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, orscit»£thing 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 ! ^ Tl^ t»^ »T-«T^ r«» 'orm L9-2o; University of California SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 405 Hllgard Avenue, Los Angeles, CA 90024-1388 Return this material to the library from which It was borrowed. NON-RENEWABLE JUN 2 8 1998 DUE 2 Wrso rnuiV! u|rMC HtCEIVED ff> UNIVERSITY of CALIFORNIA AT LOS A"NGELES (A. A-U THE HOLMES CO.