 
 
 greater than Poussin and Lesuenr. In 1750, pnoi 
 to the critiques of Ditlerot, tlie Marquis d'Argens, 
 who was a man of talent, declared, judging ac- 
 cording to the prevailing opinions of his day, that 
 Mignard equalled Correggio; Lehrun, Michael An- 
 gelo; and Lenioine, Kuhens. 
 
 After the death of Mignard and Lehrun, Leinoine 
 took the first place ; he was more worthy of it than 
 the De Troys and the Cojpels. lie M'as the only 
 one who left a pupil of recognised ability, Francis 
 Boucher, of wlioni the Marquis d'Argens thus speaks : 
 "A univ^ersal genius, who unites in himself the talents 
 of Veronese and of Gaspar, copying from Nature lier 
 most charmino; c^race." 
 
 Boucher was born at the same time that Bossnct 
 died. Some few vestiges only of the great reign 
 were left. Fontenelle alone (that presentiment of the 
 eighteenth century) was standing, in the proportions 
 of a dwarf, on the tombs of Corneille, of Poussin, of 
 Moliere, of Lesuenr, and of La Fontaine. France 
 was exhausted bv her maa-nificent births; the sacred 
 breasts of the mother-country were almost dried up 
 when Boucher'^s lips were applied to them. Who, 
 however, would believe that Boucher "was one of the 
 most forcible expressions of an entire century ? But 
 really, was not the eighteenth century, for fifty years, 
 like Boucher, full of foUv, treatina' evervthino; with a 
 laugh, passing from caprice to scoffing, delighting it- 
 self in petty deceits, replacing art. l)y artifice, living 
 from day to day without memory, without hope, dis- 
 daining force for grace, dazzling others as well as it- 
 self by his factitious colors? When poetry and taste 
 so readily went astray, with the Abbe de Voisenon
 
 AS AKTIST. 297 
 
 and Gentil-Beniard, who will be surprised that paint- 
 ing should have trifled with the pencil of Boucher? 
 
 TVe see at the tii-st glance at one of his pictures, 
 tliat he dwelt among stones, and not in the fields. 
 He never took time to look at either the sky or a 
 river, a meadow or a forest ; it might even ue 
 douhted whether he ever saw a man but thronijh a 
 ]>rism, or whether he ever saw a woman or child 
 6uch as God made them. Boucher painted a new 
 world, the world of fairies, where every one is 
 moved, every one loves and smiles after a fashion 
 quite different from that of this world. He is an 
 enchanter who distracts and dazzles us at the ex- 
 pense of reason, taste, and art ; he reminds us some- 
 what of this line of Bernis, a poet worthy such a 
 
 painter : — 
 
 By dint of Art, Art's self is banished. 
 
 There had been painters before of the name and 
 family of Boucher; one among others who left some 
 wonderful designs in red chalk of mythological sub- 
 jects. He Avas Mignard's master; Mignard gave 
 lessons to Lemoine ; Lemoine to Boucher ; so that 
 the jtainter was enabled thus to receive ti-aditionally 
 lessons from his great-grandfather. Unfortunately, 
 he had the ])ervei*sity to receive nothing from tradi- 
 tion l)ut the falsities of Mignard and Lemoine. 
 
 Boucher never possessed the enthusiasm of an 
 earnest artist. Ho became a jiainter as uncere- 
 moniously as he wi>uld have nuxde himself a journal- 
 ist. It was during those fine times wlicii A'oisenon 
 tunu'd j)riest wliile writing operas. Every one wanted 
 faith, in the arts, in literature, at the foot of fjie 
 HJfar, even on the fhi-one. I)i<l L"iii^ X \ . Iiiniself
 
 298 BOUCHER. 
 
 l)clievc in royalty? Tnit liow can we find fault with 
 ]'>ouc]K'r? Would he not have been overwhelmed 
 with ridicule if he had been an artist in all serious- 
 ness, studying with patience, growing pale with as- 
 pirations after greatness, lie preferred being of his 
 age, of his day and generation. He commenced like 
 a youtli, throwing to the lirst wind that blew, all the 
 roses of his twenty years. He had two studios : one 
 was that of Lemoine ; the other and principal one 
 was the opera. AYas not that Boucher's true theatre? 
 AVas it not at the opera that he found his landscapes 
 and his portraits? Opera-landscapes, opera-person- 
 ages, form pretty much the M'hole of Boucher! The 
 two studios formed a singular contrast ; in the first 
 was Lemoine, grave, sad, devoured with pride and 
 envy, discontented Avith everything, with his pupils 
 and himself: in the second was the wliole lau<rhin<r 
 retmue of human follies; gold and silk, wit and 
 ]»leasure, the lips smiling, and the petticoat flying in 
 the wind. It was in those fine times Mhen Camargo 
 found that her skirts were too long for the dance. In 
 order to get a nearer view of all these Avonders, 
 Boucher asked the favor of painting a decoration. 
 He picked np the sparkling pencil of Watteau, to 
 ])aint in bold outline the nymphs and naiads. Carl 
 Vanloo joined him; in a little Mhile, they made 
 themselves masters of all the decorations and the es- 
 jjaliers (such Avas the ai)pe]hition of the figurantes 
 of the time). 
 
 There was then flourishing in society, and out of it, 
 a circle of wits, like the C<»unt de Caylus, Duclos, 
 Pont-de-Veyle, Maurei)as, Montcrif; Yoisenon, and 
 Crebilloii tlie Ciay, Colic, and certain prodigal sons
 
 "THESE GENTLEMEN." 299 
 
 of good citizens, liad the entree, thanks to their wit 
 or their gayetj'. They wrote couplets on all sorts of 
 things, and tirades in the form of a gazette, which 
 circulated about the court and city ; burlesque scenes, 
 which were played in the saloons and in the open 
 air ; licentious stories, which passed from mouth to 
 mouth, like the last bit of current news. It was the 
 literature of the opera. Boucher was, therefore, re- 
 ceived with favor into the society of these gentlemen^ 
 for such was the name they took. At a later day, 
 D'Alerabert delivered a somewhat severe judgment 
 on the works of these gentlemen^ by calling their joint 
 productions, " a drunken surfeit, rather than a gay 
 debauch of wit." Duclos, the representative of this 
 academy of bad taste, was thus portrayed by Madame 
 de Rochfort ; she is referring to the passions of the 
 heart; she is speaking of that paradise which each 
 one made for himself in this world, according to his 
 own notion : "As for you, Duclos, the material for 
 yours, when you are amorous, is the first woman that 
 comes along." — ^This portrait may be taken for Bou- 
 cher, and for all the members of that circle. 
 
 In lieu of following, step by step, a biography, cm- 
 l)roidered everywhere with adventures of gallantry, 
 I prefer to relate an adventure which displays Bou- 
 cher, at the best period of his life, seeking for art and 
 love in truth, fleeing from them as soon as found, to 
 fall again still deeper into falsities of art and of love. 
 No! I will not recount to you all Boucher's follies at 
 the opera; tliose bursts of licentious gayoty, in which 
 the heart had no ])art. It is a woniout theme : all 
 the writers of memoirs have trudged (»vcr the mad. 
 wliich is a sufficient reason fur my turning finni it.
 
 300 BOUCHER. 
 
 Of wluit uso is t, besides, to evoke the shades of 
 those aniuurs without house or home, faith or law, 
 whicli shoot forth ouly blunted arrows? Let us, 
 therefore, follow iHMicher during those rare moments 
 when his heart was in i)lay, when his talent became 
 almost severe. It is good to be young and to laugh, 
 but what is there more sad than a man who is always 
 laughing? 
 
 Boucher soon became disgusted with the opera; 
 with those sham pictures, which lie produced as if by 
 magic, to decorate the Castor' and Pollux of Rameau 
 and Gentil-Bernard ; with tlie sham love, in which he 
 culled faded roses without thorns ; he did not know 
 thy value of the thorn which guards a rose ! those sham 
 paintings and sham loves had bewildered, dazzled, 
 and enchanted him, as long as the white hand of 
 youth scattered primroses along his path. The most 
 luxuriant and most prodigal youth, however, is that 
 wliich is the soonest exhausted. Boucher awoke one 
 morning, sad and disenchanted, without knowing why, 
 lie at last understood that he had until then profaned 
 his heart and art, and that he had thus lost all the 
 glorious morn of life. lie still raised his head with 
 some remnant of natural pride. — "It is always time to 
 do well," said he one morning to his master, whose 
 lessons he attended (.»nly at distant intervals. He made 
 a tstudio of his boudoir; he retouched all the gallant 
 sketches that he had hanging on all sides. Love the 
 Bird-Catcher^ Love the Reaper^ Love the Vin- 
 tfu/er ; you can imagine the whole of that gay and 
 Kpai'kling poem, where Love has no time for sighing, 
 lie closed his Mythology, which he had consulted 
 a thousand times ; he boiight a bible, but though ho
 
 THE AKTIST AND HIS BIBLE. 301 
 
 had road the Mythology with fervor, he could scarce 
 simiinon energy to tuni over the leaves of the Bible, 
 and cast here and there a careless glance. Unfor- 
 tunately for him he had the Mythology by lieart : 
 Cupid concealed the form of the infant Christ, loves 
 concealei the angels, the nymphs of Yenus, the 
 serajdis of Paradise. He was not, however, dis- 
 couraged at the first attempt. He persisted in timi- 
 ing over the Book of books, he saw Rachel at the 
 well ; ill-fated man, he was reminded of Venus 
 at the bath. He closed the Bible, saying to himself 
 that to get the painted beauties of the opera out of 
 one's head, it was onlv needful to see some natural 
 faces ; but where to find them at that time, unless 
 he should look for them in the cradle ? Who knows? 
 Labor is a wonderful preserver. Perhaps, by de- 
 scending among the people, he might discover some 
 angelic face, that the spirit, or rather the demon of 
 the age, had left untouched, a face worthy of convey- 
 ing to him an idea of the majestic simplicity of the 
 Bible. Boucher, therefore, sought inspiration in the 
 open air, resolved to traverse the great city every- 
 where, resolved even to go, if necessary, to study in 
 tlie open country, under the sun in the meadow, or in 
 the shadow of some holy village-church. For more 
 than three weeks he lived by himself He ended 
 by freeing himself little by little, shred by shred, 
 fi-om the deeply -impiessed recollections of the opera. 
 " Wliat are you about ?" the Count de Caylus asked 
 hini one day. "Doing penance," he replied with 
 an abstracted air. 
 
 '\\w. will is the s(»v('ri'igu misti'css of the world. 
 A Mian of good reS(»lution can c-on<juer everything;
 
 302 BOUCHER. 
 
 it IS a rongli virtue, an imlioped-for *>;lorv — it is 
 genius itself, that ondless ladder which the Deity al- 
 lows to descend at intervals to join t-arth to heaven, 
 breakiniT it asunder when man nioinits too quickly 
 or too slowly, l^v dint of will, who would believe 
 it^ Boucher threw a veil over iiis past life, broke 
 the deceitful i)risms which blinded liini regarding 
 this world, discovered another horizon, another 
 source of light. A young girl in his neighborhood, 
 whom he had until then scarcely remarked, so frivo- 
 lous and insipid had her sublime purity seemed to 
 him, suddenly struck him as beaming with supreme 
 beauty. 
 
 His studio, or rather boudoir, was in the Rue 
 Richelieu. Not far from it, in the Rue St. Anne, 
 he passed almost every day the shop of a fruiterer. 
 He often saw a young girl on the door-step without 
 beiTig much struck by her, although she was beauti- 
 ful, simple, and touching. Sed\iced by the studied 
 o-races of Camar2;o, could he be sensible of the 
 charms of so gentle and chaste a beauty ? One day, 
 after three weeks of austere solitude, he stopped as- 
 tonished before the fruit-shop. It was when clierries 
 were in season. Baskets of the freshly-gathered fruit 
 tempted the passers-by with their charming hues ; a 
 ifarniture of leaves half concealed the fruit which 
 was not (piite ripe. But it was not for the cherries 
 that Boucher stopped. As he passed, the fruit- 
 erer's daughter, with bare arms and loosely flowing 
 liair, was serving a neighbor. You sliould have seen 
 her take the cherries in her delicate hand, put them, 
 without any other measure, into the lap of her cus- 
 tomer, an 1 give a divine smile in retum for the four 
 
 o
 
 THE FKUITEREr's DAUGHTER. 303 
 
 SOUS she received in payment. The painter wonld 
 have given four louis for the cherries, for the hand 
 wliich served them, and above all for the divine 
 smile. When the customer had gone, he advanced 
 some steps without knowing what he was going to 
 8:iy. lie was a perfect master in the art of gallantry. 
 There was not a woman that he did not know h:Ow 
 to attack on her weak side, face to face, side%Arise, or 
 by turning his back on her. He had been at a good 
 school. He had long since said to himself, like 
 Danton at a later period, "Courage, courage, always 
 courage." He was right. Are you not sure of van- 
 quishing a woman by treating her as an enemy? 
 How happened it, however, that Boucher on that 
 day lost all his force and courage, at the sight of this 
 simple and feeble young girl? Is it because strength 
 is roused only by strength ? The serpent who ruined 
 Eve, surprised her in her weakness only because the 
 spirit of evil did not yet understand women. 
 
 Boucher, who had advanced resolutely like a man 
 who is sure of his object, crossed the tlu'eshold of 
 the fruiterer, all pale and trembling, and very much 
 at a loss what to say. The young girl regarded him 
 witii so much serenity and calmness, that he some- 
 what recovered his presence of mind. He asked for 
 cherries, and soon rail vin£r himself, bec:<j;ed the vouns 
 girl to allow him to sketch her beautiful face. She 
 nuulc no answer. The inother entered. As Boucher 
 was a man of fine address, and the mother a co- 
 ciuotte on the wane, he succeechMl in obtaininjj her 
 c^msent to tiikc the portrait at liis leisure. She 
 br<iii<r]|t licr daughter tlie next day to the ])ainter'9 
 studio. Houcher did not detain the mother. Ho
 
 3()i BOUCHER. 
 
 iniule tlie claiighter take her seat on a sofii, sliiiq)enGcl 
 Ills pencil, and set to work with great jo)'. 
 
 liosiiia possessed tliat description of beauty, which 
 is ignorant of its own attractions, M'hich tonclies 
 rather than seduces. Her regular profile called up 
 })leasant recollections of the antique lines of heauty. 
 She was a brunette, but her locks reflected in the 
 liii'ht those beautiful golden tints which charmed 
 Titian. Her eyes were of an undecided hue, like 
 the sky during some autunm twilights; her mouth, 
 somewhat large, perhaps, had a divine expression of 
 candur, an expression which Rosina spoiled in speak- 
 ing, said Boucher, '^rather by her words than by the 
 motion of her lips. Thus the sweetest hours which 
 I ])assed with her, were the most silent. I always 
 liked what she was about to say, and scarcely erer 
 what she did say." 
 
 The artist had been attracted before the man. 
 Boucher had l)egunby seeing in her a divine model ; 
 but, all-engrossed as he was by his art, he soon 
 ended by regarding Rosina only as a woman. His 
 heart, which had never had time to love in the crowd 
 of the more than profane passions of the opera, felt 
 that it was not barren. The flowers of love sprang 
 up under the flames of volu})tuousness. Boucher 
 became enamored of Rosina, not like a man who 
 makes a sport of love, but like a poet who loves 
 with tears in his eyes : a tender love, pure and 
 worthy of that heaven to which it rises, and M-hence it 
 has descended. Rosina loved Boucher. How could 
 she help loving him who gave her double assurance 
 of her beauty, both by his lips and by his skill, for 
 Rosina did not trulv realize that she was beautifid
 
 ROSINA, niS MODEL AXD LOVE. 305 
 
 until sbe beheld the head of the virgin, which the 
 poet had designed after that of the young girl. 
 What was the resnlt ? Yon can gness. They loved one 
 another : they told one another so. One day, after 
 glances far too tender, the pencil fell from the artist's 
 hand, the yoimg girl cast her eyes down..." Ah I 
 poor Rosina," exclaimed Diderot, meditating over 
 the matter at a later period, " wliy were you m;)t 
 selling cherries on that day !" 
 
 The virgin, which was to be the master-piece of 
 Eoncher, was not finished. The face was beautiful, 
 but the painter had not yet been able to shed over it 
 the divine sentiment which constitutes the chami of 
 euch a work. He hoped, he despaired, he medi- 
 tated and gazed at Rosina ; in a word he was, at 
 that fatal barrier, the barrier of genius, where all 
 talent which is not genius must pause, and which, 
 now and then, some who have the courage to make 
 the attempt may perchance succeed in sunnounting. 
 His lo\ e for art, or for Kosina, had not been able to 
 raise TJouclier beyond this. Ilisbiblical feeling had not 
 detached him from this lower world ; while adoring the 
 virgin ^hwy in Rosina, he also, profane man, adored 
 a new mistress. His conversion was not sincere. 
 lie hesitated between the divine love which looks to 
 the future, and the terrestrial love which regards the 
 ]>ast; between that severe foi-m of art which affects 
 by its sublimity, and that pleasing form which 
 charms In' its grace. He had advanced thus far 
 wliiMi a new jiersoiiage a]>peared to change the cur- 
 rent of his thoughts. 
 
 It wius fifteen days since Rosina had coimncnccd 
 her sittings. It was but two since, at a glance IVoiu 
 
 26*
 
 3t)<> BOLCIIKK. 
 
 the yomig- giH, the painter liacl dropped his pencil. 
 It was al^out t^leven o'clock in the morning, Bouchei 
 was preparing his palette, Rosina loosening her hair. 
 There was a ring at the door of tlie stndio. Ilusina 
 went and opened it, as if she had belonged to tlie 
 lionse. " Monsieur Boucher?" incpiired a young girl, 
 who hlushingly crossed the tlireshold. "What can 
 I do for you ?" said Boucher, glancing at the reflec- 
 tion of the young girl in a mirror. He approached 
 to meet her. "Monsieur Boucher, I am a poor 
 girl witliout bread. If my motlier was not sick and 
 destitute of everything, I could succeed in gaining a 
 livelihood by my needle ; but for the sake of my 
 mother, 1 have resigned myself to becoming a 
 model. I have been told that I have a pretty hand 
 and a passable face. Look, monsieur, do you think 
 that I would do for a model ?" 
 
 The stranger uttered all tliis with an air of vague 
 anxiety ; but what especially struck the painter while 
 she was speaking, was her coquettish and seductive 
 beauty. Farewell to the Bible, farewell to Rosina, 
 farewell to all simple and sublime love. The new- 
 comer appeared to Boucher as the embodiment of 
 all his previous reveries. It was this very Muse, less 
 beautiful tlian pretty, less striking than graceful, that 
 lie ha<l so ardently sought for. There was something 
 in her face which belonged partly to heaven and 
 partly to the opera, a trace of divinity such as might 
 be found in a fallen angel, something which acta 
 upon the heart and the lips at tlie same time, in 
 line, a certain something which I can not describe, 
 which charms and intoxicates without elevating the 
 soul to the splendors of lofty meditation. She was
 
 A MODEL FOR THE VIKOIN. 807 
 
 dressed as a poor girl, which contrasted somewhat 
 with the delicacy of her featiu'es and movements. 
 Boucher, althcaigh no bad physiognomist, did not 
 discover any art or study in this beauty, she masked 
 both by an air of lofty innocence. He allowed him- 
 self to be captivated. "Who will be astonished at it 
 who recollects that he fancied that he had found na- 
 ture in the studio of Lamoine or at the opera ? Rosina 
 was his first serious lesson — it was Nature in all 
 her true and simple majesty. But the instincts of the 
 painter, deceptive and vitiated, conld not rise to its 
 height. On beholding the face of the stranger, he 
 seemed to see the face of an acquaintance, a face 
 which he had seen in another country, or in another 
 world. He therefore, notwithstanding her mean at- 
 tire, received her as a friend. " How, mademoiselle," 
 said he to her, with an admiring look ; " You say 
 thjit you are tolerably beautiful ? Say rather, in- 
 tensely." — " Kot at all," said she, with the sweetest 
 smile in the world. "Beally, mademoiselle, you 
 have come most opportunely. I was in search of a 
 beautiful expression for the head of the Virgin ; per- 
 hai)S I shall find it in youre. Incline your head a 
 little on your bosom. Put your hand on this arm- 
 cliair. Ilosina draw aside the red cui-tain." 
 
 Boucher did not notice the tearful glance cast on 
 him by the young girl. She silently obeyed, wdiile 
 she asked herself if she was no longer fit for any- 
 thing but to draw the curtain. She went and sat 
 down in a corner of the studio, to observe at her 
 ease, and without being seen, her who had come to 
 disturb lier ha])j)iness. But scarce was she seated 
 on the divan, when Boucher, who liked solitude with
 
 308 BODCIIKR. 
 
 two, recommended her to i-eturn to Lcr mother, al 
 the sume time enjoiiiiiii:: upon her to come early the 
 next day. Slie Avent without savinuj a word, witli 
 death at her heart, foreseeing that she would he for- 
 gotten for her who remained tete-a-tete with lier 
 lover. She dried her tears at tlie foot of tlie staircase. 
 *' Alas ! what will my mother say when she sees 
 me so sad ?■' She walked about the streets to give 
 lior sadness time to disappear. " Besides," slie con- 
 tinued, " by waiting a little I shall see her come out. 
 I shall be able to discover what is passing in her 
 heart." 
 
 She waited. More than an hour passed away. 
 The model was sittino- in y;ood earnest. .l>oucher 
 spoiled his beautiful Virgin, to the fullness of his 
 bent, by endeavoring to nnite in it two styles of 
 character. The stranger at last came out with an 
 embarrassed air, as if she had committed a bad ac- 
 tion. It had rained in the morning, and the street 
 was almost impracticable for pretty feet. She slip]K'd 
 along as lig-ht as a cat in the direction of the Palais 
 Royal. She stopi)ed at a house of poor appearance, 
 gave a crown to the porter, cast her eyes about her 
 suspiciously, and disappeared within the portal. 
 Rosina had followed her. On seeing her disa})puar, 
 she examined the house, and, not daring to push her 
 curiosity any further, resolved also to return home. 
 An invisible hand, however, retained her in spite of 
 herself She must needs spy at all the windows of 
 the house. She had a presentiment that she should 
 see the unknown one again. All of a sudden, to her 
 gieat smi^rise, she fancied that she recognised her 
 in some one who was going out in an entirely different
 
 THE MODEL UNMxVSKED. 309 
 
 costume. This time the young girl was dressed as a 
 fine lady, in a taifeta robe, with a train, the end of wliich 
 she strove to thrust into her pocket, a mantilla, red 
 heels, all the accessories. '• Where can she be going in 
 that dress?-' Ilosina asked herself, as she followed 
 her almost step by step. The lady went straight to 
 a gilded carriage, which was waiting for her before the 
 Palais Roval. A lacker rushed before her to oiien 
 the door. She quickly stepped into the carriage with 
 the air of one accustomed to do so every day. " I sus- 
 pected it," muttered Rosina; " there w'as an indescri- 
 bable something in her manner, her mode of speech, 
 the softened pride of her glance, which surprised 
 me. There is no use for her to assume all sorts of 
 masks, she will be found out in the end. Alas ! I 
 wonder if he found her out !" 
 
 The next day Rosina, purposely, came a little late. 
 lie did not utter, however, on seeing her that sweet 
 jihrase which consoles the absent for absence, whether 
 IVom hearth or heart: " I was waiting for you." — ■ 
 '•"Well," said she, after a pause, "you say nothing 
 to me about your fine lady." — " My fine lady ! I do 
 not understand." — "So you did not find her out? 
 She was not a poor girl, as she said, l)nt a fine lady 
 who lias not much to do. I saw her get into her 
 carriage. Oh I such a carriage, such horses, such a 
 footman !" — " What do von sav ! You are tryina' to 
 deceive me: it is a falsehood." — "It is the truth. 
 Now do you believe in those fine airs of iimo- 
 cence?" — " What a singular adventure!" said Vnm- 
 cher, passing liis hand over his forehead : " will she 
 come back?" At this moment Ilosina went and 
 rested her joined hands on the painter's shoulder.
 
 310 BOUCHER. 
 
 "She cUfl not ask yon for anytliing?" said slie, with 
 a nionniful, but clKirnuno; expression. Boucher kissed 
 <]\e forehead of his mistress as it was bent over liiin. 
 '" Nothing except a crown as the price of the sittin<r : 
 it is an eniaina : I can not make it out," — " Ahas, she 
 will return." — " "Who knows ? she was to do so tliis 
 mornincr." — " I shall take ffood care to-day not to 
 open the door." — " AVhy not? what folly ! Are yo\i 
 beirinninc: to be iealous ?" — "You are very cruel! 
 Will you open the door yourself?" — "Yes." Eosina 
 drew back with a sigh, "Then," said she, with tears 
 in her eyes, " the door shall close on me." 
 
 Rosina, weeping with love and jealousy, was of 
 adorable beauty ; but Boucher, unfortunately for 
 himself, thought only of the mysterious stranger, 
 "Rosina, you don't know what you are saying; you 
 are foolish." Boucher had spoken somewhat harsh- 
 ly : the poor girl went toward the door, and in a 
 feeble voice murmured a sad farewell. She, doubt- 
 less, hoped that he would not let her go, that he 
 would catch her in his arms, and console her with a 
 kiss; but he did nothing of the kind : he forgot, the 
 ingrate, that Rosina was not an opera-girl : he thought 
 that she was making helieve^ like all the actresses, 
 without heart or faith. Rosina did not make be- 
 lieve, she listened to her naive and simple nature ; 
 she had given all which she could give, more than 
 her heart, than her soul ; it was not surprising that 
 she should revolt at being loved so lightly, as if by 
 mere chance. She opened the door, turned toward 
 Boucher; a single tender look would have brought 
 her to his foet; he contented himself with saying 
 to her, as he would to the iirst chance-comer, " Do n't
 
 HIS LAST SIGHT OF ROSINA. 311 
 
 put on SO many airs." These words made Rosina 
 indignant. " It is all over !'• said she. At the same 
 moment she closed the door. Tiie sound of her 
 steps went to Boucher's heart. He would have 
 mshed to the stairs, but he stopped himself with the 
 idea that she would come hack. Another woidd 
 have done so, Rosina did not. With her Boucher 
 lost all hope of real talent. Tnith had visited him 
 in all her force, her sublimity, and her beauty. He 
 could not rise to her level. He set to work to search 
 out the mysteiious pereonage who so poetically per- 
 sonified his Muse. 
 
 In vain did he ransack the fashionable world, in 
 company with Pont-de-Veyle and the Count de 
 Caylu.s. He was at all the fetes and amusements, 
 at all the promenades and all the suppere : but he 
 could not find her whom he souii^ht with such in- 
 fatuated ardor. Rosina was not completely banished 
 from his mind ; but the poor girl never appeared by 
 herself in his reminiscences, he always beheld her 
 imajre bv the side of that of the unknown lad v. One 
 dav, however, as he was lookinij; at his unfinished Yi?'- 
 (//'/I. he felt that Rosina was still in his heart. He re- 
 proached himself for having abandoned her. He re- 
 solved to go forthwith and tell her that he loved and 
 alwavs had loved her. He went down stairs, and 
 turned toward the Rue St. Anne, making his way 
 through a crowd of carriages and hacks. A young 
 gill ])assed along the other side of the street, with a 
 basket in her hand. He recognised Rosina. Alas ! 
 it was but the shadow of Rosina : gnef had made 
 sad havoc with her charms ; descilion had crushed 
 lier with its icy haixl. lie was about crossing the
 
 
 
 12 BOUCHER. 
 
 street, to join her, when a carriage jjassing prevcntea 
 his doing so. A woman put her head out of the 
 window. — "It is she!" he exclaimed, completely 
 overcome, lie forgot R.osina, and followed the car- 
 riage, ready for whatever might happen. The car- 
 riage led him to a mansion in the Kue St. Dominique. 
 The painter boldly presented himself half an hour 
 afterward. He was received by the husband Avith 
 every mark of attention. — "I think, Monsieur Count, 
 that I have heard it said that Madame the Coimtess 
 would not disdain to have her portrait taken by my 
 [)encil." — "She has not said a word about it to me; 
 but I will conduct you to her oratory." — Bold as he 
 was, Boucher almost wished himself home again ; 
 but, as it was as embarrassing to beat a retreat with- 
 out any apparent reason, as to face the danger, he 
 suffered himself to be led to the oratory. 
 
 It was she, the poor girl without bread. She ti)ld 
 Boucher that curiosity, coml)ined with a little euiuii, 
 had led her to his studio, to obtain an opinion on her 
 beauty, once for all, by a competent judge, who 
 would have no reason for telling an untruth. — " I 
 once paid you for a sitting," said Boucher, j)as3ion- 
 ately, " it is now your turn to pay me for one." — It was 
 decided that he should take the countess's portrait; 
 it was never brought to completion, so much delight 
 did Boucher take in his task. 
 
 After the intoxication of this passion was abated, 
 the young girl whom he had forsaken returned to 
 Boucher's mind. On looking at his Virgin, in 
 which the profane artist had mingled his impressions 
 of the two beauties, he saw clearly that Rosina was 
 the most beautiful. The countess had enticed him
 
 DEATH OF ROSINA. 815 
 
 with the greatest power, but the charm was dispelled. 
 He again discovered that Kosina possessed that ideal 
 beauty which ravishes lovei^s and gives genius to 
 painters. — "Yes," said he, regretfullj, "I deceived 
 myself like a child ! the divine and human beauty, 
 the true light, the heavenly sentiment, belonged to 
 Rosina ; the seductiveness, the falsehood, that ex- 
 pression which comes neither from the heart noi 
 from Heaven the countess possessed. I spoilt my 
 Virgin^ like a fool ; but there is still time." — There 
 was not ! He ran to the fruiterer's ; he asked for 
 Kosina. — -"She is dead," said her mother to him. — 
 " Dead I" exclaimed Boucher, pale with despair. — 
 "Yes, Monsieur Artist. She died as those who die 
 at sixteen, of love. I only speak from hearsay ; but 
 she acknowledged to an aunt, who watched by her 
 in her last moments, that she was dying of a broken 
 heart, from having loved too much ! By the way, 
 you forgot to take my portrait. Hers, too? I 
 have not thought any more about it." — " It is not 
 tiiiislied," said the i)ainter, gasping for breath. 
 
 Returning to his studio, he al)aiKloned himself to 
 grief; he threw himself on his knees before the un- 
 finished Virgin I he cursed the fatal passion which 
 had drawn him away from Rosina; he swore to de- 
 vote himself thenceforth to the holy memory of this 
 sister of the anfjels. After havinfir mourned for an 
 hour, he was seized, as by a sudden ins])iration, with 
 a desire to i-etouch his figure of the Virgin. — "Xo, 
 no!" exclaimed he, vehemently, "in effacing what I 
 owe to the Cf)nntess, shall I not also destroy this 
 divine ti-ace of my poor Tiosina?" — He removed 
 the canvass from the easel, bore it with a trembling
 
 314 BOUCHER. 
 
 hand to the otlier end of the studio, and hung it 
 over the sofa on which Rosina had seated herself for 
 the hist time in his sight. He did not confide his 
 grief but to three or four friends, such as the Count 
 dc Cayhis, Pont-de-Yeyle, and Duclos. Whenever 
 the unfinished Virgin was noticed in his room, he 
 contented himself with saying, "Do not speak to me 
 of that, for you will remind me that my time for 
 genius has passed." 
 
 In those fine times, no one, unless it was a Rosina, 
 died of grief They consoled themselves for every- 
 thing; Buucher consoled himself. lie threw him- 
 self witli still greater recklessness into all the follies 
 of a worldly life. He had turned his back on a 
 woman such as God created; he did the same to the 
 landscape that expanded beneath the sun. Bouclier 
 dispensed with Nature. One day, when in a rational 
 mood (it was but a deceptive glimmer), he left 
 Paris for the first time since his childhood. Where 
 did he go? he has not said ; but, according to a letter 
 written to Lancret, he found Nature very disagree- 
 able — too green, badly managed as to light! Is it 
 not amufiing to see an artist of Boucher's calibre 
 finding fault Avith the work of the great artist of light 
 and color? Raphael and Micliael Angelo were well 
 avenged in advance, for, as you will see directly, 
 Boucher was not at the end of his criticisms. What 
 is still more amuiing, Lancret answered Boucher 
 thus : " I agree with you. Nature is wanting in 
 harmony and attractiveness." — I can fancy to my- 
 self Boucher in the midst of a fine, but somewhat 
 wild country, trying to understand, but under- 
 standing nothing of the great spectacle worthy of
 
 HIS sTxroio. 315 
 
 Gud himself; hearing nothing of all those hymns of 
 love which Nature raises to Heaven, in the voice of 
 rivers, of forests, of lairds, and of humanity ; seeing 
 naught of that divine harmony, in which are blended 
 the hand of God, and the hand of man, the hand 
 which creates and the hand which labors. In the 
 midst of all these marvels, Boucher kept on his 
 way. like an exile who treads a foreign land. He 
 sought his gods. — •' AYhere is Pan? AYliere is Nar- 
 cissus? Where is Diana, tlie huntress?" — He called ; 
 lume answered, not even Echo. He sought for those 
 mortals who were familiar to him ; but wliere were 
 those pretty and g'dWixnt fetes chwnpetres to be found? 
 He could not even find a shepherdess in the meadow. 
 He was doubtless overcome with joy on re-entering 
 ]jis studio, to return to his pretty rosy landscapes, 
 over wliich were sjiread the enchantments of fairy- 
 land. He was surnamed the painter of fairies with 
 good cause, for he lived, loved, and painted, only in 
 the world of fairies. 
 
 After these two decisive checks, Boucher aban- 
 doned himself more than ever to the frolicsome 
 coquetry and mannered grace habitual to him. His 
 studio again became a boudoir, much haunted by 
 actresses. He was not twenty-six, but was every- 
 M'here in demand, at first on account of liis talents, 
 afterward lor his pleasant manners. The academi- 
 cians alone rejected him, because he had the haughty 
 bearing of a gentleman, ;iiid because h(> lauglied 
 Ronu'wlijit at their gravity; ])crha]ts, also, because he 
 ridiculed art u little. But who were, then, the acade- 
 micians? Had they the right, except it was Jean 
 Laptinte Vaiilo.> und Boulr)gne, to reject Boucher j
 
 316 . BOUCHER. 
 
 In the eyes of all reasonable judges, lie gained the 
 Roman prize. However, the Academy did not so 
 decide. Nevertheless, he set out for Rome ; the 
 third and last attempt to find art and nature; but he 
 put the Academy in the rigiit, fur he wasted liis time 
 in the City of the Arts. He pronounced Ra])hael 
 insipid and Michael Angelo an artist of deformity! 
 Forgive him for his profanity or his blindness! Crit- 
 icism on God might i)ass ; but on Raphael ! on 
 Michael Ano-elo! 
 
 Boucher had left for Rome with Carle Vanloo; he 
 returned alone, without money or studies, denying 
 the merit of all the masterjiieces. What could one 
 then augur of such a painter? He was not, however, 
 despaired of. — "His talent has mined him, his 
 talent will save him," said the Count de Caylus, a 
 just and profound remark, which well descrilies 
 Boucher's talent. In proof of this, he was scarcely 
 back again when he became all the fashion ; he had 
 only to paint, to give applause. All the great man- 
 sions, all the splendid country-seats were thrown 
 open to his graceful talents. He worked day and 
 night, amusing himself at the expense of everybody, 
 including himself, producing, as by magic, Venuses 
 in angelic choirs and angels equipped with arrows. 
 He had no time to be very particular. He went 
 on and on as rapid as the wind, tinishing on the 
 same day a Visitation for St. Germain des Pres, 
 a Yenus at Cythera for Versailles, a design for an 
 opera-scene, a portrait of a duchess, and a painting 
 of scandalous design, by turns inspired by heaven 
 and hell, no longer believing in glory, giving himself 
 up, body and soul, to making a fortune. During the
 
 STYLE OF LITE. 817 
 
 remainder of liis life, he made every year not less 
 than fifty thousand livres, equivalent to a hundred 
 thousand at the present day. He lived in grand 
 style ; he lived beyond his income ; he affected the 
 philosophy of the time ; he ridiculed all that was 
 noble and grand ; he doubted God, and all that comes 
 to US from him, the virtue of the heart, the aspira- 
 tions of the soul. He gave regal fetes, one among 
 others which cost him a year's work, a celebrated 
 festival, called the festival of the gods. His design was 
 to represent Olympus, and all the pagan divinities. 
 He himself was Jupiter ; his mistress, disguised as 
 Hebe, that is to say, in very scanty garments, passed 
 the night in serving ambrosia to all these counterfeit 
 gods and goddesses. The Academicians, astounded 
 at these achievements, determined upon admitting 
 Boucher, the noisy fame of whose school had thrown 
 the Academy into the shade. Boucher was no more 
 of an Academician after he had the title than before. 
 He continued to live as a prodigal, and paint as an 
 artist without faith. 
 
 He did not content himself with painting, l)ut en- 
 graved and modelled also ; he engraved a large 
 number of Watteau's designs; he modelled, on a 
 small scale, groups and dancing-girls, for the manu- 
 factory at Sevres. His engravings and niDdcllings 
 are worthy of his best pictures ; the}' possess the 
 same grace, the same spirit, and the same smile. By 
 tlniK multiplying himself, Boucher extended his rejtu- 
 tation evciy where ; you might see at the same time 
 liis ])lunip C'lqildx on mantel-jtieces, liis Nymjjhi^i on 
 watches, liis engravings in books, his pictures on all 
 the walls. As lioucher did not sell his works at hi<rh 
 
 27*
 
 318 BOUCHEK. 
 
 prices, he owed bis large income to his prodigious 
 thcilirv. Madiinie GeoltViii bought two of bis pret- 
 tiest pictures, for the sum of two thousand crowns, 
 and they were not bis worst-paid pictures. The 
 empress of llussia bought them from Madame 
 Geort'rin, for thirty thousand livres. Madame Geof- 
 frin went as fast as she could after Boucher, and 
 said to him : " I have often told you that pictures 
 bear high interest in my bands; here are twenty- 
 four tliousand livres which accrue to you for yom* 
 Aurora and ThetisP — It was not the first time 
 tiuit good Madame Geolirin bad engaged in this 
 kind of trade. kShe had begun it w^ith Carle Vanloo. 
 Soon after bis return frona Rome, he fell m love 
 with a young girl of a citizen family, one of the 
 most beautiful women in France — perhaps the most 
 beautiful. Her portrait is at Yersailles ; Ilaoux 
 has represented her as a Vestal. You may see 
 her, feeding the sacred flame — the sacred flame 
 of whom? Not of Boucher or of herself; for, if 
 there is flame anywhere in the picture, it is in 
 the Vestal's glances. Boucher was so desperately 
 in love with her, that despairing of obtaining what 
 he wanted in any other manner, be resigned him- 
 self to submit to nuirriage, although, as he facetiously 
 remarked, "marriage was not habitual with him." 
 Having become his wife, she often sat for his Virgins 
 and Venuses ; you may recognise her here and 
 there in Boucher's works. AVhat, however, was 
 more worthy of him and of herself, was that she 
 presented him with two charming daughters, who 
 appear to have modelled themselves after the most 
 blooming and beautiful of the painter's forms. She
 
 AS ARTIST, 319 
 
 died at twenty-four, "too beautiful," said the in- 
 consolable Boucher, " to live lono; in the atmosphere 
 of Paris." 
 
 Less than seventeen years after his marriap,!;, Bou- 
 cher married his dauo;hters to two painters, who were 
 not of his school, Deshays, who almost possessed 
 genius, and Baudouin, who would have been the 
 La Fontaine of paintino; if he had relied entirely on 
 simplicity. Madame Boucher and her two dauiih- 
 tei"s passed their lives amid the splendors of the 
 world and amid tears. Charmino; and beautiful as 
 they were, they often found themselves neglected 
 for opera-girls, or other chance-comers. Boucher, 
 Deshays, and Boudouin, had tasted the bitter grapes 
 of evil passion. They were but momentarily sensible 
 of the grace and virtue of a wife ; the chaste fra- 
 grance of the household fireside could not charm their 
 liearts ; a niore exciting intoxication was needful to 
 these abandoned souls, a cup less ])ure for their jxjI- 
 luted lips. The arabiosial locks of the spouse were 
 not suilicient to enchain their love. They sought for 
 lascivious embraces, deadly caresses, all the galling 
 chains of voluptuousness. They all three died about 
 the same time, within the space of a year — the 
 youngest first, Boucher the last, after having been a 
 witness to the despair of his com])anions. Deshays 
 was, jierhaps, tlie only gi-eat j)aintcr after Lesueur. 
 He had, in 1750, a feeling for beauty and grandeur. 
 Accordingly, Boucher, who was a man of good sense 
 sometimes, seeing such a pui>il in his studio, took 
 good care not to give liim instructinn. lie contented 
 himself with giving him his daughter, saying humo- 
 rously "Study with her." A> tor jhiudouin, lie wjis
 
 320 BOrCHER. 
 
 Greuze and Boucher in miniature ; or, according to 
 Diderot, " a jumble of Fontenelle and Theocritus." 
 
 Boucher, thei'efore, ])ursued his career in the same 
 fatal directio:). in whicli lie had lost himself while 
 following his master's path. In spite of the money 
 lie made, and the vain-glory which each day brought 
 him, he was never hap])y, he never enjoyed the con- 
 sciousness of possessing heart or talent. He was but 
 too conscious of his faults as a man and as a painter. 
 He knew that he was wasting away in vain sparks 
 the little sacred fire which Heaven had lit in his 
 soul during the fine da^'s of his youth. He foresaw 
 that his works would perish with liim. To distract 
 his mind from such melancholy thoughts, he ex- 
 hausted all kinds of dissipation. Toward the emd of 
 his life, he made some approach toward Nature. He 
 built, by way of an amende honorahle^ a kind of 
 temple to her ; that is to say, a Cabinet of Natural 
 Hist(^ry, in which Buffon more than once studied. 
 At his death this cabinet was sold for a hundred 
 thousand livres. It was all that Boucher left of a 
 great fortune. "It was,'' he said, " to'i^ay for his 
 funeral."' 
 
 He went incessantly into society. Madame Geof- 
 frin, who had succeeded to Madame de Tencin's 
 circle, gave two dinners a week, on Monday to ailists, 
 and "Wednesday to men of letters. Marmontel, who 
 dined rarely then, except when he dined out, was at 
 Madame Geoffrin's table on both Mondays and 
 Wednesdays. In his memoirs he passes the guests 
 in review. He says, in reference to the artists : "I 
 was at no loss to perceive that, with natural ability, 
 they were almost all deficient in study and culture-
 
 VANI.OO, VERNET, LATODR, ETC. 321 
 
 Good Carle Yanloo possessed, in a high degree, all 
 the talent that a painter can have without genius ; 
 but lie was without inspiration, and to make up for 
 if, he had devoted liimself but little to those studies 
 which raise the soul and till the ima2:ination M'ith 
 great objects and great thoughts. Vernet, admirable 
 in the art of painting water, the air, the light, and 
 tb.e action of these elements, had all the models of 
 compositions of this class very vividly present to his 
 iuniginatiun ; but beyond this, although he has some 
 spii'it, he was a commonplace artist. Lat<»ur pos- 
 sessed enthusiasm ; l)ut, his head already coniiised 
 with tlie political and moral questions on which he 
 fancied that he could argue ably, he thought himself 
 humiliated if any one spoke to him about painting. 
 If lit! took my ])ortrait, it was only on account of the 
 ciiiiij;laisance with which I listened to him as he reg- 
 ulated the destinies of Europe. Boucher had some 
 tire of imagination, but little truth, still less dignity. 
 He had not seen the graces in respectable company. 
 Jle painted Venus and the Virgin after the nymphs 
 of the green-room, and his language, as well as his 
 jjictures, reminded one of the manners of his models 
 and of the tone of his studio." 
 
 Madame de Pompadour and Madame Dubarry 
 both admired Boucher's talents. What was more 
 luitural ? Did he not seem made expressly to paint 
 these queens by chance 'i Were they not two of 
 those muses whence he derived inspiration ? Had 
 they not the coquettish grace, the wayward glance, 
 and the smiling lijts, whicli make up the charm ot 
 Uoucher's woiricn ? 
 
 Jlf b('c;iiiH' first paiiiln- tn tlic kiiii^- on the death
 
 322 BOUCHER. 
 
 of Carle Yanloo. His elevation to the dignity sur- 
 prised no one. Nothing caused astonishment then, 
 wlien Madame Dubarry was seated on the throne of 
 Blanche of Castile. Besides, as the king, such the 
 ]>ainter. Louis XIV". and Lebrun, Louis XV. and 
 Boucher, had they not the same kind of dignity ? 
 
 Of all this generation, crowned with faded roses, 
 Boucher was the tirst to die, in the spring of 1770, 
 with his pencil in hand, although he had been ill for 
 a 'ong time. He was alone in his studio. One of 
 his pupils wished to enter. " Do n't come in," said 
 Boucher, who, perhaps, felt that he was dying. The 
 pupil closed the door and witlidrew. An hour after, 
 Francis Boucher, the paintei-, was found exjMring 
 bef( )re a picture of Yenus at her toilet. 
 
 He led the way. All tiie painters, the abbes, the 
 poets of gallantry, soon followed him to the dark 
 mansion of the dead, the king of France at their 
 head, supported by his reader in ordinary, Montcrif, 
 who had never read anything to him, and by his fa- 
 mous librarian, Gentil-Bernard, who had never turned 
 over anything but the petticoats of the opera. It 
 pleases my fancy to depict to myself this half-fune- 
 real, half-l>urlesque spectacle of ail those men of wit, 
 wlio departed so gayly, but persisted in uttering a 
 witty speech l^efore dying, in order to die as they 
 had lived. In a few years, all the wit, the joy, the 
 fascination, and the folly of the eighteenth century, 
 were seen to descend into the tomb. Without 
 speaking of Madame de Pomj)adoin-, Boucher, Louis 
 XV., and of some celebrated actresses, such as 
 Madame Favart and Mademoiselle Gaussin, do we 
 not behold in the mom-nful procession Crebillon and
 
 TRUE TO HIS AGE. 323 
 
 his libertine stories, Marivaiix and his delicate com- 
 edies, the Abbe Pre\ ost and liis dear Manon, Panart 
 and his vaudevilles, Piron and his jokes, Dorat and 
 his madrigals, the Abbe de Yoisenon and the chil- 
 dren of Favart, tlie most certainly his of all his 
 works? Who more? Rameau, Helvetius, Dik-]-)S, 
 Yoltaire, Jean-Jacques Kousseau. Are these enough ? 
 Who then will remain to finish the century ? The 
 queen, Marie -Antoinette, will remain, wlio also 
 lived this mad life, wlio smiled like the women of 
 Boucher, who is destined to be punished for all these 
 line i)ei>ple, who is destined to die on the guillotine, 
 another Calvary, between a woman of the town, 
 Madame Dubarry, and a king of the populace, He- 
 beit, to die with the dignity of Christ, crowned with 
 her whitened locks, bleached by a night of heroic 
 penitence. 
 
 The history of Boucher has its logic, the life of 
 the painter accords with his work ; there is no more 
 truth in the passion of the one than in the picture 
 of the other ; both, however, must be taken as the 
 expression of an epoch. It is thus that Boucher has 
 survived. The fact of his being true to his time, 
 ])roves him true in one respect, in spite of all his 
 falsehoods. His style of painting has not a positive 
 value in the annals of art; it is scarcely an episode 
 of partial interest, it is a degeneracy of art. This 
 fiivolous era is lost between two serious epochs. The 
 eighteenth century was the prodigal offspring of a 
 worthy and serious age. ]*oucher is to Lesueur wluit 
 Fontenelle is to Comeille. Affectation distorted origi- 
 nal chanicter, wit destroyed naturalness, and 1)eauty 
 the eternal law of art, becomes only a graceful caprice.
 
 324: BOUCHER. 
 
 Does "Ronclier demand of ns any profound criti 
 cism? AVhen we say that l.e was the ])ainter of 
 coquettish graces, have we not said all ? On examin- 
 ing his character and his M'orks more closely, we can 
 nut venture thus to despatch him with a single word. 
 Ilis mind felt more than one deep inspiration, more 
 than once was his heart deeply moved by the remem- 
 brance of Rosina. Nature has eternal rights which 
 command our obedience : there is no use in trying 
 to escape, she always reasserts her sway. Let us, 
 tiierefore, not judge Bouchei" hastily, but turn over 
 his work with a patient hand. Is there, then, noth- 
 ing grand and nothing beautiful bciicatli those false 
 seductions? Have the light of the sim and the light 
 of art never illuminated those landscapes and those 
 faces? Did Boucher never reach the truth i 
 
 The grand gallery of the Louvre has not a single 
 one of his pictures. It api)ears to me, however, 
 that he deserves a little space in a good light, be- 
 tween his friends Watteau and Greuze. Who would 
 comj)lain of seeing what kiiul of pictures were 
 painted a century ago by him who became pHinter 
 in chief to the king, director of the Acadciny, and 
 of the Gobelins? For th<;)se who study there would 
 be the material for curious comparisons ; for those 
 who seek only for amusement there would, be so many 
 pretty pictures the more. We have a singuhir mode 
 of being national in France. We are so hospitable 
 to foreigners that there is no room left for the na- 
 tives. For the last few years, it is true, an asylum 
 has been deigned Boucher in a badly-lighted galleiy, 
 that on the side of the river, which greatly resembles 
 a cemetery of art, to judge by the silence and soli-
 
 PAINTINGS. 325 
 
 tilde wli ^h reign there. Two paintings of the 
 painter of Lonis XY. are to be found there ; the 
 first chapters of his Pastoral Amours. Nothing is 
 more agreeable to the eye. We advance, lost in 
 astonishment: the eye loses itself in tlie volu2)tnons 
 vagueness of the landscape. We smile on those 
 queens disguised as shepherdesses ; we detach our- 
 selves from the preseut ; we follow those doves in 
 their auiorous flight ; we lose ourselves, completely 
 overcome, in those scented groves. Where are we? 
 On the banks of i\\Q Lignon, or in the paths of 
 Cytherea? On the freshly-grown grass of what 
 bloomine; flowerv Eden are we treadiu";? The dream 
 lasts but a moment. Such a terrestrial paradise 
 never existed anj^where ; such sliei)herds never lived. 
 They are pale ghosts of Watteau whom Ijoucliei- has 
 reanimated with roses. We soon M-ithdi-aw without 
 retaining the interest which had seized us at first 
 sight ; but smiling at that air of magic which Bou- 
 cher had the art of castino; over all his faults. 
 
 I have some other paintings of Ills before me. 
 The fReep of the Bacchantes., the Intoxication of 
 the Loves. Jiiinter carry imj off' Europa., the See- 
 Sail}. Mercury Teaching Cvjihl to Read., and the 
 Bafilot of Floioers. This last picture is the most 
 beautiful : the shepherdess, Astrea, her feet are bare, 
 au<l Ih'i-!i'('1v» are Hoating in the wind, is lying asleep, 
 within rv/o steps of a fountain, against a tufted 
 hedge without thorns, or, at least, the thorns arc con- 
 cealed. Some pretty white sheep are browsing or 
 bounding over the meadow, which has more flowers 
 than grass : a dog, all bedecked with ribands is 
 watching over the flock an<l the iui|trudent she])- 
 
 28
 
 326 BOUCHER. 
 
 hcrdess at the same time ; the sky is divinely serene 
 There are, however, some ckiuds hero and there, 
 tlie clouds of love. The silence is almost like that 
 of night; scarcely do we hear the murmur of the 
 breeze, but do we not hear the bcatinfli; heart of As- 
 trea ? She sleeps, but she dreams. We see by the 
 a.iritation of her pretty feet that it is a dream of love. 
 Patience! the picture becomes animated. The shej)- 
 herd Amvntas comes from the r.eighborino; arbor, a 
 true Cytlierean arbor; he carries in his hand a 
 beautiful basket of flowers, flowers of all seasons; 
 the painter has culled them without looking at his 
 almanac. There is even in the bouquet a flower of 
 a new species, half-concealed by the others. This 
 flower, which spoils the bouquet somewhat, but by 
 no means the entire aftair, is a hUlet-doux. The 
 shepherd advances mysteriously, he smiles at the 
 watchful dog, he hangs his basket of flowers on the 
 tufted liedge, by the arm of the sleeper, who is no 
 longer asleep, but pretends to be. Let her who has 
 never pretended to be asleep cast the first stone at 
 her! Astrea, therefore, listens with closed eyes: 
 she hears the wind rustling through the sedge, the 
 refreshing murmur of the fountain. What then? 
 You may guess 1 She hears the cooings of the 
 doves, and the sighs of the shepherd Amvntas; 
 she inhales the sweet perfume of the verdure, but 
 above all the intoxicating perfume of the basket 
 of flowers. O poor innocent, beware of Love, he 
 has just seized an arrow ! The shepherd Amyntas 
 advances a step, his lips have made two; here the 
 dog barks in spite of the caresses of the traitor, but 
 '.he dog cautious the sleeper too late, the kiss is taken
 
 ENGRAVINGS. 327 
 
 A.lmost all Bouclier's power is to be found in this 
 single picture. AVe find in it his amorous concep- 
 tion, his fictitious grace, his mournful and smiling 
 landscape. 
 
 The two volumes of Boucher at the Print-Hoom 
 of the Eoyal Library, do not contain a quarter of his 
 works. We must seek elsewhere, also, for the best 
 engravings, copied after him, and sometimes engraved 
 by himself. Thus he has engraved, with a master- 
 hand, the only portrait uf AVatteau which we possess. 
 On looking at these two men, Watteau and Boucher, 
 we do not discover the least trace of the character 
 of their talents. They are without grace, and almost 
 without the expression of the least genius. AVattean 
 is hard and heavy ; Boucher looks somewhat like an 
 old Koman. Lavater would be much embarrassed 
 beholding them and their works. As for Boucher, 
 the phvsioi^nomist would maintain the truth of his 
 system, by appealing to the dress, for Boucher was 
 dressed like Dorat, with the same elegance and pre- 
 cision. 
 
 If caprice or curiosity induce you to consult Bou- 
 cher's woi-ks in the Print-Room, you will find at the 
 outset a RacJifl^ which recalls soinewhat his dear 
 Rosina; on the next page, a theatrical-looking Clirht^ 
 absurdly treated ; followed by a Descent from the 
 Cross^ which is more like a Descent from the 
 Coitrtille ' some Saints^ wlio will never go to Para- 
 dise; Seasons and Elements^ represented ]>y puffy 
 Cii|)ids, with verses in similar taste; some Muses^ 
 who will not ins])ire you in the least; a Ra2}6 
 of Kii,r<)j>a^ which )vcal!s j\radame Boucher; Yenna 
 at all agr^: ^nme curious imitations of David Teniers:
 
 328 EouciiER. 
 
 a Portrait of Boucher^ at the time he turned Flcrn- 
 isli i)ainter : he is in full rustic costume, wi-apped in 
 a fur robe, and wearing a cotton nightcap. After 
 havinji; failed in the true, lie returned to the graceful. 
 After these imitations of David Tenicrs, you will iind 
 the Pastoral Amours, whicli are Boucher's master- 
 jiieccs. You will find in them imagination, volup- 
 tuousness, grace, magical effect, and even merit in 
 the landscape. Salute after these Bahet^ the Flower- 
 Girl ; an Erato^ she who inspired ]>oucher, and not 
 the Muse of the Greeks ; some Girls^ harvesting, 
 gardening, hogging, and reajung; some Profiles^ al- 
 most worthy of Callot; salute those Chinese Figures^ 
 who a})pear to have detached themselves from your 
 screen, your fan, or your China porcelain. Let ns 
 i\'tuiu to France : unfortunately, Boucher always re- 
 mained somewhat of a Chinese. But patience: here 
 we have true comedy, the comedy of Moliere ; all 
 the scenes are there ])ainted in a picpumt and almost 
 natural manner. Tlie last Valeres are not dead ; 
 neither are the last Celimenes. Comedians in ordin- 
 aiy to the king would fiiul much to study there, 
 if they have not already done so. For my part, 1 
 should be very readily contented witli the style in 
 v.hich Boucher enacts Moliere's comedies. 
 
 The second volume opens with the Graces^ the 
 Graces at the bath, the Graces everywhere. Cupid 
 reappears; always Cujjid, this time enchained by 
 the Graces, with this couplet of the Cardinal de 
 Bernis : — 
 
 How many fickle ones are bound 
 
 With the pirille uf tli:- Graces' 
 
 The girdle of the Graces is a gr.rland of flowers.
 
 posrnoN AS aktist. 329 
 
 After this comes (slie could not be better placed) 
 Madame de Pompadom-; but the painter painted 
 her when she was too old to make a Grace of. The 
 scene chances. We find German eiio-ravinos after 
 Boucher, Boucher engraved by serious Germans; 
 what a grotesque translation! Here the painter 
 shows us his handwriting ; it is like the clear and 
 graceful handwriting of Jean- Jacques Bousseau. We 
 pjiss to religious subjects ; but do not be afraid ; 
 Boucher will be able to laugh again. These are the 
 desigus fur the Paris JBreviary^ made doubtless 
 after the designs of Betites-Maisons; it is a tolerably- 
 jjrettj satire ; for example, he makes Faith hover 
 over the Invalides, and Hope over the Louvre and 
 Tuileries. The archbishop and the king did not un- 
 dei'stand it. There yet remains a pleasant Country- 
 Fair ; some pretty designs for romances ; the Cries 
 of Paris, freely treated ; a poetical composition 
 of a fortune-telling scene in the open air; an Olym- 
 pus, with the gods boldly exhibited in full muster. 
 
 All these works do not constitute a great painter, 
 but do they not offer a reasonable protest against the 
 disdainful airs which some persons affect toward 
 Boucher? To judge an artist of the second rank 
 properly, we must ])eliold him in his own time, in 
 tlie presence of his works and his contemporaries, 
 after having first viewed him at a distance. We 
 niu.st hear what he has to say, so to s])eak, and not 
 condemn liini l»y default. If Boucher could speak 
 to us, he would say : " I saw what was jiassing around 
 me; I saw tluit religion, royalty, genius, and all that 
 was great, was changing, failing, dying out. Could 
 I become a man of genius among such dwarl's? and, 
 
 28*
 
 330 BOUCIIEK. 
 
 besides, had I the stuff to be one ? I did as every 
 body else did. Tliev lauglied, they made love, tliey 
 became intoxicated after supper. I laughed, I made 
 love, I l)ecame intoxicated. You can see by my 
 pictures that it was so. The priests were playing at 
 religion, the kings at royalty, the poets at poetry; 
 do not think it strange that I played at painting. I 
 have done WTong to no one, at least, intentionally. I 
 have made two millions by my pencil ; it was so 
 nnich drawn from the rich ; I have made such good 
 use of it, that I have scarce enough left to bury me 
 with. If you wish to know to whom I owe my poor 
 talents, I must answer you that I know nothing 
 about it. I have admired alternately Watteau, liu- 
 bens, and Coustou." 
 
 Watteau, Eubens, and Coustou : these were Bou- 
 cher's three masters; but he never had the sparkling 
 animation of the painter of the Fetes galantes^ nor 
 the splendid touch of the great Flemish colorist, nor 
 the noble dignity of the Fi-ench sculptor (it must be 
 confessed that the marlile dignities). By the side of 
 these three masters, Boucher may here and thei'e hold 
 his ground. More than one admirer of the past will 
 smile at his coquettish grace, at his foolishly-lively 
 imagination, at the blue haze of his landscapes, at the 
 voluptuous mysteries of his arbors, at his faces so 
 blooming that they apj^ear fed on roses, according to 
 the expression of an ancient writer. Diderot, who 
 founded an encyclopedia, who invented the drama of 
 common life, who (»])ened a school of morals, did 7iot 
 desire to know anything about the painter of Madame 
 de Pompadour and Madame Dubarry, especially as 
 he let himself be guided somewhat in his ideas on
 
 CEITICISM OF r-IDEROT. 331 
 
 painting by Grenzc, tlie born enemy of Boucber. 
 See, bowever, bow Diderot criticises tbis painter, in 
 his free way of speaking : " I venture to say tbat 
 Boucber never once saw Nature, tbat Nature at 
 least, wbicb is formed to interest my soul, yom-s, tbat 
 of a well-born cbild, tbat of a woman wbo feels ; 
 among an infinity of proofs wbicb I migbt give, a 
 single one will suffice, it is tbat in tbe multitude of 
 fiaures of men and women wbicb be bas ijainted, I 
 defy any one to find any suitable for a bas-relief, still 
 less for a statue. There are too many airs, graces, 
 and affectations, for a severe taste. There is no use of 
 his displaying them to me naked, I always see the 
 rouge, patches, trinkets, and all tbe trumpery of tbe 
 toilet. Do you think that be had any idea of the 
 cbarminir and nuljle fiirure of Petrarch, 
 
 E'l riso, e'l canto, e'l parler dolce, umano ? 
 
 As for those fine and delicate analogies which sum- 
 mon ol)jects upon the canvass, and unite them together 
 by imperceptible threads, by heaven ! I do not believe 
 that he knew what they were. All his compositions 
 seem to the eye to be keeping up an insupportable 
 hubbult. They are the most mortal enemies to re- 
 pose which I know of. When he paints children 
 he groups them well, but they are always fooling 
 away in the clouds ; for of all this innumerable 
 family you will not find one employed in the actual 
 occupations of life, in studying bis lesson, reading, 
 writing, or twisting hemp. Tliey are romantic and 
 ideal l.cings, little bastards of Bacclms or Sik'nus. 
 These cliihlren could be readily produced in sculj)- 
 ture on the surface of an antique vase. They are
 
 332 
 
 BOUCIIlut 
 
 fat, plump, and chiibhy. If tlie artist could scn.ptnre 
 in marble, his style would be in character. lie is 
 not, however, a fool; lie is a false painter of merit as 
 there are false wits, lie has not the thouo-hts of art, 
 he has Init its concetti?'' After tliis preamble, how- 
 ever, Diderot condescends to declare, in reference 
 to four pastoral scenes, that " Boucher had his ra- 
 tional moments," that he had produced a charming 
 poem. A little further on lie retracts a little of his 
 severity. " T have spoken too harshly of J^oucher. 
 I retract. I have seen cliildren by him which are 
 really and truly children. Boucher is graceful, and 
 by no means severe ; but it is difficult to unite grace 
 and severity." 
 
 Boucher, who had a hundred pupils, has left no 
 school. Fragonard alone, among his pupils, often 
 recalls the style of his master; and Fragonard threv/- 
 away moi-e recklessly than Boucher a more gifted 
 mind. Greuze, at the same time that he looked 
 down upon Bouclier, with his friend Diderot, recalls 
 also the freshness and smile of this painter. Can 
 we not find some trace of him in the Broken 
 Pitcher ? 
 
 David was also a pupil of Boucher, doubtless, be- 
 cause he w^as his cousin; but in this case the lessons of 
 the master can not be traced in the pupil. While he 
 admired Boucher, he feared to follow his example. 
 It is the mournful consequence of excess in art that 
 the reaction which follows takes the opposite ex- 
 treme. To reilecting minds, the departing Boucher 
 explains the coming David. The latter makes 8ul> 
 limity rigid after the other has relaxed grace. Bou- 
 cher was nothing more than a fimcy painter, because
 
 VINE-CROWNED. o33 
 
 he tried to trick out Xatnre in prettiness ; DjinIcI 
 only a conventional painter, because lie sought the 
 real in the types of an ideal statuary. Thus did Ijoth, 
 one in almost forgotten valleys, the other on proud 
 hill-tops, fail in their aims, and contend without vic- 
 tory. Xature was before them, ever opening infinite 
 horizons to them beyond the mountains, but they 
 passed-by without regarding her. 
 
 And yet Boucher will live hi the history of French 
 painting. He did not raise his head to receive the 
 golden crown, which genius has placed upon tlie 
 head of Poussin and Lesueur. He could not grasp 
 with his profane hand the chain of divine sentiment 
 which reaches from Poussin to Gericault, after having 
 touched Lesueur, and some others of less dignity ; 
 but like a second Anacreon, Boucher crowned liiin- 
 self with vine-leaves in the company of his mistresses ; 
 and M'ith caieless hand stripped oif the leaves of the 
 garland of flowers which is the Graces' girdle, of that 
 garland, which a century ago, was the girdle of 
 Franco.
 
 LANTARA. 
 
 The tavern was almost always the studio, the castle 
 in the air, the horizon of Lantara, in which respect 
 he resemljled two Flemish painters, BroUwer and 
 Oraesbeke. It is not my aim to write a course of 
 morals on paintino;. Like the poets, like all disci))les 
 of art, the painters have the privilci^e of descending 
 into the dark de])ths of vice, and thence taking tlieir 
 flight to the splendors of art. Striking contrast.-^ 
 have been witnessed ; the lower the soul descends, 
 the greater force does it seem to gather for its up- 
 ward course to the regions of divinity. St. Augus- 
 tine has expressed it, "While the Angel of Darkness 
 spreads over us the shade and luxurious boughs of ter- 
 restrial pleasure, the guardian Angel, far from aban- 
 doning us, sheds upon our arid hearts the chaste dew 
 of the celestial fields, it hovers above and around us, as 
 if to cover ns with its white wings." However, by d int 
 of passing through the forest of j)leasure, man ends by 
 leaving there his pure robes. They are by little and 
 little torn to shreds; as soon as the soul has under- 
 gone the first shock, the mischief is done, the mischief 
 is for a long time irreparable ; the horizon becomes
 
 ins BIRTH. 335 
 
 troubled, tlie imagination loses its morning freslmess, 
 thought only casts a pale ray here and there, pro- 
 ducing neither heat nor light. 
 
 Xothino; is known of the origin of Simon-Mathurin 
 Lantara. It is said that he was born at Fontainebleau, 
 or near Montargis. His father was a poor sign- 
 |)ainter from Piedmont, his mother a dealer in small 
 toilet articles. Their marriage appears to have been 
 consummated withuut the aid of the priest. The 
 jiai liter and the shop woman were none the happier 
 on that account. However, according to the phrase 
 ct^nsecrated by usage. Heaven blessed their union, 
 since tliey had a great number of children. Mathuriii 
 early became familiar with the sad si3ectacle of a 
 father who got drunk and beat his wife, when the 
 wiue was bad. Mathurin promised himself, if he 
 siiould one day be able to drink his wine, that he 
 would have good wine. He kept his word, as you 
 will see. In his father's house, he early became ac- 
 quainted M'ith the sorrows of wretchedness. He 
 saw his motlier weep, he wept with her ; she ended 
 by consoling herself, he does not dare to say how: 
 lie consoled himself too; perhaps he ought to have 
 wei»t all the more : but he did not come into the 
 world to l)e always crying. To console himself he 
 went out. He was little more than twelve years old 
 when the grand spectacle of Xature had already an 
 interest for him. Escaping from school and boyish 
 amusements, he carelessly lost himself in the forest. 
 Overj)owercd with wonder at the old moss-covered 
 trees, the savage rocks, the smiling vistas, the steep 
 liillsides, wlieiice the sand ])ours down like a sj)ark- 
 ling fountain. He followed with a ravished glance the
 
 336 LANTAJKA. 
 
 thousand clian^lino: tints wliicli tlie sunHu:ht scattered 
 here and there. The sun seen through the trees was 
 to liim u magic picture. By dint of being present 
 at all the nietaniorphoses of Nature, he became cog- 
 nizant of her mysteries. lie early learned the har- 
 mony of earth and sky, the gentle treml>lings of the 
 plants before the gathering storm, the fresh blooming 
 of the trees, bushes, and flowers, after the rain and 
 the storm had passed over Nature, the cheerfulness 
 of the morning after the sun has dispei-sed the fog 
 hovering over the hill-tops, when the breeze scatters 
 the dew and the perfume of the flowers, the religious 
 melanchulj of the twilight, when the sun has but a 
 ray left, a ray for the spire which lo<jks so blue be- 
 yond the green trees, for the laljorer who has reached 
 the last furrow, for the gleaner who is smiling be- 
 neath her burden. Mathurin Lautara became pas- 
 sionately attached to such sights. The day was soon 
 not long enough for his poetical wanderings. lie 
 sometimes passed the nights in the flehls, under the 
 clear moonlight ; he sat down on the edge of a i)ond 
 or lake, and there, listening to the prophetic bird of 
 night, his head resting on his hand, he contemplated 
 the moon as it was reflected throusfh the foliacre in 
 the watery mirror. He was seized with so ardent a 
 love for Nature, that he talked aloud to the plants 
 and trees. 
 
 Lautara communed with the plants : never with 
 men. If he met a shepherd or a hunter, he got out 
 of the way as quickly as he could, as if he had feared 
 being ciaught in some piece of mischief. An old 
 canon of Fontainebleau, however, who was also fond 
 of walking, succeeded, by degrees, in taming thi?
 
 HIS LOVE OF COUNTRY. 837 
 
 young savage. He followed him ; was one day a 
 witness to Lis tender apostroplies to the daisies and 
 violets, the sun and the clouds. He sj^oke to him 
 witli so much mildness and sympathy, that Lantara 
 listened to him with interest.without thinkino; of takino- 
 flight. The next day a similar meeting took place. 
 Tlie canon had the fables of La Fontaine in his hand. 
 — " Do you know how to read, my child ?" — " Yes," 
 said Lantara, " but I get very tired of it." — " I will 
 give you this book, which will not tire you." — They 
 walked along together; the canon sat down to rest 
 at the foot of an immense sand-bank. Lantara, with- 
 out troubling himself about his old friend, cut a stick, 
 and began to trace figures at his feet. The canon, 
 who has related this incident, does not tell us what 
 was the subject of the sketch ; he contents himself 
 with relating that Lantara, more solicitous about the 
 color than the outline, availed himself of the varieties 
 of white, grey, red, yellow, and blue sand. lie had 
 tints of all sorts for the comj^osition of this new style 
 of mosaic. 
 
 The autumn, with its yellow leaves ; the winter, 
 with its hoar frost, had also their channs fur Lantara. 
 He foll(jwed Nature, step by step, in all her works: 
 works of life and works of death. In the autunm he 
 went to the desolate ravine, to see the leaves roll in 
 the torrent; in winter he saddened his mind before 
 tlie solemn representation of death. 
 
 We lose trace of Lantara between his fifteenth and 
 Ills twenty-fifth year. It is said that, on his a nival 
 at Paris, he stund)led into the studio of a dauber, who, 
 struck with the talent of the youth, undertook to lodge 
 and lioaiNJ Lantara for his work, reserving to hiin- 
 
 2U
 
 3oR LANTARA. 
 
 self the riolit of signing the best hmdseapcs ut liis own 
 ])] ensure. Tliis is, word for word, tlie sunie story as 
 tliat of Bronwer, another painter of the tavern. It 
 ha^ also been said that Lantara studied in a wretclicd 
 studio at Versailles, with a peddling painter, who 
 made him paint tlie backgrounds of his pictures, at 
 the rate of forty sous a day. These are not very re- 
 liable stories. I prefer to believe that Lantara had 
 no other teacher than his father, the sign-painter; his 
 own instincts taught him the rest. 
 
 We find him again at Paris, still solitary, still poor; 
 he painted moonlights and sketched forests, but Mas 
 not aware of his 2:enius. IIow can we believe the 
 fact, that everybody lauded in his presence the rose- 
 colored landscapes of Boucher? He would not sub- 
 mit to become a follower of this l)ad master, who saw 
 Nature only in the lieathen mythology. Lantara had 
 been to a better school ; he had seen Nature only as 
 she was, in all her magic power, without periphrasis, 
 and without hyperbole, lie knew nothing in the 
 world about drawing, but how did it happen that, 
 with three strokes of his pencil, he could detach a 
 tree from the ilank of a mountain, and make a w^ater- 
 fall dash over the rugged rocks. It was because 
 . he was his own master ; he was an inspired paijiter, 
 like Giotto, like so many others, predestined to be 
 artists. 
 
 Do you wish to know what use he made of his 
 talents? 
 
 In a dingy and dilapidated house, in the neighbor- 
 hood of the Louvi-e, above a fi-uiterer, above a for- 
 gotten dancing-gin, above a sacristan, had Lantara 
 built his nest. This dwelling of the painter's is so
 
 WOKKS FOK JJIS DINNER. 339 
 
 bare aud desolate that a sheriff's officer would not 
 tliink it -worth an attachment. A truckle-1 ed, a tahle, 
 an easel, f(.>rni pretty much its entire furniture. IIow 
 could poor Lantara have abandoned the pleasant land- 
 scape of Fontainebleau for such a retreat? We might 
 understand it if the window looked out upon any pros- 
 pect, but none is to be seen. Naught is visible but 
 chimneys and garret-windows, a little sunlight through 
 the smoke. Lantara, however, never sees this sad pic- 
 ture. Ilis memory is great. He had only to descend 
 into himself to recover, in all their mornmg fresh- 
 ness, in all their springtime grace, the landscapes in 
 which his first fifteen years had been embosomed. 
 See, he has inscribed here and there on the l)lne 
 paper of his chamber whole pages of his recollections. 
 lie needed for this only a little charcoal and a little 
 chalk. Besides, he scarcely ever works in this room, 
 unless inspiration gets the better of idleness, which 
 seldom happens, since inspiration never moves him, 
 except at the sight of a glass of old wine. As soon 
 as he is on his feet, he descends to the next wine-shop 
 or the next cafe. At both there is a laro-e book which 
 is presented to him as soon as he arrives. While 
 breakfast is i)reparing, he opens the large book, and 
 makes a drawing in it in less than a quarter of an 
 hour. He calls this Ilabelais' quarter of an hour. 
 The drawings do n(jt remain long in the lai'ge book, 
 for connoisseurs pay for them in advance. When 
 Lantara has breakfasted, he takes a walk like a 
 good citizen of Paris, with nothing to do. He was a 
 groat simple child, like La Fontaine, amusing him- 
 self with everything, forgetting time and ]ilace, with 
 the provcn-bial carelessness oJ" an nrti>t. He returna
 
 340 LAJITARA. 
 
 to dine, somcthnes at the cafe, sometimes at tlit 
 w'ine-sliop, according to the caprice of the moment; 
 it is the same story as in tlie morning : the great 
 book lies on liis table. To stimulate the talents of the 
 designer, the innkeeper spreads before him the oldest 
 bottles in his cellar. After dinner, Lantara takes 
 another walk, like a careless idler who has all his 
 time to spare. In the evening, being no longer able 
 to promenade, he drinks to pass the time. He is 
 really the most good-natured drunkard in the uni- 
 verse : he drinks generous wines ; each glass engen- 
 ders some piquant novelty, some original sally. To- 
 ward midnight, he re-enters his sorry abode, and 
 sleeps marvellously well in his wretched l)ed. It is 
 hard to understand how, with his undoubted talent, 
 he remained in this wretched atmosphere, with no 
 other companion but poverty. 
 
 Incapable of managing himself, he needed a second 
 Madame de La Sabliere. An idle dreaminess had 
 taken possession of him ; his mind was lost amid a 
 thousand deceitful temptations. If we may so speak, 
 lie was a denizen of earth onlv at meal-times. He 
 loved only the sun and the forests. Man appeared 
 to him to be only a superfluity of creation: he, there- 
 fore, had none of the vanities of this lower world. 
 He concealed his name and his existence ; he would 
 scarcely ever sign his drawings or his pictures. He 
 might liave become rich, but of what use was money 
 to him? The Count de Caylus paid him a hundred 
 crowns for a picture ; it was a moonlight view. Lantara 
 was in an uncomfortable state, not knowing what to 
 do with so much money. He fancied that all the 
 rogucK in Paris were at his heels ; every passer-by
 
 THE CUESE OF MONEY. 341 
 
 had a sinister look. He did not dare to walk about, 
 he did not dare to stop; lie was no longer dreaming; 
 it was all up with Lantara ! He entered the tavern ; 
 it seemed to him that the very drunkards regarded him 
 with covetous eyes. He no longer dared to get drunk : 
 it was all over with him ! He finally returned, pale 
 and tremltling, to his room. Where was he to put 
 the hundred crowns? under his pillow. He went to 
 bed ; he could not go to sleep ; his pillow is harder 
 tlian usual; the hundred crowns are constantly in his 
 thoughts. The door is only half-closed ; if a robber 
 should pass up the staircase ! and a thousand other 
 disagreeable fancies. He takes a desperate resolu- 
 tion, and puts the sum in the drawer of his old table. 
 He goes to bed again, and closes his eyes ; scarce has 
 he dropped half-asleep, when he fancies that he hears 
 those diabolical crowns dancing a shuffle ; a clear 
 and sharp noise excites him to the highest degree ; he 
 awakes with a bound like a kid ; at last he goes to 
 fileep for good, but he is not at the end of his dreams. 
 The crowns are metamorphosed. Lantara beholds a 
 solemn procession of well-cnisted bottles pass before 
 liiui. He wishes to seize something, but he grasps 
 only a shadow. In a word, he slecjis badly, like a 
 bad rich man. In the morning, Lantara takes his 
 money, cursing riclies as he does so. He goes to the 
 tavern, to I'clate liis misfcirtune : certain worthy per- 
 sons compassionate and aid him, by good bumjjei-s 
 lj«) free hims'ilf of his crowns. He joyfully resumes 
 his course of life, his careless wretchedness, liis 
 vagal >ond reveries. 
 
 Poverty was liis veritable muse of inspiration. 
 l\s Soon jis he was possessed of a crown he could do 
 
 2Ii*
 
 34.3 LANTAUA, 
 
 nothing It is related that some great lord — his 
 name is not given — summoned the painter, and ex- 
 pressed a wish to lodge him in his. mansion. Not 
 daring to refuse a nobleman so devoted to the arts, 
 Lantara went and installed himself in the mansion 
 with his slender baggage. lie found himself very 
 ill at ease, like a man expatriated. Yainly did he 
 essay to paint or sketch, he was no longer in the at- 
 mosphere of his genius. Like Eeranger, he had left 
 his wooden shoes and his lute at the door. He es- 
 caped without saying a word, and returned to the 
 tavern, saying, " I have at last shaken off my golden 
 mantle." 
 
 Lantara was wonderfull}' himself under the roof 
 of the poor artisan, before a wretched hearth, en- 
 livened by half-naked children. There he said all 
 that he thought : he spoke of his ftither who was 
 poor ; he delighted in narrating, in his strange way, 
 liis tavern adventures. What mattered the sildin<r 
 of the palace to him who appreciated only the riches 
 of Nature ? 
 
 Lantara did not belong to his age. The noise and 
 pomp of the reign of Louis XV. had not seduced or 
 reached the simple poet of the forest of Fontaine- 
 bleau. Besides, nothing, as Madame Bellochas said, 
 was real to him except that which had no existence. 
 He was born to live in the freedom from care of a coun- 
 try life. Forced to live in Paris, he sought to deceive 
 himself by painting landscapes ; if he draid< it wa^ 
 still to deceive himself. With him wine had almost 
 the effect of opium, for his intoxication was calm, 
 drowsy, dreamy, if not poetical like that of Hoff- 
 mann, at least pleasant and cheerful. La Fontaine
 
 JACQUELINE. 343 
 
 tipsy would have given you a good idea of Lantnra. 
 This singular man not only lived apart from his 
 time, hut, so to speak, apart from himself. Ilis body 
 was onlv a coarse old tattered <»;arment in which his 
 soul clothed itself for want of a better ; but between 
 the body and the soul, the prison and the prisoner, 
 there was scarcely ever any harmony. How numy 
 times in the same day did the soul fly away to the 
 woods and the mountains, to breathe the aroma of the 
 turf, or to expand in the thicket, with the bird and 
 the flower, while the body rested on the misera])le 
 bed, or was dragged along, sad and desolate, to the 
 tavern or to the back-shop of tlie fruiterer ! 
 
 The fruitwoman was called Jacqueline. She M'as 
 a young woman of Picardy, whose good looks had 
 captivated Lantara. She was fresh-looking and 
 good-natured, two treasures for a woman. She 
 sang from morning till night, her clear voice as- 
 cen<ling as high as the painter's room. During the 
 flne season he opened his window; his mind, which 
 was wandering far away, returned at the sound of 
 Jacqueline's song. He closed his eyes, and fancied 
 that the song came from his lost valleys, such was 
 the rural freshness of the voice. Jacqueline, on her 
 side, was alive to the glances of Lantara. When 
 she saw hiin drunk, she pitied him from the bottom 
 of her heart. It more than once ha])pened that the 
 ])aintc'r, not being able to mount the stairs, halted at 
 tlio ground-floor, thaid<s to the kindness more or less 
 ]»roper of tlm frnitwoman, Lantai'a, having no longer 
 a faniily, h.-id fomid in Iier a sister as well as a mis- 
 tress. It was often owing to her that he did not <liG 
 of Ininger, aband<»ned to his sorry bed. AVlun ho
 
 344: LANTARA. 
 
 ]u\(l no money to pay for his cHinier, slic diseovcied 
 a tlu)iisand crcntle reasons for his dinino^ with lier. 
 He did not require much persuasion. In his days 
 of poverty, he descended to Jacqueline's apartment 
 at the dinner-hour. By his very mode of entrance 
 she saw that slie must set a plate for him, for he sighed 
 and looked t-oward the hearth. She was a provi- 
 dence to him in everything. If he was unwell, she 
 nursed him. In winter she shared with him her 
 snuiU stock of firewood, and Lantai-a had always the 
 largest portion : the best fruits on the stall, the 
 rosiest and most velvety peach, the most golden 
 grapes, were always his. Jacqueline was better 
 than Therese Levasseur, she was more fresh and 
 artless. We should not be astonished at Lantara's 
 affection for her. She might, perhaps, by her care- 
 ful solicitude, have drawn him for ever from the door 
 of the wineshop, but she died too soon to accomplish 
 this o-ood work. Lantara was stricken to the heart 
 by her almost sudden death. He ^gain found him- 
 self alone, and already growing old ; he lost courage 
 and returned to the wineshop with gi-eater reckless- 
 ness than ever. It was with great difliiculty that he 
 consoled himself. Six months after the misfortune, 
 if any one spoke to him of Jacqueline, he still sighed 
 and wept, whether tipsy or not. He was never 
 willing to sell a fine landscape, which he had 
 painted in the happy days when Jacqueline sang. 
 One day, when his neighbor, the superanuated act- 
 ress, asked him why he thought so much of this pic- 
 ture, he answered her, " Then you do not hear Jac- 
 queline singing in the landscape." 
 
 If I should speak of other amours of Lantara, J
 
 AT THE HOSPITAL. 345 
 
 Bhoiild be forced to descend too low ; I prefer to pass 
 them over. It lias been said that he had met Madame 
 Dubarry. They were both on the same road, he a 
 poor hap-liazard lover, she a reckless sinner of 
 twenty. Besides, Lantara was acquainted, L do not 
 know how, perhaps throngh his mother, with an annt 
 of Madame Dubarry, Cantini, a celebrated dealer 
 in articles for the toilet. 
 
 With his mode of life, Lantara conld not but die 
 at the- hospital. Every one predicted this as his last 
 refuge. Far fi-om trembling at this prospect, he 
 spoke of it complacently, and thus, having fallen ill, 
 had himself taken to La Charite (a celebrated hospi- 
 tal), as a matter of course. He did not die during 
 his first admission. The superintendent, knowing 
 whom he had to deal with, kept him as long as pos- 
 sible in a state of convalescence, persuading him 
 that it would be dangerous to leave too soon. It will 
 be readily perceived that the superintendent found 
 his account in so doing. liantara drew designs for 
 him on tickets, in exchange for the use of the key 
 of the cellar ; " pay-tickets" he called them, as he set 
 liiinself to work. lie promised to return to such good 
 quarters : he soon did so ; but this time with death 
 for a companion. 
 
 Lantara felt that he was dying. When one day 
 the pencil and the glass fell from his hands, he felt 
 that he was on the brink of the tond). He was not 
 terrified, l)ut resigned himself with a good grace. 
 " II" the soul is immortal," Lantara must have thought, 
 *' mine can not run any risk of being in a worse ))lace. 
 The taverns and landscapes of the other world will 
 be curious to examine. If the soul is not ininioital,
 
 34^ LANTAR.V. 
 
 there will still be soiiictliinj'- left of me in tliis life, i\ 
 tuft of grass, a little Hower on iny grave, which will 
 turn at its ease to the sun." 
 
 Before resuming the patli to tlie liospital, he wa8 
 desirous of once more beholding Nature, his first and 
 last friend here below. Where was he to ffo ? He 
 has onlv sti-ength enough to reach the tomb ! but for 
 the farewell meetins; he can call to his aid the hi^s 
 of his youth. He followed the course of the Seine 
 .as tar as Meudon. He ascended into the woods, 
 rummaged with delight in the yellow leaves, lost 
 liimself rapturously in the paths amid the brush- 
 wood. He descended by the side of the chateau of 
 Meudon toward Valaisy, and found himself as by 
 enchantment, in a small, deserted, and silent valley, 
 surrounded by woods, diversified by small lakes, with 
 no trace of humanity except a thatched cottage. I 
 will not attempt to describe to you the happiness of 
 our landscape-painter. He walked about until even- 
 ing, delighted with the quiet, scenting the fragrance 
 of the late harvest, and of the apples fallen on the 
 ground, gathering like a child the berries of the eg- 
 lantine, tlie violet fruit of the heather, the last hare- 
 bells of the fields, admirinu; the plav of the sun on the 
 lakes, and the autumn leaves ; in fine, as hajtpy as 
 Jean-Jacques in the island of St. Pierre. 
 
 On his return, in the evening, Lantara knocked at 
 the door of the hospital of La Charite. 
 
 In the closing hour, the confessor of the hospital 
 gave him absolution ; after which he delivered a 
 discourse to him on the happiness of death, ending 
 with these words : " You are haitpy, my son, you are 
 ]>assing into eternity, vou will see CJod face to
 
 AN HISTOEICAL PAINTER. 347 
 
 face." — " "What, father !" mnrmured the dying man, 
 in a faint voice, " always face to face, and never in 
 profile?" — Such were his last words. lie died at 
 the same period with Gilbert, young like himself. 
 Gilbert and Lantara were brothers in other respects 
 than in poverty;* they both loved the forest and the 
 mountain, the flowery meadow and the nistic path. 
 Another dreamer of the same iamily followed soon 
 afterward, to suffer on the couch of Gilbert, and die 
 on that of Lantara : I mean Hegesippus Moreau. 
 He, too, went to the school of ISTature. Like Lantara, 
 he disdained the shackles of human vanity. AVhile 
 his feet wandered in the pursuit of gross pleasures, 
 his soul wandered in full liberty amid the green 
 thickets or, the ever-varying pictures of the clouds. 
 Lantara could say with Hegesippns to his soul, when 
 about to quit the earth : "Fly without fear I" — 
 
 Of my faults, thou, fast-sleeping ilove, 
 Nor witness, nor sharer hast been ! 
 
 Lantara. like Greuze, has been a prey to the farce- 
 writers. Four of theraf set together to distort, nncere- 
 iiiouiously, his original character. Do you know 
 what they made of him? An historical painter! 
 They represented him painting Belisarius? As if 
 I^autara had ever known IJelisarius! He never even 
 heard of tin- Greeks and Romans! Under the bunirlimx 
 
 • Enqravinj^s have been made of some of I<antara's pictures. Darcthas 
 encrnved the DiMif^fefi/iIe Mcftin^, the AiNomns Shrjihrni, (he Hiippi/ 
 Itiilhir, the AiiKiriiUs Ftalnrman ; I'i(|Uei>iit, the Shrrl ofWatrr, nil'' 
 the Fiyfi-rtirt; Lehaw, the first volume of the I'/V'j/'.s in llie Nci'<i/i/ii>r- 
 Itijoil of I'arin. 'I'he liurin has not, however, heeii ahle to re|iri)ihiri» 
 Ihiit rreshiirtui of rolor and aerial mint which came without bidding to 
 Luiitaru. t i'ieaid, Uair. , Kadet, DcKfoiilaiiicd.
 
 3J:8 LANTARA. 
 
 haiidrf of tlicse fiirce-writers, this most interesting 
 drunkard is nothing more than a vulgar dram-drinker, 
 philosophizing instead of drinking. Besides this, 
 they have increased the number of his works, by the 
 addition of a posthumous danghter of marriageable 
 age. You liave foreseen that all this stupid and 
 meaningless talk, these bottles of sky-blue wine, these 
 pointless couplets, is to wind-up with a wedding, 
 whereupon Lantara sings that he will henceforth paint 
 for glory and for Nature! 
 
 Lantara left some pretty landscajDCS and a great 
 number of drawings. These drawings, which are 
 still sought after, are in black, on white paper, more 
 frequently on blue paper, heightened with white ; his 
 moonlight views, the greater part of which are admir- 
 able, are all on blue paper. A great truthfulness in lo- 
 calities, a sky of marvellous clouds, agreeable foliage, 
 lightly-touched distances, and a haj^py effect of light, 
 are the distinguishing features of these designs. In 
 liis pictures we see that no one was ever more fully 
 conversant with the strange caprices of nature. He 
 expressed in a manner that could not admit of mistake, 
 the character of all hours of the dav. His morniuirs 
 breathe a ravishing freshness, which fills you with 
 youth ; his afternoons an amorous excitement which 
 goes to your heart; his evenings, a serene melancholy 
 which induces revery ; his rising and setting suns 
 and his moonliglits bear the stainp of original genius. 
 He excelled in aerial pei-spective; the mist of his 
 landscape closely approaches that of Claude Lorraine. 
 He likes the poetical better than the picturesque ; his 
 Nature has neither deserts nor preci^^ices ; scarce do 
 we find, here and there, a savage ravine, an Aljjine
 
 HIS LANDSCAPE IN THE PALAIS EOTAL, 349 
 
 rock, to enhance tlie effect of his leafy woods, his 
 verdant paths, liis mild skies. Lantara had never 
 travelled, unless from Montargis to Paris. lie had 
 not seen fit to go farther in search of K^ature. How 
 many Flemish painters have there been who have 
 produced masteq^ieces without travelling so far, and 
 under a dull sky. 
 
 A remarkable landscape in the Gallery of the 
 Palais Poyal, proves that this painter smiled in spite 
 of himself, in the most savage scenes. Donkeys, 
 goats, and cows, are passing over a marshy ground, 
 bordered by gigantic rocks, ruined temples, and de- 
 cayed trees. You fancy the effect is mournful : not 
 at all : the rocks are not barren ; the raspberry-vine 
 trails its spreading tendrils over them, the hawthorn 
 blooms about them ; a clump of trees sway to and 
 fro on the summit ; these waters charm rather than 
 chill you ; you would be pleased to wet your feet in 
 the steps of that thoughtful donkey and the frisking 
 little goat. Those temples in ruins almost tempt you 
 to inha]>it them, you, who are neither hermit nor cen- 
 obite. These decayed trees are only awaiting a ren- 
 ovating spring : in a word, this melancholy land- 
 scape is one of the gayest. The sky appears to ad- 
 vantage, like all those of Lantara. We are astonished 
 with reason, that this strange man should have ac- 
 quired the art of painting, solely from intercourse 
 witl) Nature. Scarce had he palette in hand, before he 
 was master of color. His first landscapes are the freest 
 and best. lie painted from recollection, in his dismal 
 retreat, badly Hghtcd, without fire, without books, with- 
 otit friends. AVHthout Jacqueline, never would pretty 
 lijis have HMiilcil on his talents or liis heart. Palo 
 
 of
 
 350 I.ANTAKA. 
 
 misery, clesolate loneliness, the noisy tavern, notliini^ 
 Mas able to stiile in liini the seed of<i;enins which the 
 Creator had ])lanted. lie was born a landscape- 
 painter; he was a landscape-painter all his life, as 
 easily as another is a stonecntter. It has been said 
 that he owed liis talent to the wine-shop. IfLantara 
 had passed the time he lost in drinkinij; in stndy, he 
 miirht have been a second Claude Lorraine. 
 
 Lantara often hit, at the first attempt on the light 
 and shade, the sunbeam passing among the trees, the 
 waving image of the moon in the rij)])ling water. He 
 attained surprising elFects by simple means, lie pro- 
 duced groves which the imagination wanders in, 
 amid the perfume of strawbei-ries and mulberi-ies, 
 amid the melody of singing-birds ! How clear are his 
 waters! how moist his banks! how his horizons blend 
 witli the sky ! His weak point is the human form : 
 When it was necessary to introduce one, his light 
 touch becomes heavy and awkward ; his men breathe 
 less than liis trees ; they have no expression, no mo- 
 tion; he does not paint, he petrifies the figure. He, 
 therefore, never liked to place a personage on the 
 scene. However, as in France, a landscape can only 
 attract attention by figures, the first dauber who came 
 along filled Lantara's landscapes with horses, cows, 
 fishermen, and shepherds, fancying that he increased 
 their value by so doiog. It was almost a sacrilege! 
 Creatures are not out of place on the eai'th. A cava- 
 lier escaping to a shelter in the wood, a shepherd who 
 ]>laits rushes on the bank of the stream, a beggar 
 drinking at a fountain, a peasant'girl crossing the 
 ford on her donkey, a herd of dun cows, scattered 
 over a meadow, are a great resource f<»r relief and
 
 AT MASS. 351 
 
 perspective ; but when tlie landscape-painter can not 
 paint figures, we must take liini as he is, whether 
 called Claude Lorraine, Kuysdael, or even Lantara, 
 and respect his works. A marquis had ordered a 
 landscape from Lantara. — "A landscape in your own 
 style, Monsieur Lantara ; follow the bent of your 
 fancy ; but do not forget a church and a vista." — 
 Lantara did not allow the landscape to be w^aited for 
 long. The marquis, astonished at the beauty of the 
 scene, the freshness of the color, the simplicity of the 
 treatment, the faithfulness of the church, but, seeing 
 no figures, said to him, "Monsieur Lantara, you 
 liave forgotten the figures in your landscape." — 
 "Monsieur the Marquis," the painter naively re- 
 sponded, "they are at mass." — The marquis had the 
 barbarity to rei)ly, " AVell, I will take your picture 
 when tiiey come out." — Lantara thus unintentionally 
 established a good maxim for landscape-painters who 
 know not how to paint figures. IIow many landscapc- 
 paintei'S would do well always to leave their figures at 
 mass !
 
 LOUIS XV. 
 
 Lniiis XIV. was hardly buried beneatli the ruing 
 of his majesty, when all the joyous passions lifted 
 their heads gayly under Philip of Orleans. The re- 
 gency was the bold prologue of the reign of Louis 
 XY. A bold and free touch would be necessary to 
 paint, with effect, those Saturnalia of the genius of 
 France. That which existed in j^erfection under the 
 regency was frankness ; every one walked with his 
 head erect, surrounded by his suite of vices ; that 
 mask of hypocrisy that had concealed all the faces 
 of the court under Madame de Maintenon, was gay- 
 ly torn to pieces, and trampled under foot ; the regency 
 leaned carelessly upon the unsteady shoulder of de- 
 Ijaucher}', crowning it with roses, and singing with 
 it the loose songs of the tavern: they had no need 
 of telling the world, that they were bold fellows in 
 those days. The confessors and devotees had given 
 way to the rakes and courtesans. Who would dare 
 to say so ? but we, children of the sajis culottes of 
 1702, and of the soldiers of Napoleon, would have 
 been worthy to have lived under the regency. . We 
 have the same heart, we would have the same ge-
 
 THE KEGENCY. 353 
 
 nius, if we had enongli of it, but we no longer wear 
 the same mask. Look, too, at the ideas of those 
 times ; was it not supposed for an instant, that there 
 would be a social renovation at the death of Louis 
 XIV. ? Did not the people act toward Louis XIV. 
 dead, as we acted toward Charles X. living? Louis 
 XIV. was driven, kicked almost, into his tomb in 
 the clnu'ch of St. Denis; France, after having paid 
 dearly enough for her years of victory, abandoned 
 herself to the priests, being humiliated and stifled 
 bv lier nei<i;libors: the kino- beins; dead, a revolution 
 broke out in the minds of the people ; the St. Simons 
 and Fouriers of that dav wished to elevate France, 
 but it was only a dream, the enthusiasm of the mo- 
 ment. Fi-ance remained crouching in fetters, the 
 people in misery, and the human intellect in swad- 
 dling clothes. The Duke of Orleans tlicn appeared, 
 mockino; at the nation. lauo;hino: at it without shame, 
 intoxicating it with the fumes of his orgies. The 
 most barefaced portraits, which show themselves 
 along with his in this living picture of the regency, 
 are those of the Cardinal Dubois, the Duke de 
 Tlichelieu, MadamedePhalaris, and MadamedePara- 
 l)ere. In studying these poi-traits you may learn all 
 the history of those days. The mother of the Duke 
 of Orleans had fancied a very pretty stuiy, descrip- 
 ti\'c by a i)resentiment, doubtless, of the life of her 
 son. She used to relate that the fairies had been in- 
 vited to be present at her confinement, that they hail 
 waved the enchanted wand over the cradle, and that 
 each one had given her son a talent, so that he was 
 endowed with all the talents. Put by a mislia|>, as 
 always haj'pens in stories, an old fairy had been for- 
 
 30*
 
 35i LOUIS XV. 
 
 jjotten, \\li(» liavinp; disappeared for a longtime from 
 tlu" world, had been quite overlooked. A'^exed at 
 the neglect, she went leaning on her little crutch, 
 hut when shi; had arrived all the other fairies had 
 given each one her gift to the infant. More and more 
 em-aged, she gave him the ruinous privilege of ren- 
 dering of no avail all the talents he had received from 
 the other fairies. She did more, said Madame de 
 Parabere, after having one day listened to this mater- 
 nal story ; she added a vice to each virtue : this was the 
 reason why the duke was so amiable in all his vice. 
 
 What a charming tutor for Louis XV., this re- 
 gent, full of genius and gayety, sui-named Philip 
 the Gentle, who was born according to Yoltaire, fur 
 fleasure and the Ji7i6 arts / who gave to the poet 
 Dufresny ten thousand louis, because he was a de- 
 scendant, as he himself was, from Henry lY., who 
 ruled the evening, after supper, in the comjiany of his 
 friends and his mistresses, when he had nothing more 
 to do or to say. This merry regent whose wiiole life 
 was a burst of lauiihter, who died without anv anxie- 
 ty about death, in the arms of the beautiful Phalaris, 
 " his usual confessor," according to the si^'Ugs of the 
 times. 
 
 Love took Louis XY. by surprise, one Api'il 
 moniing, as he was pressed to the somewhat luke- 
 warm heart of Madame de Parabere; this love was 
 almost maternal, almost tilial, but was notwithstand- 
 ing penetrated l)y a ray rather too warm. The love 
 of budding youth is like an April sky : at one time 
 the sky is perfectly clear, at another it is all clouds 
 and showers. The love of woman in her decline, is 
 like a rose that fades, the sun that sets, its perfume
 
 DYNASTY OF THE PETTICOATS. 355 
 
 is more choice, its glance more tender. Tlie king of 
 eishteen rears was intoxicated with Madame de 
 Parabere in her decline, who welcomed him without 
 fear, sighing a little for her subdued heart, no longer 
 tunniltuous, but full of past memories. 
 
 This love did not keep Louis XY. from crying 
 witli fright, when he heard of the arrival of the 
 princess, that he was to marry. This was getting on 
 rather too last for an adolescent. The old Cardinal 
 de Fleury was so anxious for the credit of his king, 
 that he bethouiz;ht himself (no one but the Cardinal de 
 Fleury could ever have thought of such a thing) of 
 having in the bed-chamber of the young prince 
 twelve beautiful pictures in the style of the times ; 
 such as the Birtli of Love^ the Search^ the Ravished 
 Flower^ all adorned with verses after the pattern of 
 those of the Abbe Chaulieu : — 
 
 Upon the freshness I fed 
 
 Of lips that only half-close; 
 Her mouth is as brightly red, 
 
 And as sweet as a new rose. 
 
 See what abbes and cardinals amused themselves 
 with in those days ! 
 
 I will not relate ah tlie wanton amours of Louis 
 XV. The pretty and gallant history of tlie dynasty 
 of the petticoats, has been a thousand times unveiled. 
 "Why repeat how Madame de Mailly, the Duchess 
 de Chateauroux, the Marchioness de Pompadour, tlie 
 Countess Dubarry, caused to l)loom and l)looin again, 
 every year of that amiable poet's life, who tlnvw to 
 them his royalty as a plaything, with so much joy 
 and recklessness? AV^hv nfr.-icc in tjiis well known
 
 356 LOUIS XV. 
 
 picture with tliese clianning faces, those tlionsand 
 other beautiful \v(.)inen that were gathered so com- 
 phicently for the pleasures of Louis XV., for the 
 anuiseinent of the king of France ? The scandalous 
 chronicles of the royal palaces, have been too wan- 
 tonly made use of: I resist the temptation of de- 
 scril)ing the suppers of Choisj^, the mornings at the 
 Trianon. 
 
 In the midst of all these pleasures, the king was 
 ennuyed. It appears that Louis XY. had little else 
 to do than to become ennuyed. One day the Duke 
 de Choiseul said to him, after a long political digres- 
 sion : " The peo])le suffer, sire." He answered care- 
 lessly, " I am ennuyed." 
 
 Louis XY. found more noble interests in his wars 
 of Alsace and Flanders. Glory tried to tear him 
 away from pleasure. At Fontenoy, glory marched 
 by his side ; but Madame de Pompadour marched 
 on the other side. Soon glory was vanquished for 
 ever. In war as at court he was a poet, who gayly 
 amused himself at the spectacle by the side of his 
 mistress ; he beheld what was going on as he kissed 
 the hand of Madame de Chateauroux, or Madame 
 de Pompadour. He was deficient in energy, but not 
 in courage ; he had even a disposition to greatness. 
 Thus at Metz, when almost dead, he said to the 
 Count d'Argenson : " Write in my behalf to the 
 Marshal de JSToailles, that while they carried Louis 
 XIII. to his tomb, the Prince of Conde gained a 
 battle." 
 
 After the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle, the gazettes 
 began their political tirades, the Encyclopedia burst 
 forth with a great noise, the parliament and the
 
 THE REIGN OF SONG, 357 
 
 clergy w(!re in a state of great excitement. There 
 were pamphlets and epigrams without end. In the 
 midst of all this noise, politicians began to stammer, 
 liberty spoke for itself now and then. The king re- 
 marked : " The claps of thunder [he alluded to war] 
 would have b(?en better than all these scratchings of 
 pens." It is not just to accuse him of not having 
 liked men of letters ; he did not like those political 
 reasonei-s who wished to rule France, but he favored 
 all those who were contented with singing only. 
 Apropos to the reasoners he exclaimed : " Ah ! how 
 I pity those conscientious liars." In order to console 
 Louis XV. for his ignorance, the regent often re- 
 marked to him, that not more than half-a-dozen 
 truths had floated since the deluge, upon a sea of 
 falsehoods. 
 
 He was completely the image of his time. He 
 reposed upon the labor of Louis XIY ,, poesy reposed 
 upon the masterpieces of the great age. Louis XY. 
 played with royalty, the poets played with poetry ! 
 The French Academy was, for the first time, under 
 a cloud. As Piron remarked, they were the forty 
 who had as much talent as four. 
 
 In those days instead of getting enraged they 
 sang. There was no longer any satire, or rather 
 satire not knowing what else to do, put itself under 
 the protection of song. What a number of songs 
 tlicre were against the Jansenists, the Revolutionists, 
 the Jesuits, the ministers of folly ^ the dynasty of 
 the ]>Hticoats^ the well-ldoved hlng ! Finally, as 
 CamilleDesmoulins remarked at a later lay, France 
 got tired of singing. 
 
 In the time of Louis XV., nothing was taken
 
 358 LOTTis XV. 
 
 serion-Vy, not even death, in spite of the priest, 
 prayer, and extreme nnction. Take one example out 
 of a thousand. Ramcau, on his death-bed, wearied 
 with tlie religions ceremonies of the cure of St. Eu 
 stace, cried out angrily : " What the devil are 
 you sin ing to nie there, cure! you are out of 
 tune." 
 
 From the first day, or rather the first night, of the 
 regency, French genius was only dis2:>layed at the 
 ex})ense of the heart and common sense. Every one 
 had that kind of genius ; it was the epidemic of the 
 Abderites, grand ladies, citizens' wives, ladies' maids, 
 all were women of genius. See Marivaux's com- 
 edies. When women meddle with genius, the king- 
 dom is in danger ; good sentiments disappear under 
 fine words. One was ready to bargain away Jier 
 truth for a sally of wit ; another her virtue for an 
 epigram. The genius which is without heart, is a 
 terrible guest that spoils and ruins us. God only 
 knows the injury it did in those fine times of the re- 
 gency. The tender gallantry that had flourished at 
 the court of Diana of Poictiers, had faded within 
 the forgotten pages of the Cyruses and Clelias^ the 
 sentimental books of that day. The gallantry which 
 flourished beneath the glances of La Parabere and La 
 Pompadour, was worthy of the amours of Crebillon 
 called the Gay. The word love no longer meant 
 passion, hope, memory : it had ])ecome merely a syn- 
 onyme for licentious intrigue. There was not a mad- 
 rigal that did not conceal beneath its praises some 
 artful design; everything was laughed at, but espe- 
 cially the true emotions of the heart : people were 
 liardly sincere to themselves. I had foi-gotten : the
 
 PETi:S-MAITEES. 359 
 
 more nice had preserved some remembrance of the 
 old times; ceYtampetits-maitres perfumed themselves 
 with tlie same perfume as their favorite beauties, as 
 ill tlie olden times the kuio-hts were wont to wear the 
 colors of their fair ladies. Thns a new intrigue 
 might be discovered by the curious, by a peculiar 
 perfume. An amorous confidence often began with, 
 " Are you not aware that the duke is using the Cy- 
 prus-powder; the marchioness is fond of amber; the 
 abbe powders himself with the same as the wife of 
 the mai-shal ?" The petits-maitres might be seen vary- 
 ing their perfumes every day, in order to pass for 
 being men of success in their intrigues. They did 
 not always have possession of the mistresses they 
 published in this way. In love, the mere dream of 
 it is a great deal. Fur such a dream what ludicrous 
 farces were ])layed ! One would order liis carriage 
 for a mysterious rendezvous ; an hour afterward he 
 might be seen on foot, secretly coming in at the 
 l)ack-door ; he would reach his bed-chamber by the 
 back-stairs ; he would be quietly eating his cold chicken 
 while his equipage drawn up at the corner of a street 
 wliere a famous beauty lived, M'as the scandal of the 
 whole neighborhood. Another would take his soli- 
 tary supper in his own small residence, and order 
 guns to be fired off in order to announce to his neigh- 
 bors his success. As for the women, it must be con- 
 fessed, they also made use of these melancholy de- 
 ceits ; they boasted in the most artless manner in the 
 world of having atfjxcJied to their cai\ some charm- 
 ing rake who had tlie credit of only falling in love 
 witli Ix-autiful women. A wonuin who had had 
 three lovers boasted herself a philosopher ; t jiat was
 
 300 LOUIS \y. 
 
 cMiTving philusopliy rather too far. A disciple (jf 
 Newton wrote to a lord of li is acquaintance, in 1745: 
 ''I return witli })leasure to a country wliere the 
 fasliion does not oblige a man to abandon a woman, 
 -vvhoi^e oidy fault is that of being liis wife, and to live 
 with another M-oman, whose only merit consists in 
 having belonged to all the world." 
 
 This strange gallantry had stupefied all hearts; the 
 talk was superficially brilliant, minds shone with tin- 
 sel, conversation assumed a peculiar jargon, but the 
 heart was forgotten. I ask you whether the ro- 
 mances of Crebillon called the Gay, and of his 
 ]»upils, were adapted for the cultivation of the heart? 
 The devil knows, doubtless, how the women passed 
 their time. If they went to church, it Avas not for 
 the sake of God. The women rose from bed toward 
 evening, put on their hoops — they had sometimes 
 good reason for wearing hoops; — they daidjed them- 
 selves with rouge and p)atches — in those days there 
 was no space left for a blush ; — and put on their loose 
 robes with flowing trains. After having wasted three 
 or four Injurs in powdering their hair and laughing at 
 their husbands, they went out to listen to some 
 fashionable preacher, or to behold some parade a la 
 mode. On all sides was heard: ^^ A h / sevalier, 
 que c^estjoW^ — (Ah ! my lord, how charming!) (the 
 letter Z was used at every chance, in lisping it the 
 mouth made such a prett}', smiling j)out.) After- 
 ward they would go to some sad tragedy, as the exe- 
 cution of Damiens for instance, and they would e*c 
 claim — Madame de Preandeau is our witness — 
 while they were quartering the criminal, by drag- 
 ging his limbs apart with hoi-ses : "^A / les j?auvre6
 
 MEN OF FASHION. 361 
 
 sevaux, que ze les plains !'''' — (The poor Lorscs, how 
 I pity them !) 
 
 Upon the top of all this, they would go to sup in 
 the choice little mansions of those days. Listen to 
 a Larochefoucault of those times : " Nothing is more 
 delightful at present than the little suppers in the 
 little mansions. All that the poets have ever related 
 about those places consecrated to Cupid and his 
 mother, do not come near to the delight that these 
 enchanting places offer. It is no longer in the groves 
 of Paphos or Idalia, that pleasure is to be found. 
 Our little mansions, these are the temples of Ama- 
 thonta ! it is here that she has her altars, her priest- 
 esses and her victims." 
 
 In those days, to be a man of fashion, it was ne- 
 cessarv to besrin by makiuof a fool of one's self. Fash- 
 ions ciiange in France, but fools are stationary. 
 IIdw many young exquisites of 1850 are there who 
 will recognise themselves in the exquisite of 1750 ! 
 " On the first Novemher^ I am in the country be- 
 cause it is not the thing to remain in toMni during 
 the holydays. It is supposed that I am with the 
 youthful Louise^ wTiile, to tell the truth, I am all 
 alone in an old prison of a house, where I am wearied 
 to death." — " On the third Hoveviher^ I return to 
 Paris, and I spread the report that I have been de- 
 lighted. The wife of the president looked at me very 
 significantly : I joined her party at whist ; I lost in 
 spite of the finest hand in tlie world : I kissed her 
 hand, she smiled." — " On the eleventh Noveinher^ I 
 met, at the Palais Ilt>yal, the little counsellor. It 
 was necessary ftr me to keej) up my reputation with 
 him ; I did s(» at the I'xpense f»f tin; reputation of 
 
 ?A
 
 SG2 LODls XV. 
 
 all the beaiitil'ul wonieii in the Palais Tloval. Celise 
 passed me, eoncealing her face heliiml her tUii. 'See,' 
 savs I, 'she is hidiiii' lierself: this is on account of 
 sonietliing she recollects. 1 am ha[)j)y to see that 
 women have not entirely stifled the voice of shame.'" 
 
 Whatever the heroides of Dorat and Colardean 
 may say, some of the amorous e})istles of those days 
 were anything hut elegiac. The Duke de Kichelieu 
 answered, by way of consolation, as follows, to a 
 young viscountess that he had abandoned : " Ma- 
 dame, do not grieve so, yon are formed to be the 
 ha})}»iness of one of the footmen of your hotel ; I 
 advise you not to lose any time, for love passes away 
 with time." 
 
 Love metamorphoses itself often in France. Some- 
 times it is a dreamer. There are two kinds of 
 dreamers, the dreamer on the borders of the Lignon, 
 and the dreamers upon the shore of Lake Leman : 
 at another time it is a petit-maitre like Bouiflei"S or 
 Dorat ; it is a shepherd playing his pipes ; it is a 
 j)Tecieus6 ridicule, tliat opens, like Mademoiselle de 
 Scudery, her ci'rch (saloon), her alcove (bed-cham- 
 ber), her recess (boudoir), to people of leisure ; in a 
 word, a half a century hardly passes in France be- 
 fore love changes its character. Love was never so 
 unlike itself as in 1750 ; it was enough to make the 
 world regret the bureaux of intellect and the bureaux 
 of fashion (as they were affectedly called) of Made- 
 moiselle de Scudery ; those assaults with epigrams 
 of an affected conceit, and with far-fetched nuulri- 
 gals when the result was nonsense, but everything 
 was conducted in all decency and honor, in the sen- 
 timental style of the day.
 
 AKT. 363 
 
 Art, in 1T50, was only a plaything like love ; it 
 v\^as a mere warV)lino; and cooino; of birds. Ask the 
 composers of musical airs, how they had to spice 
 their musical ragouts ; the painters of pastels how 
 they had to put the roses into the cheeks ; the small 
 poets what a number of artificial bouquets and pretty 
 nothings in verse they had to get up. Art, sacri- 
 ficinor its maiestic beautv, followed the train of Ma- 
 dame de Parabere, all painted, perfumed, wearing 
 patches, gorgeous with lace and ribands. Hence all 
 those poetical bouquets to Chloris, those Graces in 
 deshabille, those licentious madrigals, those uncere- 
 monious musical airs of the little operas, those Cupids 
 whose roses even crowned their torches. One day, 
 France had wandered so far from Xature and all 
 virtue, that poetry and painting, as if from a chaste 
 remembrance of earlier times, or, perhaps, in order 
 to veil in history the scandals of their day, sang and 
 painted the pure heaven of innocence ; the idyl 
 flourished again ; but in spite of tlie jnire rays and 
 fi-esh dews which came from Germany, it flourished 
 badly. The breath exhausted in pleasure, was want- 
 ing for poetry. 
 
 I am not now speaking of Yoltaire, or of any of the 
 philos<»phers ; they belong to the eighteenth century, 
 l>ut not to the reign of Louis XV.; they never lived 
 in the climate of the court; they belong to the 
 France of all time, not to the France of Louis XV. 
 In the France of Louis XV., when a poet, bursting 
 from the earth with ])ower and greatness, too proud 
 to become the buffoon of the debauchei'ies of the 
 boudoir, iiad elevated liimself Ujion his iTidigiiant 
 pride, as u}ton a mountain, fai' above all that sickly
 
 564 LOUIS XV. 
 
 ^•( n,M':U'on, liis only asylum was misery or exile, 
 whether his name was Gilbert or Jean- Jacques. 
 
 The France of Louis XV. was Versailles. Ver- 
 sailles ! was an endless carnival; the bishops dis- 
 guised themselves as bold dragoons, the great ladies 
 as prostitutes, the great lords as lackeys. But were 
 these in truth disguises? This carnival of royalty 
 and nobility has had its Lent, like all the carnivals in 
 the world. On the 14th July, 1789, royalty and 
 nol)ility covered themselves with ashes. 
 
 The atmosphere of Versailles stilled everything 
 that was great and noble. In crossing the threshold 
 of the palace, the men laid aside their dignity, the 
 women their virtue. Louis XV., according to a maxim 
 of the Duke of Richelieu, his moralist m gallantry,was, 
 in the gayest way in the world, "the husl)aud of all 
 wives 'but his own." There are some lines of the 
 king upon this subject worthy of Voltaire. They 
 were singing about Adam at one of his suppers, 
 when Louis XV. turned off his couplet as follows : — 
 
 TO AD AM . 
 
 One wife thou hadst with thee, 
 
 But that wife she was thine ; 
 Here many wives 1 see, 
 
 But see not, her that's mine." 
 
 IIow many queens of a day and queens of a night ! 
 France did not have enough duchesses and mar- 
 chionesses to supply these profanities. It was neces- 
 sary that the minister of the ])leasures of the king — 
 there was such a minister in those days — should lish 
 for pearls in the sinks of poverty. 
 The palace of Versailles had an echo. Scandal
 
 CORRUPTION OF rRA.NCE. 865 
 
 was the fashion of the reign. Scandal burst forth in 
 tlie chateaux, even in the innermost recesses of the 
 convents. IIow many young- lords there were who 
 had their Parc-aux-Cerfs ! liow many young nuns, 
 who imitated the charming and romantic Louise 
 of Orleans! In the cliateau, the organ that was only 
 accustomed to serious and doleful music, now re- 
 sounded only for Armidas and OrjjJieusj an ItaliaTi 
 buffo-singer mingled his voice, all terrestrial as it 
 was, Avith the voices of young virgins. In the oratory, 
 painting had, without ceremony, installed itself, with 
 its mvtholojyical bao;o;a2;e and arms; the Abbe Chau- 
 lieu handled, with all his usual carelessness the 
 Bihle and the Imitation of Christ. 
 
 The fatal breath issuing from Versailles passed 
 throughout France, over all good sentiments, as the 
 storm passes over the flowers and the harvest : liero- 
 ism, greatness, virtue, religion, all corrupted, died, 
 were blotted out. Iteligion expired amid the theo- 
 logical discussions of the church, and the bloody ex- 
 liibitions of the Convulsionaires. Virtue was only a 
 despised garment, which women were afraid would 
 hide their l)canty. Greatness, banished from the court, 
 from the palace and the church, greatness, which 
 van never die in France, had concealed itself, waiting 
 for better times in the retirement of the provinces, 
 in the shop of the artisan, under the thatcli of the 
 laliorer, whence, later, in the hour of danger, it was 
 seen coming forth so often, to rule tlie tribune, and 
 to command our armies. In a word, heroism, the 
 old French heroism, having left the field of battle 
 for the ]H'rfuined boudoir, weakened itself with friv- 
 (;lous jdeasures and frivolous occu})ations. Cojonela 
 
 31*
 
 366 L( jis XV. 
 
 eniLroidereil tapestry. — "All our warridi-sarc inere- 
 ]y coxcombs," said Monsieur de Coigu_y. The 
 sword was no longer used to avenge insulted Ix'uoi-, 
 l>ut to protect the smile and the lap-dog of a mar- 
 chioness. "While they were avenging a dog with their 
 swords, they were avenging eacli other on the field 
 of battle with batons merely. The inheritors of Tu- 
 renne and Conde went away to the wars for pastime, 
 no longer animated with a noble love of France. 
 Thus the enemy that beat the French found on the 
 iield of battle, instead of those brave leaders that ap- 
 peared at a later day, actors, parrots, parasols, wigs, 
 hair-powder, jDcrfumery, and all the paraphernalia 
 of a fine lady. This was the reason that the king 
 of Prussia beat the French at Eosbach ; this is the 
 reason that tlie seven years' war was so humiliating 
 to France. 
 
 The court of France had been until then the irrand 
 theatre of the country ; it was above all there that 
 the great political and human drama was enacted. 
 But under Louis XY. tlie drama is transformed into 
 a show; the shows of the fairs are quite as good. 
 The audience, until then silent, begins to hiss and 
 make a disturbance. The scene changes; the drama 
 is played out by the audience; the old theatre is 
 turned into an antechamber and dressing-room; with- 
 out tlie Cardinal de Bernis and the Duke de Biche- 
 lieu, Madame do Pompadour and Madame Dubarry, 
 it would never be heard of again. 
 
 The national character was less resi)ected than ever. 
 The court affected to be English, and the army to be 
 Prussian. No one desired to be a Frenchman any- 
 where. The whole world changed character. States-
 
 HIS LOVE OF EASE. 367 
 
 men became small poets ; poets politicians ; bankers 
 and farmers-general became aristocrats ; the great 
 nobles became little abbes and farmers. Everything 
 nnderwent decomposition: the chemistry which took 
 its rise in the eighteenth century is the symbol of the 
 eighteenth century. The priests preached merely 
 like Christians ; the magistrates laughed at the citizen- 
 like dignity and sobriety of their predecessors. Min- 
 isters played like children with power, and power 
 fell from liand to hand into the hands of the people. 
 Louis XY., in his careless ease, gave time to liberal 
 opinion to make full headway. During peace the 
 approaching steps of liberty could be heard. Liberty, 
 that had so often set her foot in France to no purpose, 
 now found all the approaches favorable. In this 
 way Louis XV. did as much for Liberty as the whole 
 army of the philosophers. He was dignified, but he 
 did not like dignity. Nothing annoyed him more 
 than the grand court fetes, where he was obliged 
 to enact the farce of royalty. He loved solitude 
 and cpiiet. lie used to say, as he returned to 
 the Trianon : " Here I am at last, in retirement from 
 the world." — He liardlv cared to know what was 
 passing beyond the boundaries of his park, — " Let 
 the ministers batter each other with the weapons 
 of the church and the parliament; let the Parisians 
 make songs about everything, even about the mar- 
 cliioness ; it is all the same to me. I have laid my 
 sceptre at the door, or rather at your feet; is it not 
 So, marchioness? let your will 1)C' done."" — And 
 Madame dc Pompadoui', taking up the sce}>tre, 
 amused herself with worrying at her caprice the 
 clergy or the- parliament, the I'rnssians or the song-
 
 &GS LOUIS XV. 
 
 writers. During tlio pomp of the public fetes. Louia 
 XV., who always suffered from ennui, was unmoved 
 and taciturn ; in private life he was the amiable poet^ 
 gay with love, animated with that smile (.»f Iia})pines8 
 that La Tour has so skilfully ]M)rtrayed. lie allowed 
 himself tolerably often to exhibit evidences of wit. 
 Thus, one day, the courtly artist just spoken of took 
 it into his head, while painting the king's portrait, to 
 discourse about affairs of state : " It must be con- 
 fessed, sire, we have no navy." — Louis XY, recalled 
 the attention of the artist to his pastel by the follow- 
 ing answer : " Have you not Vernet, Monsieur La 
 Tour?" — Another time, the Count de Lauraguais 
 was speaking in his presence, as if it was an affair 
 of the greatest importance, of his voyage to England. 
 — "And what did you learn by it, if you please?" 
 
 said the king. — "Sire, I learned to think " 
 
 "About horses," replied the king annoyed by his os- 
 tentation. Thus, French genius, not knowing what 
 else to do, fell to making mere witticisms. The 
 Marquis de Bievre wrote a tragedy all in puns, upon 
 Vercingetorix. 
 
 It is too well known that the king had a seraglio 
 at Vei*sailles, the PaTc-awx-Cerfs. The chroniclers 
 liave written a thousand scandalous accounts of it, 
 in which the truth is concealed beneath innumerable 
 romances. It is pretty well known that the poor giils 
 imprisoned there took their Urst lessons of reading in 
 the Fahles of La Fontaine and the poeins of Chaulieu. 
 Their bedchambers were adorned with the most pro- 
 fane pictures, with that of the king to begin with. 
 
 Louis XY. thus passed his time: he never left this 
 grove, embowered amid tliat terresti'ial volujituous-
 
 nis STATUE. 369 
 
 ness of wliicli St. Augustine speaks. Sucli debauchery 
 iniiz;lit be pardoned Louis XV. the poet, but Louis 
 XV.. kino- of France! When Bouchardon made 
 Louis XV.'s statue, he deceived himself, or he wished 
 to deceive the beholders, in draping the king with a 
 Iloman toga, in crowning his forehead, unmarked 
 witl) thought, with a crown of laurel, in arming his 
 powerless hand with the sceptre of an empire. Louis 
 XV. should have been crowned with roses ; his hand 
 should have held a glass, or grasped a woman's 
 waist; his lips enlivened with a careless smile; and 
 for drapery he should have worn his embroidered 
 vest and liis silk breeches. Certainly, if the artist 
 liad done this, the heroes of 1792 would never have 
 destroyed the statue ; they would have been satisfied 
 with a laugh at it. 
 
 But why slander at the present day this irreligious 
 but witty reign, this reign so reckless and graceful, 
 this merry reign^^strewed with faded and decaying 
 roses ? lias not the blood of 1793 washed all that 
 cpiite out? "Why arm ourselves against that delight- 
 ful half-century, when the heart, with so much gayety, 
 folly, and disdain, was abandoned to voluptuousness, 
 the head to intoxication, and reputation to all kinds 
 of scandal ? Why contend seriously against the or- 
 gies of wornout lords, careless poets, abandoned 
 marchionesses, and indolent abbes? Because, while 
 tliese merry roues were amusing themselves so de- 
 lightfully, France, bent beneath tlic yoke, and en- 
 slaved by debauchery, would havt; fallen dnnik at 
 the feet of the stranger, had imt her m<»sl Immble 
 children, those that liad been ground down by slavery 
 untl iiii.->ei'v, riben in a day of indigMulioii, to savy
 
 370 LOUIS XV. 
 
 lier from the bewildered hand of her kiiiiis, and tlie 
 crushinii; foot of her enemies. 
 
 Before France had fallen, however, this royalty 
 ot' women and courtiers would have fallen of it- 
 self at the feet of the people, if the wornout people 
 had not at the cry of the philosophers, lifted their 
 iron arm, to give it the last blow. Insulted by 
 neiirhborinii; nations, tremblinii; before that France 
 which it had ruined, its last hour had come; Liberty 
 knocked at the gate of the Louvre. — " Do not open 
 it," said this tottering royalty, slumbering in the 
 arms of voluptuousness. But Liberty Itroke down 
 the gate, Liberty overturning in its passage the whole 
 band of courtiers, threw mercilessly the throne of 
 France out of the window, that throne which was 
 only the throne of licentiousness. 
 
 Li succeeding to a royalty beset with storms, 
 Louis XVI. became its martyr. lie should have had 
 heroic energy ; he only had virtue. Of what use is 
 virtue in a storm, except to die well? Louis XVI. 
 died well : that is his whole life ! 
 
 Notwithstanding the age grew old, it had com- 
 menced like a ha]){)y youth of fortune who throws his 
 money out of the window and his heart to the first- 
 comer. It was ashamed of the follies of its youth; it 
 wanted retirement from ])leasure. Too much of a 
 Bcoffer to be religious, it welcomed philosophy as 
 if it had been the promised land. It swept away 
 with its foot its spangles and its tinsel. Truth was 
 raised upon the altar. She had for her temple the 
 theatre, the romance, the encyclo]iedia; she had f<»r 
 her high-priests V(jltaire, Jean-Jacques, Diderot. 
 Lf)uis XV., who was near his death, survived his
 
 DECAY OF FRANCE. 371 
 
 reign. He was no longer king by the grace of God, 
 since he liad looked upon the fall of religion without 
 stretching out a hand to protect it. France, that 
 Louis XIV. had so well united, in order to strengthen 
 his dominion, Avas again divided in favor of every one ; 
 all that remained to Louis XY.was the Parc-aux-Cerfs, 
 the " pillow of his debauchery," as Chateaubriand 
 has said. The people, more suffering and miserable 
 than ever, began to complain in threats ; but Louis 
 XY. heard notliing but the songs of Versailles. Com- 
 merce declined under its hinderances ; the taxes 
 ruined agriculture; rising industry, checked, sought 
 more favorable lands ; priests and courtiers settled 
 upon France like crows, in never-ceasing flocks; the 
 forces were beaten on land and sea; titles of nobility 
 that were a dishonor were conferred only on coward- 
 ice and intrigue ; the honors of the Bastile and 
 of exile were conferred upon genius and courage. In 
 a word, contempt without, contempt within, misery 
 and slavery : this is the dark background of the 
 picture of this pretty reign, so gay and rose-colored 
 at first view. And how did this decay of France 
 and this agony of royalty affect Louis XV.? He 
 was near his last hour, and he saw nothing beyond 
 the liorizon of his own death. — "After me the del- 
 uge," said Louis XV. It was a deluge of blood !
 
 MADEMOISELLE DE CAMARGO. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Camaego almost came into the 
 world dancing. It is related that Gretr}^, when he 
 was scarcely four years of age, had an idea of musical 
 tunes. Mademoiselle Camargo danced at a much 
 earlier age. She was still in arms Avhen the combined 
 airs of a violin and a hautboy caught her ear. She 
 jumped about full of life, and during the whole time 
 that the nmsic was playing, she danced, there is no 
 other word for it, keeping time with great delight. 
 It must be stated that she was of Spanish origin. 
 She M-as born at Brussels, the 15th of April, 1710, 
 of a noble family, that had supplied several cardinals 
 to the sacred college, and is of considerable dis- 
 tinction in Spanish history, both ecclesiastical and 
 national. Her name was Marianne. Her mother had 
 danced, but with the ladies of the court, for her own 
 ])leasure, and not for that of others. Her father, 
 Ferdinand de Cupis de Camargo, was a fi-aidc Spanish 
 noble, that is to say he was poor ; he lived at Brus 
 sels, upon the crumbs of the table of the Prince de 
 Ligne, without counting the debts he made. His 
 family, which was (juite nmnerous, was brought up
 
 A DAXCLXG GmL. 3T3 
 
 by the grace of God ; the father frequented the 
 tavern, trusting to the truth that there is a God that 
 rules over children I 
 
 Marianne was so pretty that the Princess de Ligne 
 used to call her her fairy daughter. Light as a 
 Lird, she used to spring into the elms, and jump 
 from branch to branch. No fawn in its morning 
 gayety had more capricious and easy movements ; no 
 deer wounded by the huntsman ever sprang with 
 more force and grace. When she was ten years old, 
 the Princess de Ligne thought that this pretty wonder 
 belonged of right to Paris, the city of wonders, Paris, 
 where the opera was then displaying its thousand 
 and thousand enchantments. It was decided that 
 ^Mademoiselle de Camargo should be a dancing-girl 
 at the opera. Her father objected strenuously : 
 " Dancing-girl ! the daughter of a gentleman, a grandee 
 of Spain I" — "Goddess of dance, if you please," said 
 the Princess of Ligne, in order to quiet hira. He re- 
 signed himself to taking a journey to Paris in the 
 prince's carriage. He arrived in the style of a lord 
 ut the house of Mademoiselle Prevost, whom the 
 poets of the day celebrated under the name of Terp- 
 fciichore. She consented to give lessons to Marianne 
 de Camargo. Three months after his departure, ^L 
 de Camargo returned to Brussels, with the air of a 
 conqueror. Mademoiselle de Prevost had ^n-edicted 
 that his daughter would be his glory and his for- 
 tune. 
 
 After having danced at a fete given by the Prince 
 de Ligne, Marianne de Camargo made her iirst ap- 
 l>earance at the Jjrusscls theatre, where she reigned for 
 three yearb as lir.-t ihumcu-sr. IKi- Iriie theatre was not 
 
 32
 
 374: MADEMOISELLE DE CAMARGO. 
 
 there; in spite of lier trimnph ut l>nissels, her iiiuigi- 
 iiatioii ahvays ciiri-ied lier to Paris; notwithstciiuliiig 
 when she quitted Brussels she went to llouen. Finally, 
 afU'r a long residence in that city, she was permitted 
 to nuike her first appearance at the opera. It was on 
 the 5th of May, 1726, for the ftiinous day of her de- 
 but has not hecn forgotten, that she a])peared with 
 all the hrilliancy of sixteen upon the first stage in 
 the world. Mademoiselle Prevost, already jealous, 
 from a presentiment pei'haps, had advised her to 
 make her first appearance in the Characters of the 
 Dance^ a step almost impossible, which the most 
 celebrated dancers hardly had dared to attempt, at 
 the height even of their reputation. Mademoiselle 
 de Camargo, who danced like a faii-y, surpassed all 
 her predecessors ; her tiiuinph was so brilliant that 
 on the next day all the fashions took their name after 
 her: hair a la Camargo^ dresses a la Camargo^ 
 sleeves a la Camargo. All the ladies of the court 
 imitated her grace; there were not a few that would 
 have liked to have copied her face 
 
 I have not told all yet: Mademoiselle de Camargo 
 was made by love and for love. She was beautiful 
 and pretty at the same time. There could be 
 n(jfhing so sweet and impassioned as her dark eyes, 
 nothing so enchanting as her sweet smile? Lancret, 
 Pater, J. B. Vanloo, all the painters that were then 
 celebrated, tried to portray her charming face. 
 
 On the second night of Mademoiselle de Carnargo's 
 appearance on the stage, there were twenty duels and 
 fpuiri-els without end at the door of the opera ; every 
 one wanted to get in. ]\rademoiselle Prevost, alarmed 
 at such a triumph, intrigued with such success that
 
 ■ QUEEN OF THE OPERA. 375 
 
 IMadeinoiselle cle Camargo was soon forced to fall 
 1>ack to the position of a mere figurante. She and 
 lier admirers had reason to be indignant. She was 
 ol)lio'ed to resio-n herself to danciiio- nnobserved with 
 tlie company. But she was not kmg in avenging her- 
 self with effect. One day, while she was dancing 
 with a group of demons, Diimonlin, called the 
 devil, did not make his appearance to dance his solo, 
 wlien the mnsicians had struck np, expecting his en- 
 trance. A sndden inspiration seizes Mademoiselle do 
 Camargo; she leaves tlie oiher fif/io^antes, she springs 
 forward to the middle of the stage, and improvises 
 Dumoiilin's pas de ,senl, bnt with more eifect and 
 capricious variety. Applause re-echoed throughout 
 the theatre. Mademoiselle de Prevost swore that 
 Bhe would ruin her youthful rival; but it was too 
 late. Terpsichore was dethroned. Mademoiselle de 
 Camargo was crowned on that day queen of the 
 <)]>era, al)solute queen, whose power was unlimited ! 
 She was the first who dared to make the discovery 
 that lier petticoats were too long. Here I will let 
 Gi'imm have his say : "This useful invention, which 
 puts the amateur iii the way of forming an intelligent 
 judgment of the legs of a dancing-girl, was thought 
 at that time to be the cause of a dangerous schism. 
 The Jansenists of the pit exclaimed heresy, scandal ; 
 and were o]ip<»scd to the shortened petticoats. The 
 Molinists, on the contrary, held thattliis innovation 
 was in character with the spiritof the j>riniitive church, 
 which was opposed to the sight of pii-ouettes and 
 pigeon-wings, embarrassed by the length ol" a jxtti- 
 coat. The Sorliunnc of the ojx'i-a liad lor ji long 
 time great troulde in establishing the wliolesome
 
 370 MADEMOISELLE DE CAMAUGO. 
 
 doctrine on tins point of cliscii)linc, wliicli so ninct 
 divided the faithful." 
 
 Monsienr Ferdinand de Camaro-o 2;rew old witii a 
 severe anxiety about the virtue and the salary of lii? 
 dauiihter: he only preserved the salary. Intoxicated 
 Avith her triuin})h, Mademoiselle de Caniargo listened 
 too willingly to all the lords of the court that frequented 
 the company of the actresses behind the scenes ; it 
 would have been necessary for the king to appoint an 
 historiograjjher, in order to record all the passions 
 of this danseuse. There was a time when all the 
 world was in love with her. Every one swore by 
 Camargo ; every one sang of Camargo ; every one 
 dreamed about Camargo. The madrigals of Voltaire 
 and of the gallant poets of tliat gallant era are not 
 forgotten. 
 
 However, tiie glory of Mademoiselle de Camargo 
 was extinguished by degrees. Like fashion that had 
 patronised her, she passed away by degrees, never 
 to retui-n. When she insisted upon retiring, although 
 she was only forty years of age, no one thought 
 of preventing her: she was hardly regretted. There 
 was no inrpiiry made as to whither she had gone ; 
 she was only spoken of at rare intervals, and then she 
 was only alluded to as a memory of the past. She 
 had become something of a devotee, and very chari- 
 table. She knew b}' name all the poor in her neigh- 
 borliood. She occasionally was visited by some 
 of the notabilities of a past da}', forgotten like her- 
 self. 
 
 In the Amusements of lAe Heart and M'l.nd^ a 
 collection designed, as is well known, to form the 
 mind and the lieart. Mademoiselle de Camargo ia
 
 A VISIT. 377 
 
 charo;ed witli havino- had a thousand and more lovei"s! 
 Without giving the lie to this accusation, can I not 
 prove it false bv relating, in all its simplicity, a fact 
 which proves a profound passion on her part? A 
 pretty woman may dance at the oj^era, smile upon 
 numberless admirers, live carelessly from day to 
 day, in the noisy excitement of the world ; still, 
 there will be some blessed hom's, when the heart, 
 though often laid waste, will flourish again, all of a 
 sudden. Love is like the sky, which looks blue, 
 even when reflected in the stream formed by the 
 storm. It is thus that love is occasionally found 
 pure in a troul)led heart. But, moreover, this serious 
 passion of Mademoiselle de Camargo was experienced 
 by her in all the freshness of her youth. 
 
 One morning, Grimm, Pont-de-Yeyle, Duclos, 
 Ilelvetius, presented themselves, in a gay mood, 
 at the humble residence of the celebrated dancer. 
 She was then living in an old house in the Tiue 
 Saint-Tliomas-du-Louvre. An aged serving-woman 
 opened the door. — " "We wish to see Mademoiselle 
 de Camargo," said Ilelvetius, who had great difti- 
 culty in keeping his countenance. The old woman 
 led them into a parhjr that was furnished with pecu- 
 liar and grotesque-looking furniture. The wainscoting 
 was covered with ])astels representing IMademoisclle 
 de Camargo in all her grace, and in her dilferent char- 
 acters. l>ut the parlor was not adorned l)y her por- 
 traits only : there was a Christ on the Mount 
 of Olivee, a Maqdalen at the Tomh^ a Veiled Virgin^ 
 a VeivuM^ the Three Graces^ some Cuj>uls, half-con- 
 cealed beneath some rosaries and sacred relics, and 
 Made nnas^ covered with trophies from the opera!
 
 378 MADKMOISELE DE CAMARGO. 
 
 The goddess of the place did not keej) them a long 
 time Wiiiting- : a door opened, halt'-a-do/.en dogs of 
 every variety of breed sprang into the parlor; it must 
 be said, to the praise of Mademoiselle de Camarw), 
 that these were not lap-dogs. She appeared behind 
 them, carrying in her arms (looking like a fur muff) an 
 Angora cat of fine growth. As she had not followed 
 the fashion for ten years or more, she appeared to 
 liave come from the other world. — "Yon see, gentle- 
 men," pointing to her dogs, "all the court I have at 
 present, but in truth those courtiers there are well 
 worth all others. Here, Marquis ! down, Duke ! lie 
 down, Chevalier! Do not be offended, gentlemen, 
 that I receive you in such company : but how was I 
 to know? . . . ." — Grimm first spoke. — "You will ex- 
 cuse, mademoiselle, this unaimounced visit when you 
 know the important object of it." — " I am as curious 
 as if I were only twenty years old," said Madem.oi- 
 selle de Camargo ; " but, alas ! when I was twenty, 
 it was the heart that was curious ; but now, in the 
 winter of life, I am no longer troubled on that score." 
 — "The heart never grows old," said Ilelvetius, 
 bowing. — " That is a heresy, sir : those only dare to 
 advance such maxims who have never been in love. 
 It is lov^e that never grows old, for it dies in child- 
 hood. But the heai-t — " — "You see, madame, tliat 
 your heart is still young ; Avhat you have just said 
 proves that you are still full of fire and inspiration." 
 — "Yes, yes," said Mademoiselle de Camargo, "you 
 are perhaps right; but when the hair is gray and 
 the wrinkles are deep, the heart is a lost treasure ; a 
 coin that is no longer current." — While saying this, 
 she lifted up Marquis by his two paws, and kissed
 
 MEMOKY OF THE PAST. 379 
 
 liim on the head : Marquis was a fine setter-dog, 
 with a beautiful spotted skin. — " Thev, at least, will 
 love me to the last. But it seems to me we are talk- 
 iaof nonsense; have we nothino- better to talk about? 
 Come, gentlemen, I am all attention !" 
 
 The visiters looked at each other with some em- 
 barrassment; they seemed to be asking of each 
 'other who was to speak first. Pont-de-Veyle collected 
 his thoughts, and spoke as follows : " Mademoiselle, 
 we have been breakfasting together ; we had a gay 
 time of it, like men of spirit. Instead of bringing 
 before us, as the Egyptians in olden times, mummies, 
 in order to remind us that time is the most precious 
 of all things, we called uj) all those gay phantoms 
 which enchanted our youth : need I say that you 
 were not the least charming of them? who did not 
 love you ? who did not desire to live with you one 
 hour, even at the expense of a wound ? Happiness 
 never costs too much — " Mademoiselle Caraargo in- 
 terrupted the speaker: " O gentlemen, do not, I beg, 
 blind me with the memory of the past; do not awaken 
 a buried passion ! Let me die in peace! See, the tears 
 are in my eyes!" — The visiters affected looked with a 
 certain degree of emotion at the jjoor old lady who 
 had loved so much. — "It is strange," said Ilelvetius 
 t(j his neighbor, " we came here to laugh, but we are 
 travelling quite another road; however, I must say, 
 nothini; could be more ludicrous than such a carica- 
 ture, if it were not of a woman." — "Proceed, sir," 
 said Mademoiselle de Camargo to Pont-de-Yeyle. — 
 "To tell you the truth, madame, the worst felh)w in 
 the company, or rather he who had drank the most 
 declared tliat he was, of all your lovers, the ono
 
 380 M.VJ)EMOISKLI-K DE CAMAKGO. 
 
 you most loved. — 'The mere talk of a man who has 
 had too much wine,' said one of us. J>ut our imper- 
 tinent emptied his glass, and backed his statement. 
 The discussion became very lively, AVe talked, we 
 drank, and we talked. Wlieu the last bottle was 
 empty, and the dispute was likely to end in a duel, 
 and we talked without knowing, j^robablj, what 
 we said, the most sober of the company proposed 
 to go and ask you yourself which of your lovers you 
 hwed the most. Is it the Count de Melun? is it the 
 Duke de Richelieu? is it the Marquis de Croismare? 
 the Baron de Viomesnil? the Viscount de Jumilhac? 
 is it Monsieur de Beaumont, or Monsieur d'Aubigny ? 
 is it a i)oet? is it a soldier? is it an abbe?" — " Pshaw ! 
 pshaw!" said Mademoiselle de Camaro-o, smilinir: 
 "you had better refer to the Court Calendar P'' — 
 "What we want to know is not the names of those who 
 have loved you, but, I repeat, the name of him whom 
 you loved the most,"— "You are fools," said Mademoi- 
 selle de Camargo, with an air of sadness, and u voice 
 that showed emotion ; " I wull not answer you. Let 
 us leave our extiiu-t passions in their tombs, in peace. 
 Why unbury all tliose charming follies which have 
 had their day?" — "Come," says Grimm to Duclos, 
 " do not let us grow sentimental ; that would be too 
 al)surd. Mademoiselle de Camargo," said he, play- 
 ing with the dogs at the same time, " wdiich was the 
 epoch of short petticoats ? for that is one of the points 
 of our philosophical dispute." 
 
 The aii-ed danseuse did not answer. Takinsr Pont- 
 de-Veyle by the hand, all of a sudden, she said in ri- 
 sing : " Monsieur, follow me." — lie obeyed with some 
 8uq)rise. She conducted him to her bedchamber; it
 
 MEMENTOES OF A PAST LOVE. 381 
 
 was like a basket of odds and ends ; it looked like a 
 linendraper's shop in confusion; it was all disorder; it 
 was quite evident that the dogs were at home there. 
 Mademoiselle de Camargo went to a little rosewood 
 chest of drawers, covered with specimens of Saxony 
 porcelain, more or less chipped and broken. Slie 
 opened a little ebony box, exposing its contents to the 
 eyes of Pont-de-Yeyle. — "Do you see?" said she, 
 with a sigh. Pont-de-Veyle saw a torn letter, the 
 dry bouquet of half a century, the kind of floweis 
 of whicli it was composed could hardly be recognised. 
 —"Well?" asked Pont-de-Yeyle.— " Well, do you 
 understand ?"—" Not at all."— " Look at that por- 
 trait." — She pointed with her finger to a wretched 
 portrait in oils, covered with dust and sj)ider's web. 
 — " I begin to understand." — " Yes," said she, " that 
 is his portrait. As for myself, I never look at it. 
 The one here," striking her breast, " is more like. A 
 portrait is a good thing for those who have no time 
 for memorv." 
 
 Pont-de-Yevle looked in turn with much interest 
 at the letter, the faded bouquet, and tlie wretched por- 
 trait. — " Have you ever met this peison?" — "Never." 
 — " Let us return, then." — " No ; I beg let me hear 
 the stoi'y." — " Is it not enough to have seen his por- 
 trait? You can now settle your dispute with a word, 
 since you know whether he whom I loved the most 
 resembles your friend who had taken so much M'ine." 
 — " He does not resemble him the least in the world." 
 — " Well, that is all : I forgive your visit. Farewell ! 
 When you breakfast with your friends, you can take 
 up my defence somewhat. You can tell those liber- 
 tines without pity, that I have saved myself by my
 
 383 MADEMOISICLI.K DE CAISIARGO. 
 
 heart, if we can be saved that way .... Yes, yos ; it 
 is my })lauk of safety, in the wreck !" 
 
 Saying these words, Mademoiselle de Camargo ap- 
 proached the door of the saloon. Pont-de-Veyle fol- 
 lowed her, carrvini;; the el)onv-Lox. — "Gentlemen," 
 said he, to his merry friends, " our drunken toper 
 was a coxcondj ; I have seen the portrait of the best 
 beloved of the goddess of this mansion ; now, you 
 must join your i>rayers to mine, to prevail upon 
 Mademoiselle de Camargo to relate to us the romance 
 of her heart ; I only know the preface, which is 
 melancholy and interesting ; I have seen a letter, a 
 bouquet, and a portrait." — " I will not tell you a 
 word, muttered she ; " women are charged with not 
 being able to keep a secret; there is, however, more 
 than one that they never tell. A love-secret is a rose 
 which embalms our hearts ; if it is told, the rose 
 loses its perfume. I who address you," said Made- 
 moiselle de Camargo, in Ijrightening up, " I have 
 only kept my love in all its freshness by keeping it all 
 to myself. There were only La Carton and that old 
 rogue Fontenelle who ever got hold of my secret. 
 Fontenelle was in the habit of dining frequently with 
 me ; one day, finding me in tears, he was so surprised, 
 he who never wept himself, from philosophy doubt- 
 less, that he tormented me for more than an hour for 
 a solution of the enigma. He was almost like a 
 woman ; he drew from me, l)y his cat-like worrying, the 
 history of my love. Would you believe it? I hoped to 
 touch iiis heart, but it was like speaking to the deaf. 
 After hu\ iiig listened to the end without saying a 
 word, he muttered with his little weak voice, ''It is 
 pretty r — La Carton, however, wept with me. It is
 
 A EOM.VNCE OF THE HEART. 383 
 
 ^iTortli being a poet and a pliilosopher in order not to 
 nuderstand such histories." 
 
 Mademoiselle de Camargo was silent; a deep 
 silence followed, and every look was upon her. — 
 "Speak, speak! we are all attention," said Helvetius, 
 " we are more worthy of hearing your story than the 
 old philosopher who loved no one but himself."— 
 "After all," she replied, carried away by the delight 
 of her remembrance, " it will be spending a happy 
 hour; I speak of myself, and as for happ}^ or un- 
 happy hours, not many more are to pass during my 
 life, for I feel that I am passing away. But I do not 
 know how to begin ; a fire flashes before my eyes; I 
 can not see, I am so overcome. To begin : I was 
 twentv .... But I shall never have the coiu-aije to 
 read my history aloud before so many people." 
 ''Fancy, Mademoiselle de Camargo," said Helve- 
 tius, "that you are readino; a romance." — "Well, 
 then," said she, " I will begin without ceremony." 
 
 " I was twenty years old. You are all aware, foi* 
 the adventure caused a great deal of scandal, you 
 ail know how the Count de Melun carried me off 
 one morning along with my sister Sophy. This little 
 mad-cap, who had a great deal of imagination, hav- 
 ing discovered me reading a letter of the count's, in 
 which he spoke of his design, she swore upon her 
 thirteen years that he must carry her off too. I was 
 far from conceding any such claim. It is always 
 taken for granted that children know nothing; but 
 at the opera, and in love, tlu'i-e ai'c; iki childrt'ii. 
 'J'he Count de Melun, by means ol" a bribe, had 
 gained over the chambermaid. I was very cul[>a- 
 blc ; r liKW all, and had not informed my father.
 
 384 MADETMOISEr-r,E DE CARMAKOO. 
 
 But iiiy fatlKT wearied me somcwliut ; lie j)i'e;iclie(i 
 in tlio dessert; tluit is to say, lie preached tome alxmt 
 virtue. He ■was always talking to me about oni- uo 
 l)le descent, of our cousin, who was a cardinal, of our 
 uncle, who Avas a grand in(|uisitor of tlie Inquisition. 
 Vanity of vanities ! all was vanity with him, while 
 with me all was love. I did not trouble myself about 
 beiuix of an illustrious familv ; I was luindsome, I was 
 worshipped, and, what was still better, I was young. 
 
 " In the middle of the night I heard my door open ; 
 it was the Count de Melun. I was not asleep, I was 
 expecting him. It is not every woman who would 
 like it that is run away with. I was going to be run 
 away with. 
 
 "Love is not only charming in itself, it is so also 
 from its romance. A passion without adventure is 
 like a mistress without caprice I was seated upon 
 my bed. 'Is it you, Jacqueline?' I said, affecting 
 fright. 'It is I,' said the count, falling upon his 
 knees. ' You, sir ! Your letter was not a joke then ?' 
 'My horses are at hand; there is no time to lose; 
 leave this sad prison : my hotel, my fortune, my 
 heart, all are at your service.' At that moment a 
 light aj)peared at the door. 'My father!' I cried, 
 WMth affright, as I concealed myself behind the bed- 
 curtains. ' All is lost,' muttered the count. It was 
 So])hie. I recognised her light step. She approached 
 with the light in her hand, and in silence, toward the 
 count. ' My sister,' said she, with some degree of 
 excitement, but without losing her presence of mind, 
 'here lam, all ready.' I did not understand; I 
 looked at her with surprise ; she was all dressed, from 
 bead to foot. ' What are you saying? You are mad.
 
 AT Tirp: COUNTS noTEL. 385 
 
 ' Kot hj any means ; 1 want to be run away with, 
 like yourself.' The Count de Melnn conkl not help 
 laughing. ' Mademoiselle,' he said to her, ' you for- 
 get your dolls and toys. ' Sir,' replied she, ' with 
 diirnitv, ' I am thirteen years old. It was not yester- 
 day that I made my debut at the opera; I take a 
 part on the stage in the ravishment of Psyche.' 
 ' Good,' says the couiit, ' we will carry you off too.' 
 'It is as well,' whispered the count in my ear; 'this 
 is the only way of getting rid of her.' 
 
 " I was very much put out by this contretemps, 
 which gave a new complication to our adventure. 
 My father might forgive my being carried off, but 
 Sophie! I tried to dissuade her from her mad enter- 
 prise. I offered her my ornaments ; she would not 
 listen to reason. She declared, that if she was not 
 carried off with me she would inform against us, 
 and thus prevent the adventure. ' Do not oppose 
 lier,' said the count; 'with such a tendency she will 
 be sure to be carried off, sooner or later.' — ' A7ell, 
 let us depart together.' The chambermaid, who 
 had approached with the stealthy, quiet step of a 
 cat, t(jld us to hurry, for she was afraid that the noise 
 of the horses, that were pawing the ground near ])y, 
 would awaken Monsieur de Camargo. We were off; 
 the carriage drove us to the count's hotel, rue de la 
 Ciiltnre-Saint-Gervais. Sophie laughed and snng. 
 Ill the morning I wrote to the manager of the opera, 
 that by the advice of my physician it was impossible 
 for me to ai)pear for three weeks. To tell you the truth, 
 gentlemen, in a week's time I went myself to inform 
 the manager that I would dance that cvenin<j. This, 
 }t>u jjcrceive, is not very flattering to Ihe Count do 
 
 33
 
 oS6 MADEMOISi:iJ-E DE CAMARGO. 
 
 Mel nil ; hut there are so few men in tliis world who 
 are sufficiently interestins: for a week toii;etlier. I 
 loved the count, doul)tle:?s, hut I wanted to hreathe 
 a little without him. I desired the excitement of the 
 theatre. I 0]>ened my window, constantly, as if I 
 M'ould fly out of it. 
 
 "As soon as I appeared at the opera my father 
 followed my track, and discovered the retreat of his 
 daug-htcrs. One evenino; behind the scenes, he went 
 straight to the count, and insulted him. The count 
 answered him, with i^reat deference, that he would 
 avoid the chance of taking the life of a gallant gen- 
 tleman who had given birth to such a daughter as I 
 was. My father did his best to prove and establish 
 liis sixteen quarteriugs, the count was not willing to 
 light him. It was about that time that my father 
 presented his famous petition to the Cardinal de 
 Fleury : " Your petitioner would state to the Lord 
 Cardinal, that the Count de ]\[elun, having carried 
 off his two daughters in the night, between the 10th 
 and 11th of the month of May, 1728, holds them im- 
 prisoned in his hotel, rue de la Culture-Saint-Ger- 
 vais. Your petitioner having to do with a person 
 of rank, is obliged to have recourse to his majesty's 
 ministers; he hopes, through the goodness of the 
 king, justice will be done him, and that the Count 
 de Melun will be commanded to espouse the elder 
 daughter of your petitioner, and endow the younger." 
 
 " A father could not have done better. The Cardi- 
 nal de Fleury amused himself a good deal with the 
 petition, and recommended me, one day that we were 
 pu])])ing together, for full penance, to make over to 
 i/iy father my salaiy at the opera. But T find T am
 
 A NEAV LOVER. 
 
 387 
 
 not eettinir on with mv story. But what wouhl 
 YOU have? The be2;iiiuhio' is always where we dwell 
 with the greatest pleasure. I had been living- in 
 the count's hotel a year; Sophie had returned to my 
 father's house, where she did not remain long; hut it 
 is not her history that I am relating. One morning 
 a cousin of the coiart arrived at the hotel in a great 
 bustle ; he was about spending a season in Paris, in 
 all the wildness of youth. He took us by surprise at 
 breahfiist; he took his seat at table, without cere- 
 mony, on the invitation of the count. 
 
 " In the beginning he did not strike my fancy ; 1 
 thought him somewhat of a braggadocio. He culti- 
 vated his mustachios with great care (the finest mus- 
 tachius in the world), and spoke quite often enough 
 of his prowess in battle. Some visiter interrupting 
 us, the count went into his lilu-ary, and left us together, 
 tete-a-tete. Monsieur dc Marteille's voice, until then 
 proud and haughty in its tone, softened a little. He 
 had at first looked at me with the eye of a soldier ; 
 lie now looked at me with the eye of a pupil. — 
 'Excuse, rnadame,' said he, with some emotion, 'my 
 rude soldier-like bearing; I know nothing of fine 
 manners; I liave never passed through the school 
 of gallantry. Bo not be offended at anything T may 
 Bay.' — 'AVliy, sir,' said I, smiling, 'yoii do not say 
 anything at all.' — 'Ah, if I knew how to P])eak! Init, 
 in truth, T would feel moi-e at home before a whole 
 arniv than I do l)efore yonr beautiful eyes. The 
 count is very ha]i]n' in having such a beautiful enemy 
 to contend with.' — AVhih-. speaking thus, he looked at 
 mc with a su|)pHcating temlerness whi(di contrasted 
 singularly with his look of the hero. I do not know
 
 3S8 mai)i:moisi;i,lk dk cA>tAi:GO, 
 
 what mv eyes answered liiin. The count then camo 
 in, and the conversation took another turn. 
 
 ''Monsieur de Marteille acce[)te(l the earnest invi- 
 tation of his cousin to sta}' at his hotel, lie went out; 
 1 did not see liiin again till evening. lie did not 
 know who I was; tlie count called me Marianne, 
 and, unintentionally, perhaps, he had not spoken a 
 word to his cousin about the opera, or my grace 
 and skill as a dancer. At supper, Monsieur de 
 Marteille had no lonijer the same frank c-avetv 
 of the morning; a slight uneasiness passed like a 
 cloud over his brow; more than once I caught his 
 melancholy glance. — ' Clieer up 3^our cousin,' I said 
 to the count. — 'I know what he wants,' answered 
 Monsieur de Melun ; 'I will take him to-morrow to 
 the opera. You will see that in tliat God-forsaken 
 place he will find his good humor again.' — I felt 
 jealous, without asking myself Mdiy. 
 
 "Xext day the Trii(inj)/i of Bacclais was ])]ayed. 
 I appeared as Ariadne, all covered' Avith vine-leaves 
 and flowers. I never danced so badly. I had 
 recognised Monsieur de Marteille among the gentle- 
 men of the court. He looked at me with a serious 
 air. I had hoped to have hail an o|)])ortunity to 
 speak wMth him before the end of the ballet, but he 
 had already gone. I was offended at his abru})t de- 
 jiarture. — 'How!' said I to myself, 'he sees me 
 dance, and this is the way he makes me his compli- 
 ments.' — ^Next morning, he breakfasted with us ; he 
 did not say a word about the evening; finally, not 
 being able to resist my impatience, 'Well, Mon- 
 eiein* de Marteille,' said I to him, somewhat harshly, 
 'you left early last night; it was hardly pclito
 
 LOVE ON THE KOAD. 389 
 
 of 3''0U.' — 'All ! wLien jon were to dance no more !' 
 said he with a sigh. This was the first time that I 
 was ever spoken to thus. Fearing that he had said 
 too much, and in order to divert Monsieur de Meluu, 
 who observed liim with a look of surprise, he began 
 to speak of a little singer of no great moment, who 
 had a voice of some freshness. 
 
 " In the afternoon, the count detained at home for 
 some reason or other, begged his cousin to accompany 
 me in a ride to the woods lie was to ioin us on horse- 
 back. The idea of this ride made my heart beat 
 violently. It was the first time that I had listened 
 with ])leasure to the beatings of my heart. 
 
 '• AVe started on a fine summer's day. Every- 
 thing was like a holyday : the sky, tlie houses, 
 the trees, the horses, and the people. A veil had 
 fallen from my eyes. For some minutes we re- 
 mained in the deepest silence ; not knowing what to 
 do, I amused mvself bv makins; a diamond that I 
 wore srlisten in the rays of the sun that entered the 
 carriage. Monsieur de Marteille caught hold of my 
 hand. "We b'.>th said not a word the whole time. I 
 tried to disengage my hand ; he hehl it the harder. 
 I blushed ; he turned pale. A jolt of the carriage 
 occurred vciy opportunely to relieve us from our 
 endtarrassment ; the jolt had lifted me from my seat; 
 it nuide me fall upon his bosom. — 'Monsieur,' said I, 
 .starting. — 'Ah, inadame, if you knew how I love 
 you!' — He said this with a tenderness beyond ex- 
 pression; it was love itself that s])okeI I had n(^ 
 longer the strejigth to get angry. He took my hand 
 again and devoured it witli kisses. lie did not say 
 another word ; 1 tried to s[)eak, but did not know 
 
 3?.*
 
 390 MADEMOISELLK j)l.; CAMARGO. 
 
 what to say myself. From time to time our looks 
 met each other; it Avas then that we were eloquent. 
 Such eternal pledges, such promises of happiness I 
 
 "Notwithstanding, we arrived at the woods. All 
 of a sudden, as if seized with a ucm- idea', he put his 
 liead out of the window, and said something to the 
 coachman. I understood, by the answer of La 
 A^iolettc, the coachman, that he was not willing to 
 ol)ey ; but Monsieur de Marteille having alluded to 
 a caning and fifty pistoles, the coachman made no 
 further objections. I did not understand very well 
 what he was about. After an hour's rapid travelling, 
 as I was looking with some anxiety as to where we 
 were, he tried to divert me by telling me some epi- 
 sodes of his life. Although I did not listen very 
 intelligently to what lie said, I heard enouirh to find 
 out that 1 Avas the iirst woman he had ever loved. 
 They all say so, but he told the truth, for he spoka 
 with his eyes and his heart. I soon found out that 
 we were no longer on our right road ; but observe 
 how far the feebleness of a woman in love will sro: 
 I hadn't the courage to ask him whv he had chanaed 
 our route. We crossed the Seine in a boat, between 
 Sc vres and St. Cloud ; we regained the woods, and 
 after an hour's ride through them, we reached an 
 iron park-gate, at the extremity of the village of 
 Velaisy. 
 
 "Monsieur de Marteille had counted without his 
 host, lie expected not to have found a soul in his 
 brother's chateau, but, since the evening before, hitj 
 brother had returned from a journey to the coast 
 of France. Seeing that the chateau was inhabited, 
 Monsieur de Marteille begged me to M'ait a little in
 
 EXCITEIIENT AT THE OPERA. 391 
 
 the carriage. As soon as he liad gone, the coachman 
 came to the door. — ' A7cll, madame, we breathe at 
 hist ! my opinion is that we shonkl make our escape. 
 Depend upon the word of La Yiolette, we shall be in 
 less than two hours at the hotel.' — 'La Yiolette,' said 
 I, ' open the door.' — I ran a great risk. La Yiolette 
 obeyed. — 'Now,' said I to him, when I had alighted 
 upon the ground, 'yon may go!' — He looked at me 
 with the eye of an old philosopher, mounted his box, 
 and snai>ped his whip ; but he had hardly started, 
 when he thought it better to return. — 'I will not 
 return without madame, for if I return alone, I shall 
 be sm-e uf a gO(id beating, and of being discharged.' 
 — 'Indeed, La Yiulette ! as you please.' — At that 
 moment, I saw the count returning. — 'It is all for the 
 best,' he cried out, in the distance; 'my brother has 
 only two days to spend in Paris : he has stopped 
 here to give his orders ; he wishes, at all hazards, to 
 see Camargt^ dance! I told him that she was to ap- 
 pear this evening. He will leave in a moment. You 
 must wait in the park till he is gone. I will return 
 to him, fur I must take my leave of him, and wish 
 liim a pleasant journej'. 
 
 "An hour afterward we were installed in tlie cha- 
 teau. La Yiolette remained, at our order, with his 
 carriage and liorses. In the eveniuf; there was grreat 
 excitement at tlie opera. It was solemidy announced 
 to the public that Arademoiselle de Camargo liad 
 been carried off! The Count de Melun, surprised at 
 not finding us in the woods, had gone to the theatre. 
 He was hissed ; he swore revenge. lie souglit every- 
 where; he found neither his h(»rses, nnr liis cai'riagc^, 
 nor Iii.x nustress. For three months the opera was in
 
 392 MADEMOISELLE DE CAMARGO. 
 
 mourning! Tliirty biiililis were on my track; bill 
 we made so little noise in our little chateau, hid away 
 in the woods, that we were never discovered." 
 
 Mademoiselle de Camargo became pale : she was 
 silent, and looked at her listeners as if she would say 
 by her looks that had been lighted up at that celestial 
 flame wdiich had passed over her life : " Oh, how we 
 loved each other during those three months !" 
 
 She continued as follows: "That season has tilled 
 a greater space in my life than all the rest of my 
 days. "When I think of the past, it is there where my 
 thoughts travel at once. How i-elate to you the par- 
 ticulars of our happiness? When destiny protects 
 us, happiness is composed of a thousand charming 
 nothings that the hearts of others can not understand. 
 During those three months I was entirely happy ; I 
 wished to live for ever in this charming retreat for 
 him that I loved a thousand times more than myself. 
 I wished to aV)andon the opera, that opera that the 
 C(.)unt de Melun could not make me foi'get for a 
 week ! 
 
 " Monsieur de Marteille possessed all the attrac- 
 tion of a real passion ; he loved me with a charming 
 simplicity; he put in play, without designing it, all 
 the seductions of love. AVhat tender woi'ds! what 
 impassioned looks ! what enticing conversation ? 
 Each day was a holyday, each hour a rapture. I 
 had no time to think of the morrow, 
 
 " Our days were spent in walks, in the shade of 
 the woods, in the thousand windings of the park. In 
 tlie evening I played the harpsichord, and I sang. 
 It often occurred that I danced, danced for him. In 
 the middle of a dance that would have excited a fu-
 
 THE FADED BOUQEET. 393 
 
 ror at the 02)era, I fell at his feet, completely over- 
 come ; he raised me up, pressed me to his heart and 
 foi'gave me for having danced. I always hear his 
 beautiful voice, which was like music, but such mu- 
 sic as I dream of, and not such as Hameau has com- 
 posed .... But now I am speaking without know- 
 ing what I say." 
 
 Mademoiselle de Camargo turned toward Pont-de- 
 Veyle. "Monsieur," said she, '*open that box or 
 rather hand it to me." She took tlie box, opened it, 
 and took the bouquet from it. " But above all, gen- 
 tlemen, I must explain to you why I have preserved 
 this bouquet." AVhile saying this, she attempted to 
 smell the vanished odor of the bouquet. 
 
 " One morning," slie resumed, " Monsieur de Mar- 
 teille awoke me early — ' Farewell !' he said, pale and 
 trembliuG;. — 'What are vou savins;?' cried I with 
 affriglit. — ' Alas,' replied he, embracing me, ' I did 
 nut wish to tell vou before, but for a fortnisfht I have 
 had orders to leave. Hostilities are to be re- 
 sumed in the Low Countries ; I have no longer a sin- 
 gle hour either for you or for me ; I have over forty 
 leagues to travel to day.' — ' Oh, my God, what will 
 become of me?' said I weeping. 'I will follow yon.' 
 — ' But, mv dear Marianne, I shall return.' — ' You 
 will return in an age ! Go, cruel one, I shall be 
 dead when you return.' 
 
 "An hour was spent in taking leave and in tears ; 
 he was oljliged to go ; he went. 
 
 " I returned to weep in that retreat, that was so 
 deliglitful the evening before. Two days after liis 
 depaiturc, he wrote me a very tender letter, in wliicli 
 he told me that on the next day, he w^iild have ilie
 
 39:1 MADKMOISKLLE DK CAMAKGO. 
 
 c'oiisolatiou of ciii;iii;iiiu' in huttle. 'I liope,' addec? 
 he, 'that tlie caiiij)aigii will not be a lon«^ one; some 
 davs of hard iiifhtiiii:; and then I return to vonr feet.' 
 AVhat more shall I tell you ? He wrote me once araiu." 
 Mademoiselle de Camargo, unfolded slowly, the 
 torn letter. " Here is the second letter ; — 
 
 Oct. VI. 
 
 " ' No, I shall not return, my dear, I am going to 
 die, but without feai-, without reproach. Oh I if you 
 were here, Marianne ! "What madness ! in an hos})ital 
 AS'here, all of us, all, be we what we may, are disfig- 
 ured with wounds, and dvinir! What an idea to 
 dash ahead in the light, Avhen I only tliought of see- 
 ing you again. As soon as I was wounded, I asked 
 the surgeon if I should live long enough to reach 
 Paris : " You have but an hour," lie answered me ]Mti- 
 lessly . . . They l)ronght me herewith the others. In 
 a word, we should learn to resign ourselves, to what 
 comes from Heaven. I die C(»ntent with haviiiir 
 loved you; console yourself ; return to the opera. I 
 am not jealous of those who shall succeed me, for 
 will they love you as I have done? Farewell, Ma- 
 rianne, death a])proaches, and death never waits ; I 
 thank it for having left me sufficient time to bid you 
 farewell. N«»w, it will l)e I who will wait for you. 
 
 " ' Farewell, farewell, I press you to my heai-t 
 which ceases to beat.' " 
 
 After having wiped her eyes, Mademoiselle de 
 Camargo continued as follows: "Shall I describe to 
 you all my sorrows, all my tears, all my anguish ! 
 Alas ! as he liad said, I returned \x) the opera. I did 
 not forget Monsieur de Marteille, in the tempest of
 
 DIES A GOOD CATHOLIC. 30;: 
 
 my fully. Others have loved me. I have loved no 
 one but Monsieur de Marteille : his memory has 
 beamed upon my life like a blessing from heaven. 
 When I reappeared at the opera. I was seen attend- 
 ing mass ; I was laughed at for my devotion. Tliey 
 did not understand, j)hilosoj)hei"S as they were, that 
 I prayed to God, in consequence of those words of 
 Monsieur do Marteille : 'iSTow it will be I whn will 
 wait for you.' 
 
 "When I left the chateau, I plucked a bouquet in 
 ibe park, thinking that I was plucking the flowers 
 that had bloomed for him ; I brought awav this b<m- 
 quet, along with the portrait that you see there. I had 
 vowed, in leaving our dear retreat, to go every year, 
 at the same season, to gather a bouquet in the park. 
 Will you believe it? I never went there again!" 
 
 Mademoiselle de Camargo, thus finished her liis- 
 tory. " Well, my dear philosopher," said, irdvetius 
 to Duclos, in descending the steps, "you have just 
 read a book that is somewhat curious." — " A bad 
 l)o<ik," answered Duclos, " but such books are always 
 interesting." 
 
 In April, 1770, the news spread that Mademoiselle 
 de Camargo had just died a good catholic. "Tin's 
 created a great surprise," says a journal of the day, 
 "in the re]>ul»lic of letters, for she was sup])Osed to 
 have l)een dead twenty years." Her last admirer and 
 her last friend, to whom she had bequeathed her dogs 
 and her cats, had caused her body to 1)C interred 
 Avitli a magnificence unexamjjled at the opera. " All 
 tlie world," says Grimm, "admii-ed tluit white pall, 
 the Rynd)ol of chastity, that all unmarried persone 
 aiv entitliil to in tjujir fiuici'al crrtMiioiiv,"
 
 MADEMOISELLE GUIMARD. 
 
 (a goddess of the orEiiA.) 
 
 To the storytellci- tlic eigliteentli century is iiicx 
 lianstible. One m'Iio merely stops at tlie surface^ 
 judges it at a single glance — a superannuated ir.y- 
 tliuldgy in the arts, licentious amours in the world of 
 tashion, golden days at court ; but one who descends 
 a little way into the gloom of that yet palpitating 
 past, who resolutely^ shakes the dust from the vol- 
 umes of a century, who studies at Versailles and 
 elscM'here the faces of Louis XV.'s court, who seeks 
 to I'ead into those hearts hidden beneath the roses of 
 of the bodice — lie will discover a whole comedy in 
 a hundred various acts, })layed in open day in a 
 thousand curious scenes — the eternal comedy of 
 life, but more artlessly mad than ever. Thus far, I 
 have endeavored to paint the most intelligent of the 
 group, those who exhibit the radiance of poetry in 
 every view; I liave yet more than one study to 
 make, and since I have spoken of the theatre, may 
 I not sketch the profiles of some of those actresses, 
 who, from Camargo to Guimard, fonn, as the Gen- 
 til-Bernard said, a garland of love? We shall see 
 that, far from being mi.splaced in the human com-
 
 OPERATIC FORTUNES. SOI 
 
 edy, the jesters held tliere, as in our own days, the 
 best places iu point of notoriety and wealth. At the 
 time that Buissy was dying of misery (not like 
 Maliilati-e, who, at least, died alone, but) with his 
 wile and children, the actress, who played his pieces 
 was spattering twenty poets with her coaches. At 
 the time when Grctry, Lantara, and Jean-Jacqnes 
 lioussean, were living on condition of dining out, 
 Mademoiselle Guimard had a palace, and gave a 
 supper to a prince and a duke; I need not add that 
 the musician, the com])anion of her glory at the 
 opera, was not invited to the supper. But all this 
 false notoriety and talse eclat at last gave place to 
 a worthier glory, when death came to assign every 
 one his place. To-day, the poet or musician still 
 charms ns, but who remembers the dancer or singer 
 that spattered liim ? A case in point. It is not a 
 month since Mademoiselle Thevenin (who at this 
 day knows Mademoiselle Thevenin, the rival of 
 Duthe ?) died at Fontainebleau, at the age of ninety- 
 two. A crowd of noble loi'ds and bankers had ruin- 
 ed themselves for her at the will of her caprice. She 
 died a millionaire and a miser, without thinking of 
 God or the poor. She had no heir, and she made no 
 will, as if tlie bare idea of giving away after her 
 deatii would have cost her too much. Mademoiselle 
 Tlievenin left an income of fifty thousand livres to the 
 fitatc. To be sure, the state is the chief pauper in 
 tlie kingdom. 
 
 God forbid tliat I sliould ever linger o-,er such a 
 ]iorti'ait. If 1 have lu'ought fnrward flint horrible 
 death, it is to avenge in limad day the ]»'.or whom 
 tliat woman disinlu'ritfd during hi-r lifi- ard aft'f.r
 
 nor (li'Utli. I t'liod^e iiiv iii(h1(.'1s better. M<.)i'C 
 than one lovely laee may he iletaelietl from the <ral- 
 lery of the oj)er<i. By the side of Mademoiselle The- 
 venin. who was a miser, we find Mademoiselle Gui- 
 mard. who was a ]»r(i(lii;al. 
 
 Mademoiselle Ciiiimaid played a great part dnring 
 her life, at the opera, in the city, and at court. At 
 first she danced, then it was love, love, always 
 love. A hnndred marquises ruined themselves for 
 lier ; but what will seem unicli more surprising, she 
 almost rnine<l a farmer of the revenue. A fai'mer 
 of tlie revenue I You 1<ik»w they were all as i-ich as 
 a hundred marquises. I will not tell you the names 
 of her lovers, I should uot find time and space ; 
 know only that she counted dukes and pi-inces amonsr 
 the most persevering : for instance, the Duke d"Or- 
 leans and the Prince de Soubise. The latter, espe- 
 cially, was very obstinate; he persisted in gi\ing 
 her a great deal of money. Guimaixl was piv\ ailed 
 upon to pocket, on vai'ious occasions, an income <»f 
 from three to four hundred thousand francs, on coiuli- 
 tion of making a good use of it. Sometimes she built 
 a palace, sometimes she gave large alms to the ])oor of 
 her neighborhood. Grimm gives an account of one of 
 lier charities. During the severe cold of 1768, she took 
 soiiie money without counting it — nearly eight thou- 
 dred francs; she set out all alone without saying 
 anything to any one, mounted int(^ the garrets in 
 her neighboi-hood, found out all those Mho were suf- 
 fering from the rigor of the season, and gave to 
 every family without l>read, enough to live on for a 
 year. AVas not that the kindly dew of which the 
 Scripture speaks ? That was something to ennoble
 
 OPERATIC CHARITY. S99 
 
 her pirouettes. Moved to tears at this good deed, 
 Marmoiitel addressed a long epistle to the dancer ; 
 — we should mention that he often dined at Made- 
 moiselle Gnimard's. This action made considerable 
 noise ; a preacher spoke of it in his sermon, not fail- 
 ing to bring forward, in connection with the subject, 
 the sublime picture of the penitent Magdalen. " It 
 is not yet the penitent Magdalen !" he exclaimed ; 
 "but it is even now the charitable Maijdalen ! The 
 hand that performs such acts of charity will not be 
 disregarded by Saint Peter, when it knocks at the 
 gate of Paradise." Grimm, seeing everybody af- 
 fected, said in his journal : "For my part, I desire 
 t) play liere the part of that good village-curate, who, 
 \dien he liad preached to his rustic congregation on 
 the passion of our Lord, and saw tliem all weeping 
 at the excess of his sufferings, was loath to send 
 them home so atflicted, and said to them : ' ]\ry 
 children, do not weep so much, for, perhai)S, all this 
 is not true I' " The story is true in every particular, 
 the more so that Guimard never said a word about 
 it ; it was the ])olice who bore witness to all her acts 
 of kindness. P>esides, Grimm was one of Guimard's 
 distant admirers. " I have always loved her ten- 
 derly," he wrote to the king of Prussia. " They say 
 that the sound of her voice is j-ough and harsh ; to 
 my ears it is a grie\'ons wrong; but as T have never 
 heard her speak, that dcfe'ct has not hicn able to 
 diminish my ])assion for her." 
 
 We may reasonably be astonished at this dancer'a 
 wonderful con((nests; but on the snbject of love we 
 need be astonished at nothing. As soon as we 
 attempt to reason upon it we are all astray. Not on-
 
 400 MADKMOISELLK GUIMAKD. 
 
 1 .• was Guiiuard not beautiful, Liit she was not even 
 liretty. It must be confessed that slie liad that inde- 
 finable something which seduces, without the mind 
 or heart knowins; whv. Love is not blind i'or noth- 
 ing, and Mademoiselle Guimard possessed, in a great- 
 er degree than any other of her class, the art of pnt- 
 ting a bandage over the eves that looked at her. She 
 was thin for a dancer; so much so, that her charita- 
 ble companions sunumied her t/ie spider, and truly 
 her dancing reminded one rather of the skips of a 
 father long-legs. Apart from the skips, she excelled 
 in the rigodoon, the tambonrine dance, the loure, 
 in all that was called the hi^h stvle. jMore than once 
 she created a furor in the gargoulUade j she was 
 wondei'ful in pironettes ; but her real ti-inmph was m 
 the fancy-dance, and it was for her that the Caprices 
 de GoIatJice was composed. Her most marked fea- 
 ture was her affectation ; she danced as Sterne wrote ; 
 so Sterne who saw her during his travels in France, 
 declared her the most false, the loosest, the most 
 mannered of dancers. Happily for her, every one 
 was not of Sterne's opinion. Her admirers said 
 in so many woi'ds : '* She is volui)tnousness personi- 
 fied ; she nnites the three Graces in her own ])er- 
 son." Mademoiselle Arnonld who M'as listened to as 
 an oracle in that ]ierverted world, rather conntei'bal- 
 anced these eulogiums by her sarcasms. M. de Ja- 
 rente, bisho]) more or less of a diocese whei'e he 
 never showed himself, was in love with Mademoiselle 
 Guimard. Thanks to him, she had, according to his 
 expressi«»n, entered into orders ; and she held the 
 hi.ncfice leaf. Hence that jest of Mademoiselle Ar- 
 nouhPs : "I can't conceive how that little silkworm
 
 THE TEMPLE OF TEKPSICIIOKE. 40 i 
 
 is SO thin, she feeds on so ricli a leaf.*' Mademoi- 
 selle Guiniai'd replied to this spitefid saying by an 
 abusive letter, in which Sophie Aniould was accused 
 of having conunitted the seven capital sins seven 
 times a day. Sophie Arnoiild re[)]ied with these 
 tliree words : " I double you." 
 
 Gniniard, however, laughed gayly at compliments 
 or sarcasms. Iler thoughts were far more c»ccupied 
 with chanijinii: a carriaire, build inir a iialace, or doing 
 an act of charity. All the jnurnals of the time 
 talked of her house, called the Tc7nj>le of Terp- 
 sichore. Ancient history speaks of the courtesan 
 Ithodope, who built one of the most famous pyramids 
 of Egyjit, with the money obtained from her lovers ; 
 Guimai'd built a palace in the Chaussee-d'Antin, 
 where more treasures were swallowed up tlian would 
 have sufficed to build twenty pyramids. The temple 
 of Terpsichore contained, besides the lai'ge and small 
 aj)artments of the goddess, a summer-garden, and a 
 Minter-garden, a library of bad books, a gallery of 
 jiictures on subjects of gallantry, and a theatre where 
 the king's players in ordinary, and all the talent of 
 the strolling companies, were delighted to act. 
 There was also a Pa[)hian temple, and there was al- 
 ways somebody at the door. "A prohibition irom 
 the gentlemen (.»f the chand)erwas necessary," said a 
 jomnal, " to ])revent the leading actoi's of the Fi'cnch 
 and Italian theatres from ])laying at ]\[ademoiselle 
 Guimard's; because, afterward, tliey took their i-e 
 ]>ose and di<l not jilay for the pTd)lic." The dancei', 
 accustomed as she was bj cpieenly coimuand, braved 
 the ]>roliibition ; she was thi'eatened with the royal 
 indignation, but she ]'e])lied to the threat bv giving 
 
 34'-
 
 402 MADICMOISKLLE GUIMAllD. 
 
 :it her house the i»aroilv of a court fete. AlthuUii;h 
 :i kinii' of France iuii>;ht then know how to squander 
 nioiii'V l)_v the handful, the parody was more brilliant 
 thaii tlie fete itself. Slutws, (hmces, feasting, follies 
 of eveiT age and country, nothing was wanting, 
 scandal least of all. 
 
 Would it be believed? Tlie qneen, Marie-Antoi- 
 nette, wli(\ like so many others, luid touched with 
 lier lips the fatal cup with which that giddy, pirouet- 
 ting, witty, and fickle age was intoxicating itcelf, 
 called Guimard, without cei'emony and without 
 thiuking twice on the matter, to her toilet councils. 
 It usually happened that Guimard was president of 
 the council, even in the presence of the lady of hon- 
 or, the Princess de Ciiimay, the lady of the bedcham- 
 Ijer, the Coimtess d'Ossun, and the lady of the palace, 
 the Marchioness de la Roche-Aymon. The super- 
 iutendent herself, the chief of the council, as she was 
 then called, had not a woi-d to say when Guinuird 
 appeared at Versailles. The qneen had a blind con- 
 fidence in the dancer's good taste. It was Mademoi- 
 selle Guimard here. Mademoiselle Guimard there : 
 is my hair well dressed? do these roses look well 
 in my bodice? The dancer replied without hesita- 
 tion, ])retty much as if she was S])caking to So]>hie 
 Arnould ; she knew that etifjuette Avas banished from 
 the court of France, after Madame Dubarry passed 
 over the throne. Besides, she treated with the qneen, 
 almost like one power with another. Tlad not all 
 tlie lords Avho fluttered at court, ])irouetted at her 
 house? did the luxury of the Trianon equal that of 
 the temple of Teq^sichore ? Had the queen, like 
 the dancer (dancer did I say? — goddess of the
 
 THE SMILE OF A GODDESS. 
 
 403 
 
 dance), a winter-garden where the rarest plants were 
 blooniinof ? 
 
 Guhnard was not ignorant of the price the queen 
 set upon her counsels. So, one day that she was 
 goincj to Fur-l'Eveque, she said t(3 her lady of lionor : 
 '• Do not cry, Gotlion ; I liave written to the queen, 
 tliat I had discovered a new style of dressing the 
 hair; I shall be free before this evening." 
 
 A journal uf the time, speaking of Guimard's hotel, 
 says, that Love defrayed the expense, and Luxury 
 drew the plan. '• Xever," adds this journal, " had 
 those divinities in Greece a temple more worthy 
 of tlieir worship.'' — The dancer had her painter in 
 ordinary; that painter was Fragonard. It was de- 
 termined between the goddess and the artist, that 
 the saloon should be nnide up entii'ely of painting, 
 ]>anels, ceiling, doors, and mirrors. Fragonard took 
 iiis freshest and most seductive palette, his lightest 
 and most graceful pencil. After two years' labor, 
 he was not yet at the end of this work of gallantry; 
 but he had made his M-ay into the heart of Guimard ; 
 that, to be sure, was a reason why he should not 
 finisli. Wishing to paint Terpsichore in every as- 
 jtect, and in all her attributes, he had often asked an 
 audience of the dancer, who always sat with the best 
 grace in the world. — "Well, Fi-agonai-d, what are 
 we going to paint to-day?" — "Your smile, your lips, 
 all the graces of your mouth." — "Flatterer!" — 
 " Come, let us lose no time ; a smile, if you ])lease." 
 — "Faith, T am not at all in tlio vein today." — 
 "Nevertheless, we must conu* to the ])oint.." — "Do 
 voii think a ])erson can smile witliout a cause?" — 
 "When vmii daiu-e tlie giirgniiillaile, it seems to
 
 40i MADKMOISICLI.K (iiniAKO. 
 
 me — " — "Tliiit is quit-e anotlicr afliiir; nt tlio opera 
 I am l'oll(l^vill^■ my trade; I am (juitc sui'c tliat my 
 l)retty airs are iu»t lost." — *'WIim knows, if tliey 
 Monld 1)0 lust here?" — "You have uciven me an 
 idea; Avell, my dear, mal<e me smile; that is your 
 husiness." — "'Suppose I tell yt)U some scandal about 
 Sophie Arnould f — " Say on." — " Xu ; that is not tiie 
 smile I want, for it is the voluptuous mouth I wish to 
 l)aint just now." — "I supi)ose I have not gut the 
 virtuous inoiitli.''' 
 
 ITistoi-y has not recorded the rest of this conversa- 
 tion between the painter and the dancer. History 
 always takes a long leap over the critical moments. 
 All thr.t 1 can sav is, that the next dav Fraiionai'd 
 was des])erately in love, and hoped to liave a good 
 sitting; but the next day, a prince, a duke, a marquis, 
 a farmer of the revenue, whom you will, came to ask 
 an audience of Guimard. The painter liad the folly 
 to be jealous ; he imagined he had claims upon tliat 
 fickle lieart. Not onl}^ was he jealous, but, to make 
 the nuitter siqii-emely ridiculous, he took a notion 
 to tell the dancer so. — "Jealous!" slie exclaimed, 
 "jealous of me ! really, that is too funny ; my dear, 
 you will make me die of laughing. In love — that 
 is very well; but jealous! what folly!" — "Yes, I 
 am jealous," said the painter in a pet ; " I love you, 
 and you shall love me, Avere it onl}'^ for a Aveek." — 
 "A week ! von do not know Avhat vou sav ; none 
 of my lovers ever put forward such a pretension. A 
 week! we might as well be married. You wanted a 
 smile (to make a pretty portrait) ; did T not smile?" 
 — "Yes, but a smile is not enough ; I wish — " 
 
 Guimard rose haughtily; assumed her grand
 
 fragonard's successcr. 405 
 
 queenly airs, and said to lier painter in ordiiiar}-: 
 " You wish ! that word is not known here ; it is not 
 admitted into my dictionary. You think, perhai)S, 
 you are dealing with a common figurante of the 
 opera. I advise you, Monsieur Fragonard, to gather 
 up your brushes, and go and paint elsewhere. A 
 pleasant journey to you! As for the money I owe 
 you, you can talk to my steward about it." — " Fare- 
 well, Madame Goddess," said the painter, with dig- 
 nity. He took his hat and bowed with an air 
 of mockery. '"Mirth and sport attend you; be ever 
 fresh and smiling. But tell me, who will make that 
 jxirtrait smile T — " Thank God ! Monsieur Fragonard, 
 I am not at the end of my smiles." — "He laughs 
 well who laughs the last." 
 
 He departed rpiite convinced that Guiinard, would 
 recall him; for who would she find, unless it were 
 Greuze, to finish that portrait worthily? Kow, Greuze 
 liad quite different mattei-s to attend to. The next 
 day, Fragonard went to the window twenty times ; 
 always thinking that he heard the approach of the 
 dancer's carriage. She did not recall him. The 
 noise of his disgrace was hardly spread abroad, 
 before three or four painters presented themselves to 
 finish the saloon, if not the portrait. The dancer 
 chose the most delicate and corpiettish pencil ; it was 
 another pupil of Boucher, who created loves and 
 scattered roses as if by enchantment. Perha[)S, he 
 had not all the grace of Fragonard, but the dancer, 
 accustomed to operatic decorations, did not take a 
 close view of those nuitters. She was so well-con- 
 tented with her new painter, that she commajidcd 
 liim to fini.sii the portrait. — "I shall never dare to 
 
 37*
 
 400 MADKMOISKLLK GUIMAKD. 
 
 ask you to sit t'nr tlic smile." — "Take courasie." — 
 The yoniiii; painter did not take the smile for her, as 
 Fragonard liad done; he took it for the portrait; he 
 succeeded, l>y some means, in painting that month 
 that had been the theme of all the madri^alists 
 of the time. 
 
 Ihit Fragonard, Avhose passion was now only a 
 repressed anger, did not consider himself beaten. 
 One day, uK^re and more overcome by this anger, he 
 ventured as far as the temple of Tei'psichore, resolved 
 to brave everything, even the haughty dancer lierself. 
 As he was going to enter, he saw the carriage of the 
 goddess come out. He entered without ceremony; 
 the attendants, left at liberty, had abandoned their 
 posts, to chat in the neighborhood or in the pantry. 
 Fragonard, wlio knew the road well, called no one to 
 guide his steps in that labyrinth of love where every 
 one found a thread to untwist. He reached the 
 saloon without meeting a soul. The young painter 
 liad just stei)ped into the garden, which was a very 
 garden of Armida; and, as he re-entered the house, 
 he was disagreeably struck by the pretty smile of the 
 jtortrait, which was still upon the easel. — "Really, 
 she is charming. I should not have caught more 
 grace and voluptuousness myself" 
 
 He looked at it with some surprise ; the portrait 
 seemed to look him in the face with an air of mockery 
 He walked for awhile in the saloon, a |»rey to a 
 thousand ideas of vengeance. There was a palette and 
 brushes in tlie room ; his revenge is at hand. With 
 three or fum- strokes of the bi'ush he effaces the smile ; 
 Jie hits upon the expression of wrath and fury without 
 injuring the resemblance of tl.e portrait. Never vv'as
 
 AN ACCOMMODATING PORTRAIT. 407 
 
 sacrilege more suddenly consummated. Hardly La'!, 
 lie given it the final touch, and was departing, better 
 pleased than if he had produced a masterpiece, when 
 lie stopped in terror; he hears the sound of a carriage ; 
 it is Guiinard returnins:: with two lovers and a female 
 friend, the latter something nnusnal. The dancer, 
 delighted with her portrait, wished to judge of the 
 delight of others. She entered the saloon in triumph ; 
 Fragonard, in despair, barely had time to crouch be- 
 hind the easel. 
 
 "Look, prince! look how that portrait — " The 
 dancer turned pale. — " Charming," said the Prince 
 de Soubise, who had not yet seen it. — "Stay!" said 
 Guiniard, "am I mad? can't I see clear?" — "A 
 veiy good likeness, really, my dear friend," said 
 Sophie Arnould. — "But don't you see? it is all very 
 well for you; you woukl pay a compliment to the 
 three Fates. That little dauber has spoiled all. 
 "Was any one ever disfigured like that?" — "Wiiat 
 does all this mean ?" asked the Marcpiis de Bievres. 
 — " I do not understand it at all. Just now, I was 
 smiling with all the grace in the world, but now — " 
 — "But, my dear," said Sophie Arnould, "I assure 
 you, you are very like your portrait ; it is the same 
 wrath and the same passion ; just look in the glass! 
 AVlio knows but this portrait has the power to 
 change its countenance, like the original?" — "Tiie 
 b(^st of it is," said the marquis, kissing the dancers 
 haiul, "that it is the only ])orti'ait like the oi'igiual 
 that I ever saw in my IIIl'. Look if it has not the 
 appearance of bursting with rage. I have more than 
 once hull tlic distinguislied advantage of seeing you 
 in that lim- of your talents. Do not tell me of n por-
 
 408 MADEMOISELLE GUIMARD. 
 
 trait that smiles ; we smile to every one ; tbe smile is 
 liie bluntest of the arrows of love ; but we grant to 
 very few the favor of seeing us in a passion." 
 
 History does not tell us whether tbe painter re- 
 touched tbe portrait.* 
 
 You have seen Guimard at court and in her palace. 
 AVould you like to see her at Longchamps the 2!.)tb 
 of March, 1768? It happened, that on that day 
 of tbe gloomy passion-week, there was the loveliest 
 spring sunshine. All tbe magnificence of Versailles 
 ami Taris was splendidly spread out on the prome- 
 nade; but among all the carriages the most admired 
 was Guinuird's, drawn by four horses; it was less a 
 carriage than a car, " worthy," says a journal, 
 " of containing the exquisite graces of the niodcj'n 
 Terpsichore." — Kothing was wanting to that eipii- 
 page, neither the most mettled and spirited horses, 
 nor tbe prettiest painting^J, nor the most enthusiastic 
 adorers ; nothing was wanting, not even a coat-of- 
 arms. In the middle of tbe scutcbeon Avas seen a 
 golden mark, whence issued a mislctoe; the graces 
 acted as sup[)0]ters, :ind the Loves crowned the 
 
 * Tliis adventure has had a second edition. Girodct had painted 
 the portrait of Madeiiioisolie Tjange, another (Juimard, ratlier less 
 brilliant. The aclress refused the |)ortrait, saying it was not like lier. 
 — " No one would ever recognise me in that ugly face." — " Very well, 
 rnadeinoiselle, I shall find a way to make you recogni^^ed." — 'J'he 
 angry (lainter set to work. He painted Mademoiselle Lange as 
 Danae ; hut, ir.stead of a shower of gold, it was a shower of crown- 
 pieces that besprinkled the boudoir of this second Danae. In one cor- 
 ner a turkey was strutting. — "Is it like you this time J" said the 
 painter, who had greatly iini»roved upon his model. — "Very like," 
 said the actress, who did not understand the allegories at all. She 
 hung the portrait up in her parlor, and, like (iuimard, v.ent to ask the 
 opinion of her friends. — " Very like," exclaimed the lively company, 
 bursting with laughter.
 
 THE SUPPORT OF A GODDESS- 409 
 
 gliield. — '•Everythiug is ingenious in tliat emblem," 
 adds the journal. 
 
 It was not enough for Mademoiselle Guimard to 
 have a temple at Paris ; the queen had pleasure- 
 liouses ; the goddess of the opera built a pleasure- 
 house at Pantiu, Hear Bachaumont :^"Z^cc<; ////»(';• 
 Mth^ 17G8. There is much talk of tlie magnilicent 
 spectacles given at her superb mansion at Pantin, by 
 Mademoiselle Guimard, so renowned for the elegance 
 of her taste, her unparalleled luxury, and the philoso- 
 piiers, wits, and people of talent, of every class, who 
 compose her court, and make it tlie admiration of the 
 age. Our good authors dispute with unc aiiother the 
 privilege of being acted at her theati'c, and for her 
 amusement; and our celebrated actors, the privilege 
 of playing to please her. 'J'he Prince de Soubise is 
 always of the number of spectatois. Is^o one is ad 
 mitted to these entertainments until after lie has 
 been admitted at court. The entertainments of Nero 
 Were not e(pnd to these." 
 
 Mademoiselle (riiimard was celebrated, among 
 other reasons, fur her suppers, which were the nu^st 
 wonderful in Paris. She gave tliree a week, the first 
 composed of the greatest lords of the court; the sec- 
 ond of poets, artists, and savants, who had eaten a 
 bad supper the night before at Madame Geoffrin's ; 
 tiie third w^as not a 6U])per, but an orgy composed of 
 jictresses of ever}' sort, and peoi)le of every quality. 
 Thus on Tuesday, this dancer <]ueened it "uncercmo- 
 niou>ly among the noblest names of France ; on 
 Thur>day, >he had a court of savants, who taikcil to 
 her of Saj)j>ho and Xinon ; of artists who paiiitc»l 
 her in every style (Boucher metanioi'j)hused her into 
 
 35
 
 410 MADEMOISELLE GUIMAKD. 
 
 a shepherdess, and Fi-iigonard into Diaiiu the liiint- 
 ress) ; of poets like Dorat and Mannontel, who sang 
 her graces with the same voice that tliey sang the 
 praises of the queen. On Saturday, she constituted 
 herself the goddess of pleasure and presided at the 
 banquet of folly. 
 
 But the destinies and the hlllovjs are changeable. 
 Six months after these wonders, Bachaumont in- 
 scribes on his tablets: "Mademoiselle Guimard, 
 M'hosc talents for dancing are the delight of Paris, is 
 on the eve of bankruptcy; she has suspended — her 
 entertainments." The Prince de Soubise having 
 cause to com[)lain of her, because she had three or 
 four more lovers than usual, had just stopped her 
 pension of a thousand crowns a week, which he had 
 paid her for a long time. " And only to think," said 
 the celebrated dancer, '• that I want but four hundred 
 thousand livres to appease a few of my creditors!" 
 Bachaumont thus ends his page upon this great event, 
 which occupied all Paris : " It is hoped that some 
 EniJ:lish h»rd or Gernum baron will come to the as- 
 sistance of Terpsichore. A new shame for the Fi-ench, 
 if a stranger sets them that example!" 
 
 We are not at the end of the story. Mademoiselle 
 Guimard could not console herself ft)r the departure 
 of the Prince de Soubise; in her grief she com- 
 plained to the men who fluttered about her charms 
 at the opera. She had not to comitlain long. She 
 said one evening: "If I only had a hundred thou- 
 sand livres to-morrow !" The next day, a magnificent 
 carriage drawn by four hoi'ses, stojjs at her hotel ; an 
 unknown ]>ersonage presents himself before the sov- 
 ereign. " Mademoiselle, the hundred thousand livres
 
 51AEKIAGE OR DEATH. 411 
 
 a: 3 there in my carnage; there are besides, thirty 
 thousand livres for emergencies." — " Yery good, my 
 lord," exclaimed Mademoiselle Guimard ; "I have 
 no horses, drive yours into my stables." Bachau- 
 iiiont does not fail to inscribe tbis adventure on his 
 tablets. He adds : " We are not yet informed of the 
 name of tbis magnificent personage, well worthy to 
 be inscribed in the annals of Cythera. He is be- 
 lieved to be a stranger, Avliich is a reproach to French 
 o-allantrv." Bachaumont would have done well to 
 have ended liere as above witb an exclamation 
 point. 
 
 This person, who remained imknown, carried his 
 folly so far as to wish to marry Mademoiselle Gui- 
 mard. Never did a woman show herself so fright- 
 ened at such a proposition. It is true that the lover, 
 not being able to prevail upon her by fair means, 
 wished to compel her, pistol in liand. She had no 
 other resource but to send her powerful friends to the 
 lieutenant of police, to beseech him to protect her 
 from such violence. The lieutenant of police was in 
 great perplexity ; if the lover proceeded to any ex- 
 tremity against the goddess of the opera, all Paris 
 would be in revolution. He repaired in hot haste to 
 Mademoiselle Guimard's : "So, mademoiselle, he 
 shows himself an insolent fellow." — "Yes, sir, an in- 
 solent fellow who lias the audacity to ask me in mar- 
 riuge — am I my own mistress?" — "No, you l)elong 
 to all France. And as, in order to get married, you 
 would have to renounce the opera, the devil, his pomps 
 and woi-ks .... Don't be alarmed, mademoiselle, 
 we will watch over you." — "But, M. Lieutenant ot 
 police, consider that liis pistols are loaded. He hard-
 
 412 MADEMOISELLE GUIMARD. 
 
 ]y grants me six weeks to inalce up my mind."— 
 '• Ci)mit upon ns ; in six weeks this ill-bred man sliali 
 be deprived of the pleasure of seeing you, even at 
 the opeia." The denouement was tragic. Having 
 received orders to retni-n instantly to Germany, this 
 enraged German prince, who dareci to pretend to 
 the hand of a French dancei-, departed, but carried 
 oti" Guimai'd ; wlio, probably, would never have been 
 seen again at the opera, had not the Prince de Sou- 
 bise pursued the ravisher with all the apparatus of 
 war. The attack was spirited, the defence heroic. 
 Three dead remained upon the field of battle ; the 
 ravisher was severely wounded, but Guimard M'as 
 saved! The Prince de Soubise made himself mas- 
 ter of the carriage in which she had fainted. 
 
 The Prince de Soul)ise then returned to her more 
 desperately in love than ever ; he even showed him- 
 self so jealous, that Monsieur de Bordes, who had 
 ruined himself for the pleasure of being leader of the 
 orchestra and chapel-master to the dancer, was re- 
 quested not to present himself at her house for the 
 future, after sunset. 
 
 And here may I not produce in evidence these 
 two unpublished letters; the first to the Prince de 
 Soul)ise, the second to Monsieur de Boixles ? 
 
 "My Lord and Master: Is this, then, cruel one, 
 the reward of all my sacrifices ? What have I done 
 for you? or i-at!ier what have I not done? What! 
 you talk of abandoning me ! Can I live without you? 
 for have you not accustomed me to the expenses of 
 royalty? It was well worth my while to sacrifice 
 to you lords and barons who Avere willing to ruin 
 themselves for me. Dear Soubise, believe me, I
 
 LETTER OF A GODDESS. 418 
 
 loved jon, I still love yoii, I will always love jon, as 
 the sons savs. It is all in vain : I do not believe a 
 word of your letter, nor you do not believe it either. 
 You wished to laugh at my sorrows ; be content, I 
 have wept. Yes, I have wept, and you know I am 
 not a fountain of tears. "What are my griefs ? Have 
 I not become the slave of your caprices ? One even- 
 ing, you remember, you wished (just as I was going 
 to bed) that I should dance the gargoiiillade^ in the 
 most simple costume ; it was ridiculous for me, much 
 more than for you, nevertheless, I danced. Could 
 you be jealous of any one ? Docs not your rank put 
 you above such a prejudice ? Besides, you know, if 
 I dance for everybody, my heart only dances for you. 
 Y'ou look upon Monsieur de Bordes with an evil eye : 
 vou are quite wrong; Monsieur de Bordes is not a 
 man, he is a musician. Marmontel gives you of- 
 fence ; a poet ! Why, wc do n't rhyme together. 
 To return to Monsieur de Bordes, do not forget that, 
 to please you, I have forbidden him my door the mo- 
 ment the sun sets; I had even given him his dismis- 
 sal in due form, but the poor man would liave died 
 of grief ; lie came, threw himself on his knees, and 
 wept like a child ; for my part, I was quite softened, 
 I burst out laughing, and I did not feel cruel enougli 
 to drive him away, for he said to me: ' Drive me 
 away like a dog, if you will not sec me any more.' 
 You are very difficult to get along with, my dear 
 Soubise. If you kncAv how well that poor man plays 
 on the violin ! my feet arc beginning a minuet at 
 tlie very thought of it. Let us say no more about 
 him ; I feci I am becoming sad. Come and see me: 
 I have no longei heart for anytliing ; 1 am capa 
 
 35* "
 
 4^14 MADEMOISELLE GUIMAKD. 
 
 blo of proceeding to any extremity. Wonld yon 
 believe that I sometimes tliink of liiding myself in u 
 convent? Ah! crnel one, how much more agree- 
 able it would be for me to hide myself in your arms i 
 
 " GuiMAKD. 
 
 " P. S. — If you will not come and see me, come 
 at least and get your letters and purse. Alas ! your 
 purse is like your heart, there is nothing in it." 
 
 "My Deak Orpheus: I was right when I told 
 you the prince would be angry; he takes your affair 
 quite seriously. You understand, my dear, that 
 your heart is not inexhaustible, like Soubise's purse. 
 So let us stop where we are, and postpone our love 
 to better times. In ihe meantime, try to console 
 yourself; and as I have, perhaps, had a hand iu 
 ruining you, I have just set you down for a pension 
 of twelve hundred livi'es for your pocket-money. 
 For other matters I am not uneasy ; you are a man 
 too well bred not to get invitations to dinner and 
 supper. Besides, a man Avho plays so well on the 
 violin is never at a loss. In our old days, if Fortune 
 turns her back upon us, we will unite our talents 
 and our miseries. "We must be prepared for every- 
 thing, it is the philosopher's rule ; but for fear of mor- 
 alizing, which I am not used to, I lay down my pen. 
 
 " GuLAtAHD." 
 
 The Prince de Soubise had again become the very 
 humble servant of all the dancer's whims. She 
 wished to iiave a light of chase, for herself and 
 her friends, in the king's hunting-grounds. The 
 prince, who was captain of the royal forests, granted 
 her one of the best cantons. She had herself painted
 
 MYSTERIES OF THE OPERA. 415 
 
 a; Diana the Inintress, and amused licrself by deliv- 
 ering to the noblest lords permits to hunt. 
 
 She found great obstacles in the Duke de Riche- 
 lieu and the archbishop of Paris, to the reopening 
 of her city theatre ; but as she had more friends tJian 
 these two great personages, she succeeded in re- 
 opening. Truth in Wine was to be given, but the 
 archbishop succeeded in preventing tlie representa- 
 tion of that piece. " It seems," said the dancer, 
 " that my lord is unwilling that truth should come 
 out of the cask any more than the well." 
 
 A few days after, she condescended to dance a 
 little ballet befoi-e the kino;. The king utfered her a 
 l)ension of fifteen hundred livres : " I accept," said 
 she on account of tlie hand it comes from; "for," 
 she added as she departed from the king, "• it is a 
 drop of water in the sea ; it is hardly enough to i)ay 
 the candle-snuffer at my theatre." 
 
 If you wish to penetrate into the mysteries of the 
 opera in the eighteenth century, deign to cast a glance 
 upon this epistle to Mademoiselle Guimard, and the 
 sirens of that dangerous sea. It is a frightful pic- 
 ture of the manners of the court and city in 1775, 
 signed by a Tnrl\ a 'mcml)er of all the Malioraetan 
 academies.. "I can iii»t behold without admiration, 
 the high ])r>int of glory which you and your compan- 
 ions have reached. Sweet license, under the name 
 of liberty, has at last o])ened the career to our 
 boundless desires; you triumjih, divine enchantresses, 
 and your seductive charnis have changed the face 
 of France C)ur palaces and hotels are now but the 
 dtdl i-etreat ./f gloomy Ilymen, where indolent wives 
 languish in ennui, imder the guaivl of ))owdered
 
 416 MADEMOISELLE GUIMARD. 
 
 portci's, ^vl.o, like the niiirhle at the door, serve mere- 
 ly to point out the hotel of the master, and tlie prison 
 of his sad lielpmatc ; while lively youth crowded 
 in your little dwellings, make them the abode of 
 love and sport, and your suppers are everywhere the 
 despair of the great. Sovereign of fashion, is it not 
 YOU who set them? Your taste determines them; 
 
 » 7 
 
 the dimensions of your j)lumes become the common 
 standard. The woman who studies at her glass to 
 copy you in detail, in order to please, dares not imi- 
 tate you on a grand scale, or follow nobler models. 
 Divine age, that treads under foot prejudice and law, 
 that confounds all conditions and ages, that conse- 
 crates all excesses, thou shalt l)e for ever celebrated 
 in history ! It is to you and your friends that we 
 owe tliis luippy revolution in our manners, to all of 
 you belongs the glory, and you enjoy "it. Whether, 
 di'awn in your elegant chariots, you adorn the dusty 
 Boulevards ; or as feathered nymphs, with your haii 
 elegantly dressed and covered with a thousand orna- 
 ments, you eclipse in the front boxes the modest ma- 
 tron ; or whether, at the monotonous Colysee, with 
 lofty front and bold eye, 3'ou display your charms, 
 and draw in your train an eager crowd — are not all 
 eyes turned upon you ? Modern Pantheon, thou 
 unitest all our divinities, and all our homage ! 
 Your ])rivileges, divinities of the day, arc as great 
 as sacred, and why should ijn-y not be? Since 
 this happy revolution, nothing stops you, there are 
 no more obstacles in your way. Hymen turned 
 to ridicule, dare hardly show himself. You a]i])car 
 ])ublicly in your lovci-s' carriages, you wear their liv- 
 eries, thoir colors, often their wives' diamonds; youi
 
 THE KING AND THE GODDESS. 411 
 
 little mansions everywhere arise from the ruins of 
 great ones, and form, bv their number, in the out- 
 skirts of the capital and on the Boulevards, a sort of 
 enclosure, a circumvallation, M'liich, by keeping it in 
 a state of blockade, assures you the empire of it for 
 ever. You take pleasure in general for your aim, all 
 men for your object, and the public happiness for the 
 end of your sublime speculations. Yes, ladies, you 
 are the true luxurv, essential to a s^veat state, the 
 powerful attraction that draws strangers and their 
 guineas ; twenty modest matrons are worth less to 
 the royal treasury than a single one among you ; you 
 belong t«i no rank of society, and are on a level with 
 all, and are the wives jmr excelJence of everybody." 
 
 In 1777, Mademoiselle Guimard was still leadins: 
 the same course of life ; listen to a journal, " Octo- 
 her Vlth. Ttie parody of the opera of Eruclide, 
 which was played at Mademoiselle Guimard's, has 
 been repeated at Clioisy, on the eve of the depailure 
 to Fontainebleau. The king was so well pleased 
 with it that he has given a pension to the author 
 Despreaux, a dancer of the f)pera. We may judge 
 by this favor how much of the freedom of the good 
 old times his majesty yet possesses, and how fund he 
 is of a laugh." "That good Louis XVI. ! 
 
 ''^ Deceraher 1. — The same parody was again rep- 
 resented on Monday at Mademoiselle Guimard's. 
 The performance commenced at ten o'clock, before 
 the most august assembly, composed of ]u-inces of 
 the blood, several ministers, aiul a number of the 
 great men of tlic kingdfim." 
 
 T ask yon, what more was there at court, except a 
 tedious king?
 
 41 S MADEMOISELLK GUIMARD. 
 
 In 1T70, we timl Mademoiselle Guiiiiard conduct' 
 ing a revolntion at tlie opera, yet more serious than 
 that of the sin >rt petticoats which took ])lacc under 
 Camargo. The subject of forbidding the right of 
 maternity to the dancers was discussed, and it was 
 Guimard who prevented violent measures, and wlio 
 said at the meetings : " Above all, ladies and gen- 
 tlemen, no combined resignations ; thafs what ruin- 
 ed the parliament." 
 
 She had, however, a serious passion : a poor offi- 
 cer of fortnne, who i)lajed comic parts at her theatre, 
 captivated her by the intelligence and melancholy of 
 Ills liandsome head. She had not time to love him, 
 but she wept for him with the tears of love. lie 
 was killed in a duel by one of lier lovers. AVhen 
 the latter came to announce to Guimard, that he had 
 just killed a fellow who had maintained to him he 
 was not loved, she gave herself up to unbounded 
 sorrow, and said to him passionately : " No ! I do 
 rot love you; it was he whom I loved." 
 
 About 17S0, [Mademoiselle Guimard almost falls 
 into oblivion. Here and there the gazettes make a 
 passing mention of her beautiful style of dancing at 
 the theatre, and pirouetting in life. But it is a sub- 
 ject out of fashion ; people cease to ruin themselves 
 for her caprices ; she is too well known in every 
 respect to excite further curiosity. Thus passes re- 
 nown ; we view its approach M'ith ai-dor; we strew 
 branches of laurel in its path, and place immortal 
 crowns upon its bi-ow. When once arrived we treat 
 it as an old friend who teaches us nothing new. We 
 see it depart without regret, scarcely taking time tc 
 bid it farewell.
 
 THE END OF A GODDESS. 419 
 
 What became of Guimard after lier fabulous tri- 
 nmplis ? These gipsies of the opera appear witliout 
 telling us where they come from, and disappear 
 without telling ns whither they go. "Was she si- 
 lently extinguished at a church-door like one of 
 her brilliant companions ? Did she keep for her 
 dvins dav a little of her scandalous fortune and her 
 mournful glory ? Did she awake in terror, like Fra- 
 gonard, her i)ainter in ordinary, in another world, 
 that is, in the republic one and indivisible? All we 
 can assert, without doubt, is, that she died alone, 
 without gaininij; a tear, a rei^ret. or a remembrance, 
 unless it were fiom the prodigal sons she had ruined. 
 But, as God forgets not the alms that are given with 
 two hands, the hand of fortune and the hand of the 
 heart, much will be forgiven her on high. To give 
 alms is to do penance ; it is to remember God ; it is 
 to take the path to heaven ! 
 
 I could still have wished to pass over in silence 
 the end of this gallant career. She who called her- 
 self the rival of a queen, who contended in mag- 
 nificence with a king — she who, in her character of 
 goddess,* considered marriage too fjir beneath her, 
 ended by marrying, instead of a German prince, the 
 Sienr Desjjreaux, ^>/Yy/"t^<f.S'or o/" ^//<? graces to the Con- 
 sein^atory^ with whom she died in silence at a virtu- 
 ous abod(3 in the Afai'ais. 
 
 • A sculptor has moulded licr foot, wliirli I have under my hand. 
 It i* the fjot of Diana the liuntress, hnunhty, ilelicatr, divine! Prax- 
 iteles never cut in mari)le n foot more riuiije and imjiabHioiied.
 
 80PIIIE AENOULD. 
 
 It? tlie eigliteentli century, tliere flonrislied in 
 France, a wild garland of beautiful women, who are 
 almost all worthy, from their genius, of Leing re- 
 niemhered with tlie courtesans of Greece. There 
 was an Aspasia, who taught lessons of government, 
 if not of eloquence, to Louis XV. who, it is well 
 known, was not altogether a Socrates, or a Pericles ; 
 a Lais, a Leontium, a Phryne, a Thais, a Thargelia, 
 who, under the names of Dubarry, Guimard, La- 
 guerre, Gaussin, and Sophie Arnould, enchanted 
 Yersailles and Paris, the court and the theatre. And 
 as in ancient Greece, Thais found her Aristippus, Le- 
 ontium her Epicm'us; — I am not speaking of disci- 
 ples ; — Phryne her Praxitiles, Thargelia her Xerxes ; 
 in France, all these wild and beautiful creatures, with 
 the exception of Marion Delorme, or Ninon de Len- 
 clos. Pompadour, or Dubarry, were trained up in the 
 theatre, the theatre, the scJiool of morals! 
 
 There are some severe people who would condemn 
 at once without giving them a hearing, all these 
 women who were alike gay and sad, "as pei'verse
 
 HER BIETH, 421 
 
 creatures iinwoi-thv the memory of man ; sinners 
 without repentance, who died in mortal sin." This 
 is what they say in their indignation, without a sin- 
 gle tear of charity for these lost sisters. They are 
 wrong. I do not present myself as the bad advocate 
 of a bad cause. Thank God, the altar of Bacchus 
 is overthrown, Yenns drowned in tears; sentiment 
 triumphs. The grape reddens on the hillside; but 
 tlie sonl has now, more than ever, wings which raise 
 it to the splendors of tlie heavens. ^Notwithstanding, 
 I can not help feeling a compassion which is entirely 
 religions in its nature, for some of these women that 
 I often meet on my ])ath in tracing out the more se- 
 rious liistory of the eighteenth centurj'. As they had 
 a large share of the snn of their day, that familiar 
 histor}', which is appropriate to literature and the arts, 
 which records on the same page, opinions and follies, 
 persons and passions, in a word, true character, 
 should give a glance at those personages mIio liave 
 been too much despised. The honest histoi-ian should 
 be bold enough to go everywhere. Nothing that 
 either flourishes or fades under the sun is unworthy 
 of Ids study ; the muse is a perpetual virgin, that trav- 
 erses the w<jrld without soiling the whiteness of her 
 feet. Moreover, this is but a simple portrait in pastel, 
 with a smile upon the lips, a shade ujion the brow, a 
 bourpiet of roses u])on the bosom. 
 
 Sophie Arnould was born in Paris, in the midst 
 of the carnival, in the year 1740. She was born in 
 tlie old mansion of Ponthieu, Hue Bcthisy, in the bed- 
 chamber whei'e Admiral dc Coligny was assassina- 
 ted, and where the beautiful Duchess of I^lontbazon 
 
 06
 
 422 SOPHIK ARXOULI). 
 
 died. "I entered tlie world tliroii^h u celebrated 
 door," Sophie Arntmld used to saj. While she was 
 yet a child, her mind had received a certain hue of 
 romance from the memor}' of the amours of Madame 
 de Montba/.on, and ]\[onsieur de Hance. This nld 
 mansion of Ponthieu had become a hotel imder the 
 management of tlio father and mother of So]>hie 
 Ariiould, These good people had five children ; l)ut 
 thanlcs to their good inclinations, and the revenue of 
 the hotel, these children Avei-e brought up with a 
 pious and affecting care. Sophie Arnonld had mas- 
 ters like a young lady of good family ; a music- 
 master, a dancing-master, a singing-master. She 
 earlv save evidence that she would sing in a way to 
 entice all the world ; never had an ancient syren 
 vaunted by the poets a voice more full of freshness 
 and melody. Iler mother knew that this voice was 
 a trcasnre. " AVe shall be as rich as princes," So])hie 
 Arnould used to say wlien a child ; " a good fairy 
 was present at my birth, who endowed me with the 
 power of changing at the sound of my voice, every- 
 thing into gold and diamonds ; others vomit toads 
 and serjK'nts, but I M'ill pour out floods of pearls, ru- 
 bies, and topazes."" 
 
 Iler mother took her to some ivligious comnnmi- 
 ties to sing rerpiiems. One day, at Val-de-Grace, 
 the Princess of ^lodena, who had gone into retire- 
 r-nent there, liaving heard the charming voice of 
 Sophie, ordered her to come to her liotel ; the young 
 girl had already considerable sprightliness of conver- 
 sation, she chatted with the grace and sweetness of a 
 bird ; she succeeded in charming the duchess, mIio 
 eaid to her, aiviui; her a necklace: "Mv beautiful
 
 ON THE ROAD TO THE OPERA. 423 
 
 girl, yon sing like an angel, yon have more gcnins 
 than an angel ! yonr fortnne is made." 
 
 From that day the name of Sophie Arnould be- 
 came cnrrent in the world ; her grace, her Leantifnl 
 eyes, her repartees, bnt especially her enchanting 
 voice, were spohen of everywhere. Monsienr de 
 Fondpertnis, the minister of the court-pleasnres, 
 came one day in his coach to take her to the Mar- 
 chioness de Pomi)adonr. " I forbid yon saying a 
 word," said the noble conrtesan, " do not speak bnt 
 sing." Sophie sang without nrgiiig, some of Phili- 
 dor's songs; never did a nightingale shake out of her 
 throat so many pearls, never did its song of spring- 
 tide penetrate the grove with more freshness ; it was 
 the dew of the morning which glistens in the sun's 
 rays. Madame de Pompadour applauded with en- 
 thusiasm. " Young girl, yon will make some day a 
 charming princess." Madame Arnould who was 
 present, fearing that her daughter was to play too 
 liiirh a part on this earthly stage, replied to the mar- 
 cliif/ness : " I do not know what you mean ; my daugh- 
 ter has not sufficient fortune to marry a jirince ; on 
 the other hand, she has been too well brought np to 
 become a princess of the theatre." 
 
 Notwithstainling, from that day, Sophie Arnould 
 was on tiie road to the opera. In order not to alarm 
 her mother, she was first told that her daughter was 
 enrolled only for the music of the king; but soon 
 Francfeur, superintendent of the royal music, urged 
 Sophie to enter the opera, telling iier that she owed 
 a duty to France, as well as to the king, and lliat all 
 the hearts in the kingdom wonld beat with ])leasure 
 in listening to her divine music. — "To go to the
 
 424 SOPHIE ARNOULD. 
 
 opera," she said, "is to go to the devil, but, how- 
 ever, tliat is my fate !" — We are all the same : v/e 
 lay our faults, whatever thej may be, at the door 
 of fate. ]\Iadame Arnould opjoosed it with all the 
 authority of a mother. — " It is not to the opera, but 
 to a convent you shall go," said she to Sophie, as she 
 locked her nj) in her room. Fortunately fur the devil, 
 %vho never foregoes his rights, the king of France 
 deigned to mingle in the pleasures of the public; he 
 signed an order connnanding So])hie to be conducted 
 to the opera, under the authority of the law. The 
 poor mother did not yet despair of saving that virtue 
 which M^as already so much subdued ; she watched 
 over her life with the greatest solicitude; she accom- 
 panied her to the opera, even to the green-room. 
 The rakes of 1757 might flutter about the singer; the 
 only favor they obtained was the overpowering look 
 of the mother ! 
 
 Sophie Arnould made her first appearance at the 
 age of seventeen. A jounuilist of the time thus de^ 
 scribes her api)earance at the opera: "She is the 
 most natural, the most unctuous, the most charming 
 actress, that ever was seen. She is not beautiful, but 
 she has all the attractions of beauty. She has not 
 been spoilt by masters ; she comes forth, just as she 
 is from the hands of Nature : in consequence, her 
 delmt was a triumph !" — The journalist was in error. 
 Soijhie Arnould had had masters, and she again 
 took others. Mademoiselle Fel taught her the art 
 of singing; Mademoiselle Clairon taught hci- the art 
 of acting. 
 
 Fifteen days after her first appcai'ance, Sophie 
 Arnould was worshipp^ed by all Paris. When she
 
 A LOVE KUSE. 425 
 
 appeared the opera was overwhelmed. — '-I doiiht," 
 said Freron, " whether people will give themselves 
 as much trouble to enter Paradise." — All the gentle- 
 men of the day disputed with each other the glory 
 of throwing bouquets at her feet whenever she ap- 
 peared behind the scenes. She passed along care- 
 lessly, as if she had been always accustomed to walk 
 upon flowers. Madame Arnould, who was herself a 
 woman of some cleverness, used to say to tliese im- 
 portunate gentlemen : " Do not sti-ew thorns upon 
 her path!" — But her mother might do her best; 
 might open wide her large eyes ; Love, M'ho is as 
 blind as a bat, managed to slip in between her and 
 her daughter. Among the young noblemen who ob- 
 stinately persevered in hovering about Sophie, the 
 Count de Lauraguais was tlie most desperately en- 
 amored of her: he was resolved upon victory. He 
 tried at first to carry oif the beauty from behind the 
 scenes : this first attempt failed. As he had a genius 
 for such things, and was fond of adventure, he con- 
 trived a plan that was more piquant. One evening 
 that he was supping with some friends, he declared 
 to them that 1»etbre a fortnight liad i)asscd, Madame 
 Arnould would not conduct her daughter anv longer 
 to the opei'a. Xext moi-ning a young ]u-ovincial poet 
 put up, under the name of Dorval,atthe Hotel Lisieux. 
 Ilis respectable a|)pearance and his modest air struck 
 ^Afadame Amould. He related to her, with a great 
 a])i)earancc of artless simjjlicity, the object of his 
 l<nn-nev: he ha<l left behind him in l^fonnandv his 
 mother, "who ivscndjles you, madamc," and his 
 sister, "who resembles Mademoiselle; Soj)liie," in 
 order to seek 1 is fortune in Paris as a literary man. 
 
 36^
 
 *2(i SOPIIIK ARNOULD. 
 
 — "Poor cliild!'' exelainicd ]\[a(liiine Anioiild, "why 
 did you not remain with yonr inotlicr and your 
 sister?" — "Do not despair yet. I have a tracjedy 
 Avitli nie Avorthy of being played hy Lekain arid 
 CUiiron. Oh, how many niii-lits of deliffht have I 
 spent over tliis work of my youtli ! To tell you tlie 
 triitli, it was not only glory that smiled npon me, 
 it was also love!" — As he spoke, Dorval cast the 
 glance of a serpent upon Sophie, who listened to him 
 with all the curiosity of her lieart. — "Yes, madame, 
 there is in my country a beautiful girl, a l)i-nnette, 
 full of life and spirit, made by love and for love : I 
 love her to madness I" — "That is a delightful mad- 
 ness," sighed Sophie, carried away by the impassioned 
 manner of the newly-arrived lodo-er. — "A delia'htful 
 madness!" said the mother, assuming a severe look; 
 "I would not advise you, my daughter, to foil into 
 it. As for you, sir, you are nmch to be pitied for 
 having come to I*aris to seek your fortune in the 
 company of poetry and love ! To be in love and to 
 be a poet at the same time, is to be doubly ruined !" 
 — "I am not of your opinion," said Dorval, while re- 
 garding Sophie with passion; "have I not all the 
 treasures of the heart in mv hand ?" — "That's enouffh 
 nonsense for to-day," said Madame Arnould, inter- 
 rupting them ; " Monsieur Dorval, besides, is fotigued, 
 no doubt. There is the key of his room." — "Alas!" 
 thought Sophie, who already loved to play upon 
 words, "he carries off the key of my heart!" 
 
 Love is everlastingly forced to play a part, to 
 make use of masks, surj^rises, and deceptions. The 
 love which goes straight ahead upon the great com- 
 mon highway never arrives, but dies half-way; but
 
 AN ABDUCIIOX. 427 
 
 tli3 love wliich travels by a concealed path never 
 misses its object ; it takes by snrprise, and all is 
 accomplished. AVomen seek something besides love 
 in the heart of man ; they seek also intrigue. They 
 always appreciate the romance which is i)repared to 
 overcome them, for, for them, love is a romance. 
 The more it is involved, the more it entices them. 
 The Count de Lauraaruais understood women well. 
 Arriving from !N^ormandv, in the character of an art- 
 less and imaginative poet, who comes to Paris to 
 seek fflorv with which to crown his mistress, was it 
 not presenting himself like a veritable Don Juan at 
 the feet of an actress, who, at first sight was ready 
 to give him her heart? It must be said, to the j^raise 
 of Sophie Arnould, that she had never taken notice 
 of the count de Lauraguais behind the scenes of the 
 opera, where he always appeared with the importance 
 of an hereditary prince. She loved Dorval at first 
 sight, who appeared to her in tiie sad condition of a 
 poor poet from the provinces. 
 
 The conquest was ra})id ; at the end of a week 
 Dorval carried ofi" So))hie from the Hotel Lisieux. 
 Xever was a ravishment more gentle and impas- 
 sioned ; he carried her in his arms fully half an hour. 
 He had made an a])pointment with his lacquey, but 
 he had mistaken the street. Half a century after- 
 ward, the Count de Lauraguais having become a peer 
 of France, and Duke of Draiicas, descril)ed this ro- 
 mantic ravishuient with all the fire of youth : "Siie 
 was Psyche, I was Zei»hyr. I had wings, the wings 
 of love. Poor frightened turtle-dove! slie lay so 
 lightly u])on my bo^oni that I wa>^ afraid of her Hying 
 away. She began to weej). 'What will my mother
 
 i5S SOPHIE ARNOULD. 
 
 Bivy r — 'I liave a liooJ of tliainoiids for yon.' — 'My 
 poor mother I' — ' I liave also a necklace of the finest 
 ]iearls.' — '"Wiio ^vill console her?' — 'By-the-l>y, I 
 forgot to tt'll you that I have hired a little hotel for 
 yon, somewhat better furnished than the Lisieux ho- 
 tel.' " At this moment, the count succeeded in lind- 
 inn; his carriage; "Tlie remainder may be guessed, 
 that is the reason I say nothing about it." 
 
 This event put the whole court and ciry in connno- 
 tion ; Madame Lauraguais and Sophie Arnould were 
 both pitied. It is known that the Count de Laura- 
 guais defied public opinion, like a beautiful gii-1 du- 
 ring the carnival, who changes her disguise each 
 day. Sophie was already the fashion in the world of 
 wicked passions. Her fame shone with a si)lendid 
 brilliancy ; she had never before been compared but 
 to Oi'pheus, she was now compared to Sappho and 
 Ninon. As she possessed a fluent readiness of 
 speech, a great freedom of thought, and a Avanton 
 grace of style, it was soon settled that she had gtitli- 
 ered the heritage of Fontenelle and Piron ; eveiy one 
 of her repartees ]\asscd from mouth to mouth, froiiiYer- 
 sailles to the Courtille. She was celebrated by the whole 
 ])leiad of the poets, the warblers of the times. This 
 was not the whole of her glory ; the whole Encyclo- 
 psedia met at her house, in order to study philosophy in 
 full liberty : it must be mentioned that the sui)j)ei's at 
 Sophie Arnould's were better than any others. Proud 
 of her success in society, she did not forget the opera, 
 the true theatre of her glory ; she always sang with 
 a fresh and melodious voice ; slie acted besides with 
 all the grace, and all the sentiment of a great ac- 
 tress. GaiTick, dm*ing his visit to Paris, declared
 
 THE WIFE AXD TUE MTSfllFSS. 429 
 
 that Mademoiselle Amoiild was the only actress of 
 the opera that pleased his e^yes, and moved his 
 heart. 
 
 In spite of the remonstrances of the court, tlie 
 Count de Lauraguais continued to live with her un- 
 der the same roof. Madame de Lam-aguais, who Avas 
 a model of an injured woman, sold her diamonds in 
 order that her husband might do honor to his ranh ; 
 but God only knows how many diamonds it would 
 have been necessary to sell, in order to support tlio 
 luxury of Sophie Arnould : her hotel Avas a palace, 
 her saloon a rich museum, her toilette fit for a fairy. 
 In the midst of such a life of wild and profuse ex- 
 pense, would it be believed ? the Connt de Laura- 
 guais and Mademoiselle Amould. loved each other 
 with the tenderest affection. 
 
 Four years passed in this way, to the great snr- 
 prise of the friends of the count and of the singer. 
 Never did such a love take its rise upon tlio boards 
 of the opera. Sophie Arnould, as nn'ght be i;na- 
 gined, was tiie first to grow weary ; during the count's 
 absence for a short time, she decided that it was 
 time to break the connection; she did not mIsIi to 
 keep anytliing of his, she ordered a can-iage, put her 
 jewels into it, her laces, her letters, all that remind- 
 ed her of the ha])])iness she had had in his comjiany. 
 "Go," said she to her lacquey, "order the cari'iagc 
 to drive to the house of Madame de Lauraguais; all 
 that it contains belongs to her." When tlie laccpiey 
 was about obeying her orders, she called him back : 
 "Wait, I have forgotten one very important matter." 
 She sent for her waitinj' women," Tiriny; me the count's 
 two children. Thev certainly belonj; to him,*' said
 
 430 SOPHIE ARNOULD. 
 
 she as she walked backward and forward in liei 
 apartment. The two children Avere brought, one was 
 still in his cradle, the other had just begun to lisp a few 
 words. She kissed them both and bid them farewell. 
 " Here," said she to her lacquey, " La Prairie, take 
 these children in the carriage, and cany them off 
 with the rest of the things." La Prairie obeyed with- 
 out saying a word ; he drove straight to the Hotel 
 Lauraguai?!, where the countess was all alone. The 
 poor woman i-eceived the children and sent back tiie 
 jewels. The women of the eighteenth century have 
 been often reviled ; ought not this act do a great deal 
 in the way of absolution ? are there not a great many 
 Women of the present day who would have kept the 
 jewels, and sent back the children ? 
 
 The love of the two lovers did not end here. Af- 
 ter some iididelitv, thev returned to the first starting- 
 point. It had created great scandal, it was still 
 greater when the reconciliation became known. The 
 count made several journeys ; it is understood that 
 during his absence, Sophie Arnould allowed her 
 heart to go a travelling. " Oh ! cruel one," said the 
 count to her on his return, " you have been a greater 
 traveller than I have been." — " A rolling stone gath- 
 ei-s no moss," she replied, "but alas ! my heart has 
 gathered a good deal of ennui. Tiie Prince dTIe- 
 nin, was nearly the death of me with his bouquets, 
 his madrigals, and his money ; it was a veritable 
 shower of love." — " Wait," said the count, " I will 
 deliver you from tliis troublesome prince." On the 
 same day, 11th Febi-uaiy, 1774, he called together 
 four doctors belonging to the faculty of Paris : " I 
 have an imjjortant question for your decision," said
 
 EETTKES FROM THE OPERA. 431 
 
 be to tlicni ^vith great gravity ; " I want to Icnow if it 
 is possible to die of enmii." After a profound de- 
 liberation, the doctors decided the question in the 
 affirmative. They justified their 0])inion in a long 
 preamble, and then signed it with the most serious 
 air in the world. " Aiid its remedy?" asked the 
 count : they decided that it was necessary that the 
 mind of the patient should be diverted, tliut there 
 should be a change of scene and of society. With this 
 writing in his possession, the count went straight to a 
 commissioner, to make a charge against the Prince 
 d'llenin, of worrying Mademoiselle Arnould with 
 attentions, to the extent of killing her Avitli ennui. 
 "I demand in consequence, an injunction iipmi the 
 prince,, to prev^cnt him from visiting the singer until 
 she is free from the disease of ennui, with which she 
 is attacked, and which will be her death in the opin- 
 ion of the faculty, which would be a public as well 
 as a private misfortune." It n>ight be guessed that 
 such a joke would end in a duel. The prince and 
 the count fought with each other to such good — or 
 bad — purpose, that on the very evening of the duel, 
 they met each other at the house of Sophie Arnould. 
 
 A little while before the revolution, slie abandoned 
 the theatre, the passions of the opera, and the passions 
 of the world, for retirement in tiie country. She imi- 
 tated A''oltaire, Clioiseul, Ijoiifflers : she was enthusi- 
 astically fond of farming, like the queen Marie-An- 
 toinette; she kept cows and sheep; she nuide l)utUT 
 and cheese ; she made her own hay and gathered 
 lier own j)eas. 
 
 In the midst of the revolution she sold her little 
 est^ite, in order to buv a house at Lu/archcs which had
 
 432 sorniK arnould, 
 
 l>clongecl to the peiiitotit? of tlie third order of'Fi-an 
 eif^caiis. As she was always clever, she had the follow- 
 ing inscription put over licr door: Ite tnissa est. She 
 busied herself about her salvation and death. Tiiis 
 Avonum, who like a Magdalen, had made her heart 
 the sport of every Avind of the spring, had ]>rofaned 
 lier soul by all kinds of wicked love, prepared her- 
 self for death Avith a kind of cloistral voluptuousness. 
 At the end of her ])ark, in a ruined convent, she had 
 built her tomb, and inscribed upon the stone the fol- 
 lowing passage from Scripture : — 
 
 Mnlta remittunlur ei peccata, quia dilexil multum. 
 
 Would it be believed? The sans-culottes of Luzarches 
 disturbed her in her retreat, taking her for a mm! 
 They made a domiciliary visit one morning to the 
 house of the penitents. — "My friends," said she, "1 
 was born a free woman ; I have always been an ac^ 
 ive citizen, and know the rights of man by heart." — 
 The sans-culottes would not trust to her word ; they 
 were about taking her to prison, when one of them 
 observed a marble bust upon a bracket; it was 
 Sophie Arnould, in the character of I])higenia; this 
 man, deceived, no doubt, by the scarf of the priestess, 
 thonght it was the bust of Marat. — " She is a good 
 citizen woman," said he, as he bowed to the marble 
 bust. 
 
 Sophie Arnoidd had still left an income of thirty 
 thousand francs, and friends without end. In less 
 than two years, she lost all her fortune and her 
 friends. She returned to Paris with a few things 
 saved from the wreck. A bad lawyer, who liad the 
 management of her property, succeeded in com])let)ng
 
 ITER MISERV. 433 
 
 her rnin. She fell into absolute misery and profound 
 6olitnd(;. She knocked in vain at the doors of all those 
 wlio had loved her. She knocked, indeed, at many 
 a door, but it was like knocking upon their tombs ! 
 those who had loved her were no lono-er there. The 
 prison, exile, and the scaffold, had dispersed them 
 for ever. She was reduced to the extremitv of askin"; 
 aid from a hair-dresser who had dressed her hair 
 during her better days. This man lived in the rue 
 Petit-Lion, lie gave her an asylum, but in a miser- 
 able nook, without light and without a fireplace, 
 where the poor woman shivered with cold and wasted 
 away. She paid dearly for her past greatness ; cer- 
 tainly Mary ]\Iagdalen never underwent so severe a 
 penance. Notwithstanding, she still sung. — "That 
 voice," says a biographer, "which resounded like 
 thunder in Arniida, and which faintly sighed in 
 Psyche, vras heard mingling in the mystic concerts 
 of some obscure religious sects ; the reflection upon 
 the uncertainty of events and the mystery of fate, 
 found utterance in a moan !" 
 
 One day that she Avas as usual shivering in her 
 room, without complaining, and not despairing of her 
 star, rebuikling for the thousandth time the- castle 
 of the happy days of her life, the hair-dresser entered 
 her chamber. — "Well!" said she to him, good- 
 naturedly, " is that the way to come into a room, 
 without knocking?" — "This is," tinily, the time Tor 
 joking I" said the hair-dresser, with an angry inan- 
 nei'; "do you know what has occurred? 'J'liey cor- 
 taiiiiy take my wig foi-the sign of an imi. The Count 
 de T — has just alighted at my shop." — "1'he p(»or 
 man!" e.xchiimed Sophia Ai'uouhl. — "He comes 
 
 37
 
 434 floi'ItllO AUNOUIJ). 
 
 ineoo;. froiri Gei'iiianv, without a son. The Lord be 
 ]>i';ii6e(] ! ](" nil the ])eo|)le Avlioge li:iir I iiave dressed 
 should coiiK! to inc for food and ]od<j,iii^-, I sliall have 
 my share !" 
 
 kSophie Aiiiould went d()wii into the slio]x — '"Is it 
 you? " exclaimed the Count do T — , throwini;- him- 
 self u])on her neck. — "It appears to me, indeed, like 
 a romance. Exile nnist be hai'd to bear, since yon are 
 willinii to come back to this citv, all deluired in blood, 
 \vhere you have no friends. Believe nie, you M'ill 
 lind yourself more of an exile in Paiis than at the 
 court of the king of Prussia." — " AV^hat matters it ?" 
 said the Count de T — , " have I not found one heart 
 that remembers me?" — They embraced each other 
 again, and swore that tliey never should be parted. 
 Tlie hair-dresser lodged his new guest in a garret in 
 the fifth story. At break of day, Sophie Arnould went 
 up stairs to him with a cup of coffee in her hand ; 
 they shared it together, in a fraternal way, after which 
 they talked of i)ast times, in order to try and forget 
 somewhat the anguish of the pi'esent. At diimer- 
 time, the hair-dresser begged tliem to come down into 
 liis back-shop, whei-e they all dined, the best they 
 could, at the same table. — "I have only one table and 
 one porringer," said the honest fellow ; if it was not 
 for that, I would not take the libei'ty of dining with 
 you ; but," added he, with a spice of roguery, "differ- 
 ent times, different manners!" 
 
 A curious cha])ter might l)e written upon this in- 
 terior of the hair-dresser, harboring two such illus- 
 trious guests. There would be more than one ])i(piant 
 saying, more than one philosophical thought, moi-e 
 than one jiictui'e of deej) human interest to b(! col-
 
 RESTORED HAPPINESS. 435 
 
 lected. It is very ranch to be regretted that Sopliie 
 Arnonkl, wlio wrote such channing letters, did not 
 describe in detail her residence in the Hue dn Petit 
 Lion. It is not known what became of the Count do 
 T — ; I could never find out his real name. The 
 memoirs of the daj' say that he had been, in his 
 youth, " one of the handsomest pluckers of grapes 
 from the esjjcdler of the opei'a." 
 
 Sophie found her good star again before death. 
 Fouche had been one of her lovers; having become 
 a minister in 1708, he held one morning a supposed- 
 highly important audience with a woman who was 
 said to have some secrets of state to communicate. 
 He recognised Sophie Arnould, listened to her his- 
 tory with emotion, and decided at once that a woman 
 who had enchanted by her voice and her ej'es, all 
 hearts for the space of twenty years, deserved a na- 
 tional recompense ; he consequently bestowed upon 
 lier a government pension of twenty-four hundred 
 livres, and ordered an apartment in the Hotel d'An- 
 gevilliers to be given her. Sophie Aiiiould, who on 
 the evening befoie was without a single friend, found 
 troops of them visiting her at her new residence. 
 All the poets of the day, who were bad poets, all the 
 actors, all the fi-equentei'S of the Caveau, assembled 
 ill hei- house as if It had been anotiier Hotel Ilam- 
 Ijouillet, oidy, instead of affected conceits, true French 
 gayety ovei'flowed there. 
 
 It might be ])0ssible, like the biogiaj)li('rs, to (putte 
 some of the sayings of So])hie Arnould ; but this 
 kind of wit is not cmic;iit now-a-days among (h'ccnt 
 ft>lks; it is the wit over one's wine, as was said <if 
 Dancourt's wit. Among the sayings that might bo
 
 436 SOIMIIE ARNOULD. 
 
 quoted to the Cjlory of tliis gay, free and original wit, 
 let ns not Ibrget the following : ]\[a(lenioisellc Gui- 
 nuird had writren a letter to Sophie full of malice, in 
 which the latter was chari>;ed with having connnitted 
 the seven capital sins seven times a day. She re- 
 plied as follows, " I douhle you^^^ and she signed her 
 name. 
 
 She had llnlhieres and Beanmarcliais for lovers. 
 She has been charged with having often borrowed lier 
 wit from her lovers. Why are not her lovers charged 
 with having shone with hers ? 
 
 In 1802, at the same time there was bnried withont 
 pomp, withont noise, and without show, three women 
 who, for nearly half a century, had tilled France 
 with the brilliancy of their beauty, the j)omp of their 
 talent, or the noise of their amours; Sophie Ar- 
 nould, Mademoiselle Clairon, and Madame Dumesnil. 
 Sophie Arnould, while confessing during her last 
 .hour, related to the cure of Saint-Germain L'Auxcr- 
 .vois, all her wicked love-passions. When she de- 
 scribed to him the fierce jealousy of the Count de 
 Lauraguais, him Mdiom she had loved the most, the 
 cure said to her, " My good woman, what liad times 
 you have past^ed through." — " Oh !" exclaimed she 
 with tears in her eyes, '" they were good times! I 
 was so miserable !" This heartfelt touch, that a poet 
 has given in verse, consoles me for all the Mdclicd 
 wit of Soplue Araould.
 
 MARIE-ANTOINETTE AT THE TIIIAN(»K. 
 
 A EUSTIC MASK IX ONE ACT, 
 
 AT THE LITTLE TRIANON' ON THE BORDERS OK A LAKE. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 THE QUF.F.N, MAUFE-ANTOINETTE. 
 
 Now I am 110 ]oni:;cr the queen ; lici'c I tun simply 
 a woman, the Immljlest one in tlie kingdom. God 
 be praised ! little birds, celeltrate my j«»y in song as 
 yon (\<) your own. ^h\y your warblinii;* rcaeli tbo 
 lieavcns with the perl'iimc of the roses f Annonnce 
 to the God of Nature that the best days of my life 
 liave been ]>assed in this ]»ark, in the shade of the 
 cdicstnut ^I'oves, u])on this verdant turf, in the retire- 
 ment of these humble cottages, sailing idly in these 
 barks! It is hen; alone that I can ])artake of the 
 blessings of eai'th and sky, of the sun and ol" love. 
 
 ^Sht; iii seated on the liordcra of a Ijkr, anil leans lier head U[)i>ii he 
 haml.) 
 
 37*
 
 438 MARIE-ANTOINETTE. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 THE QUEICN, MADAME DE POLIGNAC. 
 
 jMADAME DE POLIGNAC. Maclamc, jou are in a pen' 
 sive mood ! 
 
 THE QUEEN. All ! is it you? an agreeable surprise ! 
 Do you know what I was thinking of? 
 
 MADAME DE POLIGNAC. The luippiuess of your sub- 
 jects. 
 
 TiiE QUEEN. You are Avrong ; liavc I any subjects 
 when I am here ? I was just in che iiumor to de- 
 claim in the old-fashioned way against the throne. 
 
 MADAME DE POLIGNAC. Not agaiust the throne of 
 beaut>' and of grace. 
 
 TUE QUEEN. Agaiust the throne of kings, the sad- 
 dest prison-house that can be found on earth. For- 
 merly at Yienna, I was as free as the bulfinchcs 
 that sing. I sang myself then ! Why was I so blind 
 as to be caught in the snare ? You see, my beauti- 
 ful duchess, you will never know in what chains I 
 drag out mv life. 
 
 MADAME DE POLIGNAC. Cluiins forgcd of flowcrs. 
 
 THE QUKKX. Chains of flowers ! Alas, the first link 
 is Louis XVI. ; who knows who will be the last ! A 
 thousand tinlcs lia])iiier are those who arc born into 
 the world in an liund)1c wicker cradle ; they do not 
 ])ossess a kingdom, but they have their life to them- 
 selves. 
 
 MADAME DE POLIGNAC. No onc is thc mistress of her 
 own life, God alone has the power to govern all here 
 below. 
 
 THE QrjEEN. Ah ! if I was not queen of France;
 
 SCENE THIKD. 439 
 
 joii would see how I would pass niv life according 
 to mvown inclination. AVould God binder me from 
 breathing the free air, from climbing the hills, from 
 plucking the daisy and the primrose ? How happy 
 would I be to carry my rye-crust to the valley, drink 
 at the spring, aud seat myself on the rock ? The 
 bread, tlie water of the s])ring, all these would be 
 mine, while, as queen of France, you know, to be- 
 lieve those spouting philosophers, the bread I eat is 
 the bread of my subjects, the water I drink is the 
 sweat of the labor of the people. If I am seen to 
 smile, there is a scandal at once, on the pretext that 
 there is misery in France. What is left to me then, 
 to me ? Believe me, I am poorer than any peasant- 
 woman ; her misery is blessed of heaven; her cabin 
 is in ruins, but has she not the whole valley for a 
 dwelling-})lace ? has she not tents formed by the green 
 trees, which God himself u])holds? In drinking from 
 tlie running stream, she has no golden goblet, but it 
 is much pleasanter to drink out of her hand. Be- 
 sides, the little she has is lier own, her tin plates, her 
 cotttiu curtains, her coarse linen petticoat; it is the 
 fruit of her labor; and I, Avhat have I, I ask? 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Tin-; (U'EKN. MAPAMK 1)E POMGNAC. COUNT DARTOIS, afuncard, 
 •MADAMK DE COIONV, AND MADAME D'ADHKMAll. 
 
 cor.NT d'aktots. All the licai'ts of the kintrdom, 
 /oin the heart of tlie kin*; ... . 
 
 viiK QfKKX. Stoji : Mlicre there is nothing, tlu' queen 
 i«.ses lii-r rights.
 
 i-lO MARIE-ANTOINETTE. 
 
 Well, how sliall Mc ji.oss the afternoon ? Are we to 
 have an audience of her majesty the queen of France 
 and Navarre, or of lier majesty, Jeanette tlie dairy- 
 nuiid, with her bare arms (■ Ai'e we to liave the 
 })leasure of behohling tliose wliite hands milkinrj tlic 
 cows feedin<jj vonder? 
 
 THE COUNT d'aktois. AVcll, I am ready for anything. 
 Let the queen command, and I am at the feet of 
 Jeanette. 
 
 the queen {smiling). Rise, count. 
 
 THE COUNT d'artois {wko had remained standing^ 
 falls 0)1 his hnees). I obey. 
 
 THE QUEEN {tuming tovKird Madame de Coigny). 
 What have you in your hand, duchess ? 
 
 5IADAJHE DE COIGN Y. Do you uot See, it is a seal ? 
 A rose suiTounded with butterflies, bees, hornets, and 
 }'oung girls. 
 
 THE QUEEN {reading the motto). "See what it is to 
 be a rose." Give me this seal, we will make a queen 
 of the rose. 
 
 MADAME DE pouiGNAc. What comcdv sliall we pUiy 
 to dav ? Shall it be the Preciciises Ridicules f 
 Who will be the audience ? the kinj; is not here. 
 
 COUNTESS d'adhemar {in a v^hisjyer to the queen). 
 There he comes ; it is he. The Abbe de Yermont 
 has recognised him. 
 
 THE queen {somevihat excited). Ladies, I am not 
 in the humor to day for a comedy ; I have a passion 
 for solitude at present. In the evening, perhaps, we 
 may return to Our usual }»leasant amusements, m 
 the meantime, I will have a rcvery under the shado 
 (.f my willow that I ])lanted. Would it not seem that 
 I IukI prepared a shade for my tondj.
 
 scp:ne fol'Kth. 441 
 
 THE ccuKT d'artois. The f[ueen lias put on crape, 
 I Y'iW not say upon her cro\vn, but upon her heart. 
 Beauty, is it not '^orn to smile ? 
 
 MADAME i)K I'or.iGXAC. There are some tears more 
 hcautii'ul than smiles, is it not so, Madame de Coig- 
 nv ? Yuu know it is so, you who weep so ajn'oj^os ! 
 
 MADAME DK coiGXY (itvVA ail cur of vexation). I do 
 not hide myself in order to weep. 
 
 viiK QUEEN- {ir/ij)(fth'nfli/). Flap your wings, my 
 pretty birds, go warble elsewhere yom* gay babble, 
 do me the favor of giving me an horn* of solitude. Sol- 
 itude is the counsellor of kings. 
 
 THE COUNT d'artois. Solitude is good for kings but 
 not for queens. 
 
 THE QUEEN {addrcssing Madame d" Adhemar'). 
 I want to speak to you. 
 
 (The count, after a low bow, accompnnies Matlame de Polignac, and 
 Madame de Coigny toward the great Trianon.) 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 THE QUKEN AND jrADAME D'ADUEMAR. 
 
 MADAME d\\1)Iii;.mak. I did not hope to see you so 
 Boon all alone. 
 
 THE QUEEN. You say then that he is yonder? 
 
 MADAME d'adhemar. Ycs, vondcr with the garden- 
 ers, whom he is giving some good lessons, according 
 to tlie abiie. It is full a week now, since he has been 
 in tlie hj!.l)it of coming here to walk. I was far from 
 8ns|>ecling that it was iiim, I thought he had been in 
 exile. The ])oor fellow! he lias not the air of a lord 
 by any means. 
 
 THE QUEEN. IIc Is liowcvcr a great lord in his way
 
 442 M AltlE- ANTOI^s'ETTE. 
 
 Most great loids ineivly represent a name, lie rop -e- 
 scnts a man, and sucli a man ! lie lias L^-own greai 
 with good and liad passions ; the ])assi()ns are tlie 
 coiUiicts of philosophy. His genins at least dotis not 
 smell of the college, it has the fi-eshness of a solitan' 
 valley. How eloquent he is at the sight of Nature ! 
 if God is liis master, Nature is his school. He lis- 
 tens and he sings. His is the voice of the woods and 
 the brooks ; his is a heart whidi speaks, and not the 
 echo of a book. The writers of the c:reat Sice almoiifc 
 all exhale the flavor of the liarren dust of the liltrR- 
 ry ; in him there is a good rustic flavor. Olliere ava 
 mere echoes of a youth passed among books : Eous- 
 seau is an echo of a youtli passed on the mountains. 
 He recalls the pasture, the snow, the periwinkle ; he 
 makes you breathe the air of the forest. Others take 
 you to walk in a royal garden, on straight and well- 
 swept walks ; instead of listening to the wild conceits 
 of the storm, the hymns of the morning, the songs 
 of the evening, you hear the music of the hai-p. 
 
 MADAAfE d'adukmak. I ]»assed backward and for- 
 ward by him, in order to have a good look at him ; 
 he is hardlv tamed vet : the other day Monsieur do 
 Saint Fargeau's dog attacked him ; Monsieur de 
 Saint Fargeau thinking him hurt, ran to him all in i\ 
 fright : " Can I be »if any service to you ?•' — " Chain 
 up yom- dog," was all the replj' : he might pass for a 
 Diogenes, don't you think so ? wlien he caught sight 
 of me, he put on the look of an owl. 
 
 THE QUEEN. Of an owl that looks at the sun. It 
 was your beauty that dazzled him. 
 
 .MADA^iE D'AniiKMAii. Hc lookod at me with a
 
 SCENK FOURTH. 443 
 
 stealthy glance, ti-ying to conceal himself among the 
 trees. 
 
 THE QUEEN. He IS there ! If he should recognise 
 ine ? fortunately he has never seen me. 
 
 MADAME d'adhemae. But if hc sccs yoii, ho\v can 
 he help recognl;>ing the queen ? 
 
 THE QUEEN. lie is a savage — he only half looks at 
 the women. My dress, besides, has nothing about it 
 whicii can discover me. I will assmne an air of iii- 
 differonce ; do vou think that the orardeners will snc- 
 ceed in bringing him to us within the enclosure of 
 the little Trianon ? 
 
 MADAME d'adhemak. The Abbe de Vermont has 
 performed his part admirably : beholding him at the 
 gate lo>t in a revery without crossing the thresliokl, 
 he ar^ked the gardeners, as he made signs to them, 
 if the little Trianon was opened to day for strangers. 
 "It will be in half an hour," the gardeners replied. 
 " I will wait then," said the abbe, " and I also," said 
 the savage. Thereup(»n he approaches the gardeners 
 to talk over^sith them their plans without further 
 ceremony. In a few minutes the abl»e will return, 
 he svill follow without doubt, although he may not 
 care to take the same jiath. 
 
 THE QUEEX. lIc would uot like to come this way 
 if he should see us. 
 
 MADAME D'AryllEMAK. WllO kuOWS ? It is Oulv tllG 
 
 ii:en he avoids. If there were all women in this M'orld, 
 Gc<l preserve us I perhaps he would be m(»rc sociable. 
 
 \\\)i QUEE.v. Is not that him that I see through the 
 gate? 
 
 MADAME d'adiiemai:. Ycs, tliut's tlic uuin of Irutb 
 and of luiturc.
 
 44-i MAKD-rANTOINKTTE. 
 
 THE QUEEN. Do jou SGG hliii ? liorc he coiiKis bciian: 
 xini!;. But see how pale I am, and liow I blush ! 
 
 ^[ADAME t/adiiemau. You, bet'orc whom the whole 
 world gi'ows pale and blushes ! 
 
 THE QUEKN. I oul V believed in the majesty of titles, 
 and I tremble before the majesty of genius. 
 
 MADAME d'adhemak. Tou See that he is n t afraid 
 of ns ; he has been told, that he would perhaps meet 
 some German or Flemish women. 
 
 the queen. Admirable. Let ns go without cere- 
 mony, and ask him what he is doing at the Trianon. 
 
 SCENE V, 
 
 THE SAME, JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU. 
 
 MADAME d'adhemar {speoktug with a German ac- 
 cent). Will you accompany us to see this retreat? 
 We are strangers ; what village is this ? 
 
 JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU {bowing). I am a stranger 
 myself, and live at a great distance from the court. 
 1 came here for nature, which shows itself here and 
 there, although they are doing their best to conceal 
 it. I can not tell much of what passes at the Trianon. 
 
 THE QUEEN. The walls of the court are not so high, 
 but what is doins; there can be seen. 
 
 JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU. I always pass by without 
 looking that way. Is it worth the trouble to raise 
 one's head to behold the follies of the court, ween 
 one is obliged in spite of himself to witness the folly 
 of the t^)wn? Dressed in siik or linen, is it not 
 always the same folly? 
 
 THE QUEEN. You scc the world without its illi- 
 sions.
 
 BOfiiTPj Fmn. 445 
 
 .rF-,A2;-JACQirES EoussEAL'. I See the world as it ia. 
 Is it not our folly which makes lis all go to listen to 
 the denouemeKt f God calculated on our tolly, in 
 creating the world. So, what does the spectator be- 
 hold 'i the spectacle of folly. 
 
 THK QUEKX {(uidc). He is mad. {Aloud) Folly, 
 if vou will : what matters if it is asrreeable ? You 
 know, without doubt, from hearsay, what goes on 
 here ; what these cottages are for, why these cows 
 arc pasturing in the (]ueen's park ? This is by no 
 means a mystery at Paris. 
 
 JEAN-.IACQUES ROUSSEAU. I should givc but a poor 
 account of what I know so little about. 
 
 THE QUEEN. What is the origin .... 
 
 .TEAX-JACQUES ROUSSEAU. Louis XIV. dcsigucd tllC 
 
 Grand Trianon, to have a refuge from Versailles du- 
 ring his days of amorous pleasure : Louis XV. de- 
 signed the Petit Trianon, in order to liave a refuge from 
 the Grand. It is here that Madame Dubarry had the 
 train of her petticoat borne by a negro, while wait- 
 ing the good jd'iasure of the king. It is a charming 
 ]thice ; why must we stumble against such recollec- 
 tions? Fortunately, the queen, Marie-Antoinette, 
 has diffused here tlie perfume of her grace and beauty. 
 
 TUE QUEEN {catching her hreath). Have you seen 
 tlie rpieen ? 
 
 .lEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU. I luivc uot sccu her, but I 
 have imagined hei*. She had for lier masters, Maria 
 Thuresa, ^letastasio, and (iluck ; she knows that the 
 Ijlood ol" the Civsars Hows in her veins. II<»w could 
 she fail to liave, I will not say, the nobility and dig- 
 nity of a queen, but ol" a woman? 
 
 Tin: QUEEN. Yes, the Abbe Metastasio gave lessons 
 
 88
 
 J-iO M A Kl K-ANn )I\ KTVK. 
 
 to jMurie-Aiitoiiiotte {recalllnf/ the thouyhos of /i,:.T 
 chihlhood) : — 
 
 lo perdei : laugusta figl'a . . , 
 
 JKAN-JACQUES KoussKAu. Tliuiik God, the queen 
 does not imitate Madame Dubany; she does not 
 drag a negro at the skirt of her robe; she does not 
 come here, for a wornout wanton. 
 
 THE QUEEN. Aiid wliat does she do here ? 
 
 JEAN-JACQUES EoussEAu. She conies here to revive 
 tlie recollections of her childhood ; she comes to for- 
 get the golden cares of a throne. These rustic en- 
 joyments have been always to the taste of a court : 
 the shepherdess alwaj's dreams of the happiness of 
 a queen, queens seek the happiness of shei)herdesses. 
 Tender Louis XIY., the same taste prevailed ; read 
 the memoirs of Mademoiselle de Montpensier. Fur 
 tlie regency, behold the rustic masques of Watteau. 
 
 THE QUEEN. These cottages are quite a village ; what 
 is the village for ? 
 
 JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU. It is a scliool of good gov- 
 ernment {.wiiUng maliciously). Unfortunately for 
 royalty, the king is always de troj) in this village. 
 "When tlie king is away, everything goes on famous- 
 ly : when he is present, it is all over ; there is no more 
 laughing, no more singing, there is no more happi- 
 ness. Yonder is the Marlborough tower ; but when 
 raadnme ascends her Unnei\ it is to see that the king 
 
 IS not coTnmor. 
 
 THE QUEEN {somcwitat distuvljed). Isn't there a 
 theatre. 
 JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU. Yes, as if the farce played
 
 SCENE FIFTH. 417 
 
 at court was not enough ! "When a woman has the 
 misfortune to be a queen, she becomes so wearied of 
 har station, that she tries constantly to disguise lierself 
 as a shepherdess, sometimes as an actress ; but she 
 may do her best, it is the same heart that grows 
 weary, and searches everywhere. 
 
 THE QUEEN. For wluvt docs she search? 
 
 jEAN-.rACQCES KoussEAu. For that which can not be 
 found at the court ; liberty, love, solitude, all that 
 constitutes happiness here below, or rather the shad- 
 ow of happiness. 
 
 THE QUEiiN. Is there not the same happiness at court 
 as elsewhere ? 
 
 JEAN-JACQUES KOUSSEAU. At the court there is noth- 
 ing to be found but pleasure ; and if happiness, as 
 the wise man has said, is a diamond, pleasure is only 
 a drop of water {tinging Osvound to look at the mcadr 
 oio). It might be said truly that happiness dwells 
 here. The Trianon is an Eden, where there is noth- 
 ing wanting but the apple to pluck. This place con- 
 soles me somewhat for the park of Le N6tre. 
 
 TMK QUEEN. What! is not then the splendor of Ver- 
 sailles to vonr taste ? 
 
 JEAN-JACQUES KOUSSEAU. I can not feel at my easo 
 there ; its formal magnificence, its trees cut to meas- 
 ure, its fountains imprisoned in marble, all its choice 
 wonders are not in my way. 1 can not breathe fively 
 thei-e, I who am imt clothed in purple. I am always 
 afraid of meeting there a haughty and foolish court, 
 that would laugh at my threadljare coat and my pen- 
 sive air, or rather I am always in fear of meeting ono 
 of Le Notre's ganleners, ready to cut my hair, and 
 trim my beard, as if I were some wild tree. At least,
 
 i4S MAKIP>ANTOINH-TTE. 
 
 Uicre is aii illusion about an English garden, the freo 
 doni that the trees seem to have of <2;rowiii<r as thcv 
 please, without having to submit to the sacrilege of 
 the pruning-knifo, nuikes me imagine I am at liberty, 
 I come and go like a lord in liis manor, for when I 
 see nature as God has created it, I fancy myself at 
 home. It is there where I build my castles in the air. 
 
 tup: queen. 1 understand you ; but why do you 
 fear and fly from all who are clothed in purple ? 
 Kings are more to be pitied than feared. 
 
 .JEAN-JACQL'KS KoussEAu. It is clcar, that they are 
 feared, avoided. Why should they be pitied ? Gild- 
 ed misfortunes awaken no pity. 
 
 THE QUEEN. You are a republican, sir ; it is on this 
 account that yon hate kings. 
 
 JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU. Oil, madamc ! I do not 
 luite even my enemies, notwithstanding they have 
 done me deep wrong. 
 
 THE QUEEN {lolth a suvpHsed look). You, sir! 
 Are you a king, then ? [recovering herself). Enemies ! 
 he need have none who does not wish them. It is a 
 glory. Permit me to pay my obeisance to you ; per- 
 mit me at the same time to ask you your name. 
 
 JEAN-JACQUES KoussEAu {^mth (t proucl looJv). My 
 name is not a mystery; perhaps you may liave heard 
 me spoken of. I am Jean-Jaccpies Rousseau, a 
 citizen of Geneva. 
 
 THE QUEEN. Jcan-Jacques Rousseau ! say rather a 
 citizen of the world. 
 
 JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU. A llttlc HOlsC, a littlo 
 
 smoke, a little dust, that is all. 
 
 THE QUEEN. That is the history of kings. 
 
 JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU. YoU SJiCak tOO lUUCb
 
 SCENE FIFTH. 44b 
 
 of kiii^s not to belong to the court. {Looking ai the 
 q^teen and hesitating.) I did not think that tlie queen 
 was here 
 
 THE QUEEN. She does not wish to be considered as 
 here. 
 
 JEAN-JACQUES KoussEAU. I aiii tar from comphiinlng. 
 I liave got rid of a prejudice 
 
 THE QUEEN. You will love kiugs. 
 
 JEAN-JACQUES RoussEAL'. I will love the queen. 
 
 THE QUEKN. As slic is lovcd at court. 
 
 J KAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU. Better. Sincerely, deeply, 
 until that day when the philosophers shall have 
 thrown the last spadeful of earth on my grave. Like 
 the Trappists, this has been their only cry of friend- 
 ship : Brother, thou must die. Thus, I do not like 
 Pascal, see an abyss before mc; I see an open grave. 
 I have no longer a place in the scene. The priests 
 the ]»arliaiiient, the philosophers, have said to me, as 
 to another wandering Jew: Go, aiid stop not! Pro- 
 scril)ed, banished, driven out, this has been the re- 
 ward of my Works. And, God is my witness, I 
 thought I was teaching mankind love and truth. 
 J>iind man that I was! I struggled with the great 
 and the lies of the world, without taking the time to 
 struggle against my own miseries. A poor star-gazer 
 that falls into the well! I was thinking of the lil'e 
 of others without thinking of my own. How have I 
 lived ? What have I done with my heart and my 
 reason? I preached to the gi-eat family of maukiud, 
 where is my own family? Madness! nuidness! 
 madness ! 
 
 Tav. QUKKN {to Miulamc <V Aflhhnar) Tie frightens 
 T:ic ! such pride and such misery ! 
 
 38*
 
 450 MARIE-ANTOINETTE. 
 
 JEAN-.TACQUKS KoussEAu {seeing the projacnaflort 
 
 pus). There they are. 
 THE QUEEN. Who is coiiiinpr? 
 
 .TE.vN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU. All, JOU clo liot kuOW, 
 
 tlieu ? Those wlio proscribe, exile, drive me away, 
 !>r insult me ! Do you not see Grimm ? 
 
 THE QUEEN. It is the Abbe de Vermont. 
 
 JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU. It is Grimm! it is Grimm I 
 I can see him well ; I feel his presence : he is 
 breathinsx his hatred into the air that I inhale. 
 {Bowing with profound respect.) May God protect 
 France and the queen ! 
 
 MADAME d'adiiemar. May God protect the queen ! 
 These philosophers are birds of ill-omen .... 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 THE QUEEN AND MADAME D'ADHEMAR. 
 
 THE QUEEN {seeing Jean- Jacques withdrawing 
 himself rapidly). There he goes ! IIow wretched 
 all those men of genius are ! I prefer my scejjtre to 
 theirs. There are, at least, some roses in my ci'own 
 to conceal the thorns. {Interrupting herself) I'y- 
 the-by, our masquerade! Call back the fugitives. I 
 will run to the dairy. 
 
 It is the sultan Saladin 
 
 Who keeps in his garden 
 
 IIow does my striped petticoat beccme mc? 
 
 MADAME d'adhemar. In your turncd-up sleeves 
 you are admirable. 
 
 THE QUEEN. Mao;nifieent ! Here conies the count 
 d'Artois to turn the mill for me. What a charming 
 miller! lie may do his best to aifcct the grotesque; 
 be is always a grand lord.
 
 S«JKNE xMKTH. 451 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 THE QUEEN, COUNT D'ARTOIS 
 
 THE QUEEX. Atg YOU aloiie, count ? 
 
 THE COUNT d'artois. The Coimt de Provence is rc- 
 hearsing his part; he is to be prompter to-night, 
 
 THE QUEEx. Is it to be the Tempest ? 
 
 THE COUNT d'aetois. Perhaps ; as for the king he 
 is amusing himself in his own way ; he has locked 
 himself up with a lock of his own manufacture. 
 
 THE QUEEN, That's fortunate; he will be happy 
 then. 
 
 THE COUNT d'aetois. And we also. Don't you 
 think it droll, to see him, whom they call the reform- 
 er of liberty, passing his time in making locks ? He 
 is a dangerous husband, there is no door that can 
 resist him. 
 
 (The count goes to the mill, the queen to the dairy.) 
 SCENE VIII. 
 
 MADAME D'ADHKMAR, ABBE DE VERMONT. 
 
 MADAME d'adhemar, Is the abbe going to mount 
 the pulpit? there is his flock wandering about, 
 
 ABBE. Let them make a farce of royalty, that may 
 pass ; but of heaven, that would be a profanation. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 
 ABBE, MADAME D'ADHEMAR. MADAME DK roi.UlNAC '■dif.ndixd a» 
 
 a conntry-glrlj. 
 
 MADAME DE I'oi.KiNAc. ^Fv innoceiicB is something 
 of a load, abbe, but it ought to l)e ])n)claimed aloud ; 
 you fsliould crown mo with a wrc^atli of msos.
 
 452 MAlilK-AXrOTXKTTE. 
 
 ABBE. I am proud of the ])rivilege ; in crowning 
 YOU I will imitate Providence, who lius put upon 
 your brow the crown of p:lory and of beauty. 
 
 :srADAMK DK poLiGNAC. No ouc could be more gal- 
 lant. What an agreeable surprise ! 
 
 SCENE X. 
 
 TUE PRECEDING, THE COUNT DE PROVENCE (ns a shepherd), 
 THE PRINCESS DE LAMEALI.E (as nsJtfpherdcss). 
 
 THK COUNT DE 1>K0YEXCK. 
 A crook as a sce|iric I wield, 
 
 Away with the fleurs-de-lis ; 
 The violet fresh from the field, 
 Is sweeter, far swectf.T to me. 
 
 MADAMK DE I'OLIGNAC. YoU ai'C right, COUUt, tho 
 
 violet is adorable . . . 
 
 COUNT DE PKOVENCE. As love that hides itself. 
 
 MADAME DE POLiGNAC. I makc no comparisons. I 
 am no poet, not I ; I do not improvise, I have neitl>er 
 rliyme nor reason at my command. 
 
 THE COUNT DE PROVENCE. 
 Game of verse you wish to play, 
 
 Tf play I do, sweet Sn/.on ; 
 You'll be the rhyme of the lay, 
 
 I, the love and the reason. 
 
 SCENE XI. 
 
 THE PRECEDING. THE QUEEN, THE COUNT D'ARTOIS. 
 
 THE QUEEN {with a uhephfnVs horn i7i her hand, 
 addressing Count d'ArtoU). Shepherd, it is not time 
 vet to begin making love ; hei-e is your horn, that 
 vou left T will ii«>t f^av where.
 
 SCENE EI.KVENTn. 453 
 
 THE COUNT d'aktois. Ill tliG boutlolr of a 'bcaTitifnl 
 duchess. 
 
 THE QUEEN. Call iiouie tliG COWS, it is time to milk 
 them ; see, I am all ready ; Jeanneton will come willi 
 the pails. 
 
 THE COUNT TIE PKOVENCE. CoHie, daughters of lo, 
 the whitest hands in the world {sj^caking to the 
 Duchess de Polignac^ and to the Princess de Lam- 
 halle)^ I mean yours, too, are going to milk you. 
 
 THE QUEEN. Be simplv a shepherd and not a poet 
 too. Do vdu think the cows understand such lan- 
 guage ? Call Eed Coat, call Brownie, call ]\Iolly. 
 Don't von see thev are coming already ! Miller, is 
 your iiour ground ? Come, come, we will have a 
 feast on the grass, and a ball in the meadow. Abbe, 
 go get your violin and your bagpipes ; tell the Connt 
 de Yandreuil and the Dncliess de Coigny, to come 
 lierc. For a gtxxi country-dance we mnst have moi-e 
 dancers. {Sechg the king ajjproach.) Oh ! t^e 
 king is C'Huing. (She gnnvs ixde and lets fall her 
 hands Ijy her side.) 
 
 THE COUNT d'artois. It is ennui that is coming ; I 
 will go to the mill. 
 
 the PltlNCESS DE LAMBALLE. I wili gO milk lUV 
 
 cows. 
 
 MADAME DE poLiGNAc. I will go aiid get crowncd 
 with ruses. 
 
 THE QUEEN {to Madame dJ'Ad\<imar). IlmTy, Jean 
 ncton, we have no time to lo.-.e. {To the (hnint dc 
 Prori?.7ice) Shepherd, let t?'.e king pass; in hall" an 
 liour, we will have our feast ujton the grass. Of . 
 compose some couplets.
 
 454 MAUIK-ANTOTNKTTE. 
 
 THE COl'NT DE rUOYEXCR. 
 I CO wherever slie'll Ic&d, 
 
 Singing her beauty that glows ', 
 Oh may- jiot I he the weed, 
 
 She treadsuiKieriootp* she goes. 
 
 (They all go* oft.) 
 SCENE LAST. 
 
 TIIK KING, Tlir, QL'I>F.N concealed. 
 
 THE KING, rtliouglit they- were all there, the over- 
 grown children, {lie taJies his seat.) What have 1 
 clone tliis evcnino-? 
 
 ruK QUEEN {in a low voice to herself). Nothing. 
 
 THE KING. AVliat did I do this morning? 
 
 THE QUEEN {to herself). IS'othing. 
 
 THE KING. I am hnngry ; but at the Trianon there 
 is nothing but milk and cheese, butter and strawber- 
 ries; I might as well drink so much water. {Loolc- 
 incj at the fiocks of sheep scattered aho^it). There 
 are, however, some fine nmtton-cliops fattening yon- 
 der. 
 
 THE QUEEN. Oil, Jcan-Jacqucs ! Jean-Jacques ! I 
 am miserable now. 
 
 THE KING. My ministers have been advising me a 
 long time in regard to this affair! France, Prussia, 
 Austria .... (a moment of silence). France, Spain, 
 England ....(« moment of silence). In order to 
 govern this kingdom properly .... {The hing falls 
 asleej)) 
 
 THE QUEEN {withdrawhirj). May God protect 
 .France !
 
 ^
 
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