UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 AT LOS
 
 ADVENTURES 
 
 A C T O 11 : 
 
 COMPRISING 
 
 A PICTURE OF THE FRENCH STAGE 
 
 DURING A 
 
 PERIOD OF FIFTY YEARS. 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 THEODORE HOOK, ESQ. 
 
 ^fcontJ (fUitton. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. T. 
 
 LOND'ON: 
 
 HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER, 
 
 GKEAT MARI-BOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1842. 
 
 ^ 3 ^' 10
 
 cijG'3'o 
 
 V. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 After the abdication of the Spanish throne, a 
 watchful eye was kept on the unfortunate Princes 
 at Valenyay ; a fine estate belonging to M. Talley- 
 rand, who, in conformity with that amiable habit 
 of complaisance which formed the basis of his 
 character, lent this delightful residence to the 
 Emperor, to be converted into a gilded prison for 
 the occasion. 
 
 At that time, I was living at my country- 
 house in the Blaisois, near Menars, and I was 
 curious to see how these Spanish guests were 
 treated. I knew M. Berth emi, the governor of 
 the establishment, and also M. Amaury, the trea- 
 surer, to whom I had often given a hospitable 
 reception. Almost certain of accomplishing my 
 A 3 
 
 "tM.*.
 
 VI INTRODUCTION. 
 
 purpose, I set out for Valen9ay with my daughter, 
 my Antigone, the staff of my old age; for the 
 Mai'quis de Moncade \ so spruce before the pub- 
 lic, was sixty, and had the gout for a companion. 
 
 Valen9ay is a delicious spot, and M. Talley- 
 rand has added to its natural beauties all the 
 embelUshments which the most refined luxury 
 can invent. The park is of great extent, and 
 the forest which surrounds it affords scope for 
 the pleasures of the chase. The Princes for a 
 while partook of that sport, but the enjoyment 
 was soon denied them. There was, besides, a 
 certain part of the park in which they were not 
 permitted to walk. So much did every thing 
 wear the appearance of a garrison town, that, the 
 Aery day I arrived, I was for a moment inclined 
 to retui'n immediately home. 
 
 However, I wrote to M. Berthemi, from the 
 inn at which I alighted, expressing my desire to 
 see the Princes. A few moments only had elapsed 
 when I received a very satisfactory answer, and I 
 repaired to the castle, where I was most kindly 
 received. " You must stop here till to-morrow," 
 
 1 A character in the Ecole de Bourgeois, played by Fleury with 
 great success.
 
 INTRODUCTION. vil 
 
 said the worthy governor. "You will have plenty 
 of time to look at the castle and the park; the 
 Princes are on the point of going out for a walk 
 or a drive. They will be very near you, and in the 
 evening you may come to the play, for, to amuse 
 them, we have made a theatre in the orangery ; 
 the actors come from Bourges whenever the 
 Princes wish to see them. To-night they are to 
 play Gulistan and the Tonnelier. I would wish 
 to offer you more hospitality, but my orders are 
 strict, and I cannot give a bed even to my brother. 
 I need not say that you must dine with me to-day, 
 and breakfast with me in the morning." All this 
 was said with so much freedom, ease, and frank- 
 ness, that I accepted the invitation with pleasure. 
 
 Soon after the Princes passed through the gal- 
 lery. Ferdinand walked first with his uncle, who re- 
 minded me of Louis XVI. ; but, notwithstanding 
 the favourable impression one is apt to receive on 
 seeing " a great man in distress," the countenance 
 of the Hereditary Prince did not please me. His 
 olive complexion, those sunken eyes, lively indeed, 
 but expressing suspicion; that long nose, over- 
 shadowing every feature, gave to the whole an air 
 more calculated to excite dislike than sympathy. 
 'His brother's appearance was better, but both 
 were destitute of any thing like nobleness of man- 
 A 4
 
 Vtll INTRODUCTION. 
 
 iKT ; there was in all their attitudes, movements, 
 and gestures, a sort of sluggish pettyness, and 
 awkward meanness. I certainly did not expect 
 to find in them men acting the part of heroes 
 in adversity, and showing themselves off as vic- 
 tims. In my long career I had never before seen 
 misfortune fail to give to the sufferer some sort of 
 dignity, whether accompanied by courage, despair, 
 or resignation ; but in these Princes there was no- 
 thing of the kind. Were they under the influence 
 of the climate of Valen9ay? As guests of M. de 
 Talleyrand, did they dissemble, to fit themselves 
 for the atmosphere they breathed ? 
 
 The Princes were followed by the governor, 
 and by M. Damezaga, with others of their suite. 
 They were treated in all respects as royal per- 
 sonages : every honour was paid them ; every pos- 
 sible etiquette was observed ; whatever wish they 
 expressed was gratified. All their wants were 
 anticipated, for the attendants seemed to study 
 their slightest inclinations. Napoleon granted 
 them every thing, except freedom and their 
 country. 
 
 In the evening I went to the theatre, and the 
 Prince observing a stranger, asked the governor 
 who I was. What answer was given I do not
 
 INTRODUCTION. IX 
 
 precisely know, but after exchanging some words, 
 M. Berthemi withdrew, and Ferdinand fixed 
 his eyes on me with particular attention. He 
 was sei-ved with tea or coffee ; he appeared to be 
 melting the sugar in his cup, and while stirring 
 it, he still kept looking at me. Soon after he 
 sent us some refreshments, making a gesture to 
 us with his hand in a manner obviously meant to 
 be very gracious. I thanked him by bowing my 
 head. Here everything ended for that night. 
 
 Next morning I went to mass. I was not three 
 paces from Ferdinand — a little behind him on his 
 left. He turned his head cautiously round, seem- 
 ing to look at me by stolen glances, and as if he 
 wished to escape observation. I thought that he 
 regarded the presence of an actor in such a place 
 as something veiy remarkable ; — but I was wrong. 
 I soon perceived that his look, difficult to be 
 withstood, expressed nothing like suiprise. I 
 watched a gesture which seemed intended for me. 
 Every time that he turned to a new page in his 
 breviary, he rumpled the page, making a slight 
 noise, as if to attract my attention, then joining 
 his fingers to his thumb, he evidently wished to 
 appear in the act of writing; while so doing, he 
 turned his eyes on me with an inquiring look, and 
 the words — "have you nothing to say to me?" 
 A 5
 
 X INTRODUCTION. 
 
 seemed to float on his lips. He saw no response 
 on mine ; but, from what passed, I had reason to 
 presume that he had for a moment taken up the 
 idea that I was an emissary entrusted with some 
 despatch for him ; for at this time there was a 
 plan for his escape, as will be seen by what I shall 
 soon relate. 
 
 Besides the consideration that a gouty subject 
 is always most conveniently situated at his own 
 fireside, the ideas which my presence seemed to 
 excite in the Princes embarrassed me. I felt that 
 it would be cruel to allow prisoners to cherish 
 hopes which I knew, from experience, it was so 
 painful to renounce. At all events, prudence dic- 
 tated our return. We took our leave, thanked 
 M. Berthemi, and proceeded homeward. In my 
 own little retreat we seemed to breathe a better 
 air. 
 
 Melancholy emotions make us reflect inwardly 
 on ourselves. These Princes, lately so powerful, 
 now so obscure, without any active part to per- 
 form, reminded me of the time when we also 
 had flourished for nearly thirty years as scenic 
 grandees, though only the grandees of a specified 
 hour. We, too, had been compelled to retire from 
 the stage on which we had shone. That change is
 
 INTRODUCTION. XI 
 
 to the actor a preliminary death, — a death more sad 
 than his departure for the tomb. It is to survive 
 his own reputation, and, while he is yet something, 
 to become a living nothing ! Painters and sculp- 
 tors have their galleries and their studios; and 
 amateurs fill their saloons with their works. 
 Authors see themselves on library- shelves ; but 
 he who leaves the theatre, leaves behind him 
 scarcely the fleeting sound of a name, the mere 
 label of a man of talent, at the very most, with- 
 out any other evidence of his talent. StiU living, 
 you are as a spectator, the poor nobody in the box, 
 while on the stage you were always somebody. 
 Wherever you go after your public life, you are 
 seen with a sort of surprise ; but you count for 
 nothing. Every one seems to say, " Well ! what 
 brings you out again ? Are you really alive ? " 
 There is only one reply to be made : " Light vip 
 the chandeliers; — give me scenery, a stage, an 
 audience, and an author. I will then give you 
 a certificate of my existence." Alas ! alas ! — can 
 you! 
 
 rage ! 6 de'sespoir ! 6 vieillesse ennemie. 
 
 This would be to show zeal without ability. — Go 
 and be buried. You were dead when the curtain 
 dropped before you for the last time. 
 
 Long before I retired from the stage, I had often
 
 XU INTRODUCTION. 
 
 said to myself, that, on the occurrence of such an 
 event, a man ought to prepare for other occupa- 
 tions, to create for himself other habits than those 
 of the theatre, and if the love of fame should still 
 be his influential passion, he should try to perpe- 
 tuate a name in some other way. For my part, I 
 had lived so long, seen so much, learned so many 
 secrets, and knew so well the hidden machinery of 
 so many adventures, that my theme was finished. 
 A thousand affairs, serious or scandalous, risible 
 or tragic, lived in my memory. How many of the 
 mysteries behind the scenes were personally known 
 to me ! How many of the mysteries of the great 
 world, which has also its '^ behind the scenes," had 
 been revealed to me ! I felt that I had much to 
 tell, and I said to myself, " I Avill write my me- 
 moirs, and I will publish them." Next moment 
 I began to be afraid. Fleury's orthography had 
 so often been laughed at ! What will be said, if I 
 venture to write ? It is something to have expe- 
 rienced the rigour of the public one way or another. 
 Finally, I resolved to let myself be led only half- 
 way into the temptation, and to confine the perusal 
 of my manuscript to myself and my friends. 
 
 I therefore proceeded to note down, not regu- 
 larly every day, but Yery fi'equently, whatever had 
 struck me, or what I now thought interesting.
 
 INTRODUCTION. XIU 
 
 Sometimes I could not leave off during the whole 
 night, and laboured without stopping until my 
 candle burned down to the socket. My good 
 daughter scolded ; but I took her scolding like a 
 school-boy, and like a school-boy I had my own 
 way. It will readily be believed that our visit to 
 Valen9ay was duly recorded. Now for what fol- 
 lowed. 
 
 Soon after the arrival of our illustrious neigh- 
 hours, several of Monseigneur Otranto's chief 'offi- 
 cers took up their residence in the environs of 
 Valen9ay. In plain terms, the police had a number 
 of agents in this part of the country, and, without 
 having any idea of the matter on my part, I w'as 
 destined to be somewhat implicated in a petty plot, 
 which had for its object nothing less than the ab- 
 duction of Ferdinand from the amiable attentions 
 of Napoleon and the hospitality of France. 
 
 One morning, after having spent the whole 
 night with my scraps of papers, I was awakened 
 out of a sound sleep. A gentleman, I was told, 
 had come, and must see me immediately. I 
 thought that some disaster had befallen the Co- 
 medie Fran5aise, and that the company had sent 
 me an express. Nothing of the sort. I saw 
 ushered into my room a tall handsome man, rather
 
 XIV INTRODUCTION. 
 
 above middle age, his hair fashionably dressed, his 
 manner graceful, and the expression of his coun- 
 tenance kind and pleasing. 
 
 " I wish to be alone with you," said he. 
 
 " Most willingly," said I, making a sign by 
 which his wish was satisfied. " What has pro- 
 cured me the honour of seeing you ? " 
 
 " An actor of your merit ought to expect visits," 
 said the stranger. 
 
 " Indeed, sir!" said I. 
 
 My \isitor was evidently embarrassed. At last, 
 after a little hesitation, and something of a blush, 
 added to my pressing him, he said, 
 
 "You know M. Bertilhac?" 
 
 Not aware whither this interrogatoiy might 
 lead, I retorted rather sharply, " Well, sir, what 
 if I do know him ? " 
 
 " He is aiTcsted," said the stranger. 
 
 " Arrested ! " exclaimed I. 
 
 " Yes ; and committed to Vincennes," added he. 
 
 " For what? " asked I. 
 
 " For conspiring," said the stranger. 
 
 " What !" cried I, " M. Bertilhac a conspirator? 
 Impossible." 
 
 I had good reasons for my doubts. M. Bertil-
 
 INTRODUCTION. XV 
 
 hac was a worthy honest man, and it would have 
 been as difficult to discover any thing like a con- 
 spirator in him, as to find out the talent of an 
 astronomer in me. I therefore received this won- 
 derful piece of news with a smile of incredulity. 
 
 " What I tell you, sir, is true," said my visitor. 
 " M. Bertilhac has been sent to the castle of 
 Vincennes." 
 
 This looked serious. 
 
 " Well," asked I, " what is the charge against 
 him?" 
 
 " He wanted to favour the escape of Ferdinand," 
 said the visitor. " The Prince's almoner is also 
 arrested." 
 
 " Is he sent to Vincennes too ? " asked I. 
 
 " I have not heard," said the man, sinking his 
 voice. 
 
 " What a tragic tone you are assuming !" said I. 
 
 " They have also arrested a person named Be- 
 dassier," continued my unknown friend. 
 
 "Bedassier!" said I. "Why, I know him. His 
 family is respectable. Is he not tailor to the 
 establishment ? " 
 
 " The same," said the stranger. " You know 
 every thing, Monsieur Feuiy'." 
 
 j * Bedassier was accused of enclosing letters in the collars of 
 
 ! some of the coats he made.
 
 XVI INTRODUCTION. 
 
 On sajnng this, my visitor fixed liis eye on me 
 with a very scrutinizing air. I looked stedfastly 
 at him, for I comprehended at once what he was 
 at. I asked what induced him to come to me 
 about this alleged conspiracy, and to tell me the 
 names of the conspirators. " Is it possible," added 
 I, " that you suppose I can give you any account 
 of the conspiracy ? " 
 
 After appearing as if he wished to suppress a 
 slight feeling of shame, the emissary of the police 
 (for such he was) proceeded to tell me that his 
 mission was not of a rigorous kind ; that the 
 pohce was active, but protective, and particularly 
 opposed to any thing like rudeness with persons 
 of respectability, such as I was ; and that, under 
 the present circumstances, he hoped his conduct 
 would not be otherwise construed. In fine, my 
 visitor only came to ask a few civil questions, but 
 backed by a gentle force of gendarmes. 
 
 " You have been at Valen9ay, Monsieur Fleur}",'' 
 said the stranger. ^'^ Prince Ferdinand wished to 
 speak to you. We are persuaded that you have 
 had no understanding with him ; but reports have 
 been spread. Besides, it has been obsened that 
 you sometimes spend the night in writing. You 
 keep your light burning after every body else is
 
 INTRODUCTION. XVU 
 
 gone to bed. There must be some mistake in the 
 reports, no doubt. But I am ordered to examine 
 your papers, to make an inventory of them in your 
 presence, and then to take them with me. That 
 is all I have to do. Allow me to discharge my 
 duty quietly — without any confusion. It would be 
 extremely disagreeable to resort to the means 
 which, in case of resistance, are at my disposal.^' 
 
 He would have continued longer in this strain, 
 had I not interrupted him ; for great was my sur- 
 prise at being all at once made a conspirator ! But 
 there was no use in disputing with such high 
 authority as the police ; so, showing the sub-in- 
 quisitor some heaps of papers, I said, " Take them ; 
 — take them, sir; — sit down there; — read; — 
 make out an inventory; — seal them up, and 
 much good may they do you." I then stepped 
 behind my curtains to dress myself. 
 
 Who would believe it ? I had hitherto attached 
 no great importance to these papers ; but now they 
 were taken from me, I felt like the miser robbed 
 of his strong box. I set an exaggerated value on 
 my lost treasure ; — my life, my existence was in it. 
 My anxiety increased daily. At last I resolved to 
 go and brave the poHce in its very sanctuary. 
 However, as I always Hke to be right and regular
 
 XVlll INTRODUCTION. 
 
 as to matters of form, and having heard much good 
 spoken of M. Real, who, I understood, would have 
 to do with my affair, I had resolved to write to 
 him to solicit an interview, when one day I re- 
 ceived a sealed packet, and the following letter : — 
 
 "My dear Monsieur Fleury, 
 " There has been a mistake. The minister's 
 sense of justice makes him desirous that such a 
 misunderstanding should be promptly redressed. 
 It has been my duty to examine your papers, and 
 you will now find them arranged. You had put 
 them together as a gamester would shuffle a pack 
 of cards. I have done you two acts of service, for 
 which you ought to thank me. In the first place, 
 I have cast some light on your chaos ; secondly, I 
 have removed some details respecting the Empe- 
 ror, which would have done you no good, had you 
 printed them. Between ourselves, you do not 
 much shine in the respect you owe to your master. 
 Meanwhile, since the w^hole is purified, you have 
 now a book which the public will be glad to read, 
 and which I shall be one of the first to buy. 
 " Your devoted 
 
 « M. D. L." 
 
 I thought at first that I was the dupe of some 
 mystification. However, I found my papers
 
 INTRODUCTION. XIX 
 
 really put in order. My notes followed each 
 other regularly according to the dates of the 
 events, but some in which I had spoken of the 
 First Consul, the Consul for Life, and the Em- 
 peror, were wanting. I taxed my memory, and I 
 soon reconstructed my scaffolding. There is no- 
 thing like forbidden fruit. So then I was an 
 author ! An author of an almost prohibited book ! 
 I now regarded my book with an eye quite pater- 
 nal. I enlarged the manuscript and revised it. 
 The loss of it had taught me to love it. Faithful 
 to my old habits, I got some pages by heart, and 
 went about reciting them ; thus feeling in ima- 
 gination the pulse of my public, for my future 
 appearance in the character of author, an exhibi- 
 tion which perhaps will never be realized. 
 
 But should such a thing ever take place, the 
 abdication of Ferdinand VII. will be owing to 
 these MEMOIRS of a comedian.
 
 THE 
 
 FRENCH STAGE, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The court of King Stanisliis. — Lckzinsky. — Tlic theatre at Nancv. — 
 A first appearance. — The pincli of snuff. — The king's salute. — A 
 good beginning. — My early education. — Power of imitation. — Tlio 
 Prince de Beauvan. — The Prince Beaufremont. — M. de Voltaire. 
 — The Marchioness de Boufflers. — Charactei's selected for me by 
 my father. — My wish to take a higher range. — My sister Felicitc 
 and the Vicomte Clairval de Passy. — Departure for Geneva. 
 
 Ix the spring of the year 1757, a remarkable event 
 occurred in the little court of Stanislas Lekzinsky, 
 who at that time kept royal state at Nancy, and ex- 
 ercised the rights of sovereignty over the duchies of 
 Lorraine and Bar. 
 
 The theatrical company in the service of the ex-king 
 of Poland announced the performance of " Le Glo- 
 rieux" for the debut of an actor recently arrived in 
 the noble city of Nancy. 
 
 Playgoers of the present day can form no idea of 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 li THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 the importance which was at that time attached to a 
 debut. The appearance of a new actor used then to 
 excite a great sensation in the world of fashion and 
 literature. Consequently, this announcement excited 
 no small degree of curiosity and interest in the court 
 circle. But the debutant on this occasion was not to 
 enact a lover or a father, or any principal part. He 
 was merely to personate, in the chef-d'oeuvre of Des- 
 touches, the humble character of the Laquais mat 
 vetu. In this part, the actoi^'s task consists in de- 
 livering a few lines, and in taking a pinch of snuff 
 with an air and gesture recorded and handed down 
 by tradition in the best theatrical lazzi. 
 
 But the boy (for he was nothing more) who was to 
 play this character, had already earned a certain re- 
 putation by his performance of Joas in " Athalie," and 
 of M. Fleurant in the " Legataire." Accordingly, on 
 the evening of his debut, the state-boxes were full, 
 and the court, together with every person of distinc- 
 tion in the town, croAvded to the little theatre to 
 Avitness the first appearance of the young actor. 
 
 The secret of the extraordinary interest manifested 
 on this occasion, doubtless lay in the proneness of 
 the coterie composing the coui't of Stanislas to mag- 
 nify a mere nothing into something — a practice which 
 prevails in all courts, great and small. Be that as it 
 may, the audience was numerous. King Stanislas 
 was in his box, accompanied by the Marchioness de
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 3 
 
 Boufflcrs ', who had forsaken her former lover, M. de 
 la Galissiere, the high chancellor of the pretended 
 kingdom, in favour of his royal master. 
 
 It seems, moreover, that the debut of the new actor 
 had given a fresh impulse to the gossiping talents of 
 the Count de Tressau, who, for some days previous 
 to the announced performance, had been amusing 
 the king and the court with a history of the new 
 actor's life and adventures. Without entering into 
 the circumstantial details narrated by the loquacious 
 Count, the leading incidents of his interesting story 
 ^ may be mentioned. They were briefly as follows : — 
 During a wandering excursion undertaken by a party 
 of strolling players, the wife of one of them aug- 
 mented the company by giving birth to a fine boy. 
 The child was placed under the care of a nurse, who 
 regularly received from the parents a liberal allow- 
 ance for its maintenance, whilst the infant was lodged 
 in the Hospital of the Enfans Trouves. Finally, after 
 
 ' The Marchioness de Boufflers must not be confounded with her 
 celebrated contemporary, the Countess de Boufflers- Rou^Tel. The 
 latter, who was celebrated for her talents and mental acquirements, 
 no less than for her personal charms, was a star at the brilliant court 
 of the Temple, as the Marchioness de Boufflers was diffusing her 
 radiance over the more humble court of Luneville. The Countess de 
 Boufflers was distinguished in the fashionable circles of Paris by the 
 surname of Minerve Sarante. Her liaison with the Prince de Conti 
 was a fertile subject for the scandalous chronicles of the time. 
 
 b2
 
 4 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 the lapse of seven years, and an extraordinary series 
 of adventures, tragic and comic, the treachery of the 
 nui'se was discovered, and the child was restored to 
 its pai'ents. This child was the new debutant, who, 
 imdcr the auspices of his father and mother, M. and 
 Madame Fleury, was to appear in the character of 
 the Laquais mal vetu. Fleury, w^hose real name was 
 Benard, being at that time manager of the theatre at 
 Nancy. 
 
 The effect produced by the first appearance of the 
 new actor may be easily imagined, when the audience 
 saw before them a little, plump, rosy, black-eyed boy, 
 who delivered the poetry of Destouches with a natural 
 air and a correct accentuation : the pinch of snufF, 
 too, though taken with the most easy self-possession, 
 was followed by a little fit of sneezing, which the 
 juvenile actor was unable to repress, and which called 
 forth a gracious smile from the king, accompanied by 
 the words " God bless you !" The little actor received 
 the royal benediction by a profound bow. Immedi- 
 ately " God bless him /" resounded through the pit, 
 and the debutant acknowledged them by a long 
 succession of bows. To the juvenile candidate for 
 theatrical fame the words sounded like an augury of 
 future success. 
 
 At the conclusion of the comedy, the Count de 
 Tressau conducted the new actor to the king's box.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 5 
 
 and presented him to his majesty. "Come hither, 
 my httle friend," said Stanislas, in a kind tone, and 
 drawing young Fleuiy towards him, and wiping 
 away with his handkerchief the powder with Avhich 
 the forehead of the ill-dressed lackey was still covered, 
 he conferred upon him a royal kiss. 
 
 The boy was duly sensible of the honour he had 
 received ; but turning his eyes towards that corner of 
 the box in which the marchioness was seated, he 
 gazed at her with a certain indiscreet curiosity, and 
 recollecting the caresses and attentions he had re- 
 ceived from the actresses, said, wdth a sort of pouting 
 air: 
 
 " Ah ! all the pretty ladies behind the scenes kissed 
 me and embraced me." 
 
 " And I suppose," said the king, " you think all 
 the pretty ladies in the boxes ought to do the same. 
 Come, M. de la Galissiere, perform the duties of 
 chamberlain, and present the young cavalier to 
 Madame la Marquise." 
 
 Without waiting for the ceremony of presentation, 
 the boy ran towards Madame de Boufflers, and im- 
 printed a kiss on each of her cheeks. Madame de 
 Boufflers smiled, and took the boy on her knee. 
 
 " I think," said M. de la Gahssiere, "• our young 
 protege promises to become a good actor." 
 
 " At least," observed the Count de Tressau, " he 
 has made a good beginning. Our celebrated actor, 
 b3
 
 6 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 Baron, used to say, ^ Tout comedien devrait etre eleve 
 sur les genoiix des reines.' " 
 
 " Is there a queen here ?" inquired the chancellor 
 of the King of Poland, in a tone of hypocritical humi- 
 lity, and with a smile which seemed to ask permission 
 to be significant. 
 
 " There must be," said King Stanislas, assuming 
 a royal air, " since we have such a courtly flatterer." 
 Then gallantly extending his right hand to the Mar- 
 quise, he withdrew from the box, whilst with his left 
 hand he jestingly threatened his only cabinet minister. 
 After the king's departure, the Count de Tressau 
 conducted the young actor back to his parents. 
 
 The above is a circumstantial account of the re- 
 markable incident which attended the debut of 
 Joseph Abraham Benard, commonly called Fleury, 
 who made his first appearance at the Court Theatre 
 at Nancy, in the year 1750, seven years after he had 
 made his first appearance in the world. 
 
 The above anecdote having ser\'ed to introduce to 
 the reader the author of these memoirs, I shaU pro- 
 ceed to state, that my father was an actor, and my 
 mother an actress. The former, who was manager of 
 the court theatres at Lorraine, was AvhoUy absorbed in 
 liis professional avocations, and being fully persuaded 
 that his son would one day or other become a dis- 
 tinguished votary of the comic muse, he veiy much 
 neglected my education. I was taught to read and
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 7 
 
 write, and nothing more. My father maintained that 
 for an actor, and especially for a comic and provincial 
 actor, that was education enough. Reading, he ad- 
 mitted, was necessary to enable an actor to learn his 
 parts, and to this a little writing might be added, for 
 the sake of copying them in case his memory should 
 be treacherous. 
 
 In this state of blessed ignorance I remained till I 
 was fifteen : I had learned little, or rather, nothing. 
 I had, however, acquired that external education, that 
 elegant varnish, which Bonaparte styled V education 
 de la peau, and which I have often thought might 
 be compared to the showy bindings of bad books. 
 I was singularly gifted with the power of imitation ; 
 and I readily acquired that tone and manner of aristo- 
 cratic society, of which I received my first impression 
 in the little court of Nancy. This sort of tact, and 
 power of mimicry, was of the highest utility to me. 
 King Stanislas felt a cordial interest in my prosperity 
 and that of my family ; and I was, in consequence, 
 introduced to all the persons of rank and fashion who 
 frequented the court of Luneville and Cammercy. 
 King Stanislas, in the first years of his exile, was 
 much attached to these two cities, and alternately 
 made one or the other his place of residence. The 
 society which the king assembled around him was 
 distinguished for taste, talent, and, above all, for that 
 
 B 4
 
 b THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 grace «and elegance of manner which characterized 
 the French aristocracy of the time. 
 
 One of the most distinguished personages in 
 the circle was Prince de Beauvan, connected with 
 several of the most noble families in Lorraine, 
 with the Choiseuls and the Baufremonts. He was 
 a man of wit and cultivated talents, and might 
 be considered a traditional representative of a noble- 
 man of the reign of Louis XIV. Next in order was 
 Prince de Baufremont, who was a perfect model 
 of refined French 2)olitesse. Accordingly, he carefully 
 refrained from developing, at the miniature court of 
 King Stanislas, that decided character which his 
 father displayed at the court of the King of France, 
 and the spirit of opposition which he manifested 
 against the arbitrary measures of the government of 
 that time. The other distinguished personages who 
 figured in the circle were the Marchioness de Boufflers, 
 the Count de Tressau, M. de Saint Lambert, and, 
 during some time, the great luminary of the age, M. 
 de Voltaire himself. 
 
 The person on whom my memory dwells with 
 most pleasure is the Marchioness de Boufilers. She 
 was the star which diffused the brightest radiance 
 over the royal Arcadia. This lady was the avowed 
 favourite of King Stanislas. As I have just said, she 
 had previously been the mistress of M. de la Galis-
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 9 
 
 siere ; for the ex-king of Poland conformed with the 
 usage of the court of his brother-in-law, and was 
 content to take a mistress at second-hand. NotAvith- 
 standing the tender compact concluded between the 
 Marquise and his majesty, it was said that the lady 
 had not entirely broken that which existed between 
 her and M. de la Galissiere : Stanislas was aware of 
 this, and sometimes showed little symptoms of jea- 
 lousy ; but being of an indulgent disposition, he 
 avenged himself merely by making jokes, which he 
 flattered himself were very good. Indeed the king 
 piqued himself so much on his talent in this way, that 
 I verily believe he would not willingly have been de- 
 prived of this ever-ready subject for his jests. Be 
 this as it may, he gave unrestrained utterance to his 
 humorous sallies on this subject, apparently doing 
 violence to his own feelings for the sake of gratifying 
 his vanity. However, in justice to all parties con- 
 cerned, it must be confessed, that the Marchioness 
 furnished him with frequent opportunities of exer- 
 cising his wit. 
 
 When I was verging on my fifteenth year, my thea- 
 trical powers were so decidedly developed, that my 
 father marked out a set of characters for my especial 
 study. These consisted chiefly of valets, a circum- 
 stance which sufficiently shows that my father mis- 
 understood the true bent of my talent. The fact is, 
 that his judgment was guided only by the obvious 
 b5
 
 10 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 tendency of my disposition to satire and ridicule. 
 But the line of parts Avhich my father selected for 
 me was not at all to my taste ; I did not like to 
 wear livery ; my ambition was to appear in the cos- 
 tume of the courtiers and men of fashion, the em- 
 broidered coat, lace ruffles, &c. So intent was I on 
 gratifying my taste in this way, that I frequently 
 stole unperceived into my father's wardrobe, and 
 attired myself in the richest court dress I could find, 
 and used to imitate the airs which I had observed 
 adopted by the noblesse. Passing the looking-glass on 
 my left, I would salute my own figure by the title of 
 Marquis; then turning, and passing on the right, I 
 would greet myself by the title of duke, and so on, 
 rising in dignity, till I exhausted the whole hierarchy. 
 I have heard my father say that on one occasion, 
 when I had di'essed myself up, he surprised me whilst 
 I was figuring away before the mirror, and uttering 
 the words, " My dear Stanislas." No doubt I was at 
 that moment personating the King of France, and in 
 imagination discussing some political question with 
 my father-in-law. 
 
 It will readily be conceived that the class of cha- 
 racters allotted to me by my father, was not suffi- 
 ciently high for a young performer • of such an 
 aspiring genius as myself. I had frequent alterca- 
 tions with him on the subject, and the consequence 
 was, that I felt exceedingly anxious to quit Nancy.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 11 
 
 The paternal yoke weighed heavily on me ; I wished 
 to be independent, and to soar on my own wings. 
 An opportunity for realizing my wish soon presented 
 itself. 
 
 I had a sister — a charming sister, Felicite Fleury, 
 who though scarcely entering upon womanhood, had, 
 by her beauty and talents, excited a sort of enthusiasm 
 among the officers of the king's regiment in garrison 
 at Nancy. One of these officers, Vicomte Clairval 
 de Passy, a very handsome young man, fell violently 
 in love with her. His passion seemed to augment in 
 proportion as the rigid watchfulness kept over my 
 sister by her parents, was calculated to discourage 
 his hopes. The fact was, that the prejudices of the 
 time had established so great a distance between a 
 Vicomte and the daughter of an actor, that it was 
 impossible to conceive the idea of marriage between 
 two parties so immeasurably separated. Indeed, even 
 between actors and actresses the sacred knot of 
 marriage was but rarely tied. On this subject, how- 
 ever, my father and mother happened to entertain 
 more scrupulous notions than most of their theatrical 
 associates ; and I, young as I was, could not endure 
 the thought that my sister should quit the exception 
 for the sake of abiding by the rule. We accordingly 
 repelled the advances of the Vicomte. 
 
 Meanwhile, the Vicomte's love grew so violent, 
 b6
 
 12 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 that mental derangement was apprehended. At 
 length, after a long negotiation, a thousand pi'O- 
 posals and refusals, and the due performance, on 
 the part of the lover, of all the great and little follies 
 which characterize all amorous extravagancies, the 
 Yicomte came to a most heroic decision ; he was 
 master of himself and his fortune, and he laid both 
 at the feet of Felicite. This proceeding was no doubt 
 very complimentary to us. The vanity of my parents 
 was flattered ; and, it may be, a little love on the 
 part of Felicite rendered her not averse to the 
 Yicomte's offer. The result was, that consent was 
 given and a lawful marriage contracted. Next day, 
 M. de Clairval left his regiment, took the name of 
 Sainville, and announced his intention of becoming 
 an actor, for the puq^ose, as he said, of the better 
 identifying himself with his young bride. This reso- 
 lution astounded my mother and father, and was by 
 no means gratifying to their pride. They had hoped 
 that M. de Clairval would have made a Vicomtesse 
 of the actress ; but, on the contrary, Felicite made 
 an actor of the Vicomte. 
 
 This turn of the affair was, however, perfectly 
 satisfactoiy to me. Sain^'ille had a good voice and 
 an agreeable person. The company at Geneva wanted 
 a singer to take the principal parts in comic operas ; 
 the neophyte applied for and obtained the engage-
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 13 
 
 meiit, and he and my sister prepared for their depar- 
 ture. I, who was burning to emancipate myself, 
 requested leave to accompany them ; and my father 
 kindly granted the permission — which he knew very 
 well I should receive with infinite satisfaction.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 M. de Voltaire. — Theatrical performances at Femey. — The philoso- 
 pher's wig. — A lesson in sarcasm. — Voltaire at our rehearsals. — 
 His hints to the perfoi'mers. — The character of Lusignan. — Its true 
 spirit defined. — Voltau'e in his everj-day dress. — His dramatic 
 I'ecitation. — A short lesson. — My sister's departure for Vienna. — 
 Her husband's misconduct. — The emperor Joseph II. — Maria 
 Theresa. — My sister engaged to instruct Marie-Antoinette. — Her 
 lessons discontinued by order of Louis XV. — The Abbe Vermond. 
 — My engagement at Troyes. — Promotion in stage rank. — Paulin 
 Goy. — The joint wardrobe. — The black silk inexpressibles. — Diu-l 
 prevented. — The lady's challenge. 
 
 I HAD counted on a long sojourn at Geneva, but I 
 discovered that Sainville and my sister intended to 
 make it merely a trip ; after a few performances, they 
 began to talk of returning home. This was not a 
 little mortifying to me, who had reckoned on a defi- 
 nitive emancipation. 
 
 Meanwhile a circumstance occurred which amply 
 consoled me. M. de Voltaire had heard that there 
 was a company of French performers at Geneva ; he 
 had heard too, through his correspondence mth the 
 court of Luneville, that my sister was greatly ad- 
 mired, and that she displayed very considerable 
 talent by her personation of some of the characters
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 15 
 
 in his own pieces. This induced him to invite the 
 company to visit Ferney, and thither we all pro- 
 ceeded, headed by M. and Madame Sainville. 
 
 We stayed about a fortnight at Ferney, and during 
 that time were overwhelmed with kindness and atten- 
 tion by the great philosopher. For my part, I had 
 my share of censure as well as of praise, and both 
 had their influence on my subsequent success. I 
 have still present in imagination that satirical counte- 
 nance, every wrinkle of which seemed to laugh the 
 whole world to scorn. Voltaire's wig was a memo- 
 rable curiosity. I had for some time sacrilegiously 
 premeditated an attack on this strange sanctuary of 
 genius ; and I made an attempt to put my design into 
 execution one morning when the philosopher sallied 
 forth after breakfast. Voltaire turned sharply round, 
 and with his penetrating eye scanned my little figure 
 from head to foot, while I stood as it were transfixed 
 and spell-bound. After a few moments he said, 
 " Per-met-tez-moi, Monsieur " Having ut- 
 tered these words, dividing the syllables in his pecu- 
 liar manner, he paused as if ransacking his memory, 
 as if searching for some appropriate term of re- 
 proach. Then curling his mouth to the left side of 
 his face, as he always did when he wished to be par- 
 ticularly sarcastic, he continued, " Per-met-tez-moi, 
 Monsieur . . . de Fleury ... to tell you (here he 
 softened his tone, doubtlessly thinking me sufficiently
 
 16 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 punished), that I am not royal enough to understand 
 and tolerate pages' tricks. Remember, that at the 
 court of Ferncy, wigs are respected in consideration 
 of what may happen to be within them." Observing 
 my mortified and penitent air (which he seemed to 
 suspect, and rightly, was partly assumed), he placed 
 his hand under my chin, and raising my head, said, 
 " Come, let me look at you ; if I mistake not, there 
 is something in your face that tells me you will be a 
 wicked rogue, and a good actor." 
 
 Thenceforward I resolved to do my best to justify 
 the first part of this prediction, in order to obtain the 
 fulfilment of the second. If in my after-career I 
 obtained some celebrity for what w^as termed the sar- 
 castic humour of Fleury, I am proud to avow that I 
 owed it all to my recollection of the scene with Vol- 
 taire. The '^ Per-met-tez-moi, Monsieur . . . . de 
 Fleury," always occurred to my thoughts whenever I 
 had to deliver, in the " Femmes Savantes," the cele- 
 brated " Permettez-mol, Monsieur Trissotin" Of 
 those who applauded me in that passage, few were 
 conscious that they were applauding a reminiscence 
 of the great philosopher. 
 
 Voltaire attended our rehearsals as well as our 
 performances at Ferney. I can fancy I see him now, 
 in his every-day dress, consisting of grey stockings 
 and grey shoes, a large waistcoat of bazin descending 
 nearly to his knees, a large wig squeezed into a little
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 17 
 
 black velvet cap, turned up in front ; the whole com- 
 pleted by a robe-de-chambre, likewise of bazin, the 
 corners of which he would sometimes tuck into the 
 waistband of his small-clothes. Arrayed in this cos- 
 tume, any other person would have looked Uke a 
 caricature; but the appearance of Voltaire, so far 
 from suggesting any idea of the ridiculous, was cal- 
 culated to command respect and interest. On ordi- 
 nary occasions, when he happened to enter into con- 
 versation with any of the members of our theatrical 
 troop, his manner was marked by good-humoured 
 familiarity. But when he superintended our re- 
 hearsals, there was a truce with pleasantry ; then he 
 was all in all the dramatic poet ; and one too whose 
 correct judgment and refined taste were not to be 
 easily satisfied. He required that every actor should 
 enter heart and soul into his part : this earnestness 
 of feeling he used to call dramatic probity. The ob- 
 servations which I heard from the lips of Voltaire 
 first gave me an idea of the importance which belongs 
 to the accurate conception of a character. 
 
 Among the plays which we rehearsed at Ferney 
 was Zaire. The actor to whom the part of Lusig- 
 nan was allotted, conceived that he was giving a 
 faithful portraiture of that character, by represent- 
 ing him old and infirm. " He is," observed he, " a 
 man whose existence is worn out in captivity." " By
 
 18 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 no means, sir, by no means/' exclaimed Voltaire; 
 *' say, rather, that he has risen from the tomb — make 
 him pale — make him bend two-fold if you will ; but 
 make him energetic. He is a Christian Samuel — an 
 evocation of the Gospel amidst the leaves of the 
 Koran. He is not merely the missionary converting 
 the unbeliever — he is the soldier of Christ converting 
 his own daughter. It is the father who saves the 
 soul of his child. The spirit of the apostle supports 
 and invigorates the old man. Remember, that when 
 L/usignan speaks to Zaire of God, he is inspired by 
 God. — Endeavour to imbue yourself with the spirit 
 of fanaticism. Why spare exertion ? You die In the 
 fourth act. Let the enthusiasm of Christianity be 
 tempered only by paternal tenderness. The \ailgar 
 comparison of the lamp blazing up before it dies out, 
 is quite applicable to Lusignun. The shades and 
 gradations of the character are — apostle, father, old 
 man \" Then, adding example to precept, he re- 
 peated some passages of the part. In so doing he 
 divested himself of his ordinary expression of counte- 
 nance as easily as he would throw aside a mask, and 
 he became Lusignan personified. His attenuated 
 form seemed to derive a sort of supernatural anima- 
 tion from the expression of his eye and the tones of 
 his voice. His meagre hand was tremulously extended, 
 to draw towards him the child whom he wished to
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 19 
 
 save; in short, it is impossible to conceive a more 
 accurate and forcible expression of Christian faith, 
 mingled with paternal affection. 
 
 Before my departure from Ferney, I much wished 
 to receive from the great author some hints on the 
 performance of the character of Nerestan ; but I had 
 been not a little in awe of Voltaire ever since the 
 sharp rebuke I had received in my attempt to make 
 free with his wig. My sister, however, undertook to 
 request the favour for me ; and one morning I joy- 
 fully accompanied her to make a visit to Voltaire. 
 My lesson was short: "Young man," said he, 
 " study earnestly when in your closet ; and when on 
 the stage, think only of the character you are repre- 
 senting, and not of yourself. At your age, a young 
 actor may possess talent ; but he cannot possibly be 
 a master of his art." 
 
 Our dramatic company returned to Nancy, and 
 shortly afterwards my sister and her husband formed 
 an engagement at Vienna. In that capital they were 
 very successful, especially my sister, whose talents 
 were greatly admired. At first their letters were 
 filled with the most gratifying accounts of their pros- 
 perity and happiness ; but after a time we were 
 grieved to learn, that circumstances had occurred to 
 create disunion between them. Felicite in her letters 
 made us acquainted with some infidelities on the part 
 of her husband,, to which we at first paid but little
 
 20 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 regard. But unfortunately this was only the first 
 step to misconduct of greater magnitude. Gallantry 
 led to expenses, expenses to debts, and debts to 
 gaming and its consequences. In fine, either through 
 imprudence, or want of principle, he became impli- 
 cated in an affair of the most reprehensible charac- 
 ter. The interest and esteem which my sister had 
 inspired in a wide circle of friends in Vienna, caused 
 some mitigation of the severity with which her hus- 
 band's conduct would otherwise have been visited. 
 But Sainville was obhged to fly. He took refuge in 
 Sweden, where, instead of amending, he pursued his 
 career of turpitude. I shall therefore consign his 
 name to the oblivion it merits. 
 
 The excellent conduct of my sister, and the forti- 
 tude with which she bore her misfortune, excited 
 general admiration. Sainville's affair made a great 
 noise in Vienna; and the afflicted condition of his 
 wife, together with her irreproachable conduct, ex- 
 cited the interest of the Emperor Joseph II. and his 
 august ■ mother, Maria Theresa. By one of those 
 chances which have always placed the destiny of my 
 family under powerful patronage, Felicite was re- 
 ceived in the imperial palace, and after a httle time 
 her talents were employed to assist in the hterary 
 education of the young Aixhduchess Marie- An- 
 toinette. 
 
 This appointment, which under ordinary circum-
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 21 
 
 stance would have presented no peculiar interest, 
 derived importance from the future destiny of the 
 illustrious pupil, whose hand was at that time pro- 
 mised to the Dauphin of France. Marie-Antoinette 
 became attached to my sister, for the young princess 
 was resolved to attach herself to everything French. 
 She was bent on making herself a perfect French- 
 woman : this was the object of her constant soli- 
 citude and unremitting endeavours. She was anx- 
 ious to make herself intimately acquainted with every 
 thing relating to our tastes, our manners, and cus- 
 toms. It was my sister's especial duty to instruct 
 her imperial pupil in the correct pronunciation of 
 the French language, and to teach her to recite pas- 
 sages from the works of our best dramatic poets. It 
 is not impossible that these lessons first inspired that 
 decided taste for the drama, which was subsequently 
 one of the pretended charges raised against the con- 
 sort of Louis XVI. However, my sister's dramatic 
 professorship did not last long. Louis XV., who 
 had gradually imbibed very austere notions on the 
 subject of religion, ordered his ambassador, the Mar- 
 quis de Burfort, to signify to the empress his dis- 
 approval of the young archduchess's dramatic recita- 
 tions. Shortly after this, the Abbe Vermond super- 
 seded my sister Felicite. Hence the origin of the 
 favour enjoyed by the Abbe Vermond. He sub- 
 sequently introduced into the king's council the
 
 22 THE FREXCII STAGE. 
 
 iVrchbishop of Toulouse, a supporter of the revo- 
 lution. Could these results have been foreseen, the 
 actress would probably have been preferred to the 
 abbe. 
 
 After the mention of such high names and inter- 
 ests, by what skilful transition can I again descend to 
 myself? Setting the rules of authorship at defiance, 
 I will do so without ceremony ; and this example will 
 form a precedent for future transitions of a like kind. 
 
 One evening, furnished with a light wardi'obe and 
 a still lighter purse, but rich in a thousand smiling 
 hopes, I left home without having intimated my in- 
 tentions to my parents, and set out on a journey to 
 Troyes. 
 
 I must confess that I made this escape, not with- 
 out feelings of pain and regret, for I was fondly 
 attached to my parents. The truth is, I was weary 
 of the happiness of home ; and then, on the other 
 hand, I had often heard my father say that no actor 
 ever rose to excellence whilst performing constantly 
 before the same audience. Accordingly, I eased my 
 conscience by the reflection that my escapade was an 
 act of obedience to paternal precepts. I may here 
 take the opportunity of obser^dng, that my after ex- 
 perience fully convinced me of the justice of my 
 father's opinion ; I am quite convinced that a young 
 actor cannot do better than travel from place to place. 
 When people are in the habit of seeing a favourite 
 3
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 23 
 
 actor, they may appreciate his merits, but they are 
 apt to become bhnd to his defects. By moving about 
 and performing in ditferent places, an actor has the 
 advantage of frequently presenting himself before 
 new judges. A great deal is frequently said about 
 the bad taste of provincial audiences, but my expe- 
 rience has sufficiently convinced me that bad taste is 
 to be found in capitals as well as in provincial towns. 
 The fact is, that an actor endowed with real talent, 
 will not be materially or permanently injured by the 
 bad taste of his auditory; therefore I advise all 
 young actors to travel and change their scene of 
 action. 
 
 On my arrival at Troyes, I introduced myself to 
 Madame Nicetti, the manager of the theatre of that 
 town. The lady received me graciously, and I was 
 engaged as the representative of lovers tragic and 
 comic, en chef, et sans partage. This was indeed a 
 rapid promotion in stage rank; though it must be 
 confessed that the smallness of the salary very much 
 diminished its importance. Madame Nicetti allowed 
 me only sixty francs per month — no matter ; I 
 thought myself a lucky man, as well as a great actor. 
 The low price set upon my talent did not depreciate 
 it in my own estimation ; and, what was better than 
 all, I Avas my own master. 
 
 In our dramatic corps at Troyes, there was a 
 young actor named Paulin Goy. He was, like my-
 
 24 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 self, unpractised and inexperienced, but he possessed 
 a great fund of humour, and an ardent zeal for his 
 profession. The talent evinced by Paulin promised 
 that he would one day become a distinguished orna- 
 ment of the comic scene, and if subsequently he did 
 not figure like his comrade Fleury at the Comedie 
 Fran9aise, it is because he preferred a life of ease to 
 a lengthened conflict of intrigue and jealousy. Bour- 
 deaux and Brussels have not forgotten Paulin. In 
 those cities he has left indelible recollections; and 
 his talent as an actor was not more highly estimated, 
 than his amiable and excellent conduct as a man \ 
 
 Paulin and I conceived for each other a most ardent 
 and devoted friendship. Our money, our amuse- 
 ments, our studies, all were shared in common one 
 with the other. Nevertheless, our characters pre- 
 sented some striking contrasts. I was lively and im- 
 petuous, Paulin was calm and reflective. We had 
 our little quarrels, it is true ; but they were never of 
 very long duration. Our coolness never lasted be- 
 yond a few days ; and then we both gladly met each 
 other half way in reconciliation. 
 
 One day we had a very droll quarrel ; but comical 
 as its subject w^as, it might have had a tragic termi- 
 nation. 
 
 We lodged together ; and everything we possessed 
 
 1 Paulin Goy, after his retirement from the stage, resided at Brus- 
 sels, where he died in 1830.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 25 
 
 was common property between us. I know not whe- 
 ther it is on record that Orestes and Pylades wore 
 each other's tunics, but PauHn and I united our 
 wai'drobes together, and wore one another's clothes 
 indiscriminately. Our wardrobe, thus united, was by 
 no means badly stocked ; and it enabled us to dress, 
 not merely in respectable style, but even to exhibit a 
 certain degree of elegance when occasion called for it. 
 Among our best articles of dress were two pairs of 
 inexpressibles, the one of black cloth, the other of 
 black silk ; and we entered into a mutual agreement 
 that the most elegant of the two pairs, viz. that of 
 black silk, should be worn by each of us alternately. 
 Paulin adhered to the compact with the strictest 
 fidelity ; but my honour yielded to the promptings of 
 vanity: I violated the treaty, and sported the silk 
 inexpressibles three times in succession. Paulin took 
 no notice of this ; but having received an invitation to 
 dine out, he very civilly asked me to surrender up 
 the visiting-suit. He fixed upon a most unfortunate 
 day for making this request. I had learned that 
 Mademoiselle Clermonde, a provincial actress of great 
 celebrity, was that day expected to pass through 
 Troyes on her way to Amiens. Her beauty was not 
 less highly extolled than her talent. A feeling which 
 I cannot define — a sort of presentiment, prompted me 
 with the idea of going to meet Mademoiselle Cler- 
 monde, and I determined to station myself at the 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 26 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 door of the inn at which she was to stop to change 
 post-horses. On such an occasion, I was of course 
 fully alive to the importance of being elegantly dressed, 
 and accordingly I resolved once more to usurp the 
 black silk shorts. Paulin asked me to surrender 
 them to him, but I met the request by a blank re- 
 fusal. Paulin's wonted placidity of temper now for- 
 sook him. He reproached me with the violation of 
 our compact, and declared that thenceforward there 
 must be an end ofi all friendship between us. 
 
 One angry remark led to another, until at length 
 we both placed our hands on our swords, and sallied 
 forth into the high road, which was but a few yards 
 distant from the house in which we resided. This 
 was the very spot on which I had proposed a few 
 hours afterwards to present myself to the beautiful 
 Clermonde. I heaved a deep sigh as this reflection 
 crossed my mind. My antagonist and I withdrew to 
 a meadow which lay a little to the right, and there, 
 burning with impatience, we drew our swords. We 
 were on the point of advancing upon each other, 
 when we were suddenly arrested by a piercing shriek. 
 We looked round, and beheld a lady advancing hur- 
 riedly towards us. She was pale and terrified, yet at 
 the first glance her beauty made a profound impres- 
 sion upon me. " Stay," she exclaimed, " stay, I 
 conjui'e you ! ... Is this like gentlemen ? (Paulin 
 and I, it must be confessed, succeeded admirably in
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 27 
 
 giving ourselves the air of young men of fashion.) 
 What, fighting without seconds ! Is it for a woman 
 to remind you of the laws of honour? Recollect, 
 gentlemen, that if one of you had been killed, it would 
 have been nothing less than murder \" 
 
 The tones of that voice — the beauty of the speaker 
 — a certain air of dignity, of authority in her deport- 
 ment and manner, overawed us, and we instantly 
 sheathed our swords. I was captivated by the beauty 
 of the lady, and stood gazing at her in an ecstasy of 
 admiration. But Paulin soon recovered from the 
 surprise caused by this unexpected interruption, and 
 assuming his usual lively and jocose tone, he said, 
 "Truly, my dear Fleury, there never was a more 
 ridiculous affair than this quarrel of ours. To fight 
 for a petticoat might be perfectly natural ; but who 
 ever heard of a duel for a pair of black silk shorts ? 
 Ah, madame, could you have believed it ?" There 
 was something so irresistibly droll in Paulin's man- 
 ner of uttering these words, that I could not repress 
 a hearty fit of laughter. Next moment we cordially 
 embraced each other. Our conciliatress seemed 
 quite at a loss to comprehend this extraordinary 
 scene. We were about to explain it, when some one 
 came to tell her that the post-chaise was waiting, and 
 all was in readiness for her departure. She smiled, 
 curtsied, and bade us adieu. A thought, a pre- 
 sentiment suddenly occurred to my mind. 
 c2
 
 28 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 " Can it be," I exclaimed, " Mademoiselle Cler- 
 monde !" 
 
 " The same," she replied. And while she waved 
 to us a most gracious salute, her glove dropped from 
 her hand. I darted forward, and picked it up. 
 
 "Take it, take it, my lad," said Paulin. "If the 
 lady's eyes speak truth, the challenge was not thrown 
 to me." 
 
 " I will bring it to you, madame," exclaimed I. 
 AYhether or not she heard me, I cannot say. In 
 another moment, she was seated in her post-chaise, 
 and, a few minutes more, out of sight.
 
 39 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Mademoiselle Clermonde. — Her first appearance on the stage. — Her 
 professional talents and personal attractions. — Count de la Touehe- 
 Treville. — M. Desforges. — A tete-a-tete mtermpted. — An unex- 
 pected arrival. — The old-fashioned sofa. — The hat, an accusing 
 witness. — My escape. — The fire. — A hospitable reception. — A duel 
 for Mademoiselle Clermonde. — Engagement at Versailles. — Made- 
 moiselle Montansier. — Sketch of her life. — Her connection with 
 Ban-as. — Love and friendship. — Mademoiselle Montansier in old 
 
 Clermonde was the natural daughter of a lady and 
 gentleman of distinguished rank. She received a 
 most accomplished education under the superintend- 
 ence of her mother, who passed for her aunt. Nature 
 had liberally endowed her with beauty and talent; 
 and she possessed that delicacy, that undefinable 
 grace, which constitutes the perfection of womanly 
 attraction. At the age of fifteen she eloped from her 
 mother's guardianship, in company with a young 
 physician, who had fallen in love with her. She soon 
 c3
 
 30 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 afterwai'ds made her appearance on the stage, her 
 precocious talent and ardent imagination having in- 
 spired her with a strong passion for the dramatic art. 
 Clennonde soon shone out from the sphere of ac- 
 tresses of the ordinary class, and became a valuable 
 acquisition to the theatrical profession. I must con- 
 fess that I have seen very few actresses equal to her. 
 At the period when I first knew her, her talent and 
 beauty were the theme of universal admhation. We 
 were then both engaged at Amiens, where she 
 reigned with sovereign sway. It would be difficult 
 to imagine a more fascinating creature : she was 
 deified on the stage, and worshipped in the coulisses. 
 It depended only on herself to have realized the fable 
 of Danae ; but she had pecuKar notions of her own, 
 and such as are not very common among ladies of 
 the theatrical profession. 
 
 Shortly after Mademoiselle Clermonde^s elope- 
 ment from her mother, a misunderstanding ai'ose 
 between her and the young Esculapius, who had 
 been the companion of her flight, and they sepa- 
 rated. She next conferred her aflfections on the 
 Count de la Touche-Treville. The Count first be- 
 came acquainted with her at Versailles ; and after 
 her engagement at Amiens, he made frequent visits 
 to the latter place. On every occasion when he left 
 Clermonde, he exacted fi'om her a solemn vow of 
 inviolable fidelity, and deeming precautions to be
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 31 
 
 better than vows, he always managed to return at 
 the very time when he was least expected. How 
 happened I to be made acquainted with these details ? 
 The reader will probably guess ... I had picked up 
 Mademoiselle Clermonde's glove ! 
 
 This charming actress inspired me with an affec- 
 tion which perhaps was the more ardent, inasmuch 
 as it was my first love. I was not without hope, 
 though I had two formidable rivals : one the Count 
 de TreviUe ; and the other Desforges, an actor and 
 dramatic writer, the author of La Femrne jalouse. 
 
 Desforges was the natural son of Doctor Petit, one 
 of the first anatomists of his time. Having been 
 destined for the bar, Desforges had received a liberal 
 education, which gave him, off the stage, a decided 
 advantage over me. But, on the other hand, I as an 
 actor possessed many advantages over him. I had 
 quitted Troyes to follow Clermonde ; Desforges had 
 quitted the Italian stage for the sake of being near 
 her. We were both nearly of the same age, and* 
 both deeply in love ; our chances of success with 
 the lady seemed therefore to be pretty equally ba- 
 lanced. 
 
 One evening I was sitting alone with Mademoiselle 
 Clermonde in her apartment. It was winter. The 
 room was dimly lighted by a candle, whose long, un- 
 snufFed wick sufficiently denoted that our attention 
 had been exclusively engrossed with each other. The 
 c 4
 
 32 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 fact is, that Clermonde and I had been for some time 
 engaged in an interesting tete-a-tete. Several long 
 pauses had intervened in the course of our con- 
 versation. My chair was drawn close to hers — I 
 had taken her hand in mine, and the word love 
 seemed ready to escape from my lips. 
 
 Suddenly a key was thrust into the lock of the 
 street-door. The door was opened, and hastily 
 closed. We heard a man's voice, and heavy foot- 
 steps ascending the staircase. 
 
 " Ah !" exclaimed Clermonde, " there is Monsieur 
 de la Touche-Treville, turning pale with alarm. 
 
 " At this hour ? . . . impossible !" 
 
 " It is he," said she . . . " It is always so . . . His 
 jealousy is sleepless. How indiscreet I have been, to 
 pennit this visit ! I am lost !" 
 
 " What is to be done, Madame ?" said old Mar- 
 guerite, hastily rushing in, and Avho, sincerely at- 
 tached to her mistress, was thrown into the deepest 
 dismay by the count's unexpected arrival. 
 
 '' Oh ! if it were not for your sake," I exclaimed in 
 a tone of rage and jealousy, which made them both 
 tremble from head to foot. 
 
 "Silence, my dear Fleury, I implore you," said 
 Clermonde. . . " conceal yourself . . . there . . . there !" 
 
 So saying she pointed to a large sofa a la Louis 
 XV., with a deep hanging valance, underneath which 
 there was ample space to hide a person of much
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 33 
 
 larger dimensions than myself. The above words 
 were all uttered in half whispers, and so rapidly, 
 that they were spoken in less time than I have now 
 taken to write them. I crept beneath the sofa, the 
 light was extinguished, and the unwelcome visitor 
 entered. 
 
 " What is the matter ? Is no one here ? What 
 sort of reception is this ?" exclaimed the count, in a 
 voice which plainly denoted that he was not in the 
 best possible temper. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir," said Marguerite, light- 
 ing the candle. "You frightened us, sir . . . and 
 the light has gone out . . . and my mistress — look, 
 sir, at my mistress \" 
 
 The count looked round, and saw what I also 
 could see from my hiding place, and .which not a 
 little alarmed us both. Clermonde lay stretched on 
 the carpet in a deep swoon. 
 
 The reader may judge of the agony I suffered in 
 being compelled to behold her in this extremity, 
 without rushing to her assistance. My happier 
 rival knelt down, and spoke to her, begged pardon 
 for his abrupt intrusion, raised her head, and endea- 
 voured to revive her. At length she showed sym- 
 ptoms of recovery. 
 
 "How are you?" inquired the gentleman. 
 
 " A little better," replied the invalid. " I . , . " 
 
 At this moment as she was turning her eyes towards 
 c5
 
 34 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 the sofa, as if to warn me to keep still, she happened 
 to see my hat, which had unluckily been left on a 
 chair, and which stared her in the face like an 
 accusing witness. A second fainting fit was the 
 consequence. This time Marguerite thought it was 
 something more than sham, and she became alarmed. 
 
 " Speak, madame ; speak, my dear mistress," said 
 Mai'guerite. 
 
 " How bitterly do I reproach myself," said the 
 count. 
 
 Clermonde. {turning her beautiful eyes lan- 
 guidly to M. de la Touche, and raising her voice with 
 an effort like a person at the point of death.) " No, 
 count, you are not to blame . . . Marguerite !" 
 
 Marguerite, {eagerly.) " Madame !" 
 
 Clermonde. {drawing Marguerite close to her, 
 and whispering in her ear.) "^ Take away the hat." 
 
 Marguerite, {not understanding her.) "What, 
 madame ?" 
 
 The Count, {to Marguerite.) " What does she say ?" 
 
 Clermonde. {turning her head to the left, and ad- 
 dressing M. de la Touche.) " My smelling-bottle . . . 
 it is on my dressing-table." — {Turning to the right, 
 and addressing Marguerite.) '' The hat ! . . . take 
 away the hat ! . . . put it under the sofa !" 
 
 Marguerite, {understanding her.) "Ah!" 
 
 I also understood her, and was angiy with Cler- 
 monde — angry with myself. With her for the artful 
 
 3 
 
 i
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 35 
 
 part she was playing — and with myself, for the ridi- 
 culous situation in which I was placed. The Count 
 de Treville was a man of honour and spirit. He 
 would not have submitted to be trifled with^ had he 
 suspected the deception that was practised on him. 
 As to me, I certainly felt myself in a most awk- 
 ward situation ; and the best thing I could do, was 
 to extricate myself from the difficulty as speedily 
 as possible. 
 
 Whilst the count, with all due penitence, went to 
 get the smelling-bottle. Marguerite very dexterously 
 passed the hat to its owner. Then under pretext of 
 the apartment being too warm, Clermonde requested 
 the count to conduct her to her boudoir, and then I 
 effected my escape. 
 
 The reflections which I had made in my hiding- 
 place were very different from those which occu- 
 pied me when I found myself in the street. Whilst 
 I was ensconced beneath the sofa, I felt humiliated 
 by the idea of concealing myself from a man ; and, 
 moreover, Clermonde's artifice displeased me. But 
 when I found myself removed from the scene of 
 action, I must needs confess that my love returned, 
 and with it my jealousy. Clermonde, it is true, had 
 as yet given me no claim on her affections ; but that 
 claim was on the very point of being conceded. 
 Happiness seemed within my reach, when my rival 
 entered, and snatched it from me. A few short mi- 
 c6
 
 36 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 nutes only had elapsed since I was sitting beside 
 Clermonde, in the character of a favoured lover ; and 
 now I was wandering in the street, mortified, dis- 
 appointed, and tortured by doubts and fears. I was 
 almost tempted to go back, and break in upon the hap- 
 piness of my rival, as he had broken in upon mine. 
 
 These thoughts, this agitation, so bewildered my 
 senses, that I did not perceive I was at that moment 
 surrounded and pressed upon by a concourse of peo- 
 ple. I heard loud outcries. I advanced, or rather 
 was borne onward. There were lights in the win- 
 dows, and torches in the street. A little further on 
 in advance of me, I beheld an immense conflagration. 
 Several houses seemed to be enveloped in flames, and 
 a universal shout of Fire I Fire ! resounded on every 
 side. For a moment I felt disposed to throw myself 
 into the flames, and so at once to end my misery 
 and my life. But I was speedily brought to my 
 senses, by a loud voice thundering in my ear, 
 " Allom, a la chaine /" I turned round and beheld a 
 working man, who thrust a bucket of water into my 
 hand, and although I have no very distinct recollection 
 of what I did in consequence of this practical sug- 
 gestion, I have no doubt but that I exerted myself 
 most laudably, for on the following day I was men- 
 tioned in terms of commendation. 
 
 The fire was extinguished; and in about half an 
 hour after, I was knocking loudly at the same door
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 37 
 
 which had been so unexpectedly opened by Monsieur 
 de la Touche-Treville. 
 
 "Who is there ?" exclaimed a voice from within. 
 
 " It is I, Marguerite." 
 
 " Mon Dieu, monsieur ! why do you come here ?" 
 
 Before I had time to answer this question, it was 
 repeated by Monsieur de Treville. 
 
 " It is I, Fleury, the theatrical associate of Made- 
 moiselle Clermonde. There has been a fire in the 
 neighbourhood. I have been assisting in extinguish- 
 ing it, and I am wet to the skin — half drowned. I 
 trust that Mademoiselle Clermonde will grant me 
 admittance. I throw myself on her hospitality." 
 
 I had no sooner uttered these words than the door 
 was opened, and I swiftly bounded up the staircase. 
 Monsieur de Treville received me at the door of the 
 apartment, with a warmth of kindness which under 
 other circumstances would have filled me with re- 
 morse. I hastily glanced round the apartment. 
 Clermonde was seated on the sofa, which was now 
 drawn to the fire-side. She begged my pardon for 
 the apparent confusion in which I found her, and 
 which she attributed to her sudden indisposition. 
 The count related to me, with very good grace, the 
 story, which I knew as well as he. He offered me a 
 change of clothes, which I did not think proper to 
 accept, knowing that my stay would be prolonged 
 by drying myself at the fire. Clermonde understood 
 
 193043
 
 38 THE FRENXH STAGE. 
 
 ray feelings, and begged that, as it was then very 
 late, I would remain there till morning. 
 
 ^'Monsieur Fleury,^' said the count, "you have 
 the reputation of being an excellent conversationaHst. 
 Have you any anecdotes to tell us, which may ser\-e 
 to amuse and restore Mademoiselle. Possibly your 
 exertions at the fire may have fatigued you ; otherwise 
 I would ask you to relate to us some details of the 
 scandalous chronicle of Amiens. Is there any thing 
 new in that way ?" 
 
 B}^ some unaccountable fatality deceived husbands 
 and lovers are continually provoking a laugh at their 
 own expense. I trust, however, that the reader will 
 believe I possessed sufficient good taste to refrain from 
 naiTating anything which could at all bear upon such 
 delicate subjects. Clermonde thanked me by a glance, 
 which amply sufficed to repay me for my past dis- 
 aster. 
 
 Desforges was the first to perceive the understand- 
 ing which existed between me and Clennonde. The 
 eye of jealousy is ever watchful, but I had to do with 
 a generous rival ; and, besides, we entered into a 
 mutual agreement, that if Clermonde should show 
 a preference for either of us, the unfortunate rival 
 should uncomplainingly withdraw himself from the 
 contest. Twenty years after this, Desforges, alluding 
 to this affair in his memou's, expressed himself as 
 follows :
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 39 
 
 " I imprudently fell in love, and had the mortifi- 
 cation to see a rival preferred. That rival is now 
 a distinguished ornament of the Theatre Fran9ais, 
 and no doubt fully deserved the predilection of our 
 mutual idol. I threw away a great many sighs, many 
 sonnets, and many bouquets ; but I was beginning to 
 know the world, and I found means to console my- 
 self." 
 
 He did more; and carrying self-denial even to 
 heroism, he frequently warned me of my imprudence 
 in my intercourse with Clermonde. Monsieur de la 
 Touche-Treville had left Amiens ; yet the tender in- 
 terest and liberal generosity which he had manifested 
 towards her, rendered it a point on her part that she 
 should not violate the respect, I may say the friend- 
 ship, which she felt for him. As to me, I must con- 
 fess I found it difficult to wear the mask of dissimula- 
 tion on such a subject. How indeed was it possible 
 for me to conceal the sentiments with which Cler- 
 monde inspired me ? I felt that she was devoted to 
 me, and my vanity made me anxious that everybody 
 should know it. She was the object of universal 
 homage, and a dozen rivals were contending for the 
 prize. It was gratifying to be enabled to say, tri- 
 umphantly, " She is mine !" to any coxcomb who 
 might venture to address her in the language of gal- 
 lantry. 
 
 If these were my feelings, it would appear that
 
 40 THE FRiENCn STAGE. 
 
 they were likewise those of Monsieur de Treville ; 
 for one day I received from him, in all due form, 
 a challenge bearing the date of Versailles. He in- 
 formed me that he would be at Versailles as soon as 
 his letter, and would wait for me in a place which he 
 specified, a short distance from the town. 
 
 A duel for Clermonde — a duel with a gentleman of 
 rank was not a little flattering to my pride : it will 
 therefore be readily supposed that I was punctual to 
 the rendezvous. 
 
 We fought with swords, and I received a wound 
 in the arm. The combat immediately ceased. 
 
 " Count," said I, ^' when I am cured we will fight 
 it out." 
 
 " With all my heart," replied he ; and we parted 
 with these hostile feelings. 
 
 Whilst, however, I was recovering from the effects 
 of my wound, he broke with Clermonde. And when 
 at a subsequent period, I met him in society, he 
 spoke to me of our duel as a folly which had past, 
 and which he had no intention of renewing. He 
 was one of those rare men, M^ho know how to forget 
 an offence, when they are in a position which would 
 enable them to resent it. Courage and generosity 
 were the two predominant points in his character ; and 
 at a later period of life, when fortune and his sword 
 had raised him to distinction, I had several oppor- 
 tunities of experiencing the nobleness of his nature.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 41 
 
 I was now in undisturbed possession of Cler- 
 monde's affections, and my happiness seemed to be 
 complete. After a little time, I however began to look 
 forward with some feelings of uneasiness to the results 
 of a liaison, which was liable at any moment to be 
 abruptly broken off. We had, as it were, merely 
 traced out our romance of life, it was now time to 
 think of its realization. As yet, all was uncertainty 
 and apprehension. The fear of an abrupt separation 
 annoyed me; and the only means of guarding against 
 such a calamity, was for Clermonde and myself to 
 enter into a conjoint professional engagement, which 
 would enable us to live together as long as our love 
 should continue unchilled by indifference. Clermonde 
 had often spoken to me of a trip to Versailles ; she 
 had herself performed there, at the theatre which was 
 under the management of Mademoiselle Montansier, 
 a lady celebrated in the annals of gallantry. 
 
 Clermonde's engagement at Amiens was drawing 
 to a close, and mine was of short duration ; we there- 
 fore soon expected to be free. It occurred to me 
 that I might get my father to write to Mademoiselle 
 Montansier, with whom I knew he had formerly been 
 on very amicable terms. We accordingly arranged 
 our plan, and felt no doubt of its succeeding to 
 our heart's content. 
 
 M. de Voltaire had taught me to esteem my pro- 
 fession; Clermonde taught me to love it, and I
 
 42 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 devoted myself assiduously to study. My perform- 
 ances had heretofore been characterized more by 
 action than reflection ; I perfectly comprehended 
 the general spirit of a part; but its delicate shade 
 escaped me. Clermonde helped to correct my faults, 
 and inspired me with a laudable feeling of emulation. 
 The idea of an engagement at Versailles was gratify- 
 ing to my ambition : there I should have the oppor- 
 tunity of seeing and studying the best models ; and 
 though I was as yet only a very humble disciple of 
 Thalia, I was fully possessed with the idea of one day 
 figuring at the Comedie Fran9aise. 
 
 Inspired by this cheering hope, I arrived at Ver- 
 sailles m the year 1770. The reign of Louis XV. was 
 drawing to a close, and the celebrated favourite, 
 Madame Dubarry, was in the height of her power. 
 I had now mounted the first step of the ladder of 
 glory and fortune. Paris and Versailles were con- 
 nected by links of daily communication, and the 
 theatre of Mademoiselle Montansier might be con- 
 sidered the nursery of the Parisian company. 
 
 I presented myself to Mademoiselle Montansier, 
 who had received intimation of my intended \dsit 
 from my father : she received me with the cordiality 
 of an old friend, and immediately gave me an engage- 
 ment. 
 
 Montansier was a charming woman. Her manners, 
 accent, and even her feeling, all bore evidence of her
 
 4 
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 43 
 
 southern origin. Though not very young when I 
 first saw her, yet she was probably more attractive 
 than when in the first bloom of her youth. She was 
 not, coiTectly speaking, pretty, but irresistibly fas- 
 cinating. She was more remarkable for natural 
 intelligence than for cultivated talent, and possessed 
 a large share of that energy which enables its pos- 
 sessor to encounter and to overcome difficidties. 
 
 At a very early period of life Mademoiselle Mon- 
 tansier left her native province, and came to Paris 
 and Versailles with the intention of making her for- 
 tune. She entered upon this speculation with no 
 capital but her personal attractions ; but that bore a 
 sufficiently large interest among the gallant aristo- 
 cracy of the time to answer her purpose. 
 
 We can form no idea at the present day of the 
 luxury of gallantry, if I may use the expression, 
 which prevailed among the French nobility in the 
 reign of Louis XV. Following the example of the 
 sovereign, every man of fashion considered it fashion- 
 able to possess one or more mistresses, on whom 
 the most extravagant expenditure was lavished. The 
 Prince de Soubise, the intimate friend of the King, 
 was foremost in this species of prodigality. Not 
 content with casting gold at the feet of une reine de 
 boudoir, ten or twelve ladies received his homage and 
 his presents. Each of these was provided with a 
 large retinue of servants, all clothed in one livery, 
 their equipages being also all uniform. When any of
 
 44 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 these carriages were seen driving through the streets 
 of Paris, the people were accustomed to say : Void 
 la maison de Soubise. The nobiUty affected the same 
 sort of luxury and the same laxity of manners : nay, 
 even prelates themselves were not proof against the 
 contagion of example, and some there were who 
 braved scandal so far, as to appear in public in com- 
 pany with ladies of no equivocal character. If to the 
 list of nobles and churchmen be added the wealthier 
 class of bourgeoisie, who piqued themselves in imi- 
 tating the views of their superiors, it must be con- 
 fessed that France at that period presented a fertile 
 field for the exercise of vice under the name of 
 gallantry. 
 
 Mademoiselle Montansier soon gained a multitude 
 of admirers. She had not been long in Paris before 
 she was established in an elegant house, where she 
 received a large circle of visitors, who were charmed 
 with her manners and conversation. She was of 
 a generous disposition, and if she received rich 
 offerings, she in her turn dispensed them with a 
 liberal hand. In short, Mademoiselle Montansier 
 was a woman who had no fault, save that which is 
 sometimes called the weakness of a kind heart \ 
 
 M. de Barras, who played so distinguished a part 
 
 ' This is M. Fleury's theatrical version of the amiability of a pro- 
 stitute. She had no fault, but oue, and that M. Flem-y sets dowTi to 
 what is " sometimes called the weakness of a kind heart." What it 
 is more generally and properly called we decline mentioning. — Ed.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 45 
 
 in the revolution, cherished for Montansier an attach- 
 ment, which took its date from their mutual family 
 connexion in the south. She at first loved Barras ; 
 but her friendship for him was more constant than 
 her love. Barras was mortified, and reproached 
 Montansier for her infidelity. But in the end they 
 became friends, and their friendship continued un- 
 broken to the last. 
 
 Mademoiselle Montansier was an excellent the- 
 atrical manager ; her conduct to the performers com- 
 posing her company, was uniformly characterized by 
 kindness and consideration. I was always at a loss 
 to discover what portion of her time she allotted to 
 rest. Her days were divided between amusement and 
 her theatrical duties ; and her nights were spent at 
 the card-table, for she was passionately addicted to 
 gaming. But notwithstanding her restless and dis- 
 sipated mode of life, she attained an advanced age, 
 retaining all the cheerfulness and vivacity of youth, 
 and, unfortunately for herself, with a heart as young 
 as ever'. 
 
 ^ M. Fleury's notion of the perfection of the female character is 
 sufficiently curious to deserve one word of notice : the object of his 
 admiration and praise had no fault, but her kind-heartedness ; her 
 days were divided between amusement and acting, and her nights 
 were spent at tlie card-table, she being passionately addicted to 
 gaming : in the pursuit of these avocations she grew old, and unfortu- 
 nately for herself was just as bad in the end as she was in the begin- 
 ing, so that, bating the kind-heartedness, dissipation and gambling, 
 caiTied to the bruak of the grave, are no faults. — Oh ! M. Fleury. — Ep.
 
 46 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A portrait. — Clermoude's jealousy. — Separation. — Desforges. — My 
 first disappointment in love.— Madame Drouin. — Mademoiselle 
 Dangueville's bii'th-day fete. — Her personal appearance and man- 
 ner described. — Le Kain. — Preville. — Complimentary lines by 
 Dorat. — Moliere's handmaid.— Le Kain's Fairy Tale. — Pre^ille's 
 bon mot. — Preparations for the Dauphin's marriage. — Mademoiselle 
 Clairon. — Intrigues against Mademoiselle Dumesnil. — Fetes at 
 Versailles. — Perfonnance at the Court Theatre. — Athalie. — The 
 choruses. — Personal appearance of the DaupliLness. — Mademoiselle 
 Dimiesnil's revenge. 
 
 I MADE my debut at Versailles with tolerable suc- 
 cess. For this I was no doubt indebted to certain 
 external advantages rather than to any indication of 
 talentSj which at that time were neither formed nor 
 cultivated. 
 
 Hercj I feel, as it were, compelled to lay before the 
 reader a portrait representing me such as I then was, 
 though doubtless somewhat flattered, since it was 
 drawn by my friend Paulin. How far the likeness 
 remained accurate at a later period of my life, those 
 who remember me may judge. "At the age of 
 eighteen or twenty," observes Paulin, "Fleury, with-
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 47 
 
 out being handsome, or even good-looking, was 
 exceedingly" agreeable in his personal appearance. 
 In stature he was short rather than tall ; but he was 
 slender, well made, active, and adroit at all bodily 
 exercises. He was gifted with that natural grace 
 which is not to be acquired by art or study. His 
 countenance was lively and intelligent, and his eyes 
 were bright and penetrating. Fleury was not much 
 indebted to intellectual cultivation, but he was largely 
 endoM^ed with natural talent and amiability of dis- 
 position and manners. He was remarkable for tact 
 and correctness of judgment. He was especially 
 distinguished for elegance of manner and an air of 
 high life, in which few could rival him. To a very 
 prepossessing exterior he joined many solid qualities 
 of mind and disposition. All who have had the 
 happiness of knowing him, will bear evidence that 
 honour and probity formed the basis of his character. 
 With such recommendations, it cannot be a matter 
 of surprise that he should have become at once a 
 distinguished actor, and a favourite in private society. 
 Nevertheless, it was not without considerable labour 
 and difficulty that he attained the rank of one of the 
 principal actors of the Theatre Fran9ais." 
 
 Alas ! I had indeed many trials and difficulties to 
 encounter ere I reached that much wished-for dis- 
 tinction. I had drunk deeply of the sweets of love, 
 and I now began to taste its bitters. Darkening 
 clouds began to obscure our honey -moon ; in short.
 
 48 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 a misunderstanding arose between me and Cler- 
 monde. In the first place I should acquaint the 
 reader, that we had been disappointed in our hope 
 of obtaining an engagement together. Mademoiselle 
 Montansier, while she rendered full justice to the 
 talent and beauty of Clermonde, declined including 
 her in an engagement with me. For this she alleged 
 various reasons ; none of w^hich^ however, were suffi- 
 ciently satisfactoiy to Clermonde. The latter could 
 not reconcile the marked favour manifested towards 
 me by the fair manager of Versailles, with the cool- 
 ness and indifference which Mademoiselle Montan- 
 sier evinced towards herself; and the result was, that 
 jealousy took possession of her, and she taxed me w^ith 
 infidelity. Truly, nothing could be more absm'd than 
 the idea of my cherishing any tender feelings towards 
 Mademoiselle Montansier. In the first place, she 
 was forty, and Clermonde only twenty ; this in itself 
 was a foraiidable contrast. Then Clermonde was 
 wholly devoted to love, and Montansier wholly to her 
 lovers. But there was still a stronger tie that bound 
 me to Clennonde ; she had intimated to me the pro- 
 babiHty that I should speedily become a father \ 
 
 Clermonde gave vent to her angry feelings, and I 
 felt piqued that she should suspect me with so httle 
 
 ^ Considering this announcement to have been made to ]M. Flenry ■ 
 during the honey-moon, it appears that, however blameless in other 
 respects, Clermonde, like Jloutansier, was liable to what is called 
 " the wealvness of a kind heart."— Ed.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 49 
 
 reason. To assure her of my unchanged affection, I 
 proposed to join her at Caen, where a very advan- 
 tageous engagement had been offered to her — I did 
 more ; moved by her grief and her situation, I in- 
 sisted on her acceptance of a written promise of 
 marriage, with the agreement that I should forfeit 
 two thousand crowns, in the event of not fulfilUng 
 my promise '. The fact was, I regarded her as my 
 wife, and I then thought that death alone could 
 separate us. 
 
 As it turned out death did separate us. Our child 
 died, and our separation speedily followed : Clermonde 
 wrote to inform me of the circumstance, and with 
 more disdain than generosity sent back my promise 
 of marriage, together with the agreement of the 
 forfeiture. What mortified me above all, was to 
 learn that she had done all this at the instigation of 
 Desforges, my former rival. He had followed her 
 to Caen, and supplanted me as I had supplanted 
 M. de la Touche Treville. 
 
 What a terrible night I passed after the receipt of 
 the letter announcing this irrevocable rupture. Let 
 a man who has loved, and loved as I then did, 
 imagine what would have been his agony had he 
 been told, in the plenitude of confiding affection, 
 " your mistress is faithless.^' I was in a fever of rage 
 and jealousy. In my delirium I resolved to revenge 
 ' After the honey-moon was over. — Ed. 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 THE FREXCII STAGE. 
 
 myself by killing Desforges and Clermonde, and after- 
 wards putting a period to my own existence ; this I 
 seriously resolved upon. Fortunately, excitement 
 beai's in itself its own remedy ; exhausted nature was 
 overcome, and I fell asleep. Frightful dreams, ter- 
 rific \dsions assailed me. In this manner I passed the 
 night, and morning was far advanced when I was 
 brought to my senses by a loud knocking at my door. 
 
 Madame Drouin, an actress of the Comedie Fran- 
 9aise, sent a carriage to convey me to Vaugirarde, on 
 a visit to Mademoiselle Dangueville, whose birth-day 
 was to be celebrated that day. Madame Drouin, 
 to whom I had been furnished with a letter of intro- 
 duction by my father, had requested Mademoiselle 
 Dangueville to send me an invitation to her fete. 
 The engagemerit was of several days^ standing ; but 
 my love catastrophe banished it from my thoughts, 
 and I had entirely forgotten it. 
 
 When it is considered that my love for my profes- 
 sion was only surpassed by my love for Clermonde, 
 it w ill not appear surprising that, overwhelmed as I 
 was with grief, the mention of the Comedie Fran9aise 
 and of Mademoiselle Dangueville, conveyed to me a 
 sort of magical consolation. A numerous party, con- 
 sisting of the most distinguished performers of the 
 day, and several celebrated writers, was that day to 
 assemble at Vaugirard. I made an effort to rally my 
 spirits, dressed myself, and set off to join the fete.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 51 
 
 Mademoiselle Dangueville has left in our dramatic 
 records a name which will never be forgotten. I 
 had heard her spoken of in terms of enthusiasm by 
 my father and many others, as one of those meteors 
 which shine forth only at rare intervals. She was 
 unrivalled as the representative of soubrettes. In 
 that line of characters she was, by universal consent, 
 allowed to be the best actress who had ever adorned 
 the French stage. She was surnamed the inimitable. 
 It is impossible to convey an idea of the public regret 
 excited by her retirement \ She was admired and 
 esteemed by the public, honoured and beloved 
 by her professional colleagues, and celebrated by 
 poets. 
 
 Mademoiselle Dangueville, when I first saw her, was 
 about sixty years of age, but she had not the appear- 
 ance of being so old. Her manners were easy, frank, 
 and unaffected, and were marked by an air of grace- 
 ful modesty, which was irresistibly charming. She 
 appeared to me the exact personification of Elmire, 
 in the " Tartuffe ;" the type of modest, yet dignified 
 bourgeoisie. I fancied what she must have been in 
 her youth, and I could easily conceive that the 
 rapturous admiration she excited was fully justified. 
 
 ' Mademoiselle Dangueville had (quitted the stage about seven years 
 before I was introduced to her on the occasion above alluded to. 
 She retired to Vaugirard, and was in possession of a considerable 
 fortune. 
 
 d2
 
 52 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 Even in the advanced age at which I saw her, she 
 had not lost her beauty. Her features were deli- 
 cately formed, and her whole countenance lighted up 
 by intelligence and expression. There was some- 
 thing truly captivating in the tones of her voice. 
 Even her wrinkles were not devoid of grace ; they 
 harmonized with the pure and amiable expression of 
 her countenance 5 and but for the humour and gaiety 
 which occasionally sparkled in her eye, I should have 
 had some difficulty in believing that I saw before me 
 the famous representative of soubrettes. 
 
 A young secretary to an embassy finding himself 
 for the first time in a congress of sovereigns and 
 celebrated diplomatists, might be inclined inwardly 
 to ejaculate, "What an insignificant being am I 
 among these men who rule the world !" Such was 
 precisely my feeling in the situation in which I then 
 stood. Near me, on my left, v»^ere grouped Mes- 
 sieurs Sainte-Foix, Lemiere, Dorat, Rochon de Cha- 
 bannes, Duclairou, and Saint Aubin, the painter ; 
 on my right w^ere Madame Drouin, Mademoiselle 
 Fanier, and Mademoiselle Lamothe, the celebrated Le 
 Kain, and the not less celebrated Preville ; and before 
 me, sat the heroine of her day. Mademoiselle Dangue- 
 ville. Amidst so many great people I certainly felt 
 myself very little. The reflections which crowded on 
 my mind were of a nature calculated either to plunge 
 me into despair, or to inspire renewed courage. They
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 53 
 
 had the latter effect; but I must confess that the 
 grief and disappointment I had sustained, contributed 
 not a httle to stimulate my resolution. I have fre- 
 quently had occasion to remark, that a disappoint- 
 ment comparatively of a trivial nature will have the 
 most distressing effect on the spirits ; whilst a serious 
 misfortune rouses the mind, by presenting obstacles 
 to be surmounted. The power of endurance and 
 resistance seems, as it were, to augment in proportion 
 to the trials they have to encounter. I was under 
 the influence of this sort of excitement at the mo- 
 ment to which I am here referring. In the hopes 
 of attaining to the eminence of Dangueville, Le Kain, 
 and Preville, I felt that I could undertake any- 
 thing. 
 
 After the kind reception given me by Mademoi- 
 selle Dangueville, the great tragedian Le Kain, who 
 was an old acquaintance of my father, stepped up to 
 me, and cordially embraced me. This honour, of 
 course, won for me the consideration of all the rest of 
 the company. ^ 
 
 We all sat down to an excellent dinner. At the 
 upper end of the room hung the portrait of Made- 
 moiselle Dangueville, overlooking the dinner-table 
 and the guests. On the lower part of the frame 
 were inscribed the following lines from the pen of 
 Monsieur Dorat : 
 
 d3
 
 54 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 " II me semble la voii', I'oeil brillant de gaiete, 
 Parler, agii", marcher avec le'gerete ; 
 Piquante saus appret, et vive sans grimace, 
 A chaque mouvement decouvrLr uiie gi-ace ; 
 Sourire, s'exprimer, se taire avec esprit, 
 Joindi'e le jeu meut a I'dclair du debit 
 Nuancer tous ces tous, varier sa figure, 
 Rendre I'art uaturel, et parer la nature." 
 
 Dinner being ended, M. de Sainte-Foix rose and 
 delivered a brief eulogy on the talent of the Queen of 
 Vaugirard, " It is difficult to conceive," observed 
 he, " that the same actress should have been capable 
 of performing, with equal excellence, a variety of 
 characters decidedly different from each other; for 
 example — V Indiscrete, in the '• Ambitieux ;' Ma7'tine, 
 in the ' Femmes Savantes ;' the Countess, in the 
 'Moeurs du Temps;' Colette, in the 'Trois Cou- 
 sines ;' Madame Orgon, in the * Complaisant,' &c. 
 &c. Study, judgment, and taste may make a bril- 
 liant actress — but an actress of real genius is rare ; 
 and between the one and the other there is as much 
 difference as between Moliere and an author without 
 wit." 
 
 '^' Stop, stop," exclaimed Mademoiselle Dangueville, 
 wiping away a tear of emotion. " This is going too 
 far ! Moliere ! Moliere ! This is too bold a compa- 
 rison. You know I never presumed to be any thing 
 but his humble handmaid."
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 55 
 
 " That is precisely what I was going to say/' ob- 
 served Sainte-Foix. " But Le Kain seeras anxious to 
 speak. The Comedie Fran9aise must present its 
 bouquet." 
 
 '^' Let it be without flattery, then," said the amiable 
 old lady, " or I assure you, Le Kain, I will not accept 
 it." 
 
 "You shall have truth," replied the tragedian, 
 ** pure truth. Once upon a time . . . ." 
 
 "He is going to teU a nursery tale," exclaimed 
 several voices at once. 
 
 " What I have to relate," replied Le Kain, ^' is suf- 
 ficiently wonderful to seem like a tale." Then rais- 
 ing his eyes to the portrait of Mademoiselle Dangue- 
 ville, and pointing to it, he resumed : " Once upon a 
 time there was a fairy . . . ." 
 
 Here he was interrupted by cries of Bravo ! 
 
 " Enough of this, Le Kain," said Mademoiselle 
 Dangueville ..." You will force me to leave the 
 table." 
 
 Le Kain accused Monsieur Rochon de Chabannes 
 of having prompted him to tell the story. 
 
 " Oh ! is he the offender ?" said the old lady. " An 
 old friend ! Really this is too bad ! But I will have 
 my revenge ; and, as I do not love courtiers, I exile 
 Monsieur Rochon de Chabannes to Dresden." 
 
 " Madame, you alarm me," exclaimed the mar- 
 quis. 
 
 D 4
 
 56 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 " And/' continued the lady, " since you endow 
 me with a fairy's power, I accept the magic wand ; 
 and I appoint you Charge d' Affaires from his most 
 Christian Majesty to the Court of Dresden." 
 
 " I am perfectly mystified," said the Marquis . . . 
 " I am at a loss to comprehend what all this 
 means." 
 
 " It means," said the lady, " that I haye appealed 
 against the injustice of cashiering you. The minister 
 has made you a head taller than you were yesterday, 
 you must go and thank him to-morrow ! . . . I haye 
 heard," added she, **that the Greeks used to make 
 ambassadors of their actors. In France we are not 
 so yery far behind them ; for here you see an actress 
 can make a plenipotentiary \" 
 
 Mademoiselle DangueviUe gaye general satisfac- 
 tion by this mode of returning the bouquet to her 
 old friend. Eyery one wamily congratulated Mon- 
 sieur de Rochon, and the party became exceedingly 
 animated. Mademoiselle Dangueyille was happy in 
 witnessing the happiness she had conferred. She 
 desired her sen'ants to throw open the garden gates, 
 and to admit the country people who had assembled 
 round them. Refreshments were distributed to the 
 peasantry, who testified their gratitude by a chorus 
 
 1 Mademoiselle DangueviUe had, through her interest at Court, 
 applied for and obtained this appointment for the marquis, without 
 his knowledge.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 57 
 
 of praises and benedictions. The remainder of the 
 evening was spent in dancing, singing, and merry- 
 making. 
 
 " Well, Preville, what do you think of this ?" said 
 the heroine of the day, rousing him from a reverie by 
 a tap on the shoulder. 
 
 "That Mademoiselle Dangueville still is, as she 
 always was, the idol of the parterre." 
 
 My visit to Mademoiselle Dangueville fired me 
 with ambition, and confirmed me in my resolution to 
 follow up perseveringly the object I had in view, 
 of making my appearance, some day or other, and 
 that as soon as possible, at the Comedie Francaise. 
 The principal performers of that theatre came alter- 
 nately to play at Versailles. Le Kain himself, when 
 in the height of his colossal reputation, occasionally 
 visited Versailles ; and he manifested a warm interest 
 for me. He was so kind as even to give me some les- 
 sons in tragedy ; a line of acting, however, for which I 
 felt that I had no talent. If anything could have 
 enabled me to give a satisfactory representation of a 
 tragic character, the hints I received from Le Kain 
 would certainly have been attended by that result. 
 In a subsequent part of my memoirs, I shall have 
 occasion to advert to some of Le Kain's theories, 
 which I endeavoured to put into practice, although 
 I never succeeded. I was not endowed with the 
 d5
 
 58 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 qualifications requisite for personifying a hero ; and 
 I may truly say that it was in spite of myself, when- 
 ever I ventured to range into the higher region of 
 the dramatic art. 
 
 The school best calculated for my improvement 
 was unquestionably the Comedie Fran9aise; and I 
 had the opportunity of going there frequently, by 
 means of tickets which I received from Le Kain and 
 Madame Drouin, whose friendship I continued to cul- 
 tivate. Perhaps no theatre in the world could boast 
 of so great a number of clever actors as the Comedie 
 Frangaise ; but it had lost two actresses, Avhose per- 
 formances have always been cited as the perfection 
 of the art: these were Mademoiselles DangueviUe 
 and Clairon. 
 
 When I first appeared at Versailles, I had never seen 
 Clairon on the stage. It was confidently affirmed, 
 that sooner or later she would reappear ; and I 
 looked forward to that moment with impatient inte- 
 rest. My desire of seeing her was gratified sooner 
 than I expected, and under circumstances somewhat 
 remarkable. It was now near the period fixed for 
 the marriage of the dauphin, afterwards Louis XVI., 
 with Marie- Antoinette of Austria, the young princess 
 destined to share his throne and his misfortunes. 
 Nothing was talked of at court, and indeed in all 
 classes of the community, but the great preparations
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 59 
 
 which were in progress for celebrating the union with 
 which such ideas of happiness were connected. 
 
 It was whispered that Mademoiselle Clairon in- 
 tended, on the occasion of the royal nuptials, to re- 
 appear at the Court Theatre, in compliance with the 
 particular wish of the Duchess de Villeroi, with whom 
 she was an especial favourite. In the month of 
 April, 1770, "Athalie" had been rehearsed at the 
 Theatre of the Comedie Fran9aise, in the manner in 
 which it was to be performed at the grand Court 
 Theatre, on the occasion of the fetes ; that is to say, 
 with the choruses and all the scenic pageantry ap- 
 pertaining to the piece. Mademoiselle Clairon took 
 her part in this rehearsal, and, it was affirmed, acted 
 better than ever, and produced a deep impression on 
 a numerous and select audience. Confident that I 
 should have the opportunity of seeing her perform at 
 Versailles, I neglected to attend the rehearsal at 
 Paris. A few days afterwards it was announced that 
 Mademoiselle Clairon would not play the part of 
 Athalie, though she had already rehearsed it ; but she 
 would make her reappearance in the part of Amenaide. 
 This change was made, it was said, through the in- 
 fluence of Madame Dubarry, who was the patroness 
 of Dumesnil, and who prevailed on the king not to 
 permit Clairon to take a character which had been 
 appropriated by her no less celebrated rival. 
 d6
 
 60 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 Madame de Villeroi made great exertions to parry 
 the blow which was thus aimed at her favourite 
 Clairon, to whom she gave the appellation of Melpo- 
 mene. This affair made a great sensation at court. 
 Louis XV., influenced by Madame Dubarry, espoused 
 the cause of Dumesnil; and Madame de Villeroi 
 firmly defended Clairon. After a long series of 
 marches and countermarches, solicitations, and in- 
 trigues, Madame Dubarry, weary of the confHct, sur- 
 rendered; and the King of France and Navarre 
 yielded to the Q,ueen of Carthage. The result was, 
 it was solemnly decided Mademoiselle Clairon should 
 play the part of Athalie. 
 
 Meanwhile the fetes of Versailles commenced. No 
 description can convey any adequate idea of their 
 splendour; they attracted an immense concourse of 
 people from different parts of the kingdom and even 
 from foreign countries. The luxury of dress, the 
 splendour of equipages, the beauty of the court ladies,^ 
 the magnificence of the grand concert, presented alto- 
 gether a perfect scene of enchantment. The gardens 
 of the palace were illuminated by several millions of 
 variegated crystal lamps, which were lighted almost 
 simultaneously, as if by the touch of a magician's 
 wand. Some estimate of the splendour of the illu- 
 minations may be formed from the expense of the 
 bouquet d'artifice. In the space of a few moments
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 61 
 
 thirty thousand rockets were let off, each of which 
 cost a crown \ 
 
 At length the performance, which had been so long 
 announced and so anxiously expected, took place at 
 the Court Theatre, and I had the good fortune to 
 witness it. It was a truly royal entertainment ; the 
 theatre presented a truly splendid spectacle. Athalie 
 ajjpeared. But no ! it was not Athalie : it was not 
 that Queen of the Jews, who is painted in such bold 
 colours by Racine. Mademoiselle Clairon, in that 
 night's performance, fell very far short of her high 
 reputation; she declaimed well, but she was sadly 
 deficient in feeling. Such, at least, was the im- 
 pression she that evening produced on me, and 
 the majority of the audience was of the same opinion. 
 She failed to maintain her reputation ; and her per- 
 formance was by no means of that great and perfect 
 kind which the occasion demanded. A general dis- 
 approbation was felt of the injustice done to Made- 
 moiselle Dumesnil, for the sake of favouring her 
 haughty rival, who had retired from the stage in a fit 
 of ill humour, which gave umbrage to the public. 
 
 With respect to the effect produced by the cho- 
 
 ' At this time the people were beginning to reflect on the lavish 
 expenditui'e of the public money. By way of animadversion on the 
 expense of the illmninations, it was a common remark that every 
 lamp in the gardens had been lighted with a bank note.
 
 62 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 ruses in Athalie, opinion was divided ; they were 
 greatly" admired by some, whilst others thought they 
 enfeebled and impeded the interest of the action : in 
 this latter opinion I must confess I felt very much 
 inclined to concur. However, this is a high question 
 of art, and the experiment made, on the occasion here 
 alluded to, was not calculated to decide it. 
 
 It would be difficult, perhaps impossible, for us to 
 form an accurate idea of the effect produced by the 
 dramatic choruses of antiquity. The Greek and 
 Roman actors employed a sort of measured language, 
 which was occasionally supported by the aid of in- 
 struments. Their ordinary style of declamation was 
 an union of words and music, so that when the cho- 
 ruses intei'vened, the ear was prepared for them and 
 was not jarred by the anomalous effect. But inde- 
 pendently of the objection to this heterogeneous 
 union of speaking and singing, the introduction of 
 the chorus between, leaves the spectator not a mo- 
 ment's repose. Nothing however could be finer than 
 the effect of the music at the moment of the pro- 
 phecy in Athalie. There the chords of the composer 
 produced a powerful sensation, and heightened in a 
 wonderful degree the illusion of the scene. It seemed 
 as though the harps of the tabernacle supported the 
 high priest, and seconded his prophetic inspirations. 
 
 But though the choruses generally failed to produce
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 63 
 
 the expected effect, yet the representation, as a whole, 
 was one of indescribable magnificence. The prodi- 
 gious grandeur of the concluding scene, will never be 
 forgotten by any one who beheld it. When the great 
 temple opened, and the king of the Jews was dis- 
 covered seated on his throne of gold, and five hundred 
 Levites and warriors marched upon the stage from 
 four diflferent points, ten abreast, the effect was at 
 once grand and terrific. All the ideas I had con- 
 ceived of the splendour of Jerusalem, seemed realized 
 and visible before me. 
 
 In addition to this gorgeous pageantry on the stage, 
 there was the unparalleled array of courtly splendour 
 in the boxes. The young Dauphiness was the object 
 of general interest and admiration. My sister's 
 letters had contained so much praise of Marie- 
 Antoinette, that I was prepared to behold her with 
 admiration. The princess appeared to me exceed- 
 ingly beautiful ; her form was slender without being 
 too thin ; she looked exceedingly youthful, her figure 
 did not appear perfectly developed, still I was struck 
 with her dignified manner, which was tempered with 
 an expression of amiability, through which, however, 
 it was easy to trace a little tinge of petulance and 
 self-will. There was an indescribable grace and fasci- 
 nation about her. I. gazed on her with a mingled 
 feehng of respect and attachment. On the night of
 
 64 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 the performance of Athalie, she produced a marked 
 impression on all present ; the interest of the audience 
 appeared to be fairly divided between the dauphiness 
 and the play. 
 
 The triumph which the proud Clairon gained over 
 her rival, on the occasion above referred to, served 
 only to stimulate the talent of Mademoiselle Dumes- 
 nil ; I saw the latter play several parts at the Theatre 
 Fran9ais, and I thought that each successive per- 
 formance increased in subhmity. Her acting was no 
 longer marked by those inequalities which, at the 
 commencement of her career, was perhaps her most 
 prominent defect. She became a distinguished fa- 
 vourite of the public, and her well-deserved popu- 
 larity soon made her forget the intrigues of Clairon. 
 Madame Dubarry determined that she should have 
 an opportunity of taking her revenge in the presence 
 of the noble personages who were assembled for the 
 dauphin's nuptials. She obtained the royal permis- 
 sion for the performance of Semiramis at the Court 
 Theatre, and she presented to Mademoiselle Dumes- 
 nil a superb costume for the part of the Queen of 
 Babylon. I witnessed this performance, and the 
 highest eulogy I can pronounce on it, is to say that 
 it fully convinced me of the truth of an anecdote 
 which I had previously regarded as fictitious. One 
 evening, when Dumesnil had thrown into the cha-
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 65 
 
 racter of Cleopatra a more than usual degree of 
 that fiery energy for which she was so distinguished, 
 the persons who occupied the front rows of the pit, 
 instinctively di-ew back, shrinking, as it were, from 
 her terrific glance. An empty space was thus left 
 between the spectators in the pit and the orchestra'. 
 
 1 A similar effect to this has, during many seasons past, been fre- 
 quently produced in the London Theatres Royal ; but from a very 
 different cause. — Ed.
 
 66 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Rules of managemeut of the Comedie Franjaise. — Regulations made 
 by Moliere. — Bellecourt, Mouvel, and Mole. — My engagement at 
 Lyons. — Management of Madame Lobreau. — A plot against her. — 
 Her energy and activity. — M, Turgot. — His dismissal. — Resigna- 
 tion of Malesherbes. — The path of roses. — Humiliation attending 
 the theatrical profession. — My improvement. — Authors and actors. 
 — The habitues and the ahonnes. — Anecdote. — The black mare and 
 the white mare. — The Duke de Duras. — My engagement in Paris. 
 — Visit to Le Kain.- — His friendly advice. — In\-itation to see him 
 perform. — ilademoiselle Rancom'd. — Le Kain's breakfast party. — 
 My first appeai-ance at the Come'die Fran^aise. — Agitation attend- 
 ing a debut. — Mademoiselle Dumesnil. — Her kind encom-agement. 
 — A nauseous beverage. — Calumniatory hon mot. 
 
 I DEVOTED myself with unremitting zeal to the study 
 of the characters allotted to me, and I may add, not 
 without due success. In fact, during my engagement 
 at the Theatre of Versailles, I made considerable ad- 
 vance in my profession. Under favour of the friend- 
 ship and interest of Le Kain, I took measures, at the 
 3
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 67 
 
 commencement of 1771, to procure an engagement at 
 the Theatre Fran9ais. That had long been the most 
 earnest wish of my heart, and I now flattered myself 
 with the hope of seeing it fulfilled. Alas ! I had no 
 idea of the numberless obstacles I should have to 
 encounter. 
 
 The rules on which the management of the Co- 
 medie Fran9aise was based and regulated, were, with 
 little difference, the same as those existing at the 
 time of the union of the two theatres, in 1630, seven 
 years after the death of Moliere. The performers 
 were, in fact, their own managers, under the super- 
 intendence and direction of the gentlemen of the 
 king's bed-chamber. 
 
 The amount of the receipts was divided into twenty- 
 two shares, which shares were distributed among the 
 associate performers, in relative proportions. The 
 principal performers had whole shares, others, half- 
 shares, others, three-fourths, and some only a quarter- 
 share, according to their degree of talent or length of 
 semce. The accounts were balanced every month, 
 and, after liquidating the expenses of the manage- 
 ment, and the payment of pensions to retired actors, 
 the twenty-two shares were divided according to the 
 established scale of proportions. Out of each allow- 
 ance, some proportional reduction was made; and 
 the sums thus deducted went to the fund destined
 
 68 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 for the pensions of retired or invalid actors. These 
 regulations were established by Moliere. The Father 
 of Comedy wished to see the societaires in their old 
 age placed above want, and even in the enjoyment 
 of comfort. Performers who were merely on trial 
 received only their stipulated salaiy, and the man- 
 agement possessed the right of dismissing them at 
 will. 
 
 Amidst these republican and financial regulations, 
 every new beginner found it a difficult task to work 
 his way up to the foremost rank. The natural 
 rulers, the elders, had to defend two things which 
 always go hand in hand with ideas of seniority, their 
 purses and their vanity. It is but just to acknowledge 
 that they defended both most valiantly. 
 
 Bellecourt, Mouvel, and Mole, engrossed among 
 themselves the range of characters in which I might 
 have been employed. When the question of engaging 
 me was broached in the committee, Bellecourt ob- 
 served that I was not wanted. Mole remarked, in an 
 untranslateable calembourg, that the Comedie Fran- 
 9aise "would flourisJi very well without Fleury." 
 Mouvel, too, was of opinion that my services might 
 be dispensed with. As this celebrated triumvirate 
 were in a position to exercise despotic control, I found 
 it necessaiy to defer my hope of appearing at the 
 Comedie Fran9aise. In obedience to the advice of
 
 THE FREXCII STAGE. 69 
 
 Le Kain, I engaged myself at the Grand Theatre of 
 Lyons^ which was then managed with Parisian eclat 
 by Madame Lobreau. 
 
 This lady received me as a theatrical manager re- 
 ceives an useful actor. The reception given to me 
 by the public of Lyons, was neither very good nor 
 very bad. I experienced that sort of encouragement 
 which is usually given to a young performer who 
 exhibits a capability of future improvement. 
 
 Madame Lobreau was in many respects a perfect 
 contrast to Mademoiselle Montansier. She was a per- 
 fect woman of business, and wielded her managerial 
 sceptre with a despotic, but at the same time, an able 
 hand. Under her management the theatre of Lyons 
 rivalled the most brilliant theatres of the capital. 
 Her ruling passion was command, and the following 
 anecdote will show what energy she was capable of 
 exerting in defence of her managerial prerogative. 
 
 Some speculating persons in Lyons, jealous of her 
 prosperity, and wishing to supersede her in her ap- 
 pointment, joined in an intrigue with the Sieur L , 
 
 chief clerk in the office of the comptroller-general. 
 The consequence Avas, that Madame Lobreau was 
 deprived of the managerial privilege which she had 
 obtained from the Duke de Villeroi, governor of the 
 province. This blow she severely felt ; but far from 
 depressing her spirit, it served to inspire her with
 
 70 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 increased energy. Perseverance and activity enabled 
 her to find a clue to the whole plot of which she 
 was the victim, and by the aid of bribery she suc- 
 ceeded in possessing herself of a copy of the agree- 
 ment which had robbed her of her privilege. By 
 this document it appeared that the new managers 
 
 engaged to pay L eight thousand livres per 
 
 annum, together Avith a handsome douceur, in short, 
 a. pot-de-vin, such as might with propriety be offered 
 to a man in his high situation. 
 
 Furnished with this evidence, Madame Lobreau 
 got into a post-chaise, and drove to Versailles, where 
 she obtained an interview with M. de Villeroi, who 
 was then doing duty at the palace as captain of the 
 guards. She requested an audience of the queen, 
 and her request Avas granted. The document of 
 which Madame Lobreau had possessed herself, suffi- 
 ciently unveiled the unjust and dishonest proceeding, 
 and that very day Louis XVL Avas made acquainted 
 with the whole affair. 
 
 The king immediately svimmoned the minister, 
 against whom he had already begun to conceive some 
 degree of prejudice. 
 
 ^' Your chief clerk, L , is a rogue," said his 
 
 Majesty. " He abuses your authority for the pur- 
 pose of injuring honest people, and selling appoint- 
 ments for his own profit. Make him refund the sum
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 71 
 
 he has received for the management of the Lyons 
 theatre ; as an act of justice you must reinstate the 
 former manageress, and dismiss this man." 
 
 The reprimand was as severe as unexpected. M. 
 Turgot was amazed, and knew not what to think. 
 After a pause, he repUed, that he would inquire into 
 the business, and if the clerk proved guilty, as had 
 been reported to his Majesty, he would request that 
 some marked punishment might be visited upon him. 
 
 L was tolerably adroit, but nevertheless he 
 
 had no little difficulty in justifying himself. He had 
 no idea of Madame Lobreau being in Paris, and never 
 suspected that any one could penetrate the mystery 
 of his devices. 
 
 At the sitting of the next council, M. Turgot de- 
 fended his clerk with all the ardour of a man whose 
 mind was incapable of even comprehending meanness. 
 After delivering an earnest encomium on the good 
 conduct of the subordinate, the honest minister con- 
 cluded with an appeal to the justice of the King 
 for the punishment of the calumniators. 
 
 Louis XVL made no reply, but drawing from his 
 pocket the documents relative to the aifair, which the 
 queen had presented to him, he threw them on the 
 table, and turning his back on M. Turgot, he said, 
 " I neither like rogues nor those who defend them." 
 
 Next day M. Turgot's ministerial appointment 
 ceased. He was superseded by M. de Clugni, and
 
 72 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 the Fee Urzele of Lyons resumed her wand and her 
 power '. 
 
 Actors as well as ministers have their misfortunes, 
 and my day of trial was at hand. When I left my 
 father, I was impatient to soar on my otvti wings, 
 and I hoped to meet everywhere with the same in- 
 dulgence as at home. But how was I disappointed ! 
 How many mortifications I had to endure in propor- 
 tion as I advanced in what I may truly call my hard 
 apprenticeship. I ventured to put on the buskin, 
 expecting that my path was to be strewed with roses, 
 never dreaming that I should have to encounter 
 briars and thorns. In short, to lay aside all figures 
 of speech, and to express myself in plain language, I 
 was hissed. 
 
 The awful sound vibrated in my ears. Certainly 
 this is the true mortification of an actor's profession ; 
 it is nothing short of downright excommunication. 
 Imagine the humiliation of a man insulting you face 
 to face : you see him and hear him, and yet cannot 
 
 1 The above combination of a theatrical anecdote and an historical 
 fact is curious ; but it tells less against Turgot than against Louis XVI. 
 It is very possible for an honest minister to be the dupe of a dis- 
 honest imderUng. The trivial ground of complaint against Turgot 
 serves at least to show that it was difficult to charge him ■with any 
 thing more serious. After Turgot's dismissal, IMalesherbes resigned. 
 " I have no business here any longer," said he. These few words 
 present an eloquent defence of the disgraced minister.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 73 
 
 resent the affront. What must be the feehngs of a 
 man of spirit in such a situation. It may be said 
 that the punishment is visited on the artist only ; 
 as if it M^ere possible to separate the artist from 
 the man. The position of a dramatic author is totally 
 different. Should his play be hissed from the stage, 
 the man himself is sitting snugly in his study. With 
 respect to actors, I am convinced that hissing, blights 
 more talent than it forms ; it operates not as a warn- 
 ing, but as a torture. 
 
 Thanks to my youth and ardent feeling, I firmly 
 believed that I was treated with injustice. Besides, 
 I was cordially supported by Madame Lobreau, who 
 used all her influence to convince the hissers that 
 they were in the wrong. An actor of our company, 
 named Provost, who took the leading characters, 
 conceived a warm regard for me, and gave me some 
 valuable instruction. With his assistance, and sti- 
 mulated by my offended pride, I made a decided pro- 
 gress in my art. Our repertoire being limited, we 
 played over and over the same limited number of 
 pieces ; and this circumstance enabled me to acquire 
 a degree of ease and knowledge of the stage in which 
 few have rivalled me. 
 
 By dint of unremitting study and perseverance, I 
 improved myself so much, that I found myself ra- 
 pidly gaining public favour. The regularity of my 
 private conduct possibly helped me to win friends, 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 74 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 and I was admitted into very good society. I felt 
 that this sort of association contributed not a little to 
 my professional improvement. It has been remarked, 
 that dramatic authors should be eaves-droppers and 
 listen at doors. Listening may suffice for the dra- 
 matist; but the actor who wishes to copy nature 
 must see as well as hear. The influence of my in- 
 tercourse -^vith persons of taste and education soon 
 manifested itself in my acting. I won the applause 
 of the pit, and began to draw forth the suffi-ages of 
 the ahonnes. 
 
 At the time to which I am here referring, a thea- 
 trical audience was divided into two classes, the 
 abonnes and the habitues ^ ; between AA^hom the most 
 marked difference existed. The habitues sat in the 
 pit and in the orchestra, and the abonnes in the first 
 tier of boxes. These two powers ruled the theatre 
 with despotic sway, and they not unfi'equently IcA^ed 
 war against each other. There is nothing of this sort 
 noAv-a-days ; and perhaps it is all the worse. Indif- 
 ference has superseded those conflicts Avhich served 
 to animate the spirit of the actors ; and again I say, 
 so much the worse ! 
 
 I may here relate, by way of episode, a little adA' en- 
 ture which occurred to a distinguished abonne of the 
 
 1 The abonnes subscribed for the season, or any given period ; 
 the liahiUies merely paid for theii* admission when they felt disposed 
 to go.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 75 
 
 theatre of Lyons, and which at the time caused a 
 great deal of merriment. 
 
 A merchant of that city, who had amassed a con- 
 siderable fortune, married a young wife. He was a 
 good sort of person, and as just in his dealings as 
 might reasonably be expected of a man who was always 
 earnestly intent on his own interests. Anxious to 
 combine conjugal gallantry with domestic economy, 
 he subscribed to the theatre for his wife at the same 
 time with himself. This proceeding was the result 
 of a series of well-concerted speculations. At that 
 time gambling was carried to an extravagant extent 
 in the better classes of society at Lyons, and the 
 merchant prudently thought that the subscription 
 to the theatre might prove a protection to his purse. 
 There was also another important consideration ; 
 the gentlemen of Lyons being distinguished for 
 their gallantry, the merchant wisely foresaw that 
 by his wife^s attendance at the theatre, her virtue 
 would be screened against those little excitements 
 inseparable from a free intercourse with society. 
 Fifteen francs per month to avert this two-fold 
 danger ! There could not be a better outlay of 
 the money. But very shortly after the acquisition 
 of this privilege, the merchant's wife died, and thus 
 the money which had been subscribed for her, for 
 the remainder of the season, became the manager's 
 free profit. 
 
 e2
 
 76 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 A house without a mistress is never well managed ; 
 and our merchant especially felt the want of a vigi- 
 lant and active wife to superintend his establishment. 
 The consequence was, that after a widowhood of three 
 months he married again. 
 
 Now it happened that the first wife was remarkable 
 for the delicate fairness of her complexion and the 
 regularity" of her features ; but the inconstant taste 
 of the gentleman led him, on the occasion of his 
 second marriage, to make a totally different choice. 
 The new bride was a little Marseillaise brunette, with 
 an animated but irregular set of features. 
 
 The merchant, being a most precise man in all his 
 pecuniary arrangements, had kept an accurate account 
 of his subscriptions to the theatre. He saw no rea- 
 son why the money which he had paid to provide 
 amusement for his first wife, should not revert for 
 the same object to the second. Eight months of the 
 subscription yet remained unexpired, and he wished, 
 as the common sajdng is, to kill two birds Avith one 
 stone. One evening, therefore, accompanied by his 
 newly married wife, he proceeded to the theatre. 
 The happy pair attempted to pass, but the door- 
 keeper obdurately refused to admit them. " Sub- 
 scriptions are merely personal," said he, " and cannot 
 be transferred." The gentleman insisted on passing, 
 and drew from his pocket the manager's receipt for 
 the payment of the money. The receipt set forth
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 11 
 
 that the subscription had been paid for Madame 
 
 R , and Madame R now presented herself. 
 
 She claimed her privilege of admittance, which the 
 door-keeper inflexibly refused. 
 
 Upon this, words ran high between the merchant 
 and the door-keeper, and several persons thronged 
 round the disputants. Among the groupe thus col- 
 lected were several young men well known in Lyons ; 
 
 M. R , addressing himself to them, said : " See, 
 
 gentlemen, what an unjust proceeding this is ! I have 
 paid the subscription for my wife, and now, when I 
 bring my wife, they refuse to admit her. She is not, 
 it is true, the same wife I had four months ago ; she, 
 poor thing, came only four times. But, nevertheless, 
 I wish to abide by the agreement ; I subscribed for 
 the amusement of my wife, and here is my wife, who 
 wants to be amused." 
 
 The persons to whom these words were addressed, 
 knew not what reply to make to this novel kind of 
 reasoning. But the husband continued to appeal to 
 their opinion, evidently expecting them to decide in 
 his favour. 
 
 " Do you think I am in the right, sir ?" said he, 
 addressing a young man who was well known in 
 Lyons as a bit of a wag, and who happened to be 
 standing near him. 
 
 '^ No doubt, you are right," said the young man. 
 " It is a manifest injustice. Enforce your claim — it 
 E 3
 
 78 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 is undeniable. For instance, I subscribe to the toll of 
 the bridge over the Rhone for myself and my horse ; 
 and whether I happen to ride one ^of my horses or 
 another, it makes no sort of difference.^^ 
 
 The merchant's wife did not expect to hear so 
 whimsical a case adduced in support of her claim, 
 and she put a stop to all further discussion of the 
 question, by taking her husband's arm, and walking 
 quietly away, without waiting to ascertain whether 
 the grey mare were the better horse. 
 
 I was fortunate enough, about this time, to find a 
 friend in the Duke de Duras, first gentleman of the 
 king's chamber. A part of the duke's oflEicial duty 
 was the superintendence and control of the Theatre 
 Frangais, and by virtue of his right of recruiting in 
 the provinces, I received a command to make my 
 debut in Paris. 
 
 Nevertheless I did not break with Madame Lo- 
 breau; on the contrary, I gave her my word of 
 honour, that if I should succeed in Paris, I would 
 return and complete my engagement at Lyons. Thus 
 she had a hold upon me in every way. With this 
 assurance she was perfectly satisfied. 
 
 I will not attempt to describe the joyful feehngs 
 with which I set out for Paris, or my eager im- 
 patience to make my debut as comedien ordinaire of 
 the King of France. On my arrival in the capital, I 
 conceived myself m duty bound to make my first
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 79 
 
 visit to Le Kain. My kind patron received me as his 
 future comrade. He specified the characters in which 
 he thought I might appear with most advantage, 
 traced out for me my hne of conduct, and expressly 
 recommended me not to be discouraged, if, as he 
 doubted not, I should encounter many disappoint- 
 ments and disgusts. 
 
 " / had difficulties to contend against, at the com- 
 mencement of my career," said he, " and it was only 
 by dint of labour and perseverance that I succeeded 
 in overcoming the obstacles which opposed me. Do 
 you the same." 
 
 " I will," replied I, " inasmuch as may depend on 
 myself. In perseverance, I trust, I shall not be 
 wanting." 
 
 " Should you like to see me act this evening?" said 
 Le Kain. 
 
 I assured him that nothing could afford me greater 
 pleasure ; for that attention to his performance would 
 afford me the most useful lesson I could receive. 
 
 " Well then," added he, " come this evening to the 
 theatre. The play is ' Vauceslas,^ and I venture to 
 say you will like me. You will likewise see the beau- 
 tiful Mademoiselle Raucourt. She is very celebrated 
 now. But you must have known her at Nancy when 
 she was quite a little girl." 
 
 ^' Oh yes," said I, " I perfectly remember her. We 
 used to call her little Sancerotte. Her father and 
 E 4
 
 80 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 mine were intimate friends. She was a merry little 
 girl; and we have often had a game at romps to- 
 gether." 
 
 " But I advise you to observe a respectful distance 
 now," resumed Le Kain, " or you will get into dis- 
 grace. Raucourt holds her head very high, and so 
 adieu, until evening." 
 
 I failed not to attend the representation of " Vau- 
 ceslas." It was Rotron's tragedy, newly adapted to 
 the stage. Le Kain's acting was above all praise, and 
 he was greeted by thunders of applause. I was in 
 an ecstasy of admiration. As to little Sancerotte, 
 she had grown a tall and beautiful woman, and was 
 now distinguished by the more sonorous name of 
 Raucourt. Her figure was superb. She, however, 
 appeared to me to perform the character of Cassandra 
 with some degree of negligence ; but the sublime 
 acting of Le Kain threw every thing into the shade. 
 
 Next morning I called to pay my compliments to 
 him. He was not visible; but he sent me word, 
 that he should expect me at breakfast on the follow- 
 ing day. Of course I failed not to accept the in- 
 vitation. I found him in the midst of an agreeable 
 party of friends. They were conversing on the sub- 
 ject of the alterations and curtailments made in the 
 tragedy of "Vauceslas," by Marmontel. These al- 
 terations Le Kain did not approve. 
 
 " Can any thing be more reprehensible," said he.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 81 
 
 *^than the presumption of altering a piece so emi- 
 nently dramatic ? In the original tragedy the cha- 
 racters all mutually support each other ; the action is 
 grand and imposing, the interest progressive, and, in 
 short, the whole structure of the piece is conformable 
 to all the best rules of dramatic composition. Al- 
 though the style is occasionally rude, it is through- 
 out vigorous and impassioned. Rotron's * Vauceslas' 
 is the first offspring of the French tragic muse, and 
 is superior to any thing which the bombastic dulness 
 of Marmontel can create." 
 
 Every one present seemed to acknowledge the 
 justice of these remarks of Le Kain, whose judgment 
 and taste in dramatic literature were no less con- 
 spicuous than his histrionic talent. He frequently 
 indulged in severe criticism on the lourdeau, a little 
 friendly nickname which he had bestowed on Mar- 
 montel. 
 
 At length came the evening appointed for my 
 first appearance at the Theatre Fran9ais. I had 
 resolved to summon all my courage ; but when the 
 awful moment arrived, fear took possession of me. 
 Even now I tremble at the very recollection of it ; 
 and at that time a debutant had no little reason to 
 be distrustful of success ; every new actor being, as 
 I have already observed, required to appear both in 
 tragedy and comedy. 
 
 I made my first bow at the Comedie Fran9aise on 
 E 5
 
 83 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 the 7th of March, 1774, in the character oi Egysthe, 
 in ^' Merope." This most critical event of my thea- 
 trical life threw me into a perturbed state of feeling, 
 which I will not attempt to describe. Those who 
 have not experienced such emotions, can form no 
 idea of the painful excitement they create. Had it 
 not been for shame, I really believe I should have 
 decamped and left the manager to pro^dde himself 
 with another Egysthe. How overwhelming was 
 the thought of appearing on the same stage with 
 Le Kain — ^presenting myself face to face with Made- 
 moiselle Dumesnil. The idea of playing Egysthe to 
 such a Merope perfectly confounded me. When I 
 found myself on the stage, I was perfectly bewildered, 
 my memory seemed to forsake me, and I could not 
 utter a word of my part. Dumesnil, observing my 
 agitation, advanced towards me, and whispered in 
 my ear — 
 
 " Est-ee la cette reine auguste et malheureuse ? " 
 
 This operated upon me with the force of enchant- 
 ment. The spell which bound me mute and mo- 
 tionless was broken, and I repeated the line ' which 
 Dumesnil had kindly prompted. From that instant 
 I recovered my presence of mind, and went through 
 my part smoothly, and without trepidation. 
 
 At the conclusion of the act Mademoiselle Du- 
 mesnil came to me, and addressed me in terms of the 
 
 3
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 83 
 
 kindest encouragement. She handed me a bottle, 
 the contents of which she recommended me to 
 drink — I obeyed her advice. The beverage con- 
 sisted of bouillon de poulet, mixed with a very small 
 quantity of wine. It was far from palatable, and 
 was more likely to derange my stomach than to get 
 into my head. Madame Dumesnil had great faith in 
 the efficacy of this nauseous mixture, and the frequency 
 with which she partook of it gave rise to the calum- 
 nious report that she indulged in the use of strong 
 drinks. When in some of her most sublime flights, 
 her enemies used to remark that she was not inspired 
 but intoxicated, and that she was not Iphigenie en 
 Aulide, but IpMgmie en Champagne. 
 
 A mother could not have evinced more kindness 
 and solicitude towards me ; but the critics in the pit 
 evidently thought me a very indifferent son. I was 
 judged with a severity, which doubtless I deserved, 
 and I know not what would have been my fate, if 
 Dumesnil, whenever she saw me likely to flag, had 
 not whispered to me some words of encouragement. 
 
 E 6
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Favourite Parisian actors of the day. — Bellecourt, Mole, Mouvel, and 
 Preville. — Their respective styles and merits. — Le Kain's supper 
 party. — Madame Benoit. — The Marquis de Villette. — Le Kain's 
 personal appearance. — My engagement at Lyons. — Death of Louis 
 XV. — Mysterious commxmication. — Sudden illness and death of Le 
 Kam. — Madame Benoit's jealousy and remorse. — Voltaire arrives 
 in Paris. — Shock produced on him by the death of Le Kain. — His 
 reception of visitors. — First perfonnance of the tragedy of Irene. 
 — Honoiu's rendered to Voltaire. 
 
 The equivocal success which attended my first 
 appearance, induced me to form the resolution of not 
 remaining in Paris. I was, perhaps, somewhat in the 
 position of La Fontaine's fox. However, it must be 
 acknowledged that my succeeding performances were 
 not so unfortunate as my first, and when I began to 
 recover my confidence and self-possession, qualities 
 indispensable to acting, I had good reason to count 
 upon some share of pubHc favour. 
 
 The fact is, I had come to the capital too soon, and 
 had not a sufficient acquaintance with the Parisian
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 85 
 
 public. In Paris perhaps more than in any other 
 place, there prevails a local taste — an adopted style. 
 Some particular actor is the favourite, and any other 
 who may attempt to succeed in his line, must, with- 
 out copying, steer in his channel, or possess suf- 
 ficient talent to strike into an entirely new course for 
 himself. In Paris, whenever an actor becomes an 
 established favourite, he is set up as a model, and 
 every successive candidate for popularity must con- 
 form to that model, or stand prepared to encounter 
 coldness and neglect; that is to say, if he do not 
 evince incontestable proofs of first rate talent. 
 
 Before I ventured to come out on the Parisian 
 stage, I ought to have made myself fully acquainted 
 with the characteristic styles of the best actors of the 
 day. This study, which ought to have been pre- 
 paratory to my debut, I afterwards entered upon with- 
 out further delay. Bellecourt, Mole, Mouvel, and 
 Preville were the popular favourites of the day ; and 
 their performances became the subject of my close 
 and unwearied observation. 
 
 At the time I made my debut, there was a fair 
 chance of success in the line of characters filled by 
 Bellecourt. Independently of the advanced age of 
 that actor and his approaching retirement, his talent 
 was not of that stupendous nature which is calculated 
 to discourage a young aspirant. He had succeeded
 
 86 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 to Grandval, from whom he had inherited only those 
 qualifications, which are the result of labour and long 
 theatrical experience. His patron, M. de Richeheu, 
 wished to set him up as a rival to Le Kain, imagining 
 that a man endowed with his superior personal quali- 
 fications, must infallibly become a distinguished actor ; 
 but, after some unfortimate struggles, the fine man 
 was obliged to give place to the fine actor. 
 
 Bellecourt then devoted himself exclusively to 
 comedy. With an exceedingly handsome person, he 
 combined the qualifications resulting fi'om careful 
 study and long experience; he was a correct and 
 pleasing, though never a brilHant actor. His enun- 
 ciation was perfect, and his manner elegant and 
 gracefid. Vestris, the dieu de la dame, declared that 
 Bellecourt danced a minuet in faultless style. In 
 short, Bellecourt was great in all the minor points, 
 which, had they been combined with a powerful 
 talent, would have made a perfect actor. 
 
 Compared with Mole, Bellecourt was as the shadow 
 to the picture : the artificial attainments of the one, 
 set forth the natural gifts of the other. But without 
 the aid of this contrast, Mole's talent shone with 
 conspicuous lustre. Still, though an excellent actor, 
 he was a dangerous model to imitate; for he had 
 faults which nothing short of his transcendant talent 
 could have counterbalanced. He had a hesitation in
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 87 
 
 his speech, and his delivery, whether in prose or verse, 
 was unpleasing. But in spite of these defects, there 
 was an indescribable charm in his acting. He was a 
 perfect personification of youth, grace, and vivacity. 
 Some of his most admirable touches of by-play were 
 observable on occasions when he happened for a 
 moment to forget a few lines of his part. Whilst in 
 the act of recovering his memory he would dra\^' 
 down his ruffles, play with the ends of his cravat, 
 search for his snuff-box, or pass his hat from one 
 hand to the other with peculiar drollery of manner. His 
 acting was certainly unequal, being at one moment 
 excellent and at another indifferent ; but it is difficult 
 to say whether it could have been improved even by the 
 correction of his faults. His countenance was hand- 
 some and his figure remarkably elegant. Mole was 
 the idol of the public, and an especial favourite of the 
 ladies. On one occasion, when he w^as confined by 
 a fit of sickness, the street in which he resided was 
 for several days perfectly blocked up with emblazoned 
 carriages. Louis XV. himself sent twice to inquire 
 after his health, because he was a favourite of Du- 
 barry. 
 
 To have looked at Mouvel without seeing him act, 
 no one would have believed him capable of distin- 
 guishing himself in the line of characters in which 
 Mole excelled. His figure was diminutive and devoid
 
 88 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 of dignity, his voice was harsh, and his thinness per- 
 fectly pitiable. Ai'nault, speaking of him one day, 
 obsei-ved, that " Such a half-starved lover was likely 
 to induce his mistress to offer him something to eat." 
 Mouvel had the good sense to apply himself to the 
 study of some of those tragic characters in which his 
 rival did not excel. He played some parts admir- 
 ably, and there is httle reason to doubt that he 
 would have risen to the level of Le Kain, had his 
 physical powers coiTcsponded with his intelligence 
 and feeling. His acting betrayed a continual conflict 
 between art and nature ; in which, nature was never 
 triumphant. 
 
 After these thi'ee distinguished members of the 
 Comedie Francaise, Preville stood next in rank. He 
 was a sort of universal actor; he played in every 
 line and was excellent in all. If nature had been 
 niggardly in her gifts towards Mouvel, though his 
 characters were of a class Avhich demanded the aid of 
 personal advantages ; on the other hand, she had 
 lavishly conferred her favours on Preville, to whom 
 personal appearance was a matter of indifference. He 
 possessed grace of figure, intelligence, deep feehng, 
 buoyant spirits, sentiment, and comic humom*. To 
 him it would have been no sacrilege to apply the 
 lines addressed by Boileau to Mohere.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 89 
 
 " Previllc avec utilite 
 
 Dit plaisamment la veritd ; 
 
 Chacun profite a son ^cole ; 
 
 Tout en est beau, tout en est bon : 
 
 Et sa plus burlesque parole 
 
 Est souvent uu docte sermon." 
 
 By merely changing the name^ the portrait of the 
 great dramatic writer may be converted into the hke- 
 ness of the comic actor. Preville acted comedy as 
 Mohere wrote it. 
 
 One evening Le Kain sent me an invitation to sup 
 with him. He was accustomed to have a supper 
 party ahnost every week; his guests being chiefly 
 literary men, especially such as maintained corre- 
 spondence with Voltaire, towards whom he cherished 
 a truly filial regard. 
 
 Madame Benoit did the honours. This lady, though 
 past the golden age of her sex, was nevertheless the 
 tenderly beloved mistress of Le Kain. Were I to 
 enter into a minute description of her personal ap- 
 pearance, I should probably draw a portrait rather 
 plain than pretty; and yet taking her aU in all, 
 Madame Benoit was a graceful and pleasing woman. 
 Witty repartee was a sort of vogue among the ladies 
 at that time, and in this accomplishment she greatly 
 excelled. She certainly borrowed largely from her 
 books and her friends, but what with her own na- 
 tural resources, and drawing upon those of others, 
 she made a brilliant figure in conversation. I well
 
 90 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 remember the soft, flute-like voice, the mincing man- 
 ner, and prim devout air, with which she used to dart 
 forth the keenest shafts of satire. Her wit might 
 be said to be sprinkled with sugar rather than with 
 salt. 
 
 The Marquis de Villette and Mouvel were of the 
 party. I had previously known Mouvel only on the 
 stage. I was not less charmed by his agreeable man- 
 ners in private life, than I had already been delighted 
 by his professional talent. As to the Marquis de 
 Villette, he was a happy melange of the man of 
 letters and the man of rank; unfortunately, an ex- 
 cessive share of vanity thi*ew some of his better qua- 
 lities into the shade. I should have believed him to 
 be the vainest man in France, but that the poet 
 Lahai'pe was there to convince me of the contrary. 
 However, by the time dessert was served, the two 
 lions had lost a little of then- morgue and made them- 
 selves very agreeable. During the first and second 
 courses of the dinner, they seemed to be striving to 
 rival each other in pretension. Monsiem* de Villette 
 smiled with an ah' of complaisance at the wit of 
 others, but honoiu'ed his o\\ti sallies with a hearty 
 laugh. Monsieur de Lahai-pe, on the other hand, 
 did not deign to smile or laugh at an5i;hing. 
 
 I could never understand the justice of all that 
 used to be said about the ungainliness of Le Kain's 
 personal appearance ; he was certainly by no means
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 91 
 
 SO plain as he has been frequently described. Ma- 
 dame Clairon, in her memoirs, has painted him in 
 no very flattering colours ; and has ascribed to him 
 a vulgarity of manner in private, which she contrasts 
 oddly enough with the acknowledged sublimity of 
 his histrionic talent. In spite of this weighty autho- 
 rity against me, my opinion is, that Le Kain was 
 not less agreeable off the stage than on it. Le Kain 
 was not ill-looking: he had fine eyes, well set and 
 exceedingly expressive ; the lower part of his face was 
 well formed, and he had a captivating smile. Though 
 not precisely a model for an artist, his countenance 
 was infinitely more interesting than those bust-like 
 faces, whose only recommendation is regularity of 
 feature. 
 
 I had been but a short time in Paris when I ac- 
 cepted an engagement at Lyons ; I was in that city 
 at the time of the death of Louis XV. The manner 
 in which the intelligence was received there, clearly 
 indicated that the king's death was likely to be the 
 signal for political commotion. The outrage and 
 bloodshed which profaned the obsequies of the mo- 
 narch; the inexperience of Louis XVL, who, at the 
 age of twenty, tremblingly accepted the crown ; the 
 feeling of humiliation which attended the last war, 
 and the retrograde movements towards despotism; 
 the licentiousness of the great, the spirit of insubor- 
 dination among the lower classes, — all these circum-
 
 93 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 stances combined presaged a reaction. Such, at least, 
 was the prevaihng opinion of all with whom I had 
 communication at Lyons. 
 
 I was engaged in that city for several seasons, and 
 had succeeded so far in establishing myself in public 
 favom*, that I felt I should have little to fear in 
 attempting a second debut in Paris. At length I 
 received proposals for an engagement at the Comedie 
 Fran9aise, and, precisely foiu' years after my unfor- 
 tunate first appearance, I AM^-ote to inform the manager 
 that I was again at his service. 
 
 On my arrival in the capital, the first thing I did 
 was to address a note to Le Kain, informing him of 
 my arrival, and intimating my intention of calling 
 on him. When my messenger returned, instead of 
 bringing me a letter as I expected, he handed me a 
 slip of paper on which a few words were ^\Titten 
 with a pencil. I took it, and could scarcely believe 
 my eyes when I saw written on it, in a female 
 hand, the words ; " Le Kain is dying ; I have killed 
 hirn" "Who gave you this paper?" I inquired of 
 the man. He described to me accurately the person 
 of Madame Benoit. This mysterious announce- 
 ment filled me with amazement : resolved to ascer- 
 tain the truth, I snatched up my hat, and without 
 stopping to make any more inquiries, I hurried 
 to Le Kain's residence. I was informed that he 
 was so ill it was impossible I could see him. The 
 
 {
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 93 
 
 celebrated Dr. Tronchin was at that moment in 
 attendance on him. It was a stormy night, and 
 the hail beat violently against the patient's win- 
 dows. I was wet to the skin, but my anxiety 
 would not permit me to return home; I wished 
 to see the doctor, and sheltering myself against 
 the wall, I determined to wait until he should 
 leave the house. At length the door opened and 
 a man came out. He appeared so depressed by 
 grief, that I immediately perceived there was no 
 hope. I conjectured it was Dr. Tronchin, and 
 hastened to speak to him, but to my surprise I 
 recognised Bellecourt ; I inquired how he had left 
 Le Kain ; " As ill as he can possibly be," was the 
 reply. Bellecourt took my arm, for he was sadly 
 overpowered by the melancholy condition in which 
 he had left Le Kain, and he would not allow his 
 carriage to drive up to the house for fear of dis- 
 turbing him. Le Kain breathed his last, shortly 
 after Bellecourt had left his bedside. 
 
 The sudden death of this admirable actor gave 
 rise to various sinister reports. Nothing could 
 be more sudden and unexpected than the illness 
 which terminated his hfe. He had performed the 
 character of Vendome in his very best style ; all 
 who were present at the performance, declared it 
 to have been one of the most sublime efforts of 
 histrionic genius ever witnessed. On his return 
 home, he was suddenly seized with a sort of fit.
 
 94- THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 which speedily terminated his life. Some parti- 
 culars communicated to me by Bellecourtj may 
 help to explain the feehng of remorse, which in- 
 duced Madame Benoit to write those mysterious 
 words on the shp of paper, which I at first could 
 not comprehend. 
 
 Two years previously to his liaison Avith that 
 lady, Le Kain had been deeply enamom-ed of a 
 young female, with whom however his intimacy 
 had not been of long continuance when she left 
 him for another lover. Madame Benoit neverthe- 
 less manifested a strong feeling of jealousy towards 
 the young female in question, whose society she 
 imagined Le Kain had not entirely renounced. 
 
 On the evening on which Le Kain unconsciously 
 bade farewell to the Theatre Fran9ais, Madame 
 Benoit was present ; it happened that the lady 
 whom she supposed to be her rival was likeM'ise 
 in the theatre ; she Avas splendidly dressed, and 
 occupied a box near that of the queen. The per- 
 formance of Le Kain, which, as I have already 
 mentioned, was that evening perfectly sublime, 
 
 appeared to inspire Mademoiselle ^dth 
 
 such rapturous delight, that Madame Benoit felt 
 assured she had come to the theatre only to re- 
 ceive the homage of her lover. Madame Benoit's 
 jealous suspicions were confirmed, when she be- 
 held Le Kain that evening superior to himself in 
 impassioned expression — when she fancied she
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 95 
 
 saw him fix his eyes tenderly on her rival, as he 
 uttered the following lines : — 
 
 " Vous seule adoucissez les maux que nous souffrons. 
 Vous uous rendez plus pur Fair que nous respirous." 
 
 She became violently agitated and left the theatre; 
 and Le Kain, on his return home, found her bathed 
 in a flood of tears, and utterly inconsolable. Le 
 Kain was sincerely attached to Madame Benoit, 
 and had joyfully hastened to lay at her feet the 
 laurels with which he had that evening been 
 crowned. He endeavoured to prove to her that her 
 suspicions were groundless, and no doubt can be 
 entertained but that the agitation and excitement 
 caused by the scene which ensued, cost him his 
 life. 
 
 Le Kain died on the 3rd of February, 1778, in 
 his forty-ninth year. The event was announced 
 to the audience that evening, at the close of the 
 performance at the Theatre Fran9ais. The in- 
 telligence was received with a universal burst of 
 grief, and a long and deep silence ensued. The 
 death of this celebrated man was a loss not only 
 to the stage, but to dramatic literature. 
 
 On the very day on which Le Kain was interred, 
 the philosopher of Ferney returned to Paris after 
 an absence of twenty-seven years. Voltaire had 
 relied on the talent of Le Kain for giving due effect 
 to the performance of his tragedy of Irene. On
 
 96 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 his arrival at the residence of the Marquis de 
 Villette, he found all the company of the Comedie 
 Fran9aise assembled to receive him. He cast his 
 eyes along the group of actors, and looked an- 
 xiously for him Avhom he regarded as his pupil 
 and son, and whom he expected would have been 
 the first to greet him. The Abbe Miquor, the 
 nephew of the Marquis de Villette, stepped up to 
 Voltaire, and taking his hand said : " Alas ! you 
 look for Le Kain." — His feelings overpowered him 
 and he could say no more. Bellecourt then 
 pointed to the mourning in which he and his com- 
 rades appeared, adding only, " Here, Sir, is all 
 that remains of the Comedie Fran9aise !" Voltaire 
 was so overcome that he literally fainted. 
 
 By a singular fatality Voltaire never saw the 
 actor who so thoroughly comprehended his genius, 
 and who imparted so bright a colouring to his 
 works. Le Kain had been his pupil, but did not 
 appear on the stage until after the departure of his 
 benefactor for Prussia. The great dramatist had 
 anticipated with pleasure, and even with pride, 
 seeing him in all the lustre of his talent and re- 
 putation — but ere he returned to Paris, the actor 
 had breathed his last. Voltaire's grief was deep 
 and sincere. 
 
 The arrival of the philosopher of Ferney cer- 
 tainly tended to alle%date, to a certain extent, 
 the public regret occasioned by the sudden and
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 97 
 
 irreparable loss of Le Kain. I doubt whether 
 the arrival of a king, a hero, or a prophet Vv^ould 
 have excited greater enthusiasm, than was felt 
 on the appearance of Voltaire in Paris; every 
 other subject of interest was for a time forgotten. 
 Court intrigues, and even the great musical war 
 between the Gluckists and the Picenists, were sus- 
 pended. The Sorbonne trembled, the parliament 
 observed silence, excitement pervaded the literary 
 circles, and Paris proudly rendered homage to the 
 nation's idol. 
 
 On his arrival in the capital, the philosopher 
 proceeded straight to the residence of the Marquis 
 de Villette, situated on the quay which now bears 
 the name of Voltaire, at the corner of the Rue de 
 Beaume. On the day after his arrival, a prodi- 
 gious host of visiters commenced calling on him ; 
 but he remained the whole week in his robe de 
 chambre and nightcap, and in this garb received 
 many of the most distinguished persons in the 
 capital. Madame Denis and the Marquis de Vil- 
 lette did the honours of the house. When any 
 one called, a valet was sent to inform M. de 
 Voltaire, and when the great man made his ap- 
 pearance, the Count d'Argental and the Marquis 
 de Villette introduced those whom he had not 
 before seen or had forgotten. After receiving the 
 compliments of those who wished to be presented 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 98 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 to hiiHj and answering them by some agreeable 
 or witty remark, he would return to his cabinet to 
 dictate to his secretary the corrections he was 
 making in his tragedy of Irene. 
 
 On the 12th of February, the members of the 
 Academy sent a deputation with a complimentary 
 address to their illustrious colleague. On the day 
 after, I joined the company of performers who as- 
 sembled for the purpose of paying their respects 
 to him. On this occasion the compUments uttered 
 by Bellecourt appeared to me somewhat two stu- 
 died. Voltaire replied with the most pleasing 
 aifabihty ; after making some allusion to the state 
 of his health, he made an observation which in- 
 dicated how completely his thoughts were ab- 
 sorbed by his tragedy : "^ Henceforward," he said, 
 " I can live only for you and by your aid." 
 
 After the rest of the performers took their leave, 
 I remained with Voltaire ; I reminded him of his 
 reception of me at Ferney, after my plot against 
 his wig, Laharpe, who was present, remarked 
 that he thought Bellecourt had dehvered the com- 
 plimentary address in very pathetic style. '' Both 
 of us," rephed Voltaire, " acted our parts in the 
 farce very well." 
 
 The tragedy of Irene was performed for the first 
 time on the 14th of March. Since the festivities in 
 honour of the man-iage of the dauphin, I had never
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 99 
 
 beheld so brilliant an audience ; excepting the King 
 and Queen \ all the members of the royal family 
 were present. Loud and sincere plaudits were 
 addressed, not to the piece, but to the author ; a 
 respectful silence superseded those marks of ap- 
 probation, which, under other circumstances the 
 performance would have elicited. It was not diffi- 
 cult to persuade the venerable author that he had 
 obtained a new triumph; on the following day 
 more than thirty cordons bleus called to congratu- 
 late him. On the 30th of March, after having 
 attended a sitting of the Academy, at which un- 
 usual marks of honour were conferred on him, 
 Voltaire was present at the Theatre Franyais ; 
 this was the sixth night of the performance of 
 Irene, and the most marked honours were rendered 
 to the illustrious author. At the conclusion of the 
 play, his bust was brought to the front of the 
 stage, and crowned by the actors amidst transports 
 of admiration. Some verses, written for the occa- 
 sion by M. de Saint Mare, were recited by Ma- 
 dame Vestris. The performers then advanced one 
 by one, and each laid a wreath of flowers beside 
 the bust. Mademoiselle Funier, seized with a fit 
 
 ' The king invited the queen to go to the opera that evening to 
 avoid being present at the theatre. Louis XVI. did not like 
 Voltaire. 
 
 f2
 
 100 THE FREXCU STAGE. 
 
 of ecstasy, threw her arms round the bust and 
 kissed it. So contagious is enthusiasm that we 
 all followed her example, and several persons in 
 the pit climbed on the stage for the puq^ose of 
 saluting it. It was then removed to one side of 
 the stage, where it remained during the per- 
 formance of the afterpiece, which was Nanine. 
 
 Count d'Artois, who had accompanied the queen 
 to the opera, left her majesty and came for a short 
 time to the Theatre Francais. Before the conclu- 
 sion of the performance, he sent a captain of the 
 guards to Voltaire's box ; " Assure the great 
 ^vriter," said he, " from me of the deep interest I 
 feel in his triumph, and of the pleasure I expe- 
 rience in joining my homage to that of the French 
 nation." 
 
 At the conclusion of the performance, Voltaire 
 was escorted by the audience to his carriage. On 
 reaching the door of the theatre, renewed expres- 
 sions of public admiration awaited him; a vast 
 concourse of persons who had collected in the 
 street, wished to take the horses from his carriage 
 and draw him home. It was with great difficulty 
 they were prevented from doing so, but they fol- 
 lowed him to his place of residence, making the air 
 resound with his name and the titles of his 
 principal works ; nothing was heard as he passed
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 101 
 
 through the streets, but shouts of Vive Voltaire ! 
 vive Vauteur Zaire ! vive I'auteur de PHenriade ! 
 &c.' 
 
 * It seems as if M. Fleury had been overmuch prejudiced in 
 favour of Le Kaiu. Horace Walpole, Ln a letter to M. Montague, 
 dated Paris, Sept. 22, 1 765, says : " The French stage is fallen 
 off, though in the only part I have seen Le Kain I admire him 
 extremely. He is very ugly and ill made, and yet has a heroic 
 dignity which Garrick wants, and great fire." 
 
 The editor of Mr. Bentley's last edition of Horace Walpole's 
 Letters says, p. 72, vol. v. that Le Kaui was born in Paris, and died 
 in 1778. He was origmally brought up as a surgical instrument 
 maker; but his dramatic talents havmg been made known to 
 Voltaire, he took him under his instructions, and secured him 
 an engagement, when he first appeared in the year 1750. 
 
 " Get acteur," says Baron Grimm, " n'est presque jamais faux, 
 mais malheureusement il a voix, figure, tout centre lui — une sensi- 
 bilite forte et profonde qui faisoit disparaitre la laideur de ses 
 ti-aits, sous la charme de I'expression dont elle les rendait sus- 
 ceptible, et ne laissait apercevoir que la caractere et la passion 
 dont son ame s'e'tait remplie, et lui donnait a chaque instant des 
 nouvelles formes et nouvel etre." 
 
 Grimm, in tlie 478th page of his 5th volume, speaking of the 
 death of Dufresne, in making a comparison of her merits with 
 those of Le Kain, says : " Peut-etre Le Kain a-t-il plus d'en- 
 traille, plus de pathe'tique, plus de mouvemens et d'accens tra- 
 giques : mais malheureusement la nature lui a tout refuse' ; et, 
 chez un peuple veritablement enthousiaste des beaux arts, il ne 
 serait pas possible d'exercer ce metier sans ces qualites exte- 
 rieures." 
 
 It seems therefore, as we have just said, as if personal regard 
 had blmded M. Fleury to his friend's personal failings. — Ed. 
 
 f3
 
 102 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 My second debut at the The'atre Fraufais. — Tlie queen expresses 
 her satisfaction at my perfonnance. — Marshal de Richeheu. — 
 Madame Campan.— My mismiderstanding with Mole explained. 
 — Madame Campan's friendship for me. — My presentation to 
 queen Marie- Antoinette. — I am made a Societaire of the The'atre 
 Francais. — Court patronage of the drama. — Monsieur, the 
 king's brother. — Ducis and Laharpe. — A duel. — Dugazou. — His 
 personal appearance and talent. — Friendship born of enmity. — 
 Visits to M. Banieres. — The mysterious stranger. — Voltaire's 
 acting. — Frederick the Great recituig poetry. — The secret of 
 moving an audience. — Horrible narrative. — Torture and exe- 
 cution of Damiens. 
 
 Sainville in the Gouvernante, and Saint Abin in 
 the Pere de Famille, were the characters in which 
 I appeared after my second engagement at the 
 Theatre Fran9ais. I was received with infinitely 
 greater indulgence than on my former debut, and 
 I had overcome the timidity naturally felt by a 
 young actor, on first presenting himself before so
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 103 
 
 critical a tribunal as the pit of the Theatre Fran- 
 9ais. 
 
 The queen was present at one of my perform- 
 ances, and was pleased to express herself highly 
 satisfied with it ; her majesty was heard to remark 
 that the debutant was not without talent, and was 
 altogether a promising actor. The Queen spoke of 
 me to Marshal de Richelieu, who replied : " True, 
 your majesty, Fleury is a promising actor, but he 
 shuts himself out from advancement at the Theatre 
 Fran9ais; he aspires to the rank of associate. 
 The fact is, he is too full of pretension ; he has too 
 high an opinion of himself, and is consequently 
 troublesome." 
 
 The young Queen had heard my sister speak of 
 me, and moreover, I had a powerful patroness at 
 court in the person of Madame Campan. This 
 lady had known me when I was performing at 
 Versailles, and evinced a kind interest for my 
 success. The Queen related to Madame Campan 
 what the Duke de Richelieu had said of me ; 
 Madame Campan concluded that there must be 
 some misrepresentation on the subject of my pre- 
 sumption, and signified her wish to have a little 
 conversation with me. When I saw her, I told 
 her candidly that it was my earnest wish to be re- 
 ceived as an associate, and that the only conditions 
 I demanded were to rank as a second actor for the 
 F 4
 
 104 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 first line of characters, and to receive a quarter of 
 a share as an associate performer. I further ob- 
 serv^ed, that having to pass through a long novi- 
 ciate, it was natural that I should wish to secure my 
 position, so as to guard against the risk of being 
 capriciously discharged. I declared my deter- 
 mination to spare no efforts to advance myself in 
 my profession, and that I eagerly looked forward 
 to the time when I might proudly say : " I belong 
 to the Theatre Fran9ais !" 
 
 ^^ Very well," replied Madame Campan; " I know 
 now what answer to make in your defence. But 
 how have you acquired this character for undue 
 pretension, which Marshal de Richelieu assigns 
 to you?^' 
 
 "I know not, Madame," said I, "unless the 
 Marshal has heard of my little misunderstanding 
 with Mole'." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 " I will explain it briefly .... Mole^s talent may 
 justly enable him to defy all rivalry, and yet he has 
 the weakness to fear it. There is an actor named 
 Florence whom he is intriguing to thrust forward 
 to my disadvantage ; I told him candidly that I 
 knew he was seeking to injure me . . . that I 
 could not prevent him from having proteges, but 
 that I would take cai'e to prevent him from thrust- 
 ing them in my way ... in short, that I would
 
 m 
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 105 
 
 either make an end of him, or he should make an 
 end of me." 
 
 "A pleasant alternative, truly!" said Madame 
 Campan laughing ; " I recommend you not to 
 carry matters to such an extremity ; whatever yovi 
 do, avoid a duel ; for were you to kill Mole, you 
 would break the hearts of at least a dozen ladies." 
 
 ^' Then perhaps, Madame," said I, *^ it was less 
 submission to me, than the desire to preserve 
 himself for his fair admirers, that induced him to 
 tell me he had no intention to injure any one, and 
 that Florence must work his own way unaided by 
 him." 
 
 " I presume," said Madame Campan, " that as- 
 surance satisfied you." 
 
 "Since then," I repHed, "my path has been 
 strewn with roses." 
 
 " Now, Fleury," said the lady, " I understand 
 how you have acquired the reputation of being 
 presumptuous and troublesome." 
 
 Thus ended my half-jesting, half-serious expla- 
 nation with Madame Campan. 
 
 So intent however was she to do all in her 
 power to serve me, that she determined to request 
 the Queen to grant me an audience ; and accord- 
 ingly, seized an opportunity to speak of me in 
 favourable terms to her majesty. She remarked 
 F 5
 
 106 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 that the overweening pretension laid to my charge, 
 probably arose from my wish not to remain in the 
 false position of a pensioned actor at the Theatre 
 Fran9ais ; that though I might be desirous of be- 
 coming an associate, it Avas not likely that I as- 
 pired to be the holder of a whole share. " Marshal 
 de Richelieu must be mistaken," added she, " I 
 am quite certain there is some intrigue against 
 this poor young man." And then she began to 
 tell the Q,ueen all she knew about me, both good 
 and ill — or at least, only so much of the latter, as 
 she knew would not operate very seriously to my 
 prejudice. The consequence was, that the Queen 
 expressed a desire to see me the next day. 
 
 I w^as instantly made acquainted with the honour 
 that awaited me; and on the morrow Madame 
 Campan presented me to Marie-Antoinette. 
 
 "You very much resemble your sister," ob- 
 served the queen, as soon as she looked at me. 
 
 "Does your majesty condescend to recollect 
 
 " • She was an amiable excellent woman," 
 
 said the dueen, "beloved and respected: was a 
 clever actress too .... You also possess con- 
 siderable talent ; I lately saw you perform in the 
 Ph'e de Famille, and was much pleased with you. 
 But though a young actor may possess talent, he
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 107 
 
 must not therefore be arrogant: M. de Richelieu 
 acquaints me that you aspire to be received as an 
 associate." 
 
 "Yes, please your majesty," replied I, in a 
 most respectful tone. 
 
 "You hear this," said the Queen, turning to 
 Madame Campan, " you cannot say now that the 
 Duke was under a mistake. — To be made an 
 associate, and to have a whole share !" 
 
 " No ; madam," said I, " that is not what I de- 
 sire. If your majesty will be pleased to listen to 
 me for a moment, I will show you that my pre- 
 tensions do not take so high a flight; I wish to 
 be admitted as an associate, in order to insure to 
 myself the certainty of belonging personally to 
 the Theatre Fran9ais. But as I know that a 
 performer can become the holder of a whole share 
 only by right of seniority, I am content that my 
 share shall be proportioned to my rank as an 
 actor ; I wish to be allowed only the fourth of a 
 share." 
 
 " Oh, is that all ?" said the Queen. 
 
 " It is, madam," I replied." " The truth is, I 
 attach great importance to the title of King's Co- 
 median, and to obtain it I am willing to sacrifice 
 a much more lucrative provincial engagement." 
 
 "And a quarter of a share is all you want?" 
 
 said the queen, " well, we shall see ." 
 
 F 6
 
 108 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 I withdrew, not very much consoled ; for I did 
 not know how to interpret the somewhat equivocal 
 tone in which her majesty uttered the words with 
 Avhich she dismissed me. 
 
 Eight days elapsed, leaving me in a state of 
 painful suspense, for I had received no message 
 either from the court or the theatre ; I wrote to 
 the Duke de Duras, informing him that I should 
 decline playing again until the question of my 
 share was decided. Two days afterwards I re- 
 ceived my order of reception ; Madame Campan 
 wished to give me an agreeable suqjrise. The 
 queen herself had deigned to recommend me to 
 the Duke de Duras in such terms, that my wish 
 was immediately acceded to. 
 
 In conformity with etiquette, I went to make 
 my visit to the gentlemen of the king's chamber. 
 When I entered the apartments of the Duke de 
 Richelieu, that kind-hearted nobleman immediately 
 stepped up to me, and taking my hand, said: 
 " Well, Monsieur Fleurj^, you have reason to be 
 gratified; the Queen has spoken in, your behalf, 
 and you have gained your point. But attend to 
 my advice : tiy to be a little less untractable, and, 
 above all, yield a little to Mole." 
 
 " Impossible, Monseigneur," I replied ; " it is 
 not in my nature, and I cannot do it. As to 
 Mole, no one entertains a higher admiration of
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 109 
 
 his talent than I do : but do not require me to 
 show any deference to him as a man. I wish to 
 discharge my professional duties strictly and punc- 
 tually — ask me not to do more." With these 
 words I respectfully took my leave of the marshal. 
 
 It may possibly be deemed somewhat singular, 
 that the Queen should have interested herself and 
 have even interfered in the business of theatrical 
 management. As far as regarded my case, her 
 recollection of my sister was sufficient to recom- 
 mend me to her favour; but independently of 
 that consideration, her majesty's natural taste led 
 her to patronise dramatic entertainments and per- 
 formers. Matters which would now-a-days be 
 thought very futile were then treated seriously; 
 amusement then was, in fact, the business of life. 
 Those who may think it absurd that a court should 
 interfere in the government of the coulisses, should 
 be reminded that the practice had been sanctioned 
 by the example of two great men, Mohere and 
 Louis XIV. 
 
 Monsieur, the king's brother follow^ed the court 
 fashion, and took his part in theatrical patronage. 
 About this time, he introduced to the Theatre 
 Fran9ais a young author, who then showed 
 marked talent, and who subsequently attained a 
 large share of Hterary celebrity, I allude to Ducis. 
 He produced his tragedy of (Edipe chez Admete.
 
 110 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 the decided success of ^\hich in some degree 
 compensated for the equivocal approbation be- 
 stowed a short time previously on Laharpe's Bar- 
 mecides, a tragedy, the subject of which was taken 
 from the Arabian Nights. 
 
 I was now a Societaire of the Theatre Frangais. 
 I had attained this honour not without exciting con- 
 siderable jealousy on the part of some of my com- 
 rades ; but I cared not for that. I was well aware 
 that it would be my doom for a long time, to fill 
 only the most insignificant and insipid characters ; 
 but I submitted to my fate with meritorious re- 
 signation. 
 
 I was not w^anting in courage and spirit, 
 and was consequently enabled to pass creditably 
 through the ordeal that was prepared for me. At 
 that time, every ncAv actor received at the Comedie 
 Fran^aise, had to serve his noviciate sword in 
 hand, like young officers when they enter a regi- 
 ment. Every new actor became the object of 
 general attack, with the view of ascertaining what 
 sort of metal he was made of. My comrade Du- 
 gazon undertook to try mine, I soon enabled him 
 to discover it. A trivial quarrel produced a chal- 
 lenge ; we fought with swords, and Dugazon 
 received a slight wound in the thigh. 
 
 Nature had been bountiful in her favours to 
 Dugazon; his countenance was handsome and
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. Ill 
 
 expressive, his figure elegant and agile ; his every 
 look, motion, and gesture was embued with a 
 grace and spirit, which at once excited interest 
 and admiration. In society he was a most agree- 
 able companion, but his manners were a little 
 tinged with the colouring of the company he kept, 
 which unfortunately was not always of the highest 
 or most respectable grade. The influence of his 
 associations was discernible even in his acting, 
 which was justly reproached with bordering on 
 caricature, and approximating to farce rather than 
 to comedy. 
 
 The friendship which often owes its birth to a 
 duel, partakes at once of vanity and gratitude. 
 Whether conqueror or conquered, a man who has 
 fought a duel feels that a grain of incense has 
 been burnt on the altar of his courage. " Well V 
 says the former, " he has measured himself with 
 me ; he is not a person of common-place quali- 
 ties." " After all," thinks the latter, " he may be a 
 better fighter than I ; but nevertheless, he has in- 
 spired me with no very humble opinion of myself.^' 
 In short, there is not a more effectual or speedy 
 mode of acquiring a very sufficient share of self- 
 estimation. The result of my duel with Dugazon 
 was, that we soon became very cordial friends. 
 
 In the summer we used to take strolls together 
 into the country, and one of our most frequent
 
 112 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 and favourite excursions was to the residence of 
 a mutual acquaintance, who possessed a small 
 property near Pres Saint-Gervais. This friend 
 was M. Banieres, a relative of the unfortunate 
 Banieres who deserted from his regiment to turn 
 actor, and was shot after he had made his debut at 
 the Theatre Franyais. Our friend shared all his 
 relative's love for the drama, and Dugazon and my- 
 self were always welcome at his house. He often 
 used to say he would have been a player himself 
 if he had not had a wooden leg. 
 
 Never was there a more amiable couple than 
 Banieres and his wife. Their friendship and hos- 
 pitality were cordial and sincere. The excellent 
 dinners he gave us might well have tempted our 
 frequent visits ; but to Dugazon there w^as another 
 and a stronger attraction to his house, in the charms 
 of Banieres' fair niece Minette. 
 
 One day we arrived rather later than usual, 
 and were astonished to observe the shutter closed 
 on the grating of the garden-door, which in the 
 day-time was always left open. Banieres was ac- 
 customed to amuse himself by looking through 
 this grating at the passers-by on this road, and 
 Minette used to peep through it to watch the 
 arrival of Dugazon. We rang the bell ; but no 
 one appeared. We rang a second time but with 
 no better success. At length after repeated ring- 
 6
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 113 
 
 ing we heard footsteps ; the shutter was unbolted, 
 and drawn a little to one side, and, as soon as we 
 were recognised, the door was opened. Madame 
 Banieres, who had answered the door, received us 
 with her usual cordiality ; but, as soon as we 
 entered, she again drew the shutter over the grat- 
 ing and carefully bolted it. Dugazon expressed 
 surprise at not seeing the young lady. 
 
 " Is Minette ill ?" he inquired. 
 
 " No ; she is yonder,^' replied Madame Ba- 
 nieres, pointing to the further end of the garden, 
 where there was a sort of summer-house or 
 arbour. I turned my eyes in that direction. 
 
 " She is not alone," said I to Dugazon, in a 
 whisper. 
 
 " So I perceive," replied he, evidently discon- 
 certed. 
 
 By this time we were joined by M. Banieres. 
 
 ^'You have company to-day," said Dugazon ; 
 — " we disturb you." 
 
 " By no means ! by no means !" said our host. 
 — " Step this way for a minute." 
 
 He drew us aside, but not so softly as he 
 wished, owing to the noise he made with his 
 wooden leg. Minette saw us, as did likewise the 
 gentleman who was in conversation with her. 
 We followed M. Banieres. 
 
 " My dear young friends," said he, " I know
 
 114; THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 you to be worthy of my confidence ; therefore I 
 will speak to you without reserve. That person 
 is an outlaw; his name is M . He has in- 
 curred the displeasure, I know not how, of the 
 clergy of Marseilles; he has been confined in 
 the fortress of Vincennes, and has escaped from 
 prison." 
 
 " But," exclaimed Dugazon, " why is he tete-a- 
 tete with Minette ?" 
 
 " Oh," said Banieres, " she was born near Mar- 
 seilles. He knows her family — indeed has ren- 
 dered them some service — and has brought letters 
 for her. He knew not where to fly for conceal- 
 ment, and the other night he took it into his head 
 to jump into our garden by scaUng the wall." 
 
 With these words Banieres pointed with a look 
 of regret to a strong and thickly covered espalier, 
 which was so sadly crushed and destroyed, as 
 to bear ample evidence that the person who had 
 fallen on it was none of the lightest. 
 
 " Ah !" said Dugazon, somewhat comforted, 
 '^ he is not a young man !" 
 
 " Ma foi /" said Banieres, " you can't call him 
 old. ... I tell you truly were it not for Minette, 
 I would not harbour him here." 
 
 " You do not mean to say," asked Dugazon, 
 " that she is attached to him ?" 
 
 " The fact is, she is in fear of him," said our
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 115 
 
 host. — " I have already told you he has done her 
 friends some service — there are secrets in all 
 families." 
 
 Dugazon, somewhat disconcerted by all this, and 
 wishing to change the scene, proposed that he and 
 I should take a walk to Romanville before dinner. 
 I agreed, and as we sauntered along, he tormented 
 himself by endeavouring to guess whom the mys- 
 terious stranger could be. " What," said he, '' can 
 be the cause of the influence he possesses over the 
 mind of Minette ; instead of flying to welcome me 
 as usual, she did not even speak to me. If you 
 only knew, Fleury, how much I am charmed with 
 that girl, and how much she loves me — for I am 
 sure she does love me ! you would pity me. But 
 will you believe me when I say that though I have 
 been a frequent visitor here, and for the space of 
 five months of that time here devoting myself to 
 her, I have never so much as kissed the tips of her 
 fingers. . . Her quick feelings, which betray her 
 southern birth, require not the aid of language for 
 their expression. I am as sure she loves me as if 
 I had received the assurance from her own hps. 
 . . . Yet she may perhaps be secretly married . . . 
 and this man may be her husband . . . Banieres 
 said he had involved himself in some dispute with 
 the clergy, and had been sent to Vincennes .... 
 So at the very best he is a runaway state pri- 
 soner !"
 
 IIG THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 In this strain Dugazon continued to vent his 
 lamentations, until we returned to the house, where 
 we found dinner ready. M. Banieres introduced 
 us to the stranger. He was rather a good-looking 
 man ; and though perhaps a little too much em 
 bonpoint, not without a certain air of dignity. As 
 to his age, it would have been difficult to guess it ; 
 and as to his manners, they were easy and agree- 
 able, and indicated that he was a man of superior 
 condition. This impression was confirmed by his 
 eloquent and agreeable flow of language. In short, 
 though Dugazon was by many years his junior, I 
 confess I should have had my fears for him, had 
 the stranger been really his rival. 
 
 Our dinner party was animated, though not 
 gay. Minette herself was evidently dull and con- 
 templative. The conversation turned on general 
 subjects. The stranger had been a great traveller, 
 and was full of anecdote. He had known Le Kain, 
 and seen Voltaire in Prussia. He described to us 
 a performance of Rome Sauvee, in which Voltaire 
 sustained a character, at the theatre in the castle 
 of the Princess Amelia. ^' I was," said the stranger, 
 "present at a discussion between Frederick II. 
 and the philosopher, on the best mode of reciting 
 French poetry. I can assure you, gentlemen, who 
 belong to the theatrical profession, that Frederick 
 was an excellent reciter of dramatic poetry. If he 
 had not had Prussia to govern, and had thought fit
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 117 
 
 to come out at the Theatre Fran9ais, he would 
 have made some of our best actors tremble." 
 
 Observing that we were not quite convinced of 
 the correctness of this opinion, "Ask D'Alembert/' 
 said he ; " he has heard him as well as I. His 
 style is like that of Mouvel. He possesses in an 
 eminent degree that qualification so valuable in an 
 actor — the power of self-excitement. This gives 
 spirit and animation to every word he utters, and 
 the emotion with which he is himself imbued is 
 readily communicated to his hearers." 
 
 " It is a fortunate thing for us," observed I, 
 " that Frederick confines himself to fighting bat- 
 tles and gaining victories. I hope he will never 
 show himself on the boards of the Theatre Fran- 
 9ais." 
 
 " But, sir," said Dugazon, " you assign to 
 Frederick a quality which can be of no use to 
 a great monarch like him, and which would be of 
 unspeakable advantage to a poor actor like me. I 
 am compelled to the most soul-stirring incidents 
 of tragedy in order to excite those emotions which 
 you tell us Frederick can create at will." 
 
 " And yet nothing is more easy," said the 
 stranger. 
 
 " Nothing more easy ! " exclaimed Dugazon, 
 with warmth. " You do not know what you say. 
 It is the ne-plus-uUra of art !"
 
 118 
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 At this protestation against the difficulty of 
 self-excitement, we could not refrain from smiling. 
 
 " Well, Monsieur Dugazon," resumed the stran- 
 ger, "^ it -would appear that you have no great rea- 
 son to complain of any deficiency on the score of 
 excitability." 
 
 " Vivacity, warmth of temper, or whatever you 
 may please to call it," replied Dugazon, " is not 
 emotion. Emotion is that feeling which comes 
 from the heart and goes to the heart. It is com- 
 municated from soul to soul ! It is ... it is infvr- 
 sion, if I may so express myself." 
 
 " Infusion ! that is the right word, and I adopt 
 it !" said the stranger. " Well ! that power is to 
 be acquired ! Not certainly by every one ; but by 
 you, sir, and you," addressing himself to Dugazon 
 and me. " But before you can work on the feel- 
 ings of your audience, you must begin by operating 
 on your own." 
 
 " Operate !" said Dugazon. " You speak in 
 the language of a surgeon. But let us know how 
 you would proceed with your operation ? I will 
 suppose myself playing the part of Bernadille. I 
 am suddenly and unexpectedly informed that I 
 must prepare for immediate death. I hoped that 
 T had softened the sternness of my judge ; but I 
 find him inflexible. By an instantaneous transi- 
 tion my hopes of life are banished by a terrible
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 119 
 
 certainty of death. But a moment ago I was 
 elated and happy ; now I am hurled into the 
 deepest gulph of despair! Tell me, is all this 
 easily depicted ? How would you summon your 
 emotions ? How would your King of Prussia im- 
 part due effect to such a scene ?" 
 
 "^ First," said the stranger, " he must fancy that 
 he had won another crown, and then that he had 
 
 lost Silesia, or a great battle It is thus, by 
 
 the help of imagination, that I acquire my emo- 
 tions." 
 
 " You !" exclaimed Dugazon, " What ! are you 
 an actor?" 
 
 " No ;" said the stranger. 
 
 " What then, may I inquire ?" asked Dugazon. 
 
 " An observer ^^ was the answer. " Lives there 
 a man who cannot conjure up some harrowing 
 recollections ?" 
 
 " That must depend greatly on his own character 
 and habits," said Dugazon, " as well as the situa- 
 tions into which accident may have thrown him." 
 
 " He who has passed through hfe without wit- 
 nessing any event — any spectacle to which his 
 memory can revert in the way I have alluded to, 
 must be an apathetic being," remarked the stran- 
 ger. '^ Such a man will never do any thing great, 
 especially in art, in which all must depend on 
 recollection."
 
 120 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 We listened attentively to all that fell from this 
 singular man. Though his opinions appeared to 
 be somewhat eccentric, there was nevertheless con- 
 siderable truth in his remarks. 
 
 " Suppose yourself enacting the part of Berna- 
 dille" continued he, " and it is your part to depict 
 the horror of a man who suddenly learns that he 
 is doomed to die — to die on the scaffold. Well ! 
 you cannot accurately identify yourself with the 
 feehngs of Bernadille, unless you have previously 
 witnessed a death similar to that which he is 
 
 doomed to suffer Can you form an accurate 
 
 conception of such a death? . . . Can you picture 
 to yourself a man in the plenitude of health, sud- 
 denly and by violent means deprived of existence ? 
 
 . . . You want a recollection Go and seek it 
 
 at the Place de Greve." 
 
 There was a fearful expression in the counten- 
 ance of the speaker as he uttered these latter 
 words. Minette seemed hoiTor-struck, and sat 
 pale and motionless as a statue. As I gazed upon 
 our mysterious companion, I thought he looked 
 like one who was familiar with death — one whose 
 life had been sought, or who had sought or taken 
 
 the life of another He was evidently under 
 
 the influence of awful recollections or bitter re- 
 morse. He continued — 
 
 " Fine artists, truly, who study on beds of
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 121 
 
 roses, and are disturbed by the folded leaf ! . . . . 
 who can dip into the sentimental sensations which 
 are shared by every novel-reading lady, but never 
 venture to take a deeper plunge. How are you to 
 thrill your audience unless you first thrill your- 
 selves. Let us then fancy Bernadille receiving in- 
 telligence of his doom. . . . We will suppose Du- 
 gazon personating the character. He is in the 
 midst of an exuberant flow of gay spirits, the en- 
 livening influence of which pervades his auditors. 
 . . . But he must sudderdy convert gaiety into 
 horror. . . . How is this to be done ? . . . By the 
 power of memory. He must suddenly conjure up 
 a recollection which will thrill his whole frame, 
 such a one, for example, as I will describe '. 
 
 " I paid a louis d'or for my seat at a window in the 
 Place de Greve. It was on a Monday, and multi- 
 tudes of people were assembled to feast their eyes on 
 the horrid spectacle. At half-past three Damien 
 appeared, prepared for death, which was to be 
 preceded by torture. It was alleged that Damien 
 had shown himself quite insensible to the fate that 
 awaited him — that he viewed the preparations for 
 lacerating his flesh and mangling his limbs, with 
 an eye of tranquil curiosity. Having arrived at 
 the place of execution, he was extended on a sort 
 
 ' " Dans ce cas-la, je pense toiijours de mon pauvi'e pere qui 
 est mort." — Vie de Cher. Fitzgerald, vol. ii. p. 78. 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 of litter formed of wooden posts firmly driven into 
 the ground, and covered with deal planks. The 
 executioner then began to bind down the body of 
 
 the culprit with hoops of iron " The 
 
 stranger here entered into some details of the 
 torture, which were so horrifying that we all, 
 with one voice, called upon him to desist. 
 
 Dugazon started up, and with a degree of 
 strength of which he scarcely seemed capable, 
 seized the stranger by the collar, exclaiming: — 
 " Silence, sir \ silence I say ! . . . You will kill 
 this lady." Minette had swooned during the hor- 
 rible recital. 
 
 " Monsieur," replied the stranger, coolly, " I 
 was merely repeating the narrative of the proceed- 
 ings as detailed by the greffier, who, together with 
 the judge who had presided at the trial, was obhged 
 to be present at the execution. Suppose it had 
 fallen to the lot of either of those two men to act 
 the part of Bernadille !" 
 
 He said no more. Minette, after being some- 
 what recovered, was conveyed to her chamber. 
 As she left the room, I saw her whisper something 
 in the ear of Dugazon unobserved by the stranger. 
 What she said he informed me at a subsequent 
 time.
 
 123 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Greeu-room society. — Beaumarchais and Goldoni. — L'Honiieur 
 Fran9ais. — The Marquis de Lafayette. — Monarchical and re- 
 publican acclamations. — Theatrical war. — Rivalry of two tragic 
 queens. — Madame Vestris and Mademoiselle Sainval. — The 
 Journal de Paris. — Despotic exercise of authority. — The exiled 
 actress. — Interview with Madame Campan. — Mademoiselle 
 Sainval the younger. — Her performance of Ame'naide. — Tri- 
 umphant reception. — Mole's pretended illness. — My revenge. 
 — Dorat, the celebrated writer. 
 
 The green-room of the Theatre Fran9ais used to 
 be the resort of the best company in Paris. Every 
 evening, between the play and afterpiece, noble- 
 men, authors, and artists, used to assemble there 
 on a footing of the most social intimacy. Every 
 one came provided with his anecdote or bon mot. 
 In no other place have I ever seen so perfect an 
 equality between talent, wealth, and rank. To 
 the brilliant remarks which escaped in the course 
 of these conversations — to the able discussions 
 g2
 
 1:24; THE FRRNCII S'PAGK. 
 
 that were maintained on literature and art — and 
 above all, to the exquisite taste and perfect good 
 breeding which presided over social intercourse in 
 these meetings — I must acknowledge myself in- 
 debted for the elements of my professional success. 
 Among the eminent writers w^ho used to be fre- 
 quent visiters to our green-room conversazioni, I 
 may mention Beaiunarchais and Goldoni ^ 
 
 M. Rochon de Chabannes, a popular writer 
 of the day, brought out a new piece, entitled 
 " L'Honneur Fran9ais." It was about the time of 
 the conclusion of the treaty of alliance between 
 France and the United States of America. The 
 piece, which had been long announced, -was anxi- 
 ously looked for ; and when produced, " L'Honneur 
 Fran9ais" fully justified its title. The author could 
 not claim much merit for invention, the subject 
 being merely suggested by passing events. The 
 dialogue was elegantly written, though bordering 
 closely on the sentimental ; and the whole drift of 
 the author was to prove, that the attachment of an 
 honourable woman may be the means of leading a 
 young man to wealth and distinction. This was 
 very moral, though perhaps not very dramatic. 
 The author w as however chiefly indebted for his 
 
 ' Till within the last twenty yeai-s the same sort of society was 
 to be found in the oreen-rooms of the only two tlien aclmowledged 
 London theatres. Those days are gone, never to return. — Ed.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 125 
 
 success to a happy allusion made to the courage 
 of the Marquis de Lafayette. That young noble- 
 man was then reaping laurels in the United States, 
 by fighting in the cause of American independence 
 — a cause which at the time excited the enthusiasm 
 of the youth of Paris. The allusion to Lafayette 
 was caught and applauded to the skies. This was 
 the first time that a living person, and above all a 
 private individual, had been complimented on the 
 stage, otherwise than beneath the veil of allegory 
 or in the disguise of an anagram. Besides, there 
 was something singularly anomalous in the fact 
 of a Marquis receiving a tribute of public admira- 
 tion for fighting the battles of a people who wished 
 to annihilate all titles of nobility. The pit, in a 
 transport of excitement, shouted alternately Vive 
 le roi ! and Vivent les Americains ! thus curiously 
 mingling monarchical and republican feelings. At 
 the time here alluded to, this enthusiasm for in- 
 dependence pervaded all classes of the community, 
 and even found its way to the court. The Count 
 d'Artois was notorious for his liberal opinions. 
 Alluding to the popularity of the new piece, his 
 royal highness observed to M. de Noailles : " We 
 are representing 'I'Honneur rran9ais,' but it has 
 already been nobly represented by M. de Lafayette 
 in America." 
 
 Whilst the American war engrossed the atten- 
 g3
 
 126 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 tion of politicians, a war which broke out in the 
 Theatre Franyais, excited scarcely less interest 
 in the fashionable circles of Paris. The green- 
 room, which I lately described as the scene of ele- 
 gant gaiety, was converted, for the space of a year, 
 into an arena of discord. The conflict, however, 
 was not confined to the green-room alone ; it ex- 
 tended to the stage and to the pit; it raged at once 
 within and without the walls of the theatre. 
 
 The cause of dissension was the rivalry of two 
 actresses in the high walk of tragedy. These two 
 ladies were by no means equal in talent to the two 
 heroines who had preceded them in pubUc favour as 
 well as in stage rivalry. Discord, it is true, had for- 
 merly crept into the conflict of emulation between 
 Mademoiselle Clairon and Mademoiselle Dumes- 
 nil ; but that was not to be compared to the strife 
 that now had arisen between Madame Vestris and 
 Mademoiselle Sainval. Deadly animosity prevailed. 
 Actors, authors, the public — all took part in it. 
 No one could remain neutral. It was absolutely 
 necessary to take one side or the other. There 
 was no possibihty of evading the questions : — 
 " Are you for Sainval ?" " Are you for Vestris ?" 
 
 The ground of dispute between these two ladies 
 was the alleged usurpation by Madame Vestris of 
 certain characters in tragedy, which Mademoiselle 
 Sainval claimed as belonging to her domain.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 127 
 
 The gentlemen of the King's chamber gave judg- 
 ment in favour of Madame Vestris, whose charms 
 left no room for hesitation on the question, espe- 
 cially in the eyes of the Duke de Duras, who was 
 reputed to be that lady's protector. 
 
 Meanwhile Madame Vestris, as if suddenly in- 
 spired by a generous impulse, declared her readi- 
 ness to cede to her rival twenty-nine of the disputed 
 characters, only reserving to herself the privilege of 
 playing them alternately with Mademoiselle Sain- 
 val. This proposition, which seemed to be dic- 
 tated by a laudable spirit of emulation, was in fact 
 merely an insidious mode of confirming the su- 
 premacy which she wished to arrogate to herself. 
 Mademoiselle Sainval was piqued, and she became 
 exceedingly indignant when she observed in the 
 " Journal de Paris" a letter from Madame Vestris, 
 setting forth in vaunting terms her own generosity. 
 Truly it was fine generosity ! Madame Vestris 
 keeping one hundred and ten parts, and Sainval 
 could lay claim only to twenty-nine, and those 
 only alternately with her rival. The ill-used lady 
 wished to enlighten the public mind on the mis- 
 representations contained in Madame Vestris's 
 letter, in answer to which she sent her version of 
 the affair to the " Journal de Paris." Her letter 
 was, however, returned by the editor, with a note, 
 G 4
 
 128 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 stating that he had received orders not to insert a 
 reply '. 
 
 This despotic stroke of authority divided the 
 Comedie Fran9aise into two camps. The resent- 
 ment of Mademoiselle Sainval knew no bounds. 
 She deteinnined to avenge herself by laying before 
 the public a full statement of her \\Tongs. She 
 appealed to the aid of her friend Madame de Cha- 
 mont, a dabbler in hterature, who had formerly 
 been an actress, and therefore rather a dangerous 
 colleague. These two ladies set to work and pro- 
 duced a pamphlet, containing a full detail of the 
 circumstances of the case, interspersed with a host 
 of scurrilous allusions ; the whole being crowned 
 by the unauthorized publication of private letters, 
 amongst which were several written by the Duke 
 de Duras. Nothing could be more calculated to 
 annoy the Duke than this unwarrantable outrage. 
 They were far from being written in the elegant 
 style which was to be expected from a corn-tier and 
 an academician ; and moreov^er, they bore the de- 
 cided stamp of partiality, but as they were ^vritten 
 confidentially their publication was odious. 
 
 1 In these days of prolific dramatic autliorshi^) in England, and 
 indeed considering that, in the time of M. Fleury, there were but 
 365 nights m the year, the appropriation of theatrical characters 
 appears to be i-ather extensive. — Ed.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 129 
 
 This was the signal for a general declaration of 
 hostilities : Paris was divided into apologists and 
 detractors, warm friends and bitter enemies ; in- 
 deed, it is difficult to say to what lengths the two 
 factions might have carried their dispute, but for 
 the interposition of legal authority. The Duke 
 de Duras, irritated by the disclosures of Made- 
 moiselle de Sainval, broke his thunderbolts over 
 her head. 
 
 This matter w^as treated like an affair of state ; 
 the fair offender received orders to retire to Cler- 
 mont, in Beauvoisin, a species of punishment pre- 
 viously reserved for disgraced ministers. This 
 was literally an exile; but the object of the gentle- 
 men of the chamber was not to honour Sainval 
 with the dignity of a political exile, but to cut her 
 off from communication with her friends, and, 
 above all, to prevent her from wTiting. Not only 
 was she degraded from her rank as a societaire of 
 the Comedie Fran9aise, and prohibited from per- 
 forming at any provincial theatre; but she was 
 moreover given to understand, that if she should 
 attempt to leave the kingdom, the circumstance 
 would be duly notified to all the foreign courts. 
 The idea of a theatrical squabble becoming the 
 subject of a diplomatic correspondence, will doubt- 
 less appear almost incredible. Poor Sainval ! she 
 g5
 
 130 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 was treated with truly ludicrous severity. During 
 wars between nations, there is always some neu- 
 tral land to which the oppressed may fly for 
 refuge ; but in this instance the persecuted actress 
 was Uterally banished from Europe. 
 
 The partisans of Mademoiselle Sainval now 
 moved heaven and earth to obtain her pardon and 
 recall. I felt indignant at the treatment she had 
 experienced, and undertook to appeal to Madame 
 Campan in her behalf. That lady promised me 
 that she would mention the subject to the queen. 
 Accordingly, I felt assured that the case was in 
 good hands, and two or three days afterwards, I 
 waited on my patroness. 
 
 "The enemies of Mademoiselle Sainval have 
 offended their majesties," said Madame Campan 
 earnestly ; " but Sainval was wrong to write as 
 she did." 
 
 "Madame," observed I, "it would have been 
 difficult to endure such ill treatment without com- 
 plaining." 
 
 " Monsieur Fleury," said Madame Campan, " it 
 would have been better for her to have remained 
 silent .... How could the societaires of the 
 Theatre Fran9ais retain as their colleague an ac- 
 tress, who has placed herself at the head of a pit 
 cabal, and published a pamphlet breathing dis-
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 131 
 
 affection to the government. It would seem that 
 she considers the court of Versailles no better than 
 the court of King Petant." 
 
 {As Madame Campan uttered these latter words, 
 she lowered her voice, and turned her eyes in the 
 direction of a small glazed door which stood ajar.) 
 
 " Who can possibly imagme, Madame," said I, 
 that Mademoiselle Sainval intended . . . ." 
 
 " Monsieiu" Fleury," rather hastily replied Ma- 
 dame, " the fact is as I have stated. . . Have you 
 read the pamphlet?" 
 
 I declared that I had not seen a single line of 
 it, never having had the publication in my hand ; 
 but that I had heard every remarkable passage 
 which it contained repeated from mouth to mouth 
 in the green-room. 
 
 " Well then," said the lady, " do read it, and you 
 will be convinced of the injurious tendency it is 
 calculated to produce on the public mind. The 
 authoress scruples not to say, by impHcation, that 
 our young monarch is led by the nose ; and that 
 his august consort, unmindful of the dignity main- 
 tained by our late queen, condescends to mix her- 
 self up with stage intrigues and the quai-rels of 
 players." 
 
 This was also said in a low tone of voice, ac- 
 companied by another glance towards the door. 
 
 " The performers of the Comedie Fran9aise are 
 g6
 
 132 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 the king's sen-ants ; indeed they may be regarded 
 as a portion of the royal household," observed I, 
 emphatically. " The dueen loves to encourage 
 the arts generally ; it would be matter of regret-to 
 see the dramatic art specially excluded from that 
 patronage. . . . Perhaps an erroneous interpreta- 
 tion may have been given to this affair ; I cannot 
 think it possible that Sainval could . . ." 
 
 " Not in plain terms, I admit," said the lady ; 
 " but by insinuation it is. It is all expressed in 
 equivocal language, just as one might say to a 
 person, '■ You make a mistake,' when we mean to 
 be understood, ^ You tell a falsehood.' " 
 
 With these words Madame Campan rose from 
 her chair, and politely curtsied me to the door by 
 which I had entered, and which was opposite to 
 the glazed door. I of course respectfully took 
 my leave, and as I withdrew said : " During 
 the existence of these impressions, Madame, 
 there can be no hope of any reparation of this 
 injustice?" 
 
 "Wait till the proper time comes," said Ma- 
 dame Campan ; " but, above all, recommend 
 Mademoiselle Sainval to relinquish as soon as 
 possible her new profession of authoress." 
 
 Full of the discouragement which this inter- 
 view was calculated to create, I went to pay a 
 visit to the younger sister of Mademoiselle Sain-
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 133 
 
 val, who was also one of the company of the 
 Comedie rran9aise. I informed her of my ill suc- 
 cess. Though an actress of considerable talent, and 
 holding a respectable place in public estimation, 
 yet she had determined not to appear again on 
 the stage, until her sister should obtain redress. 
 I prevailed on her to retract this determination, 
 by pointing out to her the imprudence of placing 
 herself in opposition to the court, a course which 
 would infallibly compromise her own interests 
 without the possibility of benefiting those of her 
 sister. 
 
 She appeared (for the first time after her sister's 
 banishment) in " TancrEde." We were all anxiety 
 for the result. The Duke de Duras himself was, 
 uneasy and apprehensive. When Sainval ap- 
 peared, she w as greeted with a thundering burst 
 of applause, which so overpowered her that she 
 fainted on the stage. She was can'ied off in a 
 state of insensibility, and the performance was for 
 a considerable time suspended. On recovering, 
 she again presented herself to the audience and 
 went through her part. The emotion which agi- 
 tated her feelings seemed to infuse additional 
 animation into her acting ; Amenaide was never 
 performed in a more spirited style. It appeared 
 as though she were endeavouring to compensate 
 the public for the loss of her sister. The enthu-
 
 134 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 siasm of the pit knew no bounds, and when she 
 repeated the Hne — 
 
 " L'iiijustice a la fiu, prodiiit riiulepeiidance ;" 
 
 the plaudits absolutely shook the theatre. No- 
 tliing was heard but cries of Sainval ! Sainval ! les 
 deux Sainval ! The presence of the guards had 
 no effect in restoring silence ; the pit would that 
 night have opposed a whole regiment. What a 
 mortification was this to Madame Vestris, as well 
 as to the Duke de Duras, who was sitting all the 
 time half concealed in a corner of his box. 
 
 A short time previously to the troubles of this 
 memorable theatrical year, I became personally 
 acquainted with M. Dorat, my introduction to 
 whom arose out of a circumstance curious enough 
 to be recorded. 
 
 I believe I have already informed the reader 
 that formerly, the Comedie Fran9aise used to print 
 in the bills only the names of the characters in 
 the play, and not the names of the actors who 
 were to perform them. Thus it frequently hap- 
 pened, that when the public expected to see a 
 favourite ^ctor in a particular character, they were 
 disappointed at finding his substitute, or, as the 
 performers termed it, his double. The unfortunate 
 actor, who w'as thus unexpectedly thrust into a 
 part, not unfrequently had to brave a torrent of
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 135 
 
 hisses, called forth, not so much by his own 
 demerits, as by the disappointment of which he 
 was the innocent cause. 
 
 One day the tragedy of Zaire was announced, 
 and it was intended that Mole should play his 
 favourite part of Nerestan ; but at three o'clock in 
 the afternoon he sent word that he was ill. I was 
 sent for immediately to take the part, and my 
 answer was that I was quite ready to do so. I 
 presented myself on the stage, and the audience, 
 expecting to see their favourite actor, accordingly 
 manifested their dissatisfaction. Though not a 
 little mortified, I proceeded with my part. At 
 the close of the scene, when I made my exit, the 
 first person I saw in the coulisses was Mole. I 
 fancied he looked as if he had come there only to 
 enjoy my vexation; therefore was I resolved to 
 have my revenge. I pretended not to see him, 
 and walked up and down as if wholly intent on 
 studying my part. The second act commenced, 
 and I had to go on the stage ; Mole stationed 
 himself at one of the wings, and stretched forward 
 his head, anxious to have a good view of me. I 
 advanced to the front of the stage, and after a 
 respectful bow, thus addressed the audience : 
 " Ladies and gentlemen, I have fulfilled my duty, 
 in undertaking the character of Nerestan, on ac- 
 count of the indisposition of M. Mole; but I have 
 6
 
 13G THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 the satisfaction of acquainting you that M. Mole 
 is at this moment in the theatre^ and in the enjoy- 
 ment of perfect health." 
 
 " It is quite true, ladies and gentlemen, and 
 there he stands \" exclaimed a person standing at 
 the side scenes, and who, advancing a few paces 
 on the stage, pointed to Mole. 
 
 Mole was perfectly confounded, and stood 
 rivetted to the spot, as if to bear evidence of our 
 veracity. The audience laughed, and warmly 
 applauded both me and my defender. I got 
 through the part of Nerestan very creditably, and 
 Mole never again ventured to play me such ano- 
 ther trick. 
 
 The person who thus aided me in exposing 
 Mole, was no other than Dorat, the celebrated 
 writer, who was at that time in the zenith of his 
 fashionable popularity. It may be readily believed 
 that I jo}^ully accepted a friendship so agreeably 
 proffered '. 
 
 ' Claude Joseph Dorat was born 1734. His works are volu- 
 niuious, and embrace poetry of every class, with dramas and ro- 
 mances. They possess considerable merit ; but though popular 
 at the time, are now generally neglected. He died 1780. — 
 Maunder^s Biography, p. 233. — Ed.
 
 137 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 An affair of honom*. — Mademoiselle Raucourt. — A proposed mar- 
 riage. — Mutual disinclination. — Unpardonable imprudence of 
 M. de Voltaire. — Scene at Marshal de Richelieu's dinner-table. 
 — Retirement of Raucourt. — The penitent Magdalen. — Offer of 
 a wife. — Mademoiselle Raucourt's re- appearance. — Manifesta- 
 tion of public displeasure.— Interview with Madame Campan, 
 at Versailles. — Romantic adventure in the alley of the Cavalier 
 Bernin.— Consolatory billet from Mademoiselle Raucourt. — 
 Madame Souck. 
 
 One morning Dugazon called on me. He was 
 pale and agitated, and I looked at him with as- 
 tonishment : he in his turn gazed at me with 
 evident surprise. My appearance doubtless struck 
 him as somewhat unusual ; for he started back as 
 soon as he beheld me, and the following dialogue 
 ensued between us. 
 
 '^'What is the matter, Fleury? I came to re- 
 quest that you would render me a friendly act of 
 service — a most important service — but judging 
 from your appearance — " 
 
 " Why, if I look as ill as you do, I must indeed 
 be altered. Pray what is the matter with you ?"
 
 138 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 '' Can you go to Banieres' with me ?" said he. 
 
 " Impossible !" was my reply. " I am going to 
 court to present the repertoire.'' 
 
 " That is most unlucky !" said Dugazon. " I 
 want a friend — a trustworthy friend." 
 
 " Surely/' exclaimed I, " it cannot be an affair 
 of honour with that strange fellow we met at Ba- 
 nieres — eh ?" 
 
 Dugazon paced uj) and down the room without 
 making me any reply. I stepped up to him, and 
 observed that he was dreadfully agitated. 
 
 " Tell me what has happened/' said I. 
 
 "No matter — no matter/' replied he hastily; 
 " since you cannot accompany me, I need not ex- 
 plain to you what the business is ; I may however 
 tell you thus much : Minette is di'eadfuUy ill ; 
 Lasonne ' gives but little hope of her. I know I 
 shall lose her : she will die if that man is suifered 
 to remain there another day. But no matter — 
 since you cannot come with me. Farewell ! Fare- 
 weU !" 
 
 At that moment the carriage which was to con- 
 vey me to Versailles drove up to the door. Du- 
 gazon rushed out of the apartment, and darted 
 down the staircase. I followed in a state of mind 
 scarcely less discomposed than his was, for at that 
 
 ' A celebrated doctor of that time, who was afterwards ap- 
 pointed physician to the queen.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 139 
 
 moment I had as much reason to complain of 
 fate as he had. 
 
 At any other time the cause of my friend's visit, 
 the interest which I felt for Minette, together with 
 a certain feeling of curiosity, would have induced 
 me to accompany Dugazon. But I was myself 
 suffering under the infliction of a misfortune, and 
 I was going to Versailles in the hope of extricat- 
 ing myself from it. What I had said about pre- 
 senting the repertoire was merely an excuse. Poor 
 Dugazon was in fear of losing a mistress — but I 
 was in fear of obtaining a wife. 
 
 To do myself justice, I am bound to affirm that 
 I always looked upon marriage as an excellent 
 institution; and I am certain that no bachelor 
 sincerely entertains any other opinion. But when 
 an endeavour was made to marry me by compul- 
 sion, to make me rehnquish par force all the 
 pleasure and independence of my single Hfe, I 
 must acknowledge that then I entertained a mortal 
 horror of marriage. It was a curious fact, that 
 the lady who was selected as my wife, happened 
 to entertain precisely the same opinion as I did 
 on the above subject. Thus our mutual aversion 
 may be said to have had its origin in sympathy. 
 
 Yet let me render full praise to her merits: 
 she was a young actress endowed by nature with 
 the most brilliant qualifications, and her talents 
 had been cultivated by her father, assisted by
 
 140 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 Brizard the actor, both very clever men. At the 
 age of thirteen, she made her debut on the French 
 stage with the most extraordinary success. Her 
 beauty and talents made a great sensation; her 
 pleasing manners and accomphshments in private 
 life were likewise the theme of praise ; in short, 
 she was regarded as a perfect prodigy. Clairon 
 and Dumesnil were eclipsed ; and it was declared 
 that Raucourt surpassed them. 
 
 This same fascinating Mademoiselle de Rau- 
 court was the lady selected to be my mfe. In 
 many respects, I must confess that the honour 
 was greater than I desen^ed; but besides others, 
 too numerous to be stated here, I should have 
 experienced some difficulty in Hving on good terms 
 with a lady who had learned the art of making 
 witty calembourgs in the society of the Marquis de 
 Bievre '. 
 
 I have no wish to indulge in unnecessary 
 slander; but I think it due to myself to justify 
 my dishke of this projected union, which had for 
 some time been a source of intolerable annoyance 
 to me. The subject was continually alluded to 
 among my stage companions ; and at court I felt 
 it as an absolute persecution ; for the proposition 
 
 • Horace Walpole, in his Letters, spells the name of Made- 
 moiselle de Raucourt, Raucmix. Sophie Arnoult, in her day, said 
 some very odd things of her, which, spite of their smai'tness, are 
 not to he repeated. — Ed.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 141 
 
 had been made in a spirit of kindness. The Queen 
 herself condescended to devise this scheme for my 
 advantage, with an idea that it would at once con- 
 fer on me happiness and prosperity. 
 
 To account in a satisfactory way for my re- 
 pugnance to this match, I must retrace some 
 circumstances of anterior date. 
 
 For some time after her appearance on the 
 stage Raucourt led an irreproachable life, and her 
 reputation was unsullied. This was no little merit 
 considering her beauty, her talent, and the slip- 
 pery ground on which she had to tread. AVill it 
 be believed that M. de Voltaire, with impardon- 
 able imprudence, was the first cause of unbending 
 the previously stern virtue of Mademoiselle de 
 Raucourt ? 
 
 Voltaire's new play, Les Lois de Minos, was on 
 the eve of being brought out at the Comedie 
 Fran9aise, when the extraordinary success of the 
 young actress for some time retarded its produc- 
 tion. The philosopher was piqued. The child of 
 seventy-nine took offence at the child of seven- 
 teen, because she for a time engrossed the public 
 approbation, of which he was anxious to have a 
 share. 
 
 Had he confined himself to observing that the 
 Parisians were extravagant in their expressions of 
 admiration, and that after lauding the young 
 actress to the skies, they would in a short time go
 
 142 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 from the extreme of enthusiasm to the extreme of 
 indifference, he would probably only have spoken 
 the truth, and would have been a prophet without 
 any miracle. But the debutante piqued herself 
 most especially on the strict propriety of her con- 
 duct; and her father had threatened to kill any 
 one who should venture to make dishonourable 
 advances to her ; yet, knowing all this, the patri- 
 arch was so imprudent as to infonn Marshal de 
 Richelieu that she had been the mistress of a 
 grandee in Spain ', and that probably she would 
 soon fall to the lot of some noblemen of the court 
 of Paris. The Marshal received the letter ac- 
 quainting him with these particulars, one day 
 when he was at dinner ; his guests being the 
 Princess de Beauvan, Mademoiselle Raucourt and 
 her mother ; the Marquis de Ximines, and 
 D'Alembert. 
 
 All were eager to hear a letter of Voltaire read. 
 The dinner was suspended, and all prepared to lis- 
 ten attentively, whilst the marshal, quite unconsci- 
 ous of the contents of the epistle, handed it to the 
 Marquis de Ximines, requesting him to read it. 
 The marquis commenced in a loud voice, gi\^ng to 
 each word its due emphasis, and proceeded until 
 he had uttered the fatal passage, after which he 
 
 ' She had even at that early age visited the capitals of Spain 
 and Russia.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 143 
 
 suddenly stopped. But it was too late. Raucourt, 
 overcome by the accusation, had fainted m her 
 mother's arms. Madame dc Beauvan was ex- 
 ceedingly displeased; she reproached the mal- 
 adroit reader of the letter, and condemned Voltaire 
 without mercy. " How," said she, " is this young 
 lady to blame for the postponement of the Lois 
 de Minos; and how can any thing excuse this 
 slander ?" 
 
 D'Alembert declared that he would write to 
 Ferney, which the mother of Raucourt urged him 
 to do, and also to entreat that Voltaire would retract 
 the calumnious statement. Until this should be 
 done, Raucourt determined to withdraw from pub- 
 lic, and to live in seclusion with her family. 
 
 A few days afterwards the penitent patriarch 
 did retract, and that in the most gracious and 
 satisfactory way. But M. Sancerotte, Raucourt's 
 father, fearing that there might be some truth in 
 Voltaire's warning, went about for a long time 
 armed with pistols, which he used to call a neces- 
 sary precaution. Behind the scenes of the Co- 
 medie Fran5aise, we named it after Beaumarchais' 
 play, La Precaution Inutile. 
 
 The scene which had taken place at Marshal de 
 Richelieu's soon got whispered about. In spite of 
 Voltaire's retractation, there were some bold ad- 
 mirers of Raucourt who resolved not to be baffled.
 
 144 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 She was assailed and circumvented on every side, 
 and all her protestations were discredited. No- 
 thing is so dangerous as a want of faith; no- 
 thing more disheartening than making sacrifices 
 Avhich nobody believes are made. Injustice excites 
 dissatisfaction — and this feeling is often most dan- 
 gerous to female virtue. 
 
 The result was, that Raucourt formed profligate 
 connexions, and entered upon a dissipated course 
 of life. She lived in the most extravagant style, 
 kept a splendid house, with a numerous retinue of 
 servants, carriages, horses, &c. In short, her 
 debts soon amounted to a hundred thousand 
 crowns, and she found it necessary to fly from 
 her creditors to the Netherlands. 
 
 After three years' absence, and one of exile, 
 Raucourt, Magdalen-like, evinced signs of repent- 
 ance, and requested to be received once more 
 among her old associates at the Comedie Fran9aise. 
 The moment was favourable, the departure of 
 Sainval having left a void which required to be 
 filled up. But Raucourt had been erased from 
 the list of associates, and we resisted her re- 
 admission. 
 
 When I say ive, I do not positively include my- 
 self, for unsuspicious of the fate that awaited me, 
 and unwilling to judge too uncharitably of the 
 frailty of a young actress of two-and-twenty.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 145 
 
 I warmly recommended that Raucourt should be 
 restored to her former position in the theatre. 
 My intercession in her behalf was wrongly in- 
 terpreted, especially at Versailles ; and Raucourt 
 found friends in those who would not otherwise 
 have taken up her cause. 
 
 Seeing that Mademoiselle de Raucourt would 
 have formidable obstacles to encounter, I advised 
 her to form an engagement with the company 
 which was to perform at Fontainebleau during 
 the visit of the court to that place, and which was 
 to be under the management of Preville. This I 
 thought was one of the best means of facilitating 
 the reconciliation between Raucourt and her old 
 associates. 
 
 I may mention that, during her retirement in 
 Brussels, Raucourt found a patron in the Prince 
 de Ligne. She also became acquainted with a 
 Madame Souck, a woman of some celebrity, for- 
 merly the mistress of Prince Henry of Prussia. 
 Madame Souck, who conceived an ardent friend- 
 ship for Mademoiselle Raucourt, wrote to her 
 former lover, requesting that he would bestow his 
 patronage on her new friend. The consequence 
 was, that both Prince Henry and the Prince de 
 Ligne wrote to the court of France in favour of 
 the exiled actress. 
 
 The affair was in this favourable position when 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 Raucourt returned to Paris. The queen was in- 
 clined to befriend her, and Preville was given to 
 understand that the engagement of Mademoiselle 
 de Raucourt at Fontainebleau would be agreeable 
 to the court. She was accordingly engaged. 
 
 Nothing covild exceed the attraction of her per- 
 formance at Fontainebleau. The queen saw her, 
 and was highly delighted with her performance. 
 In short, she became quite a favourite with the 
 court party, and finally, the gentlemen of the 
 chamber received instructions to make arrange- 
 ments with the actors of the Comedie Frangaise 
 for the return of Raucourt. 
 
 Another green-room commotion now ensued. 
 The actors probably would not have started any 
 difficulties on the subject, but some of the ladies, 
 headed by Mademoiselle Luzi, raised objections. 
 In short, a strong feeling of opposition manifested 
 itself; and, in spite of the queen's patronage, it was 
 resolved that Mademoiselle Raucourt should not 
 be reinstated. The grounds upon which this reso- 
 lution was based could not with propriety be ex- 
 plained to her majesty, as it would have implied a 
 censure on the royal patronage. Mademoiselle 
 Raucourt's debts were therefore alleged as the 
 cause of her exclusion. 
 
 The queen, however, seemed bent on obtaining 
 the reinstatement of the young actress and she
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE, 147 
 
 even went so far as to intimate that she would dis- 
 charge her debts, to remove all excuse for exclud- 
 ing her. Whether or not this patronage was 
 prompted by dislike of Sainval, and the wish to 
 give Raucourt the precedence, 1 do not pretend to 
 say, but it is certain that her majesty manifested 
 the strongest interest and regai'd for her. It 
 was doubtless with the view of guarding the 
 young convert against the seductions with which 
 she would unavoidably be surrounded, that the 
 queen resolved to marry her to some member of 
 the Comedie Fran^aise. It only remained to select 
 the husband ; and to my confusion Madame Cam- 
 pan pointed out me. 
 
 I will not attempt to describe the consternation 
 and surprise that overwhelmed me when, on pre- 
 senting myself at court one day, the Queen said to 
 me : " Fleury, I have chosen a wife for you. I 
 wish you to marry Mademoiselle Raucourt. She 
 is about to be restored to her place in the theatre. 
 You know she is pretty and clever, and I have her 
 promise of good conduct for the future. I think 
 you cannot do better." I was struck dumb. At 
 length, after an effort to recover myself, I stam- 
 mered out : " Madame, I am overwhelmed with 
 your majesty's kindness ; . . . but . . . but ... I 
 entreat that you will be pleased to grant me time 
 to consider of this proposition." The Queen 
 H 2
 
 148 THE FUEXCII STAGE. 
 
 assented; and I was delighted to obtain, at least, 
 a delay of the doom that awaited me. 
 
 Meanwhile all the obstacles which had opposed 
 the reinstatement of Mademoiselle Raucourt were 
 removed by command of the king. Great was the 
 consternation when, about the end of August, 
 1779, the favoured actress presented herself in the 
 green-room, without giving anj forewarning, and 
 holding in her hand the royal order for her re- 
 appearance. Several of the societaires declared 
 their determination to retire, and nothing was 
 heard of but resignations. Brezard and Preville 
 vainly endeavoured to soothe the angry feeling 
 that prevailed. 
 
 Mademoiselle Raucourt made her reappearance 
 in Dido, a part in which she had always been very 
 successful, and she was tolerably well received, 
 owing to the vast number of her partisans who 
 thronged the pit. But this first appearance did 
 not decide the question. She next played the 
 part of Phedra, and for this occasion the public 
 seemed to have reserved all their indignation. 
 The numerous allusions with which the part 
 abounds were eagerly caught by the audience and 
 applied to the actress, who was certainly treated 
 with the most unrelenting severity. 
 
 Raucom-t, thus attacked, braved the assault 
 most courageously. At every allusion — at every
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 149 
 
 burst of ironical applause, she energetically re- 
 peated the line, the word, or the phrase, which had 
 called forth the manifestation of opinion. But if, 
 whilst on the stage, she summoned all her forti- 
 tude to brave the trial, her spirit sank as soon as 
 she came behind the scenes. She then burst into 
 a flood of tears, and notwithstanding my matri- 
 monial antipathy, the agony she suffered affected 
 me very much. Indeed I thought, and many 
 others were of my opinion, that it was something 
 worse than cruel thus to assail a defenceless 
 woman, who must naturally be deprived of the 
 power of exercising her professional powers by 
 such a persecution. But however great the severity 
 and injustice with which poor Raucourt was on 
 this occasion visited, the circumstance was favour- 
 able to me, inasmuch as it afforded me a reason- 
 able ground for not appearing very eager to form 
 a union with a woman of whom the public enter- 
 tained so ill an opinion. At the same time it 
 obliged the Queen to defer the execution of her 
 project. Matters were in this position on the 
 morning on which I found myself obliged to de- 
 cline accompanying Dugazon. 
 
 On arriving at Versailles I had an interview with 
 Madame Campan. I candidly explained to her 
 my feelings on the subject of the proposed mar- 
 riage ; but to my utter consternation I found that 
 H 3
 
 150 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 she was decidedly favourable to the project. I 
 appealed to her friendship ; but she observed, that 
 for the sake of that verj' friendship she was de- 
 sirous of bringing about our marriage. She told 
 me one thing of which I had not the slightest 
 suspicion, namely, that the matter had long since 
 been settled between my father and the father of 
 Raucourt. 
 
 I immecUately perceived the difficulties of enter- 
 ing upon a conflict in which so many interests 
 were opposed to me. I found that it would be 
 more difficult to contend with Madame Campan 
 than all the rest put together. She wished to 
 have the honour of effecting a difficult conversion, 
 though it should be at any expense. Certainly no 
 one could more agreeably gild the matrimonial 
 pill, so as to invite her victim to swallow it than 
 she did. 
 
 The result of my interview with Madame Cam- 
 pan by no means tended to restore my spirits to 
 their wonted equilibrium. On leaving the palace 
 I mechanically directed my course towards the 
 park. There I walked about for some time, 
 musing on the awful fate that awaited me. I 
 turned into the alley of the Cavalier Bernin, which 
 was a very secluded part of the park. There was 
 no one in sight, but I was suddenly roused from 
 my reverie by the sound of footsteps. It ap- 
 
 14
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 151 
 
 peared as if I was followed by some one from 
 whom I was separated only by the hedge, which 
 was not so thick just there as in other places. I 
 listened attentively, and convinced myself beyond 
 a doubt that some one was dodging me on the 
 other side of the hedge. I stopped, and the other 
 pedestrian likewise stopped : I walked on, and my 
 hidden companion also advanced, but with a step 
 so light that the sand was scarcely heard to crack. 
 I again stopped, and again advanced. The invi- 
 sible person did the same. Who can this be ? 
 thought I. Possibly some one whom my presence 
 had interrupted in a rendezvous of honour, or a 
 love assignation — affairs for which the alley of the 
 Cavalier Bernin was then celebrated. 
 
 I continued to walk on without being able to 
 catch a glimpse of my invisible companion. The 
 openings in the hedge were at considerable dis- 
 tances apart, so that there was no getting from one 
 side to the other, except by forcing a passage-way 
 through the verdant wall, at the risk of being 
 severely scratched by the brambles. 
 
 This risk, at last, I resolved to encounter, and 
 putting my hat before my face, I suddenly forced 
 my way through the hedge, and found myself on 
 the other side without having sustained any mate- 
 rial injury. I had closed my eyes by way of pre- 
 caution, and when I opened them, expecting to 
 H 4
 
 153 Till-: FRENCH stage. 
 
 behold the object of my curiosity, I was more 
 astonished than before to find that there was no- 
 body there. The fact was, that my shadow, my 
 double, or whatever it might be called, had darted 
 throuQ-h the heda;e in the same manner as I had 
 done, and was now on the side which I had just 
 quitted. Now, however, he broke through his 
 taciturnity, and burst into a hearty laugh. I 
 could not restrain my rage. 
 
 ^' Sir," exclaimed I, " this is very absurd jest- 
 ing !" I said si7' by chance, for judging from the 
 equivocal tone of the laughter, I could not guess 
 whether it proceeded from man or woman. 
 
 " Monsieur Fleury, I am quite ready to give 
 you satisfaction. Here is my cartel." All my 
 doubts as to the sex of the speaker were now dis- 
 pelled. The voice was unquestionably that of a 
 female, and as the last words were uttered, a small 
 white hand was thrust through a gap in the hedge. 
 It was to all appearance a woman's hand, and yet 
 the sleeve of a man's coat again raised something 
 like a doubt in my mind. The outstretched hand 
 held a note, which I took. On opening it, I read 
 as follows : 
 
 " My dear associate, 
 " At first I was not less averse to the proposed 
 marriage than you are ; but at length your repug-
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 153 
 
 nance began to reconcile me to it. But I confess 
 that is a very wicked feeling, and I am resolved to 
 overcome it. I know of an infallible mode of set- 
 ting aside this project. It will cost me some 
 sacrifice to resort to it, but I am resolved to have 
 a claim on your gratitude. In the meanwhile do 
 not manifest any opposition. Say nothing, but 
 leave the affair to my management. I will save 
 you, though it be at my own expense. 
 
 " Raucourt." 
 
 It was indeed Raucourt's hand-writing. Excel- 
 lent woman ! faithful friend ! thought I. What 
 gratitude I owe you ! I pressed the welcome note 
 to my lips, and then looked round in quest of the 
 bearer of it. The aperture in the hedge had been 
 gently widened, and I beheld, as if set in a frame- 
 work of branches and foliage, the prettiest little 
 face imaginable. The features were small and 
 regular, the complexion dazzlingly fair, charming- 
 blue eyes, and a smiling mouth which disclosed a 
 set of beautiful pearly teeth. It was like the head 
 of a Bacchante, the surrounding foliage producing 
 in some degree the effect of a crown of vine 
 leaves. 
 
 I stood for some moments transfixed with ad- 
 miration; but as soon as I recovered from my 
 surprise, I made a low obeisance, and said : " I 
 H 5
 
 154 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 beg you Avill receive my heartfelt thanks, and 
 make them acceptable to the lady who sent you. 
 I regret that I have not the honour of knowing 
 the bearer of this welcome communication." 
 
 " Oh ! I have no objection to gratify your curi- 
 osity on that subject," said the stranger 
 
 " The fact is, I am here at Versailles on more 
 errands than one — I have been at the hotel where 
 you alighted, ... I was informed that you were 
 at the palace. I waited till you came out. I 
 traced you to this spot, where by dodging you, I 
 put you out of humour. This is all the romantic 
 part of my adventure. I must now turn from 
 romance to a very unpleasant reality. ... I have 
 to keep an appointment with a well-known usurer 
 of Versailles, who lends money to young men of 
 family. . . . Here he comes. . . . Farewell !" 
 
 A heavy footstep was heard approaching. 
 
 " And may I not know your name ?" said I. 
 
 " Oh, yes !" said she . " When I am pursued 
 by creditors, my name is the Chevalier Gay de 
 
 Lussac When my debts are paid, I am 
 
 Madame Souck." 
 
 With these words the lovely vision disappeared, 
 but not without extending to me a hand, which I 
 seized and fervently kissed. 
 
 I returned home very greatly comforted.
 
 155 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Dorvigny. — Popularity of his writings. — Jeannot. — A new ordex" 
 of knighthood. — Misunderstanding between authors and actors. 
 — Beaumarchais. — Dorvigny the Dauphin. — Theatrical retire- 
 ments. — My projected marriage set aside. — Compliments and 
 condolences. — Raucourt's elopement. — Her great talents and 
 rapid rise in her profession. — Death of Bellecourt. — The Duke 
 de Richelieu. — His courtly manners. — Splendid parties. — The 
 mysterious laboratory. — Lady Mantz. 
 
 About this time no dramatic writer was so popular 
 in Paris as Dorvigny. Crowds flocked to witness 
 the performance of his pieces, to which he very 
 modestly gave no more imposing titles than farces, 
 folies, or parades. These productions for a time 
 threw the works of Moliere and Racine quite into 
 the shade. But the extraordinary popularity of 
 Dorvigny^s little puns arose less out of their own 
 merits, than the peculiar talents of an actor who 
 performed in them. The object of this new en- 
 H 6
 
 156 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 thusiasm was originally merely a buffoon of the 
 Foire Saint-Laurent. His real name was Volange ; 
 but he is known in France only by the appellation 
 of Jeannot, the name of the character which 
 established his reputation. 
 
 The natural drollery of Jeannot not only ren- 
 dered him the idol of the theatre at which he per- 
 formed, but gave him the entree into the best 
 society. He soon received invitations to the most 
 fashionable parties in Paris. Nothing was talked 
 of but Jeannot. Not only was his portrait to be 
 seen in every shop-window, but busts and figures 
 of him were to be found on every drawing-room 
 chimney piece, to the exclusion, for a time, of china 
 vases and nodding mandarins. The Queen, too 
 ready to fall into the error of following instead of 
 leading the fashion, purchased a quantity of these 
 busts to distribute among the courtiers, which 
 created a considerable sensation in the palace. 
 They were regarded as insignia of knighthood. 
 Those who received busts of plaster or biscuit, 
 ranking only as knights of the order, whilst those 
 whose busts were of alabaster or Sevres china, 
 were considered grand cordons or commanders. 
 Luckily, Jeannot was not cast in bronze. 
 
 Such was the admiration excited by his acting 
 that he received an engagement at the Comedie 
 Italienne, which had been for some time but thinly
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 157 
 
 attended. He would no doubt have drawn crowds 
 to the theatre, but his new comrades treated him 
 with hauteur. He declared that he would leave 
 them to their miserable fate, empty benches ; for, 
 like Cresar, he preferred being first in a village to 
 second in Rome. 
 
 Whilst the minor theatre at which he acted 
 was nightly crowded to excess, the Theatre Fran- 
 gais^ was almost deserted. At the first represen- 
 tation of Voltaire's Rome Sauvee only two boxes 
 were filled. But independently of the bad taste, 
 with which the public might justly be reproached, 
 there was one circumstance conducing to our ad- 
 verse fortune which did not exist at the Comedie 
 Italienne, namely, we were at open war with our 
 authors. 
 
 This misunderstanding originated in a pecu- 
 niary dispute with M. Louvay de la Soussaie. 
 Differences next arose with Mercier and Palisset, 
 then the whole corporation of authors took up 
 arms. At length difficulties arose between the 
 Comedie Fran9aise and Beaumarchais, respecting 
 the performance of the " Barber of Seville." Then 
 the matter became serious: after several angry 
 discussions Beaumarchais summoned a meeting 
 of the authors ; at which they formed a regular 
 scheme of blockade against the Theatre Fran9ais.
 
 158 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 All the power of their talent was aiTayed against us 
 professedly, in order that they might avenge their 
 alleged injuries, and emancipate themselves from 
 the yoke of the actors ; while, in fact, their design 
 was to subject the actors to their authority. They 
 wished to constitute themselves a sort of court of 
 di'amatic legislation, and insisted that the whole 
 direction of the theatre ought to be under their 
 control. We were thrown into such a state of 
 anarchy, that one of our witty actresses observed, 
 " It was a pity we could not dispense with authors 
 altogether." In the end, though Beaumarchais 
 poured out upon us a liberal torrent of satire, we 
 were obliged to acknowledge that in a theatre 
 dramatic authors are a necessary evil. 
 
 Following the example of the Theatre Italienne, 
 which had taken its principal actor from the 
 Theatre de I'Ecluse, we took from the Boulevards 
 M. Dor\igny, who had now become almost as 
 popular as Jeannot, whom he may be said to have 
 created. 
 
 Dorvigny was no less singular in his manners 
 than in his writings, and his eccentricities caused 
 him to be very much noticed. He was supposed 
 by some to be a natural son of Louis XV. This 
 mistake arose from the circumstance of his hap- 
 pening to lodge in the same house with a man of
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 159 
 
 the same name, who loas known by the appella- 
 tion of Dorvigny the Dauphin, and who really 
 was a son of Louis XV. 
 
 Our Dorvigny, whom we wished to set up in 
 ()j)position to the redoutable phalanx of authors, 
 wrote for us a piece entitled Les Noces Houzardes. 
 This was merely a little comedy in prose, produced 
 during the carnival, and though somewhat beneath 
 the dignity of the Comedie rran9aise, was well 
 acted and every evening vehemently applauded. 
 
 The close of this unfortunate theatrical season 
 was marked by two severe losses, unatoned for by 
 gain of any kind. In the first place, Madame Hus 
 retired from the stage. For the space of twenty- 
 seven years she had personated the youthful 
 heroines of comedy, combining correct purity of 
 style, with all the graces of fascinating coquetry. 
 She retired in consequence of her marriage with 
 M. Lelievre. Madame Brouin, my old and es- 
 teemed friend, also seceded ; and, it must be con- 
 fessed, not before it was full time : she had been 
 thirty-eight years on the stage, having made her 
 debut in 1742. It may seem strange, but it is 
 not the less true, that her acting improved up to 
 a certain point, as her age increased. She was a 
 woman of singular talent and taste, and was per- 
 haps better fitted to instruct actresses than be one
 
 ICO THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 herself; she had for several years superintended 
 Madame Montesson's amateur performances, and, 
 in fact, renounced her professional career chiefly 
 with the view of devoting herself more exclusively 
 to the illustrious company in the Chaussee 
 d'Autin. 
 
 Whilst ovir theatre was deploring its losses, and 
 was involved in disputes with the authors, I 
 was anxiously awaiting the issue of the negotia- 
 tions that had been entered upon relative to my 
 maiTiage. I have already acquainted the reader 
 with the receipt of the mysterious billet w^hich 
 consoled me. In about three weeks or a month 
 after my gratifying rencontre at the Cavalier Bernin, 
 I was again summoned to attend at court. 
 
 Meanwhile I had received no new tidings. I 
 saw Raucourt regularly at the theatre; but she 
 never spoke to me, except to say " How do you 
 do ?" and " Good bye !" For my part I never 
 ventured to enter into conversation with her, for 
 fear of rousing the suspicions of my comrades, 
 who I hoped knew nothing of the affair ; and yet 
 I was on thorns to know whether any thing had 
 transpired. Madame Campan had ^^Titten to 
 inform me, that when I next presented myself at 
 court with the repertoire, it was expected I should 
 appear before her majesty with my mind made up.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. . 161 
 
 At length the fatal day arrived, and I went to 
 Versailles, praying all the way that something 
 would occur to prevent my being introduced. 
 My hopes were, however, disappointed, for the 
 usher on duty came to summon me rather earlier 
 than usual. I was shown into the queen's apart- 
 ments, where J saw her majesty. Monsieur, the 
 king's brother, and several ladies whom, in my 
 confusion, I could not recognise. I however 
 caught a glimpse of my cruel patroness Madame 
 Campan. She stood a little in the rear of the 
 groupe of ladies, and I could read in her coun- 
 tenance the command that I should advance and 
 speak out fearlessly. Fortunately Monsieur broke 
 the ice by thus addressing me : 
 
 ^' Ah ! Fleury, you have come very a propos to 
 receive at once my compliments and condolences." 
 
 " What has happened ?" inquired the queen, in 
 a tone of kind concern. 
 
 I was about to reply, though I really knew not 
 what I was going to say. I was at a loss to com- 
 prehend what Monsieur alluded to, unless he 
 meant by comphments and condolences, his con- 
 gratulations on my approaching marriage. How- 
 ever, his royal highness soon put an end to my 
 embarrassment. Turning to the queen, he said : 
 
 '• How, madam? Has your majesty not heard
 
 162 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 that the fair protegee of the Prince de Ligne has 
 made a new promotion ?" 
 
 " The protegee of the Prince de Ligne ... a 
 new promotion. . . . What does your highness 
 mean }" 
 
 " I mean that Mademoiselle Raucourt has played 
 a most shameful trick upon the Count D'Artois 
 my brother, and poor Fleury here." 
 
 " Truly sir, you speak in enigmas," said her 
 majesty. 
 
 " Do I ! . . . Well then, in plain terms, let me 
 inform you that our sublime Melpomene has de- 
 prived Count D'Artois of the captain of his 
 guards, by running away with Prince D'Henin ; 
 at the same time running away from the tender 
 affection of poor Fleury. See how disconsolate 
 he looks." 
 
 I smiled. 
 
 " Is this really true ?" said the queen. 
 
 " Quite trucj I assure you," answered Monsieur. 
 " Raucourt has been recruiting in my brother's 
 guai'ds. The affair has given rise to a good deal 
 of merriment. We call it the neiv promotion." 
 
 " Fleury," said the queen, smiling, " I suspect 
 that you are not very sorry for this ?" 
 
 I bowed. 
 
 " Do you hear thisj Madame Campan ?" said
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 163 
 
 the queen, in a tone of earnestness not very com- 
 mon to her " We have been trifled with and 
 
 deceived. This pretended return to virtue has been 
 merely a mask." .... Then, after a pause, and 
 resuming that fascinating smile which was peculiar 
 to her, Marie- Antoinette added, " Well ! I see I 
 made a mistake, Monsieur Fleury, and begin to 
 think that I could not have selected a lady likely 
 to make a worse wife for you than Mademoiselle 
 Raucourt." 
 
 I took leave of the queen, veiy well satisfied 
 with what I had heard. I had reason to be grate- 
 ful to Raucourt ; for as I afterwards learned it was 
 only to relieve me from suspense that she had 
 taken her new resolution so promptly. Raucourt, 
 on resuming her professional duties, appeared with 
 more eclat than ever. She lived in the most ex- 
 pensive style, gave the most brilliant parties, and 
 in short, became the high-priestess of fashion. 
 At the same time, young and clever as she was, 
 she spared no endeavours to improve herself in 
 her profession. She studied laboriously and 
 most successfully. A woman of her high talent 
 and beauty naturally found the public inclined to 
 judge her errors indulgently. She often used to 
 say : " I am resolved to enjoy on the stage the 
 same glory which Catharine the Great enjoys on
 
 164 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 her throne." She did not fall veiy far short of her 
 aim. 
 
 The gracious patronage of the queen obtained 
 for me about this period several illustrious friends. 
 Among others, the Duke de Richelieu, who filled 
 the post of first gentleman of the king's chamber, 
 showed himself warmly interested in my welfare, 
 and honoured me with frequent invitations to his 
 house. This was of the utmost advantage to me, 
 not exactly with a \aew to my advancement at the 
 Theatre Franfais, the Duke having relinquished 
 almost all his authority there, to devote him- 
 self entirely to the management of the Comedie 
 Italienne. My acquaintance with the Duke was 
 important to me in another point of view. 
 
 In spite of the love of pleasure natural to my 
 age, and the numerous temptations to idleness 
 which surrounded me on every side, I must in 
 justice to myself declare, that my thoughts were 
 chiefly directed to my professional studies. I was 
 earnestly bent on advancing myself, and I do not 
 care to confess that I wished by that advancement 
 to revenge myself on Mole, who, as the reader has 
 already seen, had treated me ill. 
 
 An opportunity for promotion now occurred 
 through the death of Bellecourt, who had hitherto 
 monopolized a class of comic characters which I
 
 * THE FRENCH STAGE. 165 
 
 was desirous of trying. In preparing me for the 
 personation of this hne of acting, the invitations 
 of the Duke de Richeheu were of the utmost uti- 
 lity. The taste of the Parisian pubhc at that time 
 imperatively demanded that every actor who took 
 the part of a lover in comedy, should be literally 
 the fine gentleman, and should be a perfect re- 
 presentative of the refined manners which then 
 so peculiarly characterized our men of fashion : 
 that he should possess dignity without stiffness, 
 that his dress, walk, tone of voice — in short, 
 every look and gesture, should bear the stamp of 
 elegant coxcombry. These qualifications were not 
 to be gained in a day, but were only to be ac- 
 quired by a long intercourse with the aristocracy ; 
 and even then with every opportunity for that in- 
 tercourse, keen powers of observation and imita- 
 tion were requisite. 
 
 The Duke de Richelieu was himself a perfect 
 model of what a man of fashion ought to be. He 
 was the chosen courtier to whom all the court 
 paid deference. His house, which seemed to ex- 
 hale the perfumed recollections of the regency, 
 was frequented by the best company, and was a 
 school of tradition for the noblemen of the young 
 school. As to the ladies, I must acknowledge, 
 that though many of the highest rank attended
 
 1G6 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 the duke's parties, they were not all of unsullied 
 reputation. 
 
 Besides his courtly disciples, forming a gallery 
 of portraits which presented a perfect study for 
 me in a professional point of view, the duke's 
 circle was composed of authors, artists, actors, and 
 men of wit. It may readily be guessed, therefore, 
 that I readily accepted the duke's invitations, 
 which were so eagerly courted by men of the 
 highest rank, and which, wherever they were con- 
 ferred, ^ 3re regarded as a high favour. 
 
 The '"rst time I visited at his house was on his 
 fete day (St. Louis). There was a vast deal of 
 company there, and it was more like a public 
 assembly than a private party. I believe there 
 were assembled on that evening almost all the dis- 
 tinguished individuals of M. de Richelieu's ac- 
 quaintance. That evening was not favourable to 
 me as an observer; but it gave me an idea of the 
 rich mine which I should be enabled to explore. 
 It was like a general glance over the map of a 
 country, every corner of which I meant to ex- 
 plore. 
 
 At that time he was living in his hotel on the 
 Place Royal. It used to be said, I know not with 
 what degree of truth, that he was attached to that 
 noble residence because he had constructed in it
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 167 
 
 a laboratory, in which he prepared various potions 
 and elixirs, which he believed had the power of 
 preserving his strength and juvenile appearance. 
 The marshal was said to be a believer in astrology, 
 and in the existence of the philosopher's stone. 
 For my part, I never was honoured with a sight 
 of his alchymical cabinet, but I had ample oppor- 
 tunities of observing his rich saloons, his charming 
 boudoirs, his splendidly-served table, and the 
 elegant manner of the nobleman who presided 
 over all. 
 
 To one of his suppers I always look back with 
 recollections of peculiar pleasure. Among the 
 company I remember there were Cartin and Cail- 
 lor the actors, and several celebrated painters. 
 Among the men of rank, I remember the Marquis 
 de Savonnieres, a young officer of dragoons, who 
 perished during the revolutionary troubles, whilst 
 defending the Castle of Versailles. There were 
 only two ladies present; one was Madame de 
 Rousse, the reputed mistress of the marshal, a 
 veiy fine woman. The other was a lady of about 
 forty, who passed herself for about five-and-twenty, 
 and seemed resolved never to grow older. When 
 I met her after the revolution, time appeared to 
 have wrought no change in her; indeed, she 
 looked as though she had entered into the new 
 order of things with a renewed existence.
 
 168 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 I frequently met her at the Duke de Riche- 
 lieu's, and may say, with all humility, that I found 
 favour in her eyes. If the duke had really con- 
 structed the mysterious laboratory to which I 
 have alluded, he might with great propriety have 
 made this lady its presiding genius. She certainly 
 contributed not a little to confirm the duke in 
 his strange taste for the occult sciences. She was 
 a sort of sybil who only occasionally descended to 
 the level of ordinary conversation, and then the 
 veneration she inspired soon placed her again 
 upon her pedestal. 
 
 She assumed the title and rank of Lady Mantz, 
 but the Duke de Richeheu used in confidence to 
 inform his guests, that it was more prudent to 
 call her by the name of Madame de Wasser, as 
 under the other appellation she had rendered her- 
 self obnoxious to the dislike of the ministers of 
 Louis XV., and that she was in France only on 
 sufferance. 
 
 Lady Mantz was an adventuress in the full- 
 est sense of the term. She was a sort of pre- 
 cursor of the reveries of the Count de St. Ger- 
 main, and the legerdemain tricks of Cagliostro. 
 I had some acquaintance with the latter, and 
 think that in the history of the marvellous Lady 
 Mantz, or Madame de Wasser, was no way inferior 
 to him.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 169 
 
 At the time when Monsieur de Choiseul was 
 prime minister, she took it into her head to write 
 him a letter, denouncing a plot hatched against 
 the life of the king, in which she alleged that 
 several persons of high rank were implicated. 
 She added that it was the intention of the con- 
 spirators, if they could effectively combine their 
 plans, to sacrifice all the members of the royal 
 family. This letter she signed " Lidinka ;" but 
 ingenious as this little effort of invention might 
 have been, it obtained for her a residence of some 
 duration in the Bastille, where she employed her- 
 self in writing a romance which she called her 
 life. In this tissue of fictitious adventures, she 
 described herself in one chapter as a native of 
 Lorraine, and in another as being born at Vienna. 
 Sometimes she represented herself as the illegiti- 
 mate daughter of a princely house, and at other 
 times as the legitimate daughter of a nobleman. 
 In short, her imagination was exceedingly lively, 
 and exhibited its versatility in all sorts of extra- 
 vagant and absurd stories. 
 
 As she was believed to be a foreigner, she was 
 liberated from the Bastille on condition of quitting 
 France, and never returning except by permission 
 of the king. On her removal from the Bastille 
 she was conveyed to the Brussels diligence; but 
 whilst Madame de Wasser was supposed to be 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 170 THE FUEXCII STAGE. 
 
 very far off, the police were directed to keep their 
 eyes upon a Lady Mantz. This latter personage 
 contracted loans from usurers for the convenience 
 of ladies of rank, bought and sold diamonds and 
 other articles of value, and by way of relieving the 
 monotony of her commercial speculations, told 
 fortunes and manufactured alchymic powder. It 
 was, however, shortly ascertained that Lady Mantz 
 was no other than Madame de Wasser, the ex- 
 prisoner of the Bastille ; and she was accordingly 
 arrested and sent back to her old quarters. After 
 a time, government becoming tired of the burthen 
 of maintaining her, she was liberated on the same 
 conditions as before, and again conveyed across 
 the frontier. But Paris was the only suitable field 
 for her schemes and impositions. 
 
 About this time she became acquainted with 
 the Duke de Richelieu, to whom she got intro- 
 duced by a person named Damis, one of the 
 duke's former associates in endeavouring to dis- 
 cover the philosopher's stone. The duke received 
 her as an adept. I have often seen her at the 
 supper parties in the Place Royale, wearing the 
 cordon and cross of the order of Malta. She 
 used to allege that she had been robbed in Paris, 
 in 1753, of the titles in virtue of which she wore 
 these insignia ; as well as of other important docu- 
 ments, authorizing her to wear the cross and
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 171 
 
 grand cordon of the order of St. Andrew. These 
 atrocious robberies had, she said, likewise deprived 
 her of family muniments proving her claim to vast 
 properties, which she was thus deprived of all 
 means of recovering. 
 
 I was always very much amused in the society of 
 this singular woman. Her conversation was pecu- 
 liarly interesting; she spoke several languages 
 fluently, and she had a mode of expression which 
 imparted novelty even to that which was old and 
 trite. I used to think that her words produced to 
 the ear a similar effect to that which coloured glass 
 produces to the eye : — an illusion to the sense of 
 hearing, like that of the magic-lanthorn to the 
 sense of sight. I endeavoured, but without effect, 
 to become acquainted with her real history. 
 
 i2
 
 172 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 Private theatricals. — Parades and pi'overbes. — Carmontelle. — 
 Madame de Montesson. — Her marriage with the Duke of 
 Orleans. — Her theatre. — List of performers. — Acting of the 
 Duke of Orleans and Madame de Montesson. — Mademoiselle 
 Guimard. — Her two theatres. — Her acting. — Remark of Joseph 
 II. — A de^dce for prolonging youth and beauty. — Marie- 
 Antoinette's amateur theatre. — Royal corps dramatique. — Act- 
 ing of the Count de Provence, the Count d'Artois, the Dauphi- 
 ness, and the Princesses of Savoy. — The queen's amateur 
 theatre at Trianon. — Curious plaj'-bill. — Quarrel between the 
 queen and her sister-in-law. — Satirical remark of the Count 
 d'Artois. — Stage kissuig. — Increased audiences at the queen's 
 private theatre. — Remarlis on Marie- Antoinette'sstyle of acting. 
 — Her personal appeai-ance. 
 
 Whilst the Comedie Fran9aise was struggling 
 with adverse fate, and whilst, as we have seen, 
 its authors were fulminating interdictions on our 
 literary rights, we had several redoutable^and bril- 
 liant rivals in the different amateur theatres which
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 173 
 
 were established in Paris. They drew from us the 
 better portion of our audiences, that is to say, the 
 fashionable portion. The pit alone was filled, and 
 we acted only for the parterre in the strict mean- 
 ing of the term ; for our boxes were empty, when 
 the boxes in the amateur theatres of the nobility, 
 were nightly thronged with all the rank and 
 fashion of Paris. 
 
 This rage for private theatricals proved a serious 
 misfortune to the public theatres in France. To 
 such a pitch was this taste carried, that to be an 
 actor, came to be considered an essential point in 
 fashionable education ; and it was no uncommon 
 thing to hear men of fashion accosting each other 
 by the names of the characters, which they were 
 in the habit of personating. A duke and a mar- 
 quis might be heard addressing each other as Cris- 
 pin and Dorunte, a grave magistrate called Da- 
 mis, or a gay young officer of the king's guard 
 Purson or Sganarelle. 
 
 "How do you play that character?" was a 
 question asked of Preville, our celebrated come- 
 dian, by an individual whose rank placed him at 
 no great distance from the throne. The actor 
 described the idea which he conceived of the part, 
 and the spirit in which he thought it ought to be 
 rendered. 
 
 i3
 
 174) THE FUEXCII STAGE. 
 
 " Wellj that Is not precisely my conception of 
 it ; I play it clifFerently." 
 
 " That is," replied Preville, " because you con- 
 ceive it in the manner in which it is understood 
 by the grandson of the great Conde/' 
 
 When a complete theatre could not be esta- 
 blished, it was customary to get up dramatic 
 i-epresentations on a smaller and more easy scale. 
 Colle revived the parade, and to satisfy the pre- 
 vailing taste, Carmontelle introduced the proverbe, 
 ii sort of illegitimate bantling, which crept un- 
 awares into the dramatic family, and soon became 
 a greater favourite with the world than its more 
 respectable brethren. 
 
 These proverbes were the more successful and 
 more injurious to us, inasmuch as they placed 
 the art of acting within the reach of every one. 
 They reduced a character to miniature propor- 
 tions, and thus enabled any one to exhibit the 
 great or little share of talent he might happen to 
 possess, without the risk of rendering himself ridi- 
 culous. The proverhe was universally adopted as 
 a source of social amusement. It represented in 
 a dramatized form any entertaining anecdote or 
 story — the adventure of the day — the scandal of 
 the moment. It was a faithful mirror, in which 
 were alternately reflected the Coryphaei of coteries.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 175 
 
 who sought no better entertainment than laughing 
 at each others' vices and folUes. Carmontelle 
 made the happiest discovery of the age — the art 
 of dramatizing scandah 
 
 Amidst the multitude of private theatres which 
 were established in the highest class of Parisian 
 society, all of which were more or less attractive, 
 there were three superior to the rest, and, besides 
 clever performers, were furnished with scenery, 
 decorators, machinery, &c. on a scale equal to the 
 public theatres. 
 
 The first in point of order was the queen's; 
 but I will proceed to notice them chronolo- 
 gically, if I may be allowed the expression, and 
 begin Avith the one of oldest standing. This 
 was Madame de Montesson's, and was under the 
 management of my comrade, Drouin. The name 
 of Madame de Montesson is so closely interwoven 
 with recollections of one period of my life, that I 
 trust the following details will not be deemed out 
 of place in these memoirs. 
 
 Madame de Montesson undertook the task of 
 converting the Duke of Orleans ; and having made 
 herself mistress of his heart, she found it easy to 
 rule his mind. She gained a complete ascend- 
 ancy over him, and at length he announced his 
 intention of marrying her. This design was op- 
 posed by Louis XV. and Madame Dubarry, who 
 I 4
 
 176 THE FRENCH STAGE. , 
 
 did not think that a lady merely distinguished for 
 talent and attainments, had any right to aspire 
 to become a princess of the blood. In the affair 
 of the parliaments, the Duke of Orleans had de- 
 cidedly separated from the court party, and made 
 himself leader of the opposition. As his royal 
 highness was evidently bent on the union, it was 
 deemed expedient, for the sake of bringing him 
 back to the court party, to deceive him into the hope 
 that the marriage should be arranged. With this 
 view the holy water of the court was offered to 
 Madame de Montesson, and by this snare the 
 Duke of Orleans was enticed back to Versailles, 
 and when he was securely harnessed to the court 
 car, the monarch and his favourite laughed in their 
 sleeves at the two lovers. 
 
 But the Duke was firm. He Avould not 
 relax in the notions of morality to which his 
 mistress had converted him. He insisted on the 
 observance of the ceremony of mamage with all 
 due solemnity; with cross and banner, and the 
 nuptial benediction of the mitred archbishop. 
 
 At length it was determined to meet him half- 
 way in the fulfilment of his project ; and Madame 
 Dubarry undertook to acquaint him with the pro- 
 posed concession. " Grospere," said she (Gros- 
 pere was the name by which she familiarly ad- 
 dressed the prince, who was rather of the fattest).
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 177 
 
 " marry, marry by all means, since you are de- 
 termined on it ; but let the ceremony be a more 
 private affair than you propose to make it. At 
 some future time, possibly, the point you insist on 
 may be fully conceded. You know how much I am 
 interested in your behalf. You may rely upon me 
 for advocating your interests. For the present, 
 content yourself with a left-handed marriage.^' 
 The duke consented ; and in a short space of time 
 the Abbe Poupart, the cure of St. Eustache^ per- 
 formed the ceremony. 
 
 At this period, when it may perhaps be ad- 
 mitted that the court of France lost sight of some 
 degree of its rank and dignity, the new bride's in- 
 fluence over the Duke of Orleans greatly resem- 
 bled that exercised by Madame de Maintenon over 
 Louis XIV. She established in the duke's court 
 the tone of manners and tastes which distinguished 
 the court of the grand roi. The duke had pre- 
 viously tolerated in his circle a great deal of 
 that which I will designate by no harsher term 
 than fashionable freedom of manner. Madame 
 de Montesson wrought a change for the better. 
 She introduced a tone of refinement and good 
 breedings combined with a taste for literature and 
 the arts. 
 
 Attached to her hotel, in the Rue d'Autin, was 
 her private theatre, in which she and the Duke 
 I 5
 
 178 THE FREXCH STAGE. 
 
 of Orleans frequently acted. The duke, who had 
 a fund of natural humour, was not only tolerable, 
 but even excellent, in certain comic characters, 
 while she took the youthful characters of co- 
 medy. 
 
 I had the honour of being admitted to some of 
 the performances at this theatre, in the year 1 780. 
 The management and appointments might have 
 vied with thoSe of the Comedie Fran9aise. Indeed, 
 in some respects, the latter might have suffered by 
 the comparison. Several of the " company" pos- 
 sessed sufficient talent for first-rate professional 
 actors. The following is a list of the most distin- 
 guished performers : 
 
 The Duke d' Orleans, the Vicomte de Gand, 
 Monsieur de Segur, the Count d'Omesan, Ma- 
 dame de Montesson, the Countess de Lamarck, 
 and the Marquise de Crest. 
 
 The Duke, -as I have just remarked, possessed 
 a rich vein of comic humour. I saw him in several 
 very difficult characters, which he sustained admir- 
 ably. His personations of Forlis in '' Les Dehors 
 Trompeurs," and of Freeport in " L'Ecossaise," 
 were among his best efforts. One of the actors, 
 either the Vicomte de Gand or the Count d'Ome- 
 san, I forget which, was very clever in the peculiar 
 line of characters in which, at a subsequent period, 
 Baptiste excelled at our theatre. If he had been
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 179 
 
 a person of humbler rank, he would have been 
 a valuable acquisition to the Comedie Frangaise. 
 Of the rest of the company, some were feeble, 
 but still they possessed that unrestrained easiness 
 of manner which is always essential in acting. 
 Madame de Montesson, though somewhat too 
 embonpoint, played the young ladies in comedy. 
 Her style of performance was more remarkable 
 for intelligence and vivacity than for grace. She 
 was very fond of pastoral characters ; and looked 
 extremely well in them. Alluding to the increase 
 of her figure, the Duke of Orleans one evening 
 said to a friend near him : " See how well the 
 country air agrees with my shepherdess." 
 
 Madame de Montesson kept up this theatre for 
 ten years, and certainly, in point of taste and mag- 
 nificence, there was no other comparable with it, 
 except, perhaps (though they were quite in another 
 style), the two little theatres belonging to Made- 
 moiselle Guimard, the opera dancer. One was in 
 her delightful residence at Patin, and the other in 
 her superb hotel in the Chaussee d'Autin. 
 
 The danseuse owed her palace to the Church. 
 The Bishop of Orleans furnished out of the funds 
 of la feuille de benefices the sumptuous habitation 
 at Patin, in which Guimard raised a temple to 
 Thalia, certainly the most delicious boudoir imagin- 
 able. The boxes were lined with pink silk, trim- 
 i6
 
 180 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 med with silver, and hundreds of wax candles 
 exhaled a fragrant perfume. In this miniature 
 theatre, before a chosen circle of friends, Made- 
 moiselle Guimard displayed those talents for 
 comedy which tempted her to desert the opera 
 stage. Her hotel in the Rue Mont-Blanc, was 
 that subsequently occupied by the banker Perre- 
 gaut. This residence was in Mademoiselle Gui- 
 niard's time a perfect curiosity of splendour. 
 Mademoiselle Guimai'd evinced extraordinary ta- 
 lent as an actress. Her voice, which was some- 
 what hoarse, derived a charm fi'om that very fault. 
 It imparted to the accents of sentiment an ex- 
 pression which went to the heart. In the cha- 
 racter of Victoi'ine no actress came near her with 
 the exception of Mademoiselle Mars, whose tri- 
 umph is in her performance of that part. The 
 Emperor Joseph II., who saw Guimard perform at 
 her country residence at Patin, was heard to say : 
 '• I could not have credited that it was possible to 
 turn an asthma to so good an account.^' But 
 Guimard was altogether a creature of intelligence 
 and feehng. These qualities were prominent even 
 in her dancing'. 
 
 Mademoiselle Guimard's hotel in Paris was the 
 
 ' Were it not for the description of tlie voice, we should cer- 
 tainly think that the tdeuted Madeinoiselle Guimard still lived 
 amcni'rit us. — Ed.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 181 
 
 resort of all the most elegant young noblemen of 
 the court. On the evenings of these dramatic 
 performances, even ladies of rank might be seen 
 peeping incognita through the gilded grilles of the 
 lower boxes. They entered and returned by a 
 private door. The first actors in Paris vied with 
 each other for the pleasure of performing in Gui- 
 mard's charming little theatre. I myself some- 
 times enjoyed that pleasure. My first appearance 
 there was in the character of the Marquis in 
 " Tarcaret." 
 
 Like the Marshal de Richelieu, Mademoiselle 
 Guimard was a wonderful example of juvenility of 
 appearance in advanced life. When I was intro- 
 duced to her, she was already ten years beyond 
 that fatal age, at which beauty ordinarily must re- 
 nounce her empire; and yet during those ten 
 years, her age seemed to remain perfectly station- 
 ary. How the lady continued thus to defy the 
 withering hand of time the reader shall be in- 
 formed. At twenty years of age Mademoiselle 
 Guimard had her portrait painted by an eminent 
 artist, and by the aid of this picture she was en- 
 abled, if I may so express myself, to analyze her 
 complexion ; that is to say, she made herself ac- 
 curately acquainted with all the different tints of 
 which it was composed in the blooming days of
 
 182 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 her youth. With these colours duly prepared, 
 she seated herself at her toilette, as an artist would 
 place himself before his easel, and there, with the 
 portrait beside her, she every morning reproduced 
 its perfect fac-simile. By this ingenious stratagem, 
 Guimard at fifty frequently passed for twenty, 
 
 I have already mentioned that my sister was 
 the first who instructed her majesty Marie-An- 
 toinette in the pronunciation of the French lan- 
 guage, and in reciting favourite passages from the 
 works of our principal dramatic M-riters. In this 
 manner possibly the Austrian archduchess imbibed 
 that taste for theatrical performances which sub- 
 sequently became one of the most favourite amuse- 
 ments of the queen. 
 
 Marie-Antoinette found in dramatic amusements 
 a ready mode of sometimes escaping from the 
 irksome trammels of court etiquette. A young 
 female is always keenly susceptible to the annoy- 
 ance of a monotonous course of life; and the 
 queen of France had as great a horror of ennui as 
 any of her fair subjects. The daughter of Maria 
 Theresa imagined, and with reason, that her dig- 
 nity stood on too firm a base to be questioned, 
 because she occasionally chose to throw off 
 the yoke of court etiquette. She loved the 
 freedom, the confidence, and the gaiety, from
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 183 
 
 which princesses are debarred by tyrant custom, 
 and sought in her own example to prove that the 
 queen most worthy of respect, might at the same 
 time be equally worthy of esteem. 
 
 The successive marriages of the Count de Pro- 
 vence and the Count d^Artois', with the two 
 daughters of the King of Sardinia, gave the queen, 
 when dauphiness, two companions neai'ly of her 
 ow^n ag-e. The two sisters-in-law soon became 
 united in bonds of the most cordial friendship, and 
 a perfect sympathy in tastes and amusements 
 subsisted between them. 
 
 It was then that they first together agreed to get 
 up private theatricals, and perform some of the fa- 
 vourite pieces of the Comedie Fran9aise : at first, 
 the corps dramatique was composed merely of the 
 three young princesses, the Count de Provence, 
 and the Count d'Artois ; but afterwards the com- 
 pany was increased by the addition of M. Campan 
 and his son. In the outset it was determined that 
 the dauphin should know nothing about the scheme, 
 as it would not meet his approval. But what was 
 to be done ? It was necessary to have a looker-on 
 to give an account of the scenic effect ; it was 
 therefore determined to let his royal highness into 
 
 ' Afterwards Louis XVIII. and Charles X.
 
 184 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 the secret, and that he should be requested to 
 represent at once boxes, pit, and gallery. 
 
 But still the indulgence of this amusement was 
 attended by formidable obstacles; there was no 
 doubt that if it came to the knowledge of the king 
 and Madame Dubarry, it would meet their un- 
 qualified disapproval. To obviate the annoyance 
 of this disapproval, a theatre was secretly con- 
 structed in a small entresol apartment. Two 
 large screens formed the proscenium, and on the 
 evenings of performance, when any one was an- 
 nounced who happened not to be in the secret, 
 the whole theatrical paraphernalia was instantly 
 concealed Avitliin a recess, which closed with slid- 
 ing pannels. Then battledores and shuttlecocks 
 were resorted to, and all suspicion averted. 
 
 The Count de Provence possessed an admirable 
 memory; the Count d'Ai'tois, on the contrary, 
 experienced the greatest difficulty in learning a 
 few sentences by heart ; yet he got through his 
 parts admirably well, for Avhen his memoiy failed 
 him he improvized with wonderful facility, a mode 
 of proceeding which somewhat confused the other 
 performers, especially when the piece was in verse. 
 The two princesses of Savoy acted tolerably well, 
 but their accent and manner were quite foreign. 
 But the dauphiness was decidedly the best per-
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 185 
 
 former of the whole company^ and it was not mere 
 conjugal partiality which induced her consort to 
 applaud her more frequently and earnestly than 
 all the rest. 
 
 When I say that he applauded, I must mention, 
 (and I tell those particulars on the authority of 
 Madame Campan), that any noisy manifestations 
 of opinion on the part of the spectator were pro- 
 hibited. He was however permitted to tap lightly 
 on the crown of his hat ; but even this was not 
 unattended by inconvenience, for his royal high- 
 ness acquired a habit of beating the March of the 
 French Guards, and the performers were some- 
 times obliged to pause till the march was ended 
 before they could resume the interrupted dialogue. 
 In this manner the three illustrious couples passed 
 many of the happiest hours of their youth. It 
 will perhaps be said that amateiu" play-acting is 
 not a very royal amusement ; but it nevertheless 
 served to while away some of the weariest hours of 
 royalty. 
 
 However, after a time, these entertainments 
 lost the zest of novelty, and were relinquished; 
 nor were they again resumed until after the 
 accession of the dauphin to the throne. The 
 queen's theatrical taste seemed to revive at the 
 occasion of a new play by Dorat; her majesty had 
 consented to hear the play read, and Mole, who
 
 186 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 read it for the author, acquitted himself so well, 
 that the queen's histronic reminiscences recurred 
 with renewed attractiveness to her mind, and her 
 majesty soon afterwards made arrangements for 
 having an amateur theatre in the palace. The 
 king did not approve of it, but his tender affec- 
 tion for her majesty induced him to relax a little 
 of his rigour on this subject, and the august 
 Bonboniere of Trianon often attracted from the 
 celebrated amateurs whom I have already noticed, 
 the better portion of their audiences. 
 
 At first the queen did not act, Louis XVI. 
 having disapproved of her doing so. By degrees, 
 however, Marie-Antoinette succeeded in over- 
 coming his scruples, and at length she acted at 
 Trianon, there being a less strict obsers^ance of 
 etiquette there than when the court was in Paris. 
 At that theatre, comedies and comic operas were 
 carefully rehearsed and excellently performed. 
 " Le Roi et le Fermier," and " La Gageure im- 
 prevu," were certainly never played by such illus- 
 trious actors, nor before so noble an audience. 
 In the former piece the queen sustained the 
 character of Jenny, and in the latter that of the 
 Soubrette. The other characters were filled by 
 the distinguished personages forming the intimate 
 social circle of their majesties and the royal 
 family. The Count d'Artois not having relin-
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 187 
 
 quished his habit of improvising, it was not 
 deemed prudent to intrust him with any important 
 character. I happen to have in my possession a 
 bill of fare of one of the performances at the theatre 
 at Trianon. It will not, perhaps, be out of place if 
 I transcribe it here. It shows the distribution of 
 the parts in " Le Roi et le Fermier." 
 
 The King, Count Adhemar. 
 
 Richard, Count de Vaudreuil. 
 
 Gamekeeper, .... Count d'Artois. 
 
 Jenny, The Queen. 
 
 Betsy, The Duchess de Guiche. 
 
 The Mother, .... Mme. Diane de Polignac. 
 
 The next pieces got up under the direction of 
 her majesty, were " On ne s'avise jamais de tout," 
 and " Les Fausses Infidelites," by M. Barthe. In 
 general comedies were not so spiritedly sustained 
 as operas. In pieces of the latter class, the sing- 
 ing and music bore away the palm. 
 
 The king's disapproval of these amusements being 
 somewhat abated, he felt a wish to see the queen 
 herself perform, her majesty's acting and singing 
 being the theme of admiration among the courtiers 
 and nobility. Accordingly, his majesty made it a 
 rule to attend all the rehearsals. Caillot and
 
 188 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 Richer were engaged to superintend the getting 
 up of operas, and to give any requisite instructions 
 to the singers. For the superintendence of 
 comedies, Preville and Dazincourt were chosen ; 
 but Preville being very much occupied by his 
 professional engagements, I had the honour of 
 being appointed in quality of supernumerary. 
 
 With the view of gaining a greater sanction to 
 enjoy an amusement, her taste for which was daily 
 increasing, the queen wished that the Countess 
 de Provence, with whom she had recently been on 
 rather lukewarm terms, should take part in the 
 performances. But the Count de Provence (Mon- 
 sieur), after having to appearance given his con- 
 sent, withheld it, and in consequence a little 
 quarrel ensued between the two illustrious sisters- 
 in-law. The Count d'Artois happened to be pre- 
 sent on this occasion. He endeavoured to prevail 
 on the Countess de Provence to accede to the 
 queen's wish ; but the countess haughtily refused, 
 on the ground that it would be beneath her dignity 
 to act plays. " But," said Marie- Antoinette, " if 
 I, w ho am Queen of France, act plays, surely you 
 cannot have any scruples." To which the countess 
 replied : "Though I am not a queen, Madame, I am 
 of the stuff of which queens are made." Piqued at 
 this comparison, the queen answered sharply, and
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 189 
 
 in a manner which made her sister-in-law feel that 
 she considered the House of Savoy as inferior to 
 the House of Austria, which she added was quite as 
 illustrious as the family of Bourbon. The Count 
 d'Artois, who had hitherto been a silent listener, 
 now smiled, and addressing himself to the queen, 
 said : " I did not before venture to intrude on 
 the conversation, Madame, because I thought you 
 were angry ; but now I perceive that you are only 
 jesting,^' This sarcasm put a period to the dis- 
 cussion. 
 
 I was instructed to make arrangements for the 
 performance of the "Barber of Seville," and I 
 likewise superintended the rehearsal of several 
 operas. At rehearsals the queen used to be re- 
 markable for her cheerful spirits and good humour. 
 She used to laugh at her own mistakes, and w^ould 
 readily repeat a passage, or even a scene, as often 
 as might be deemed necessary. There were cer- 
 tain incidents in the rehearsals which, as far as 
 her majesty was concerned, the king by no means 
 approved ; as for example, when a kiss was to be 
 given or received, Louis XVI. would manifest 
 symptoms of uneasiness ; he would swing back 
 and forward on his chair, and cough loudly. 
 " These things," he would say, " may be ob- 
 served in the performance; but there is no neces- 
 sity for rehearsing them." It was deemed prudent
 
 190 THE FRENCH STAGE, 
 
 to take a hint from these manifestations of dis- 
 approbation, lest the king should prohibit the 
 performances altogether. It was therefore resolved 
 that there should be no saluting at rehearsals ; and 
 that by way of substitute, the ladies should in- 
 cline their heads, and the gentlemen raise their 
 hands to their shirt frills, and kiss the lace. I am 
 not prepared to say whether or not this practice 
 gave rise to the ^roverh fair e jabot. 
 
 For an amateur dramatic company, the queen's 
 was certainly very good ; but exaggerated compli- 
 ments soon caused the performers to entertain 
 high notions of their own talents, and the royal 
 amateurs were speedily disunited by • feelings of 
 vanity and jealousy, such as I imagined had no 
 existence but among the professional actors of the 
 Comedie Fran9aise. At first Marie- Antoinette re- 
 vived her private theatricals solely for the sake of 
 amusement ; but her love of acting augmented in 
 proportion as she was flattered by success. The 
 sufirage of a more numerous audience was desired. 
 The spectators had heretofore seldom exceeded 
 forty, but their numbers were soon very greatly 
 increased. The officers of the king's body-guard, 
 and his majesty's equerries were first admitted. 
 Then the officers and equerries of the Count 
 d'Artois and the Count de Provence. In a little 
 time after, railed boxes were assigned to different 
 14
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 191 
 
 persons about the court, and ladies were invited. 
 Eventually the applications for admission exceeded 
 all calculation, and at last the queen's private 
 theatricals became almost public performances. 
 
 In some memoirs of the time I have seen it 
 alleged, that whilst the qiieen was performing one 
 of her favourite parts, one of the audience ven- 
 tured to observe, that it was " right royally ill 
 acted." With all due deference to the individual 
 whose opinion is here recorded, I beg leave to say 
 that I have seen her majesty perform, and super- 
 intended several rehearsals, and that her acting 
 appeared to me to be very far from royally bad. 
 She was quite at her ease on the stage; and 
 in the art of acting, the acquirement of self- 
 possession is one half the battle. On the other 
 hand, I by no means agree with those who have so 
 loudly extolled the beauty of Marie-Antoinette. 
 Still there was something in her look and man- 
 ner even more fascinating than positive beauty. 
 Her eyes, though not large, had a power of expres- 
 sion which rendered them a perfect index of her 
 mind. Her skin was delicately fair, and the con- 
 tour of her neck and shoulders exquisitely formed. 
 Her mouth, though stamped with that peculiarity 
 which has been termed the Austrian lip, was ex- 
 ceedingly pretty, and had a certain pouting ex- 
 pression which was peculiarly appropriate in many
 
 193 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 of the characters she personated. In Blaise and 
 Babet, for example, nothing could be more charm- 
 ing than her manner of half reciting, half singing, 
 the following lines : 
 
 " Le soir on dansa sur I'herbette, 
 .Blaise et moi nous dansions tous deux ; 
 Mais il me quitta poui- Lisette 
 Qui vint se nieler a nos jeux." 
 
 The fact is, that the queen's acting was charac- 
 terised by a degree of grace, feeling, and delicacy, 
 which would have made the fortune of any public 
 performer.
 
 193 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 The Widow of Malabar. — Revival of that tragedy. — Its extraor- 
 dinary success. — Attack on the priesthood. ^Remonstrance of 
 the Archbishop of Paris. — Death of Dorat the poet. — His er- 
 roneous estimate of his own talent. — The Comedie Italienne. — 
 Its encroachment on the domain of the Come'die Franfaise. — 
 Madame Verteuil. — Mademoiselle Coutat. — Her brilliant pro- 
 fessional talent. — Mademoiselle Vade. — Professional rivalry. — 
 The Coimt d' Artois' theatre at Brunoy. — His conciliatory scheme 
 thwarted. — Le Galant Escroc. — My performance of Coimt 
 Guelphar. — Imitations of persons of rank. — French plays per- 
 fonned at Dresden. — Accident to Mademoiselle Mars. — Dr. 
 Desgenettes. — My imitation uf him. 
 
 In the dearth of new pieces^ the Comedie Fran- 
 yaise revived Voltaire's " Orphan of China," and M. 
 Lemierre probably thinking that a " Widow" was 
 entitled to some degree of the favour bestowed on 
 an "Orphan," expressed a wish that we would 
 trj'' the experiment of reviving his tragedy, the 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 " Widow of Malabar." On this subject he ad- 
 dressed to us the following witty quatrain : 
 
 Par vos d<?lais longs et sans fin 
 C'est assez me mettre a I'epreuve : 
 Vous qui prot^gez I'orphelin 
 Ne ferez-vous autant pour la veuve ? 
 
 The piece was revived, and after some alter- 
 ations made by the author, proved so attractive 
 that it was performed thirty consecutive nights to 
 crowded audiences. The violent attack on priest- 
 hood, which is the soul and spirit of this tragedy, 
 was the true secret of its success, although the 
 acting of Larive, Mouvel, and Sainval the younger 
 Avas most powerful and effective. Many of the 
 tragedies written about this period were httle else 
 than manifestoes against the clergy; but that 
 which Voltaire and his imitators had ventured 
 upon cautiously, Lemierre did boldly, and the 
 public, by their vehement approbation, testified 
 their concurrence in the sentiments of the author. 
 Preceding dramatic writers, who had undertaken 
 to paint fanaticism in its odious colours, had al- 
 ways maintained a distinct and paramount subject 
 of interest, with which philosophic allusions were 
 artfully interwoven. But in the " Widow of Ma- 
 labar,^' Lemierre threw off all reserve. The piece
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 195 
 
 was an open attack upon priestcraft, and the plot 
 was wholly subordinate to anti-religious princi- 
 ples. 
 
 The clergy resented the blow aimed at them, 
 and addressed a complaint to the king. But at 
 that moment so many political difficulties claimed 
 attention, that ministers adjourned the consider- 
 ation of the subject. The affairs of England and 
 America, the Count d'Estaing and the Count de 
 Grasse, threw into the shade the remonstrance of 
 M. de Beaumont. On the other hand, we ap- 
 pealed in our own defence, for the piece drew a 
 great deal of money to our treasury, which we could 
 not afford to dispense with. Some important sup- 
 pressions were demanded by the archbishop. In 
 the first act there w^as a long dialogue between the 
 Grand Brahmin and the young novitiate, in v»'hich 
 the right of the Indian priests to insist on the 
 burning of the widows was theologically discussed. 
 Attacks were freely dealt out upon priestly super- 
 stition in general, and under the disguise of alle- 
 gory, the diocesan seminaries were plainly discern- 
 ible. The archbishop required that this scene 
 should be expunged. But to have insisted on 
 its omission would have been equivalent to sup- 
 pressing the play altogether, a step from which 
 the government deemed it wise to refrain. It 
 therefore maintained its ground, and was per- 
 k2
 
 196 THE FREXCH STAGE. 
 
 formed thirty successive nights, and our treasury 
 was replenished to our heart's content. 
 
 Lemierre dedicated his tragedy to the manes of 
 Dorat, who, singularly enough, died on the day 
 of its first performance after its revival. In the 
 dedicatory epistle to his friend, the author relates 
 an anecdote which is honourable to both parties. 
 "^ Let me know," said Dorat on his death-bed, " as 
 soon as possible the fate of the ' Widow of Ma- 
 labar.' The knowledge of its success will insure 
 me a good night's rest." 
 
 Dorat passed the latter years of his life in strife 
 and contention ; he even quarrelled with the socie- 
 taires of the Comedie Fran9aise, to whom he was 
 so much indebted. He was moreover involved in 
 pecuniary difficulties ; and the victim of ill health, 
 the result of a life of dissipation. But he affected 
 to view his misfortunes with indifference, and even 
 levity, and it must be confessed gave strong proofs 
 of fortitude. 
 
 Dorat formed a wrong estimate of his own abili- 
 ties, and fell into the mistake of attempting to 
 set up his mediocre talent on a level with the 
 genius of Voltaire. This strange misconception 
 led him to imagine that he might successfully try 
 every class of literary composition. He would 
 have succeeded admirably had he confined him- 
 self to one style; but his ambition was to
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 197 
 
 shine in all. The laurels of the author of " Zadig," 
 " Mahomet," and the " Pucelle," excited the envy 
 of Dorat. His little tales were remarkably clever, 
 and his poetic epistles highly elegant and graceful. 
 He might have earned a creditable share of poetic 
 reputation at a period, when a quatrain for a 
 lady's fan would confer literary distinction. He 
 attempted to take the eagle's flight in literature, 
 when he ought to have been content to soar upon 
 the wings of the dove. 
 
 — TTie Comedie Italienne was now no longer Ita- 
 lian except in name ; it had become the rival of the 
 Comedie Fran9aise. This rivalry at first com- 
 menced in a very humble spirit ; we were given to 
 understand that the Italians wished merely to 
 glean in the vast field in which we reaped so 
 abundantly. But not content w4th this they soon 
 signified their intention of bringing out some of 
 the favourite pieces of Delisle, Marvaux, and 
 Boissy. In their address to the public, the per- 
 formers of the Comedie Italienne thus expressed 
 themselves : " Thalia, who heretofore dared not 
 to present herself on these boards, except under 
 the auspices of the goddess of harmony, now as- 
 serts her rights. Without breaking the bonds 
 which unite her to the tragic muse, she may still 
 reign independently," &c. 
 
 Faithful to this announcement, they soon brought 
 k3
 
 198 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 out some good comedies, and reinforced their 
 company by some excellent performers, among 
 others, Madame Verteuil. Tliis lady, who had 
 earned a high provincial reputation, fully con- 
 firmed it when she appeared at the Comedie 
 Italienne, in the character of Sylvia, in " Les Jeux 
 del'Amour et du Hazard." Easy and graceful action, 
 perfect tact, correct enunciation, and a delicious 
 tone of voice, were the distinguishing character- 
 istics of the lady, who was now destined to rival 
 (mr actresses. Mademoiselle Coutat, who belonged 
 to our company, was not yet noticed by the public, 
 nor duly appreciated by her theatrical colleagues, 
 and Madame Verteuil was superior to any of our 
 jennes amoureuses, several of whom, it must be 
 confessed, might have traced their baptismal regis- 
 ters to rather a distant date. Consequently, the 
 Italian Comj)any, and the authors who had de- 
 serted us to write for them, rubbed their hands 
 with joy and shouted victory. 
 
 The establishment of this second French theatre 
 was more detrimental to the interest of our first- 
 rate performers, than to those of the second and 
 third class; nay, I may even venture to afRrm, 
 that Mademoiselle Coutat and myself were gainers 
 by the innovation. When victories are to be won, 
 commanders find it their interest to flatter and 
 encourage their troops by the hope of promotion.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 199 
 
 Something resembling this expedient was adopted 
 in reference to us. The consequence was, that 
 Madame Verteuil helped to advance Mademoiselle 
 Coutat, and that M. Dorgeville did no harm to 
 Fleury. 
 
 The transformation of the Theatre Italienne 
 into a rival to the Comedie Franyaise, obliged our 
 high and potent seigneurs M^ho held the reins of 
 management, to cast their eyes on the humbler 
 class of performers who filled up the theatrical 
 company. To oppose the opposing army, it was 
 necessary to bring all our forces into the field, 
 and this circumstance, as I have just remarked, 
 proved favourable to Mademoiselle Coutat and 
 myself. During the recent misunderstandings 
 between our managers and the dramatic authors, 
 this young actress and I were sometimes thrust 
 forward merely for the purpose of screening our 
 superiors from the frowns of the pit. That the 
 discontents should have vented their ill-humour 
 on me was natural enough; but it might have 
 been expected that the youth and beauty of Made- 
 moiselle Coutat would have secured to her a more 
 gracious reception : not so, she frequently quitted 
 the stage in a flood of tears, wrung from her by 
 the chilling reception which she had encountered. 
 I used to endeavour to console her, and she on 
 her part would try to rally my spirits, when she 
 K 4
 
 200 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 saw me depressed by the mortifying position into 
 which I was thnist. Our mutual misfortune gave 
 birth to a mutual friendliness of feeling between 
 us ; to me she almost supplied the place of my be- 
 loved sister Felicite. We comforted ourselves and 
 each other with the hope of a better fate. Made- 
 moiselle Coutat expressed her confidence in the 
 success of my future career ; I predicted the glory 
 of hers. She probably owes me something ; I owe 
 her much. We both simultaneously triumphed 
 over the coldness of the parterre, and surmounted 
 the discouraging restraints imposed on us by our 
 superiors in the dramatic corps. Coutat soon de- 
 veloped talent of the very highest order — talent, 
 the latent germ of which, Preville alone per- 
 ceived. 
 
 Preville was the instructor of IVIademoiselle 
 Coutat, and never did pupil prove more worthy of 
 an able master. The young actress, it is true, 
 conquered intuitively all the difficulties of an art, 
 which, after all, cannot be taught ; and the great 
 comedian, charmed with the precocious intelhgence 
 of the young actress, facilitated her acquirement of 
 those elements of diction, or, as they may not 
 unaptly be termed, the solfeggi of speech, so indis- 
 pensable to success on the stage. 
 
 Louise Coutat was between fourteen and fifteen 
 years of age when she first appeared in public;
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 201 
 
 she made her debut in the year 1776, about the 
 time of the first appearance of Mademoiselle 
 Vade, who was set up as a rival to her. Both 
 made their debut at the Theatre Fran9aise, in the 
 youthful characters of tragedy. Mademoiselle 
 Coutat possessed great beauty of countenance and 
 figure, but her talent was not of the kind calcu- 
 lated to distinguish her as the representative of 
 tragic heroines. Mademoiselle Vade was pleasing 
 in person, but she evinced still less aptitude for 
 tragedy ; she was, therefore, more favoured by those 
 influential members of our company who were 
 fearful of the approach of any rising talent. But 
 in spite of this her progress was slow ; whilst, on 
 the other hand, that of her rival would have been 
 rapid, had she been afforded op])ortunities of fairly 
 showing her poAvers. Nevertheless, the restraint 
 thus imposed on her, ultimately turned to her ad- 
 vantage : it stimulated her to a determination to 
 prove the injustice of her enemies ; and accordingly 
 she exerted herself to give importance to the in- 
 significant characters that were allotted to her. 
 This, no doubt, was the mainspring of her subse- 
 quent success. In the commencement of her 
 career, she always acted under the inspiration of 
 resentment for the injustice with which she was 
 treated. This sort of feeling is a never-failing 
 spur to a young artist ; and judging from my own 
 K 5
 
 202 THE FREXCll STAGE. 
 
 observation, I am inclined to believe that there is 
 no celebrated talent, which may not reckon a 
 certain portion of angry feeling amongst the ele- 
 ments of its success. 
 
 In this respect also Mademoiselle Coutat and 
 myself were on a similar footing. She v/as per- 
 mitted only to take characters which other actresses 
 rejected, and I could get none but such as Mouvel 
 and Mole had declined. Coutat's brilliant talent 
 continued long in its germ, and my efforts were 
 for a considerable interval held in check. Here, 
 however, I must drop the parallel ; it would be the 
 height of vanity to continue it. Coutat, like 
 Dangueville, was inimitable. After the death of 
 PreviUe, Mademoiselle Coutat was the brightest 
 ornament of the French stage. 
 
 The additions made to the company of the 
 Theatre Italienne, and the innovation in the class 
 of pieces performed at that establishment, bade 
 fair speedily to turn to the advantage of many 
 performers who had been martyrs to the manage- 
 ment of the Theatre Fran9aise. Mademoiselle 
 Coutat, who confided her griefs to me, and I, who 
 imparted my hopes to her, were both sufficiently 
 unpatriotic to rejoice at the blow aimed at the 
 national theatre. 
 
 Meanwhile, I was frequently engaged to per- 
 form at the amateur theatres of Mademoiselle
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 203 
 
 Guimard and the Duchess de Villeroi, and still 
 more frequently at the summer residence of Mon- 
 sieur, the King's brother, who appointed me his 
 chief comedian. Mademoiselle Guimard and the 
 Duchess de Villeroi used to perform what we 
 called in our theatrical phraseology, the grand 
 trottoir, that is to say, plays of the highest and 
 most select class. At Monsieur's theatre, on the 
 other hand, comedies of a more free and less 
 refined character were the order of the day. 
 
 The misunderstanding which arose between the 
 Queen and the Countess d'Artois, on the subject 
 of amateur acting, was succeeded by a long cool- 
 ness between those illustrious ladies. Monsieur 
 ardently desired a reconciliation, which, as the 
 theatre had been the field of discontent, he hoped 
 to make it the means of reconciliation. After 
 having with his usual tact been most obsequious 
 to her Majesty, Monsieur made arrangements for 
 giving some grand fetes at his chateau at Brunoy. 
 He hoped thus to bring the Queen and the Coun- 
 tess d'Artois again together. Among other amuse- 
 ments, it was determined that there should be 
 theatrical peformances; but in this part of his 
 scheme his royal highness broke down most 
 lamentably. The performers did not consist 
 of the members of the royal family, nor even of 
 the nobility connected with the court; the dra- 
 k6
 
 204 THE FREXCII STAGE. 
 
 matic company was selected partly from the 
 Theatre Fran9aise, and partly from the companies 
 of Mademoiselle Guimard and Madame Villeroi. 
 In short, they were all either professional actors 
 or amateurs of inferior rank ; and all were hired 
 and paid. A play got up in this manner could 
 not be regarded in the light of a concession, but 
 was rather calculated to convey a censure on the 
 conduct of the Queen. It was as much as to say : 
 " We will have plays, but we will not be players." 
 Such, at least, was the interpretation given of the 
 affair at court, and accordingly, the Queen de- 
 clined the invitation to Brunoy. Thus Monsieur, 
 with all his adroitness, outwitted himself. 
 
 The court was then at Fontainebleau, where the 
 company of the Comedie Fran9aise were occasion- 
 ally performing. I was there Avhen I received a 
 message from Monsieur inviting me to Brunoy ; 
 my services being required in a play, with which 
 the festivities were to conclude. I set oif imme- 
 diately, and arrived just in time. His royal high- 
 ness received me with great kindness ; he told 
 me that he wished me to take a part in the 
 " Galant Escroc," a comedy by Colle, in which I 
 had played very successfully at Guimard's the- 
 atre. Count Guelphar, the character allotted to 
 me, was one particularly adapted to my powers, and 
 precisely one of that class, which I hoped would
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 205 
 
 one day or other fall to my lot at the Theatre 
 Frangaise. It was a correct picture of the rake 
 of that time. Collcj whose pen was doubtless 
 somewhat free, has in the comedy of the " Galant 
 Escroc" displayed a fund of natural humour, and 
 a lively fancy, which few dramatic writers have 
 excelled. I liked the character, and I tried to 
 play it with effect ; endeavouring to mould my- 
 self to it, as if it were to be one of my future 
 parts. I called into play my powers of mimicry, 
 for I had received a carte-blanche to imitate any 
 nobleman or petit-maitre, who might be among the 
 company invited as spectators. Accordingly, I 
 chose for my sosie any one whose brilliant reputa- 
 tion in fashionable life was calculated to enhance 
 the effect of my imitation, and, consequently, obtain 
 the greatest share of applause. I did not confine my 
 sketches to one model, but first selected one person- 
 age, and then another; always being careful to 
 choose those in whose habits and peculiarities there 
 was nothing either vulgar or offensive : at the same 
 time, never failing to animate my copy with some 
 prominent personal characteristic, so as to impress 
 upon it the stamp of unquestionable resemblance. 
 By this means I avoided giving offence to the 
 vanity of any one ; on the contrary, I seemed in 
 some cases to afford gratification, for I afterwards 
 received many letters, (some accompanied by the
 
 206 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 offer of presents,) requesting me to imitate Mon- 
 sieur le Marquis ... or Monsieur le Comte . . . 
 I was, in fact, like a fashionable portrait-painter 
 to whom all the great world are anxious to sit, and 
 when solicited by persons who presented no pecu- 
 liarities worthy of imitation, I used to reply in the 
 language of fashionable artists : " I cannot under- 
 take to paint eveiybody." 
 
 Having alluded to my powers of mimicry, I 
 may here relate an anecdote in reference to an 
 individual illustrious in the annals of science, 
 whose portrait I once took the liberty of sketching 
 in the manner I have just described. 
 
 When the Emperor Napoleon had his head- 
 quarters in Dresden, one of his favourite amuse- 
 ments was theatrical performances. A selection 
 from the company of the Comedie Fran9aise re- 
 paired to the capital of Saxony, where the master- 
 pieces of Corneille, Moliere, and Racine, were 
 frequently performed. Unfortunately, an accident 
 for a time deprived us of the services of one of 
 the ablest handmaids of Thalia ; Mademoiselle 
 Mars, whilst taking a drive in an open carriage, 
 A^as thrown out and seriously hurt. General grief 
 and consternation prevailed, and the celebrated 
 Dr. Desgenettes was immediately despatched by 
 the emperor to tender assistance to the charming 
 actress.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 207 
 
 Talma and I, as soon as we heard of the occur- 
 rence, hurried to her house, where we anxiously 
 awaited the arrival of the doctor, who soon ap- 
 peared. He saw the patient, whose case was for- 
 tunately not so serious as we had anticipated. 
 The doctor spoke to her for a few minutes, and 
 gave her some prescriptions, and then imme- 
 diately throwing aside as it were his professional 
 character, he entered into general conversation 
 with the ease and elegance of the most accom- 
 plished courtier. I vvas struck with this sudden 
 transition. The playful, amiable manner, the 
 animated and interesting flow of conversation 
 which so peculiarly distinguished that eminent 
 man, made a strong impression on me, and I care- 
 fully stored up in my mind my notes of observation, 
 with the view of making Desgenettes the subject of 
 one of my most favourite imitative sketches. 
 
 An opportunity soon occurred, which led me 
 almost undesignedly to finish up the picture, of 
 which only the outline as yet existed in my mind. 
 One evening, at a party given by Count Daru, 
 the conversation turned on the accident sustained 
 by Mademoiselle Mars, and Talma very naturally 
 pronounced a warm eulogy on Baron Desgenettes. 
 I did not fail to second him, and described the 
 doctor's agreeable conversation on the day of his 
 visit to Mademoiselle Mars. My imitative faculty
 
 208 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 came into play, as it were unconsciously ; and 
 the resemblance was so striking, that all who 
 heard me, exclaimed : " It is Baron Desgenettes 
 himself." This mimiciy was quite unpremeditated, 
 and I was not fully aware that I was practising 
 any imitation till warned by Talma. But it was 
 too late ; the attention of the company had 
 been directed to me, and several persons of the 
 ladies urged me to repeat the imitation. I was 
 thus obliged to enact the character of the great 
 doctor during the best part of the night. 
 
 A few days aftenvards, Count Daru decribed to 
 Baron Desgenettes what had occurred at his party, 
 and bestowed lavish compliments on me. " Posi- 
 tively," said he, " Fleury is more like you than 
 you are like yourself. You are so gay in society, 
 and so grave in the exercise of your professional 
 duties, that you are yourself only as it were in 
 shadow. Fleury is an embodied likeness of you. 
 Do come and see him, or I should rather say, 
 come and see yourself. I expect him this 
 evening." 
 
 I was again at Count Darn's, and was not a 
 little astonished when Baron Desgenettes stepped 
 up to me, and expressed a wish to see the per- 
 sonation of himself about which he had heard so 
 much, and begged I would for a few minutes 
 become his representative. I could not refuse a
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 209 
 
 request which conveyed so high a comphment to 
 me, though I confess I felt somewhat diffident in 
 attempting the imitation in the presence of my 
 distinguished model. By degrees, however, I got 
 inspired with my subject ; I moved about, chatting 
 first with people on my right, then with others 
 on my left, placing my hand on the hilt of 
 my sword after the doctor's peculiar manner. I 
 had at my tongue's end some of the happy mots 
 which were currently assigned to him, and I con- 
 trived to bring them in, not perhaps very inaptly. 
 Then advancing to a lady, and conjuring up all 
 my recollections of my first interview with the 
 doctor, on his visit to Mademoiselle Mars, I went 
 through a great part of the consultation scene, 
 winding up the whole with a gracious adieu to 
 Talma and a bow to Fleury. 
 
 A loud round of approbation rewarded my ef- 
 fort. Desgenettes was in ecstacy ; he laughed 
 heartily, and advancing to me, cordially shook my 
 hand, and expressed his astonishment at my power 
 of mimicry. In my boyhood I used to exercise 
 this faculty to a great extent.
 
 .210 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A dejeuner champetre. — Carlo Bertinazzi, commonly called Car- 
 lin. — Hai'lequin and his family. — Goldoni. — The swing. — Pun- 
 chinello. — Madame Carlin's parsimony. — Condemnation of a 
 room door. — Carlin's goodness of heart. — His debut and retire- 
 ment from the stage. — Peculiarities of his talent. — Amusing 
 improvisations. — Pope Clement XIV. (Ganganelli). — Early 
 friendship between him and Carlin. — Hoiiday rambles. — Imi- 
 tation of different animals. — The ass and the paniers of cheese. 
 — The Chapel of the Virgin. — Pious oftermgs. — Robbing the 
 altai'. — Carlin's manner of relating a story. — His naive re- 
 marks. 
 
 I RECEIVED an in\dtatioii from my old friend 
 Carlin * to visit him at Chaillot, where he had 
 i-ecently purchased a little house with a gar- 
 den. This humble domain, which he jokingly 
 denominated his villa, was bounded on the east 
 by the estate of the sieur Morin, a farrier, and on 
 
 ^ His real name v.as Carlo Bertinazzi, and for the space of forty- 
 two years, he was the uni-ivalled representative of Harletiuin.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 211 
 
 the west by that of the Widow Delort, who carried 
 on her deceased husband's trade of a coppersmith. 
 On week days, therefore, it will readily be believed 
 that Carlin's residence was not a very tranquil 
 retreat. 
 
 Luckily Carlin had fixed on a Sunday for his 
 dejeuner. In his note of invitation, he had apprised 
 me that we were to breakfast on a grass-plot in 
 his garden ; it happened, however, that upon the 
 said grass-plot the grass had not yet grown. As 
 it would not have been very comfortable to have 
 breakfasted on the scant turf, some pieces of 
 tapestry were laid down to cover it. The tapestry 
 represented Acteeon, the bath of Diana, and a 
 forest, so that, for that day at least, Carlin^s garden 
 could boast of trees, verdure, and water. 
 
 Goldoni was invited. I was very well acquainted 
 with him ; for, in spite of the misunderstanding of 
 his brother authors Avith our corps-dramatique, he 
 used to be a regular frequenter of the green-room 
 of the Comedie Frangaise. Goldoni was some- 
 what after his time, but at length made his appear- 
 ance, and informed us that he had been delayed 
 by a slight indisposition of his wife. He brought 
 with him an excellent appetite, and we prepared 
 to partake of our rural repast, if not under the 
 trees, at least on the trees. After some little dis- 
 cussion respecting the post of honour, which hap-
 
 212 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 pened to be fixed precisely on the head of 
 Actaeon, we seated ourselves. CarMn had invited 
 his two neighbours, (the Sieur Morin and the 
 Widow Delort,) two exceedingly noisy personages, 
 who had acquired the habit of speaking very loud, 
 probably with the view of making themselves 
 heard above the noise of their workmen's ham- 
 mers. Fortunately, however, they seemed to 
 prefer eating to talking, and therefore we were 
 favoured with but little of their conversation. 
 My attention was exclusively directed to Har- 
 lequin and his family, a charming and truly 
 patriarchal groupe ; they were the models from 
 which Florian drew many of his pictures, so full 
 of freshness, grace, and simplicity. Le Bon Pere 
 is sketched from the life, and is a perfect portrait 
 of Carlin in his domestic character. 
 
 By degrees, the members of our little party got 
 acquainted with each other, and some bottles of 
 good Montefinscone contributed not a little to en- 
 liven us. The conversation, if not brilliant and 
 witty, was good-humoured and amusing. To me 
 it was a very agreeable change, for I was beginning 
 to be weary of the monotonous tone of the world 
 in which I mingled, where one was obliged to be 
 ever on the alert, and always armed to the very 
 teeth ready to bite, either from the fear of being 
 bitten, or to revenge a bite already received. I
 
 THE FREXCII STAGE. 213 
 
 fel1> happy in being enabled to escape for a time 
 from our green-room coterie of dukes, counts, 
 marquises, and actors and actresses aping the airs 
 of people of fashion. 
 
 The conversation ceased to be general, and our 
 Httle party divided itself into separate groupes. 
 Carlin and I gossipped first about theatrical af- 
 fairs, and then about my family. Carlin made 
 many inquiries about my father and other relations. 
 For a long time past it had been only when in 
 communion with myself that I could enjoy these 
 pleasing recollections. Madame Delort conversed 
 about copper kettles with M. Morin, who in his turn 
 edified her with a dissertation on horses' shoes. 
 Goldoni drew his chair near mine, and described 
 to me how Carlin had suggested to him the idea 
 of his characters, in which he pourtrays the union 
 of kindness of heart and violence of temper. In 
 the mean time Madame Carlin had fastened up a 
 rope for a swing. One of the children, a fine 
 lively little girl, had seated herself on the rope, and 
 the mother was pushing her backwards and for- 
 wards. 
 
 " You will make that child fall !" exclaimed 
 Carlin, who was at that moment nailing up to the 
 wall a drooping branch of one of the trees. 
 
 The mother stopped ; and Carlin proceeded to 
 drive in his nail ; muttering to himself some ex-
 
 214 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 pressions of displeasure at not being able to suc- 
 ceed. After a few moments the swing was again 
 set in motion ; at first gently, then a little faster ; 
 and by-and-by more and more rapidly. Goldoni 
 fixed his eyes on his friend, then placing his finger 
 on his lip, drew my attention to Carlin. The 
 latter was getting quite out of patience, and was 
 muttering imprecations in Italian, upon the wall 
 and the nails. 
 
 " Neighbour Morin ! what villanous nails you 
 have sent m.e," said he, addressing himself to the 
 farrier. 
 
 '^^ They are the very best — the very best quality, 
 I assure you. Monsieur Carlin," coolly replied 
 Morin. 
 
 " The best quality !" said Carlin, in a rage 
 ..." don't you see it is impossible to hammer 
 them in ?" 
 
 " My dear sir," said Morin, " that is because 
 farriers' nails are not intended to be di'iven into 
 stone walls. . . . But suppose your wall were no 
 harder than a horse's hoof . . . ." 
 
 During this interesting colloquy, Madame Car- 
 lin and the rest of the party were enjoying to their 
 hearts' content the diversion of the swing. A 
 little biu-st of laughter betrayed the disobedience. 
 At that moment Carlin had raised his hammer for 
 the purpose of giving a tremendous knock to a 
 14
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 215 
 
 nail; but the laughter caused him to turn sud- 
 denly round, and down went the hammer, not on 
 the head of the nail, but on one of the fingers of 
 his own left hand. He uttered a loud oath (in 
 French this time), the blood flowed freely, and 
 every one flocked round him to learn what was the 
 matter. 
 
 " Are you much hurt ?" said his wife. 
 
 " Yes, I am," said Carlin, . . . " and it is all 
 your fault. ... I will burn that rope \" 
 
 " It was not the rope, but the hammer," said 
 Morin, picking up the latter, which Carlin in his 
 rage had thrown on the ground. 
 
 " I say it was the swing," said Carlin 
 
 "• Everybody does everything he can to vex me. 
 . . . My dear Goldoni, I am the m.ost unhappy of 
 men. . . . My wife is so obstinate. . . . Flemy, 
 never get married. . . . Those children too . . . 
 they will be the death of me. . . . See how it 
 bleeds ! . . . Get me some water." 
 
 Meanwhile his wife had brought a basin of cold 
 water, and Carlin dipped his finger into it. Un- 
 luckily M. Morin, who pretended to be a bit of a 
 doctor, had emptied the contents of the salt-cellar 
 into the water, and no sooner was the wounded 
 finger immersed, than it caused the patient to roar 
 out furiously. Seizing the basin, he dashed it on 
 the ground, venting imprecations on wife, children, 
 neighbours, friends, and the rural breakfast.
 
 216 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 I knew not what to think of all this, and my 
 countenance probably expressed that I felt of- 
 fended at this strange conduct, for Goldoni, ad- 
 vancing to me, took my hand, and said : 
 
 " Ah ! you do not know our friend. He is one 
 of the best of men." 
 
 " See how his poor wife is crying," exclaimed 
 Madame Delort. 
 
 " And the childi-en !" said Morin indignantly. 
 ..." Let us all be gone." 
 
 " Oh, no ! do not go yet,^' said Goldoni, huriy- 
 ing towards the house. We followed him, and an 
 open window enabled us to see into one of the 
 apartments on the ground floor. There we saw 
 Carlin consoling and caressing his wife and the 
 children. 
 
 " Why are you crying, Zanetta ?" said he. . . , 
 "^ What are you all crying for, eh ? . . . What ha^e 
 I done? I did not mean to scold you. Come, 
 come, dry your eyes ! . . dry your eyes ! Zanetta, 
 come kiss me. My dear children, embrace and 
 forgive me. ... It is all over now. My finger 
 gives me no more pain. . . . There, there. See 
 how well I can move it." 
 
 Whilst he uttered these words in a tone of the 
 most affectionate kindness, his wife was leaning 
 over the back of his chair, and one of the httle 
 ones was sitting on his knee. He alternately 
 caressed first one, and then another of his five
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 217 
 
 children, but we observed that the youngest 
 would not return his kiss, and continued sobbing 
 sulkily. 
 
 Delighted at having witnessed this family re- 
 conciliation, we were about to withdraw out of 
 view of the window, when Madame Delort beck- 
 oned us to stay. " Look at him !" said she. 
 
 We again peeped in at the window. Carlin was 
 endeavouring to restore the obstinate child to good 
 humour, and with this view he had made a doll of 
 his wounded finger, which was rolled up in a rag. 
 He took a pen and traced on the rag, eyes, nose, 
 and mouth, and thus composed a very good Punch- 
 inello, throwing it into the most grotesque evolu- 
 tions, to the infinite amusement of the children. 
 Then assuming different tones of voice, he com- 
 menced a dialogue with the Mttle figure, intro- 
 ducing all sorts of burlesque lazzi, in the Italian 
 manner. Then he proposed to introduce, as a 
 scenic accessary, a tartine aux confitures. His wife 
 went to get it, and one of the children brought a 
 knife. Zanetta cut up the cake and distributed 
 the sugar plums. Every one of the little groupe 
 now acted a part in the scene. Harlequin (for 
 Carlin had now resumed his old character) quar- 
 relled v/ith Signer Punchinello about a piece of 
 cake, and the refractory child, like La Fontaine's 
 lawyer, seized the object of dispute amidst the 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 laughter of the other actors, and the applause of 
 the spectators m the garden, who had been totally- 
 forgotten. 
 
 This scene reminded me of Goldoni's Bourrie 
 bienfaisant. In tlie course of my visits to Carlin, 
 I witnessed several incidents of the above kind, 
 and Goldoni related to me some others. 
 
 Carlin was in easy circumstances, and was 
 blessed vn\h. a lovely family. His wife was not 
 only warmly attached to him, but she treated him 
 with a peculiar degree of respect. No two persons 
 could be more dissimilar in disposition than Carlin 
 and his wife. He was sensitive and impetuous, 
 she cold and passive. There was another trait in 
 her character which tended to excite Carlin's hasti- 
 ness of temper. She was excessiA^ely parsimonious, 
 and her husband loved not only to enjoy what he 
 was possessed of, but was sometimes inclined to 
 launch into a little extravagance. 
 
 One evening I was playing with him at his fa- 
 vourite game of piquet. He asked for the snuffers. 
 His wife brought them. They were a pair of very 
 common snuffers. 
 
 " Not these . . . Not these,'^ said Cai'hn. 
 
 " My dear,'^ murmured his wife. 
 
 " Bring the others . . . the handsome pair." 
 
 " Never mind, use these in the meanwhile," re- 
 sumed the wife.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 219 
 
 " Let me have the others, I say." 
 
 " But it is a pity to use them," said Madame 
 Carlin, " they will be spoiled. They are inlaid with 
 polished steel, Monsieur Fleury . . . with polished 
 steel !" 
 
 Carlin loudly called " Gabriel !" and an old do- 
 mestic made his appearance. 
 
 *^' Gabriel, go immediately to Dressier, and order 
 me a dozen pairs of snuffers." 
 
 " A dozen, sir !" said Gabriel. 
 
 " A dozen !" exclaimed Madame Carlin. 
 
 " A dozen pairs of the very best," said Carlin. 
 
 « Bon Dieu !" 
 
 « Inlaid.^' ' 
 
 "OCiel!" 
 
 '^ English make." 
 
 The poor lady said no more. She was well 
 aware that had she ventured on another observa- 
 tion, Gabriel would have been directed to order 
 two dozen pairs. 
 
 Carlin's irritability of temper sometimes mani- 
 fested itself in a way that would almost have 
 justified a suspicion of his aberration of mind. 
 One day he accidentally struck himself a violent 
 blow against a door. He flew into a violent rage, 
 and crossing his arms, he thus addressed the object 
 of his anger. " I have long owed you a grudge, 
 and now I'll take my revenge." He got a hammer, 
 l2
 
 220 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 and after several \dolent efforts forced the door 
 from its hinges, and it fell to the ground. His 
 rage was still unquenched, and taking it on 
 his back, like Samson bearing the gates of Gaza, 
 he ascended the stairs, uttering an oath at every 
 step. His wife, alarmed at the noise, ran to see 
 what was the cause of it. 
 
 " What is the matter ?" said she. " Have you 
 taken the door off its hinges ?" 
 
 "Yes," said he, "I have," and throwing it down, 
 he placed his foot on the condemned culprit. 
 
 " But what fault had you to find with it ?" said 
 Madame Carlin ; " it was a good oaken door." 
 
 " How ! Will you attempt to defend it ?" 
 
 " It was an excellent door.^* 
 
 " But it was always in my way, and now I have 
 made an end of it. I won't be pestered with it any 
 more." 
 
 " It was newly painted," said Madame CarHn. 
 
 " What ! Win you persist ! I tell you I have 
 been hurt by it, and I wiU take care it shall not 
 hurt me again. But I have been too kind to it 
 as it is !" 
 
 Then, in the presence of his wife, he AATenched 
 off the lock and bolts, and having stript it of 
 all its attributes, threw it into a garret among 
 a heap of lumber. Madame Carlin remained si- 
 lentj as she always did when she saw her husband
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 221 
 
 in these fits of passion. On the present occasion 
 she knew that one word uttered by her, would 
 doom the door to irretrievable ruin. After a pause 
 of a few moments, Carlin murmured to himself: 
 " Hem ! . . . I will have it made into stools !" 
 
 Other instances of his ludicrous fits of rage 
 might be related. But there were times when 
 these paroxysms bordered on the sublime rather 
 than the ridiculous, and when his anger was ex- 
 cited by feelings which did honour to his heart. 
 Of this the following is an example. 
 
 He had lent twenty-five louis to Berquelaure, 
 one of the dancers of the theatre. Poor Berque- 
 laure, who was in very straitened circumstances, 
 and burthened with a numerous family, was un- 
 able, for a considerable time, to repay the money. 
 At length he collected the sum, and called on 
 Carlin for the purpose of discharging the debt, 
 and apologizing for the delay. 
 
 " Formerly," said Carlin, " you used to come to 
 see me every week. But I see how it is, if you 
 wish to lose your friend, lend him money." 
 
 " I really have not had time for visiting," said 
 Berquelaure, " my pupils have so occupied me. . ." 
 
 " Pupils," said Carlin ; " Oh ! you have pupils. 
 . . . Then why have you not been able to repay 
 the money sooner ?" 
 
 " The truth is, that my wife ..." 
 l3
 
 323 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 " Your wife ?" said Carlin ; " What is she ex- 
 travagant?. . . . Ah! you dancers always have 
 extravagant wives !" 
 
 " Mine is not extravagant," said Berquelaure ; 
 "she is amiable, economical, and domestic. . . . 
 But she has been ill." 
 
 " 111 ! Oh she has been ill, has she ?" 
 
 " Yes, she has been ill for six months, and now 
 she is scarcely recovered.^' 
 
 " What, your wife ill, and not yet recovered !" 
 exclaimed Carlin, in a thundering voice, " and you 
 dare to offer me the money. What do you take 
 me for? Do you think I am a monster ... a 
 tiger? What must you think of me, to suppose 
 me capable of taking the money." 
 
 " But my dear Carlin ..." said Berquelaure. 
 
 " To presume to offer it to me before I asked 
 for it. ... Gabriel ! Gabriel ! . . . Open the door, 
 and show M. Berquelaure out." Then as he was 
 going he called out, " What, would you go without 
 wishing me good bye ! . . . Good bye. . . . Gabriel ! 
 show him out I say. Morbleu 1 show him out !" 
 
 Such was Carlin in his private character. Such 
 was the heart of honest Carlo Bertinazzi, who for 
 the space of forty-two years was the unrivalled re- 
 presentative of Harlequin \ 
 
 > If in a preceding page we have doubted the departui-e from 
 the world of Mademoiselle Guimard, we cannot look to these
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 223 
 
 Though Carlin continued on the stage until he 
 attained the age of sixty, yet he did not com- 
 promise his reputation, by suffering the pubhc to 
 perceive any decUne of his talent. He wisely 
 avoided the too common error of exhibiting the 
 decay of talent on the field of its triumph. His 
 humour retained to the last all its juvenile fresh- 
 ness, and he retired in the full sunshine of his 
 celebrity. 
 
 The debut of Carlin was far from auguring the 
 brilliant success which he afterwards attained. 
 He made his appearance under adverse circum- 
 stances, for he had to succeed a famous Harlequin, 
 and the pure Italian style of young Bertinazzi was 
 totally the reverse of that by which Thomassin 
 had gained his high popularity. But the tact and 
 intelligence of the debutant soon enabled him to 
 comprehend the public taste, and after the few 
 first nights his performance was greeted with rap- 
 turous applause. From that time he became an 
 established favourite of the Parisian public; and 
 even after the Italian comedy began to fall into 
 
 details of M. Carlin, without tracing a strong resemblance to one 
 of the most talented actors of our own time, now no more, who 
 with the constitutional irritability of the French comedian, pos- 
 sessed all his excellent qualities ; and whose generous character 
 off the stage, like that of M. Carlin, gave a double value to his 
 abilities on it. — Ed, 
 
 l4
 
 224 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 disfavour^ Carlin's performance lost none of its 
 attractiveness. 
 
 The most stnking characteristic of Carlin's ta- 
 lent was the perfect tinith to nature which per- 
 vaded his action and delivery. It was not that 
 every thing he said was clever^ but eveiy thing he 
 said produced effect. To authors he was a most 
 invaluable performer. He carried illusion so far, 
 that the audience often appeared to applaud a 
 joke, when they were only applauding the tone in 
 which it was uttered. As to his pantomime, it 
 was so perfectly natural, that his movements fre- 
 quently deceived persons who were in the habit 
 of witnessing his performances. If in one of 
 those lazzi, peculiar to the character of Harlequin, 
 he made a glissade across the stage, the spectators 
 trembled in the expectation of seeing him fall 
 prostrate. If in a night scene he had to strike his 
 head against a door or a wall, every one shuddered 
 lest his brains should be dashed out. 
 
 His naive deliveiy and his natural action were 
 so illusive, that those who saw him might have 
 persuaded themselves they were witnessing inci- 
 dents in real life rather than those of the mimic 
 scene. I have heard it alleged, that children, when 
 in the boxes near the stage, would enter into con- 
 versation with Harlequin, and Carlin, avaihng 
 himself of the privilege of his character, would
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 225 
 
 improvise a dialogue, introducing the extempore 
 interlude so cleverly, that it seemed to belong to 
 the piece, and people who went to see Carlin a 
 second time in the same character, have been 
 known to encore the scene of " Harlequin and the 
 children/' 
 
 In spite of his embonpoint, all his movements 
 were marked by grace and activity. From the 
 lightness and elasticity of his step, and the ele- 
 gance of his attitudes, one might have imagined, 
 whilst looking at him, that he was a young and 
 slender Harlequin. On the stage, truth is not that 
 which really has existence, but that which the 
 actor's art leads the spectators to suppose : for ex- 
 ample, Carlin would have induced his audience to 
 suppose that his mask was a real countenance, with 
 mobile and expressive features. His tone of voice, 
 attitudes, and gestures, were so natural, and pro- 
 duced such a perfect illusion, that I have fre- 
 quently detected myself, as well as others, in the 
 act of looking through the lorgnette, the better to 
 watch the play of a countenance which seemed to 
 express every thing, but which, after all, was 
 nothing but a black mask. 
 
 The friendship which had existed between Pope 
 
 Clement XIV. (GanganelU) and Bertinazzi, was a 
 
 subject of gossip in the coteries of Paris. It was 
 
 even alleged that at the time of the negotiations 
 
 L 5
 
 226 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 respecting Avignon^ Carlin discharged the func- 
 tions of plenipotentiaiy. I wished to know the 
 truth of all the stories that were related on this 
 subject. The first time I spoke to Carlin about 
 the celebrated Ganganelli, he raised his eyes to 
 heaven, and such an expression of sadness over- 
 clouded his countenance, that I could not doubt 
 the friendship he had cherished for that pontiff, 
 whose death excited so painful a sensation. 
 
 " Yes," said he, " I was attached, sincerely at- 
 tached to that great man, whose high reputation 
 brought him so little happiness. Lorenzo and I 
 were like two brothers. He was Clement XIV. to 
 the great and powerful, but he always remained 
 Lorenzo to poor Bertinazzi. I have been happier 
 in my obscurity than he in his elevation. Had he 
 remained in obscurity he would have been among 
 us now. He would have instructed my children, 
 and would have played a game at piquet with you 
 and me, Fleury, and would have beat us both.^' 
 
 On a subsequent occasion, Carlin related to me 
 some details of his boyish years, when he was the 
 constant companion of Ganganelh. He told me 
 that Goldoni, and Mercier the dramatist, had pre- 
 viously heard from Carlin himself the particulars 
 which I am about to relate respecting the successor 
 of St. Peter and the successor of Thomassin. 
 
 Both were brought up in one of those establish- 
 14
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 227 
 
 merits in which the children of poor persons, de- 
 stined for the priesthood, receive the education 
 requisite for that calhng. Whilst pursuing their 
 studies, Lorenzo and Carlo conceived an ardent 
 friendship for each other. The former corrected 
 the themes of his comrade, and the future Harle- 
 quin took upon himself to correct all assaults com- 
 mitted by the other students on his friend. Carlin 
 repaid with interest every blow that was levelled 
 either at Lorenzo or himself. The two young 
 friends thus conjointly formed a union of bodily 
 strength and mental intelligence. 
 
 One holiday, when they were bathing together 
 in the sea, Lorenzo was nearly drowned, and 
 Carlo, who was a good swimmer, and who, to use 
 his own words, watched over his friend " as a hen 
 watches over her chickens," saved him at the 
 hazard of his own life. This circumstance ce- 
 mented their mutual friendship the more firmly. 
 The interchange of protection and gratitude, of 
 assistance and service, became more and more fre- 
 quent, and the friendship of the boys soon gave 
 birth to a corresponding feeling between their mu- 
 tual families. Carlo's father, who was in the army, 
 placed his son under the care of the parents of 
 Lorenzo. The father of the latter was a farmer in 
 easy circumstances, and in his house the two 
 young students were accustomed to pass their 
 l6
 
 228 THE FRENCH STAGE, 
 
 holidays. On these occasions they took long ram- 
 bles about the country ; and in the course of their 
 excursions Carlin used to amuse himself and his 
 friend by imitating the braying of asses^, which he 
 did in such perfection, that he sometimes deceived 
 even the Nestors of those Arcadian coursers. By 
 dint of attentive ob sensation, he could distinguish 
 the braying of the male ft'om that of the female 
 ass ; and he learned the peculiar intonations and 
 expressions by which the animals indicated various 
 feelings, as for example, hunger, rage, or affection. 
 Studying under the best models, his execution 
 soon became perfect. Lorenzo, whose lungs were 
 not quite so strong as those of his companion, 
 applied himself to the imitation of cock-crowing, 
 an art in which he attained considerable pro- 
 ficiency, though far from equalling the perfection 
 of his friend. In short, had the two young mimics 
 maintained a conflict together afler the manner of 
 Fontenelle's shepherds, an impartial judge would 
 have been embarrassed to decide which of them 
 deserved the palm. 
 
 This power of imitation enabled them to play 
 various droll tricks. Sometimes they would sally 
 forth before the dawn of day, and Lorenzo would 
 commence crowing in the vicinity of the peasants' 
 cottages. The poor peasants, to whom the crow- 
 ing of the cock was the signal for rising, started
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE, 229 
 
 up and went to work earlier than was needful. 
 The innocent cocks in the farm-yards bore the 
 blame of deranging all calculations of time, and 
 the future pope had to reproach himself for many 
 a premature roast and fricassee. But after all, no 
 great harm was done ; the peasants got through 
 their day's labour the earlier, and if a few young 
 cocks were slaughtered, they were only the more 
 tender. 
 
 But the tricks of these mischievous urchins 
 were not all of this innocent kind ; talent is some- 
 times a dangerous gift, and Carlin's powers of 
 mimicry led him and his young companion into 
 the commission of a little roguery. 
 
 Both were fond of cheese. In France there 
 would be nothing remarkable in this taste ; but in 
 Italy it is a taste of the most aristocratic class, to 
 be indulged only by a prelate, or a dainty lady of 
 fashion. In Italy a taste for cheese is not less 
 luxurious than in other countries is the taste for 
 strawberries, or peaches, or pine-apples, whose very 
 smell associates itself with ideas of refined society. 
 
 The two youthful friends were both exceedingly 
 fond of this national dainty, their propensity for 
 which they could have no hope of indulging, had 
 not their imitative talent suggested a trick. 
 
 One day they observed a peasant tardily driving 
 his ass along the plain. The animal's paniers were 
 filled with cheese, destined to be sold in the
 
 230 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 neighbouring market. Bertinazzi, having retired 
 to some little distance, immediately commenced a 
 most sentimental bray, and received, as he ex- 
 pected, a most suitable reply from the ass. Find- 
 ing that the unsuspecting animal had fallen into 
 the snare, he ventured to make a second appeal 
 still more tender than the first : the invitation 
 was irresistible. The peasant was walking a few 
 paces in advance of the ass, and without holding 
 the bridle. Opportunity favoured the escape, and 
 the ass unobserved slipped aside to the spot whence 
 the summons had proceeded ; there the two friends 
 speedily ransacked the paniers of the disappointed 
 animal, and ran away laughing with their booty. 
 
 In the course of a day or two the cheese was all 
 consumed, and finding themselves without money 
 to buy more, they again set then' wits to work. 
 After a weaiy stroll, they sat down to rest them- 
 selves on a block of stone, near which there was 
 a little chapel dedicated to the Virgin. In this 
 sanctuary the faithful were accustomed to deposit 
 their offerings. For this purpose, instead of a box, 
 which dishonest persons might have contrived to 
 run away with, the following plan was adopted. 
 The sanctuary was hermetically closed by a door. 
 This door was composed of a thick substantial 
 piece of wood, up to the height of a man's waist ; 
 above that it was surmounted by iron bars, placed 
 so closely together that no one could thrust his arm
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 231 
 
 through them, and sufficiently wide apart to en- 
 able the faithful to cast their pieces of money either 
 on the altar or on the marble steps leading to it. 
 
 The treasure thus collected in the little sanc- 
 tuary had often tantalized the eyes of Carlo and his 
 companion ; every peasant who passed by fell on 
 his knees, and after ejaculating a pious ave, raised 
 his hand to the iron rail, and dropped in a demi- 
 , bajocco or a few quatrmm. The pavement was 
 consequently thickly strewn with pieces of money, 
 for the abundant harvest was gathered only once 
 a year, for the purpose of buying a new robe or 
 some gay ornament for the Virgin. 
 
 As Lorenzo and Carlo sat resting themselves on 
 the stone in front of the chapel, they both looked 
 wistfully at the money, and thought how well 
 they could apply a part of it in purchasing some 
 cheese for their dinner. Lorenzo counted the 
 pieces. 
 
 *' How many are there?" inquired Carlo. 
 
 " More than a hundred." 
 
 " A hundred ! why that is money enough to 
 provide us with cheese during all the holidays." 
 He thrust his fingers between the rails, but there 
 was not room to admit his wrist. 
 
 " This is the torture of Tantalus !" exclaimed 
 Lorenzo. 
 
 " Hush ! do not name a pagan in the presence 
 of the Virgin."
 
 232 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 " You are right to correct me. Carlo !" and 
 Lorenzo crossed himself and muttered a prayer. 
 
 " Really," resumed Carlo, "I do not see that there 
 would be any great harm in taking those bajoccW 
 
 " Not if they were taken for a good purpose." 
 
 " I cannot imagine any better purpose, than to 
 satisfy the cravings of hunger." So saying, Lo- 
 renzo thrust a long stick between the railings, but 
 the stick had no magnetic power, and it served 
 no purpose but to throw the pieces of money 
 from the altar to the ground. 
 
 " Stay ! I think I have hit on the right plan 
 now," said Lorenzo; and drawing out his knife, 
 he made a slit in the end of the stick, and inserted 
 in the aperture a small slip of wood, thus forming 
 a sort of spoon or shovel. But this experiment 
 failed; for when, after repeated trials, he suc- 
 ceeded in slipping his instrument under one of 
 the pieces of money, it sKpped off again before he 
 had raised it a few inches from the ground. 
 
 "Come, Lorenzo, it is useless lingering here 
 any longer. What pains you are taking to violate 
 the sixth commandment." 
 
 " Perseverance is a virtue," replied Lorenzo 
 drily. But after a few moments' delay, in despair 
 of attaining his object he sighed and prepared to 
 follow his companion. They had not advanced 
 many paces, when Lorenzo struck his forehead 
 with his hand, and began capering about joyfully.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 233 
 
 " Stay, Carlo," exclaimed he ; "I have a thought 
 in my head : go up to the top of that little hillock ; 
 if any person should appear in sight, give me 
 warning by a good loud bray, and I will let you 
 know that I hear you, by answering in one of my 
 very best crows." 
 
 Carlo obeyed, though without being at all aware 
 of what his friend intended to do. 
 
 Lorenzo repaired to a ditch which was hard by, 
 and scraped together a handful of clay, which he 
 moulded into the form of a ball. Affixing it to 
 the end of the stick, which a few moments pre- 
 viously had served him so ineffectively, he has- 
 tened to the chapel, thrust his new machine 
 between the rails, and immediately raised it up 
 with one of the pieces of money sticking to the 
 clay. He had successfully repeated the operation 
 two or three times when Carlo's bray was heard ; 
 fully satisfied with his triumph, he answered the 
 signal by three glorious crows, which resounded 
 through the air like the trumpet of victory. 
 
 This story, which acquires its chief interest 
 from the after-fortunes of one of the parties who 
 figure in it, was related to me by Carlin, with all 
 his peculiar and versatile humour. His animated 
 Italian gesticulation, infused life and expression 
 into the most trivial details of everything he de- 
 scribed. His anecdotes derived a pecuhar colour- 
 ing from the half French half Italian accent in
 
 234 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 which they were related ; and he had, moreover, 
 an amusing habit of stamping his foot petulantly 
 on the ground and striking his forehead when he 
 could not get out a French word, after he had 
 repeated twenty times the corresponding expres- 
 sion in Italian. Add to all this, the truly fraternal 
 affection he exhibited whenever he alluded to Lo- 
 renzo, and it may be imagined that the interest of 
 the anecdote was not a little enhanced by his man- 
 ner of repeating it. 
 
 "Truly!" observed I to Carlin, when he told 
 it me, " this was a strange beginning for a pope." 
 
 " Why, as to his crowing like a cock," said 
 Carlin, " I don't know that that was so very 
 extraordinary in a successor of St. Peter." 
 
 " Well ! but stealing the offerings from the altar 
 of the Virgin. . . ." 
 
 " Oh ! as to that, Mousu Fleury," replied he, 
 " you must admit that no one could be better able 
 than a Pope to make due restitution in after 
 times \" 
 
 1 This reminds us of the fact that one of the most eminent of 
 our English judges, now deceased, whose criminal charges were 
 beyond measure affecting and afflictmg, was expelled from school 
 for stealing a turkey. — Ed.
 
 235 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 The new theatre. — Inaugural performance. — Description of the 
 theatre. — Seats in the pit. — Laharpe an advocate for pit seats. 
 — Arguments for and against the innovation. — Laharpe's Au- 
 diences de Thalie. — The Acad^mie poet in love. — His inordinate 
 vanity. — Laignelot's Tragedy of Agis. — Palissot. — His come- 
 dies of Les Philosophes and Les Courtisans. — Success of Made- 
 moiselle Coutat. — Renewed friendship of Dugazon. — He 
 projects a marriage for me. — Mademoiselle Luzi. — His retire- 
 ment from the stage. — Saintly conversion. — Proffered happiness 
 rejected. — Migon. — Mouvel quits France. — My advancement 
 to the rank of senior associate. — My new character. — Success. 
 — Assignation between Dugazon and Mmette. — Altered appear- 
 ance of the latter. — Strange disclosure. — Unexpected interrup- 
 tion. — Shooting in ambush. — Skilful marksmen. — Dr. Lassonne, 
 the Queen's physician. — His visit to Minette. — Extraordinary 
 particulars related by him. — A Gothic castle and its lord. — Mys- 
 terious saloon. — Garb of torture. — Bx'anding. — A fortunate 
 accident. — Farewell letter from Minette. — She returas to a 
 Cannelite convent. 
 
 I HAVE now to record an event, which marks an 
 epoch in the annals of the Comedie rran9aise.
 
 236 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 namely, the opening of our new theatre in 
 the Faubourg St. Germain for the first time 
 on the 9th of April, 1782. The performance 
 on that occasion was Racine's " Iphigenie," 
 preceded by a prologue written by M. Imbert, 
 intitled " L'Inauguration du Theatre Fran9ais;" 
 a very silly production, which was unmercifully 
 hissed. As to the theatre, it was universally 
 admired, at least the interior. The exterior 
 was not so much approved, the fa9ade being 
 considered somewhat too heavy, and the whole 
 structure wanting in dignity. But in France at 
 that time, it was seldom that anything for the 
 promotion of the arts was done on a really grand 
 scale. Pecuniary calculations checked the de- 
 velopment of taste. For the erection of the new 
 theatre, the eminent architects MM. PejTe and 
 Wailly were selected : they drew a most magni- 
 ficent plan ; but owing to the obstacles thrown in 
 their way, the execution fell far short of the de- 
 sign. " Que diable ! my dear Wailly," said an 
 influential personage, addi'essing the architect 
 during the progress of the building ; " cannot we 
 dispense with a few of these pillars." This spirit 
 of parsimony was carried to a rigorous extreme ; 
 as the building approached completion, its in- 
 fluence was discernible even in the painting and 
 decoration of the interior. But a short time after
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 237 
 
 the opening we had the salle painted blue, in order 
 to relieve the insipid and too uniform tint of the 
 interior. 
 
 One signal reform marked the inauguration of 
 our new theatre ; the pit was provided with seats. 
 This innovation was regarded as a triumph of 
 good sense and good taste over a remnant of 
 feudal barbarism. This improvement had long 
 been demanded, especially since the increasing 
 disposition to tumult manifested by the frequenters 
 of the pit. The accommodation of seats afforded 
 a reasonable ground for raising the price of admis- 
 sion, because it was presumed that the company 
 would be of a superior order. The newspapers 
 remarked that we should now have the pit filled with 
 spectators worthy of judging and encouraging us, 
 since they would be able to hear and understand 
 us. M. de Laharpe was one of the most zealous 
 advocates for the pit seats ; he alleged that no 
 first performance had any fair chance with a pit 
 ranged in perpendicular lines ; that a standing pit 
 was enough to mar the success of any piece. 
 Possibly Laharpe had not maturely considered 
 the matter, for a cabal of the boxes condemned 
 Racine's " Phedre," and it might have been asked 
 whether the non-success of Laharpe's " Barme- 
 cides" was solely attributable to the standing pit. 
 Authors and journalists seemed to rack their
 
 238 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 brains for arguments in favour of pit seats, whilst 
 the only and real reason for their introduction 
 seemed to be simply that people are more at their 
 ease sitting than standing. 
 
 A proof of the fallacy of most of the arguments 
 adduced against a standing pit, is that the seated 
 pit most heartily hissed M. Imbert's prologue on 
 the night of our opening. The fact is, that in all 
 theatres, the occupants of the pit will invariably 
 take the lead either in applause or disapprobation. 
 They are the independent portion of the audience. 
 In the pit a man feels as much at his ease as 
 though he were at home ; but a box is a sort of 
 drawing-room, in which the presence of ladies 
 must always check any violent manifestation of 
 feehng and opinion. The exclusion of females 
 from the pits of our French theatres, is doubtless 
 a principal cause of the tumult which so fre- 
 quently pervades them. If females were admitted, 
 gallantry would doubtless impose decorum, but it 
 might also impose coldness. Theatrical perform- 
 ance would be very tame without the excitement 
 of anxiety, fear, hope, or the conflict of opinion. 
 There must be a spontaneous judgment and no 
 half decisions. 
 
 But to return to M. de Laharpe. It is now my 
 task to notice one of his dramatic productions 
 which was attended with complete success — that
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 239 
 
 unalloyed success which is due solely to the 
 merits of a writer. If I may formerly have thought 
 and spoken lightly of his talents, I now feel greater 
 pleasure in being faithful to justice than to pre- 
 judice. 
 
 On the second day after the opening of our 
 theatre, we assembled in conclave, and unani- 
 mously agreed that there was no chance of any 
 success to M. Imbert's little piece. We accord- 
 ingly deemed it advisable to supersede it by 
 another, which had been presented to us likewise 
 for the solemnity of the inauguration. This piece 
 was entitled " Moliere a la nouvelle salle, ou les 
 Audiences de Thalie." Dazincourt read the piece, 
 and we were astonished at not having sooner dis- 
 covered its merit. It was a clever comic sketch, 
 satirising the conceits and absurdities of the 
 day : for example, the prevailing mode of writing 
 and criticising — the impertinent ignorance of the 
 journalists — the bad taste which led the Parisians 
 to throng to the theatres of the Boulevards, the 
 Vaudevilles of the Comedie Italienne — slang 
 words and phrases of new introduction — the rage 
 for calembourgs, &c. This piece was the pro- 
 duction of M. de Laharpe. 
 
 On its performance, it was received with unequi- 
 vocal success, which was in no way damped by the 
 unjust criticisms levelled against it. Those who
 
 240 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 knew the character of Laharpe, may readily ima- 
 gine how vain it made him. At one of the per- 
 formances of his " Audiences de ThaHe," he ob- 
 served a very beautiful young lady among the 
 persons most earnest in applauding him. Laharpe, 
 as a matter of course, fell deeply in love with her. 
 He always let the public into the secret of his 
 little adventures (nothing being matter of indiffer- 
 ence in the life of a great man), and accordingly, 
 a few days afterwards, he addressed some stanzas 
 to the lady, which he failed not to publish. 
 
 The object of this sudden flame was no other 
 than Mademoiselle Cleophile, formerly a third-rate 
 dancer at the Academie Royale de Musique, and 
 at the time here alluded to, a favourite of the 
 famous Prince de Soubise. Though the charms 
 of this lady were not of the most brilliant order, 
 yet they were sufficiently powerful to enslave the 
 illustrioils critic — one of the learned forty. La- 
 hai*pe M^as as seriously in love as if he had been 
 twenty years old, and was determined that every 
 one should know it, for he appeared in company 
 with the lady at the theatres, the promenades, the 
 ridotto, and even at the Academy, to the great 
 scandal of many honest bourgeoises, who flattered 
 themselves that they were so many Aspasias, when 
 they honoured the Academie poet with their smiles. 
 What a mortifying rivalry ! The ungrateful man
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 241 
 
 to fall in love with an opera dancer — without phi- 
 losophy — without metaphysics in either her head or 
 her heart ! To forget himself so far as to declare 
 that he had never loved until he loved Mademoiselle 
 Cleophile ! What a shameless retractation of all 
 the verses printed in the Mercure — of the sonnets 
 published in the Journal de Paris ! . . . What 
 cries of indignation and vengeance were raised 
 against him ! ... In spite of his great talents, 
 Laharpe was generally disliked. His egregious 
 vanity made him innumerable enemies. There 
 was scarcely any one who did not owe him a 
 grudge for some offensive display of self-conceit ; 
 for unfortunately the estimation in Avhich he held 
 himself was a prejudice which he was always 
 striving to compel the rest of the world to adopt. 
 It was justly observed by a witty writer of the day, 
 that it would be a profitable speculation to buy 
 Laharpe at the price he was worth, and to sell 
 him at the price at which he valued himself. 
 
 " Si vous voudrez faire bientot, 
 Une fortune immense autant que legitime, 
 II vous faut acheter Laharpe ce qu'il vaut, 
 
 Et le vendre ce qu'il s'estime." 
 
 In the department of tragedy, the first novelty 
 performed in our new theatre was a piece entitled 
 " Agis." It was the maiden production of a young 
 
 VOL. I. • M
 
 242 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 author named Lalguelot, and had previously been 
 performed before the court at Versailles, in the 
 year 1779. Laiguelot Avas the son of a poor 
 baker at Versailles, who had presented it to 
 the theatre without recommendation or intro- 
 duction. It was, as a matter of com-se, rejected, 
 and probably would never again have been heard 
 of, had not our comrade Larive, struck with the 
 merit which he discerned in the piece, recom- 
 mended it to the attention of the Duke de Ville- 
 quier, and some other persons connected with the 
 court of Versailles. Their intercession obtained 
 for it the favour of a second reading, and, sup- 
 ported by the suffi-age of MM. Thomas andDucis, 
 it experienced a favoui'able reception. The sub- 
 ject was perhaps of too austere a character to 
 be rendered susceptible of the kind of interest best 
 suited to the prevailing manners of the age. La- 
 rive sustained the character of Agis. His costume 
 was made in strict conformity with historical ac- 
 curacy. It was greatly admired, and set off his 
 noble figure to the best advantage. Tlie author of 
 " Agis," though he had been patronized by the 
 court of Versailles, afterwards figured in the Con- 
 vention, and was one of those who voted for the 
 death of Louis XVI. 
 
 After " Agis," we revived the comedy of " Les 
 Philosophes." It had a run of only five or six
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 243 
 
 nights, and on the first night encountered vio- 
 lent opposition. The audience bore with good- 
 humoured indulgence most of the hits levelled 
 against philosophy and the philosophers. But when 
 Crispin entered, creeping on all fours^ the insult 
 thus offered to the memory of Jean Jaques Rous- 
 seau, excited a burst of furious indignation. Never 
 did a standing pit express its feeling with more 
 energy and violence than did ours that evening. 
 Such was the overwhelming torrent of disapproba- 
 tion, that the performers were forced to retire, and 
 the curtain dropped. After a while, however, the 
 storm subsided, and the piece was resumed, with 
 no other alteration except that of making Crispin 
 walk on his legs. It is true that a detachment of 
 the guards, adroitly posted in the pit, aiforded 
 the most effective protection to Palissot's comedy. 
 
 The success of his next production, " Les Court- 
 isans," fully recompensed him for the partial 
 failure of the " Philosophes." There is a story 
 connected with the fate of all Palissot's plays. 
 The " Courtisans" was presented to our committee 
 in 1774; but the ladies of the Comedie Fran9aise 
 who were present at the reading of the piece, pro- 
 nounced it to be exceedingly indelicate. The fact 
 is, that the " Philosophes" had been forced upon 
 us through the influence of high authority, whicli 
 excited a prejudice against Palissot. Suspecting 
 M 3
 
 244 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 that the alleged indelicacy of his play was merely 
 a pretence to avoid bringing it out, he applied for 
 and obtained the approbation of the censor, Cre- 
 billon. Furnished with this sanction, he solicited 
 a second reading of his play before the committee 
 of the Comedie Fran9aise. 
 
 A meeting of the committee took place in the 
 month of March, 1775. I was then at Lyons. 
 Twenty-four of the performers were on the com- 
 mittee, and of the twenty-three present, Palissot 
 had only five votes in his favour. Piqued at the 
 conduct of the author, the majority of eighteen 
 addressed a letter to him, stating, that solely to 
 avoid wounding his vanity, they had grounded 
 their first refusal on the indecorous title and sub- 
 ject of the play ; but that independently of these 
 objections, it possessed faults of another kind: 
 in short, that the play might possibly be acted if 
 the author could throw into it — 1st, action ; 2nd, 
 interest ; 3rd, taste ; and 4th, a plot. Enraged at 
 this string of cyphers, Palissot resolved to appeal 
 to public opinion. He had the play printed, at 
 first under the title of " Les Courtisans." But he 
 afterwards chose a second title, and as the play had 
 been accused of indeUcacy, he thought it would 
 be as well to call it " The School of Morals." 
 
 Finding himself at war with the philosophers, of 
 whom he declared the performers of the Comedie
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 245 
 
 Fran9aise to be merely the tools, he deemed it 
 politic to conciliate the favour of the clergy. He 
 prevailed on some influential members of the 
 church to believe that his comedy was not only 
 perfectly correct, but that its performance might 
 contribute materially to the increase of morality. 
 The consequence was, that a coterie of bigots un- 
 dertook to support the author, and obtain the 
 King's command for the performance of the pious 
 play. The Archbishop of Paris himself espoused 
 the cause of Palissot ; and after the drama had 
 undergone some judicious alterations, to please 
 Louis XVI., a royal mandate was issued for its 
 performance at the Comedie Fran9aise. 
 
 The performers resigned themselves to their 
 fate, and the play was acted. Mademoiselle Coutat 
 played the character of Rosalie, and displayed un- 
 equivocal proofs of her high talent. From the per- 
 formance of this comedy may in fact be dated the 
 commencement of her dramatic career. Preville 
 and I were overjoyed at her success. It was easy 
 to perceive, even at this early period of her pro- 
 gress, that we could boast of possessing a truly 
 great actress. This reconciled her to Palissot's 
 comedy, which, notwithstanding the severe sen- 
 tence of its first judges, was a production of con- 
 siderable literary merit. 
 
 M 3
 
 246 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 The reader will doubtless recollect the request 
 made to me by my comrade Dugazon, to accom- 
 j)any him on one of his romantic visits to the 
 cottage of Banieres, and that I was prevented 
 complying with his wish by being summoned to 
 Versailles on the subject of the mamage projected 
 by Madame Campan between me and Made- 
 moiselle Raucourt. Dugazon felt piqued at my 
 refusal to go with him, and for some time after be 
 and I were on rather lukewarm terms. However, 
 he soon resumed his wonted cordiality of manner ; 
 indeed I may say, that his friendship for me 
 seemed to be augmented by reason of the little 
 lapse it had suffered. He was altogether a crea- 
 ture of impulse, whose feelings alternated by 
 sudden fits and starts. Even his acting bore the 
 impress of his excellent but fickle nature. In the 
 overflowings of his kind heart his feelings of afflic- 
 tion and friendship appeared sometimes to waste 
 themselves, and become exhausted. The con- 
 sequence was, that his fits of ardour were inva- 
 riably succeeded by intervals of coolness. 
 
 On the return of his fei-vent friendship towards 
 me, he generously resolved to secure me an in- 
 come of eighteen thousand francs per annum ; 
 and without giving me the most distant hint of 
 liis intentions, he had kindly made every prelimi-
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 247 
 
 nary arrangement for getting me married to Made- 
 moiselle Luzi, our soubrette, who had retired from 
 the theatre about a year previously. 
 
 This lady quitted the Comedie Fran9aise in most 
 saintly odour, it being understood that she had 
 been induced to relinquish our profession by read- 
 ing the history of the conversion of Mademoiselle 
 Gautier '. This account was devoutly believed by 
 many, but possibly they were nearer the truth, 
 who suspected that advancing age induced the 
 adroit soubrette to affect to devote to religion a 
 heart, which was beginning to be somewhat ne- 
 glected by man. 
 
 I never was much inclined to be either the 
 champion or the depredator of the female sex: 
 the former is a silly character, the latter a base 
 one. Still there are little peccadilloes that may 
 ])e spoken of; and if a lady will let the public into 
 her confidence, there is no Cato, however rigid, 
 who will not make his comments. It is true that, 
 since she had attained a certain age, Luzi might 
 have made a tolerably good wife for a good hus- 
 band ; but as to her spiritual recommendations, I 
 can venture to say that of the few women in Paris 
 
 ' The narrative of the conversion of Mademoiselle Gautier ap- 
 peared in 1781. This actress, as her historian states, after several 
 years devoted to pleasure and dissipation, suddenly withdrew 
 from society, and ended her days in austere penitence. 
 M 4
 
 24S THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 who aspired to the honour of becoming saints, our 
 worthy comrade was perhaps the one, with whose 
 sanctity was mingled the largest proportion of 
 alloy. 
 
 In spite of her courageous resolve, it would 
 appear that Luzi sometimes cast a lingering look 
 behind, and Dugazon, who was her friend and 
 confident, could easily perceive that her heart was 
 not wholly with her in her retirement. This sug- 
 gested to Dugazon the magnanimous scheme I have 
 above alluded to ; and in the warmth of his renewed 
 friendship he was anxious to secure to me the 
 honour and happiness of a union with the new 
 convert. It would appear that there must have 
 been something exceedingly matrimonial in my 
 look and air ! . . . This was the second attempt 
 within a very brief space of time to link me in 
 Hymen's silken bonds ! . . . I could pardon Madame 
 Campan, but there are certain insults which are 
 cruelly felt when offered by a friend ! 
 
 Dugazon evidently expected to encounter some 
 opposition on my part. In spite of his natural 
 disposition to express with unreserved candour 
 any idea that occurred to him, he did not ac- 
 tually broach the subject at once, but pro- 
 ceeded to smooth down anticipated difficulties, by 
 giving me the opportunity of admiring the fair 
 saint in her retreat. With this view, he at first
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 249 
 
 invited me to visit her under pretext of accom- 
 panying him, and by-and-by I began to invite 
 him to accompany me. Luzi's house was a very 
 agreeable visiting-place. The dinners were excel- 
 lent, as they usually are at the tables of very pious 
 persons; and the lady herself was very pleasant 
 company. Her conversation was intelligent and 
 sprightly, and totally free from bigotry or intole- 
 rance. Religion, which was said to occupy all 
 her thoughts, at all events never became the sub- 
 ject of her discourse. 
 
 And so, for the second time, marriage was pro- 
 posed to me . . . not with the condition of a tur- 
 bulent and stormy life, such as I should have led 
 with Raucourt, but with the prospective of placid 
 tranquillity, — an undisturbed dead calm .... 
 Happy Fleury ! 
 
 Regardless of my own interests, I nevertheless 
 declined the pious bonne fortune ; and after two or 
 three formal visits, merely to avoid the appearance 
 of a too sudden rupture, I bade farewell to Luzi, 
 thoroughly persuaded, though entertaining the 
 highest respect for every woman who forsakes the 
 world for the love of piety, that it' is infinitely 
 easier to become a martyr than a saint ! 
 
 At my next interview with Dugazon, I did not 
 forget to thank him for his good intentions, but 
 M 5
 
 250 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 beffffed that he would not in future trouble him- 
 self to arrange any conjugal schemes for me, as I 
 preferred settling those affairs for myself. 
 
 '•' You have refused to seal your own happiness," 
 said he. 
 
 " I have refused to mar my own comfort," I 
 replied. 
 
 " An amiable woman." 
 
 " Old enough to be my mother." 
 
 "• Eighteen thousand livres per annum." 
 
 " And fifty years of age." 
 
 '* A position in society." 
 
 " My position is at the Comedie Francaise !" 
 said I. " Am I not next to Mole?" 
 
 "You think that Mouvel will remain at the 
 eourt of Sweden ?" 
 
 " Unless he has set out on his return." 
 
 " A King's caprice took him there, and a King's 
 caprice may send him back again ; Gustavus is 
 like all other princes," said Dugazon. 
 
 " And am not I like other actors ?" exclaimed 
 1. " The truth is, that when I have traced out 
 my own course, I do not like to be driven from 
 it." 
 
 " I suppose," said Dugazon, " you are ambitious 
 of treading in the footsteps of Mole, and becoming 
 the terror of husbands."
 
 THE FREXCII STAGE. 251 
 
 ^■' No," was my reply ; " but J do not wish to 
 become the slave of a wife." 
 
 "And yet I'll be sworn you are the slave of 
 some woman." 
 
 " As you are of Migon," was my answer. 
 
 The mere utterance of that name made Dugazon 
 tremble. Since the little coolness which had ex- 
 isted between us, he had never once spoken to me 
 of that interesting person. In the spring I had 
 made a journey to the cottage of M. and Madame 
 Banieres, but to my surprise fovmd they had left 
 it, and that it was occupied by another family, who 
 informed me that Banieres and his family had gone 
 to reside in the country. It immediately struck me 
 that their remc^val must have been caused, how, I 
 could not guess, by their mysterious visitor, whom 
 the reader will probably recollect. I feared that 
 they had got into some trouble, and twice or 
 thrice was on the point of questioning Dugazon 
 on the subject, but I saw that he evaded it. My 
 mention of the name of Migon in the colloquy 
 above related, led me to put some questions to 
 b.im, which drew forth the sequel of the mysterious 
 story. 
 
 But before I present to the reader the details 
 which my friend with deep emotion related to 
 me ; 1 will explain the allusions to Mouvel, which 
 M 6
 
 252 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 occurred in the above little dialogue between 
 Dugazon and myself. 
 
 For some time previously, my advancement at 
 the Comedie Fran9aise had been more rapid than 
 I had ever ventured to flatter myself it would be ; 
 my rank in the company being at that time imme- 
 diately next to Mole. For my sudden rise I was 
 indebted to the following circumstances : Mouvel, 
 one of our most favourite actors, a clever author, a 
 man admired in private life, and whose position in 
 society and on the stage, was most advanta- 
 geous, most unexpectedly quitted France in the 
 very zenith of his professional success. His sud- 
 den departure gave rise to a thousand conjectures : 
 its real cause was the acceptance by Mouvel of an 
 often repeated oifer of an engagement as principal 
 perfonner in the French theatre, maintained on a 
 most splendid footing by Gustavus III., at Stock- 
 holm. The vacancy thus left in our company, 
 gave me promotion to the rank of a senior asso- 
 ciate. 
 
 I was now in my turn an ancien, and an oppor- 
 tunity soon occurred to enable me to take a cha- 
 racter suited to my position. It was proposed to 
 revive the comedy of " L'Ecole des Bourgeois," 
 which had not been performed since the death of 
 Bellecourt. This comedy, written by Delainval,
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 253 
 
 contained some scenes not unworthy of Moliere. 
 Mole refused the character of the Marquis. 
 
 « I will take it/' said I. 
 
 " What ! after my husband ?" exclaimed Ma- 
 dame Bellecourt. 
 
 " Yes, madame/' replied I, " though the player 
 is dead, the play still lives." 
 
 I appeared in the character, and my performance 
 was crowned with signal success ; a success which 
 was not ephemeral ; for the character remained 
 exclusively my own. I was never doubled in it, 
 and it was the character in which I eventually 
 took leave of the Theatre Franyais. 
 
 But to return to Dugazon, whom I left over- 
 whelmed with painful emotion by my revival of 
 the recollection of his mistress. 
 
 The reader already knows what occurred on the 
 evening on which I first met the mysterious 
 stranger at the abode of Banieres. I mentioned 
 that Minette, or Migon as she was also called, on 
 recovering from the swoon into which she had 
 been thrown by the horror-stirring narrative of 
 the mysterious guest, whispered, as she left the 
 room, a few words in the ear of Dugazon. Those 
 words were an invitation to meet her in the wood 
 of Romanville on the Tuesday following, that is to 
 say, three days after.
 
 254 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 Dugazon failed not to repair punctually to the 
 place of assignation. Half an hom* elapsed after 
 the time appointed — then a whole hour — then a 
 long interval, which Dugazon took no note of. 
 He had just resolved to leave the place of rendez- 
 vous, and to repair at all hazards to the cottage of 
 Banieres, when Minette appeared. But how was 
 she changed in the brief interval which had 
 elapsed since Dugazon last saAv her. She was 
 pale and attenuated ; her eyes were red, and 
 Swollen with weeping, and she had scarcely 
 strength to walk. The beautiful Provencale was 
 transformed to a shadow. 
 
 My friend flew to meet her, and offering her his 
 arm for support, for her strength seemed utterly 
 exhausted, he said : " Minette, you are ill ... . 
 very ill." 
 
 " Yes," she replied, " and miserable . . . and 
 miserable ! " These words were uttered in a 
 tone of deep despondency and despair, which 
 filled Dugazon Avith horror. 
 
 " And you have come here that I may rescue 
 you," said he. " Admit me to your confidence, 
 and let me know how I can save you. I am 
 convinced that you are under the influence of a 
 baneful power, which . . . . " 
 
 He did not finish the sentence, but Minette 
 14
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 255 
 
 fully comprehended its import, and she said 
 faintly : 
 
 " I am indeed in his power . . . and can never 
 escape from it." 
 
 " Who is this man/' resumed Dugazon, " and 
 by what right does he exercise any control over 
 you ?" 
 
 Minette hung down her head, and made no 
 reply. 
 
 " By what right ?" repeated Dugazon ..." by 
 what right, I say, does he possess this power . . . 
 This is not the age of magicians, Minette ! . . . . 
 Can it be a lover ?" 
 
 At that moment Dugazon felt the keen pangs 
 of jealousy. He loved Minette, and uttered the 
 above interrogation with a thrilling which wrung 
 tears from her to whom it was addi*essed. 
 
 " A lover ! . . . a lover !" said she. '•' If he 
 were a lover, should I be here ? . . . Do I look 
 happy, Dugazon ?" 
 
 My friend threw himself at her feet, to ask 
 pardon for his suspicion. Then rising, he ex- 
 claimed, in a firm and resohite tone, 
 
 " If he be not a lover he is a persecutor — au 
 enemy. ... I must bring the matter to an end." 
 
 *' You cannot," said Minette. " You would not 
 assassinate him ; and he will not fight."
 
 256 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 Dugazon stamped his foot, and muttered an 
 imprecation. 
 
 " Tell me his name/' said he, " his real name ! 
 , . . As to what he calls himself, it is nothing.*^ 
 
 " I admit," said Minette, " that it is so. . . . but 
 his real name I cannot tell." 
 
 " You cannot !" 
 
 " I am bound by a fearful oath," said she, " pro- 
 nounced over a shattered coffin . . . the bones of 
 the disinterred dead ! . . . Ask me no questions 
 . . . , You would shrink from the horrors which 
 you press me to reveal. . . . But hear what I may, 
 and what I wish to tell you. I have begged of you 
 to meet me here, because there is a person who yet 
 
 can save me .... who can save us all That 
 
 person is Dr. Lassonne, the queen's physician. 
 You know him, and I have sometimes heard you 
 speak of him. ... I am ill. . . very ill — send M. 
 Lassonne to me, but beg him to assume a false 
 name when he visits me. He knows my persecutor. 
 He will do . . . that which I dare not . . . can- 
 not do." 
 
 Having uttered these words, Minette would 
 have sunk from exhaustion and fatigue, had not 
 Dugazon supported her. She burst into a flood 
 of tears. He pressed her to his bosom, when 
 suddenly, as if stung by a serpent, she uttered a
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 257 
 
 piercing shriek, started back, and extending her 
 arm to keep Dugazon apart from her, she stood 
 motionless, as if struck with epilepsy. 
 
 " Good heavens ! what does this mean ?" ex- 
 claimed Dugazon, amazed. 
 
 Minette gazed wildly at him. After a moment's 
 pause, she took his hand. Her expressive eyes 
 seemed to sue for pardon ; but before a word of 
 kindness could escape his lips, she fell, as if life- 
 less, to the earth. 
 
 Dugazon was in the act of raising her, when a 
 man, rushing out of one of the thickets of the 
 wood, exclaimed, in a loud voice : " Has not this 
 interview lasted long enough ?" 
 
 These words restored Minette to consciousness, 
 and as if starting from a dream, she exclaimed : 
 <^ It is he ! . . . It is he !" 
 
 " What right have you, sir, to ask that ques- 
 tion?" said Dugazon, in a tone of defiance, ad- 
 dressing himself to the intruder, whom he imme- 
 diately recognised to be " the man." 
 
 " Let it suffice, sir," said the stranger, " that I 
 tell you I possess the right, and choose to exer- 
 cise it." 
 
 These words were expressed in a tone of jeering 
 contempt ; and the speaker, as he uttered them, 
 drew Minette's arm within his, and was dragging 
 her away.
 
 258 THE FREXCII STAGE. 
 
 Dugazon^ maddened with rage, rushed before 
 them to prevent their departure. The stranger 
 warned him to stand aside, and to employ not a 
 word of menace nor a gesture of opposition. " I 
 am all powerful here/' said he. " At this moment 
 fire-arms are pointed at you and Minette ! . . . . 
 My expert marksmen never missed a partridge on 
 the wing ; do not force them to give fatal evidence 
 of their skill. . . . Look ye/' pursued he, touch- 
 ing with his cane the branch of a tree which 
 Dugazon had broken off, and which he held in his 
 hand in a menacing attitude. ... In a moment 
 the report of fire-arms was heard, and a ball 
 struck the branch, which fell fi-om the hand of 
 Dugazon, who stood almost petrified with amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 " Well done, my brave fellows," exclaimed the 
 stranger. " And now I, in my turn, will show 
 how well I can take aim." 
 
 So saying, he threw a purse towards the spot 
 from whence the shot had been fired, as indicated 
 by the smoke. 
 
 " You came here to obtain tidings of me," said 
 tlie stranger : " you shall hear who and what I am. 
 I am powerful because I possess millions : I am 
 obeyed because I lavish money profusely : I bear a 
 great name which I never pronounce, and which I 
 prohibit every one who knows it from pronouncing
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 259 
 
 (here he darted a fierce glance on Minette). I am 
 condemned to death, and yet you see I am at large ; 
 and woe to those who would attempt to molest 
 me ! As to you, if you value Minette's existence ; 
 if you value your own, I charge you be discreet. 
 . . . iVdieu !" added he, with an ironical smile, I 
 will go to the Comedie Frangaise and applaud 
 you, when you appear in the character of Berna- 
 dille. Meanwhile remember me !" . . . He then 
 pointed to Dug-azon the road to Paris, and drew 
 or rather dragged Minette away with him in the 
 direction of Banieres' cottage. 
 
 My friend described to me in forcible terms the 
 fears and anxieties which harassed his mind after 
 this singular interview. At one time he could 
 scarcely bring himself to believe in the reality of 
 an adventure so totally opposed to the ordinary 
 course of things ; and fancied himself under the 
 influence of a fearful dream. At another a con- 
 \dction of the fatal truth drove him to a state of 
 mind bordering on phrenzy. He assured me that 
 he had been frequently on the very point of con- 
 fiding the whole to me ; but that he feared lest by 
 my precipitancy and incaution the safety of Mi- 
 nette might be compromised. 
 
 After this extrordinary event, he passed twenty- 
 four hours in a miserable state of anxiety and 
 suspense, and on the morning of the second day
 
 260 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 he received a note from Banieres, couched in the 
 following terms : 
 
 " We are very much alarmed for Minette. The 
 doctor who attends her evidently does not under- 
 stand the nature of the illness under which she is 
 suffering, and which is hurrying her to her grave. 
 She herself has expressed a wish to consult M. de 
 Dessair, a skilful medical professor, with whom 
 you are acquainted. Can you prevail on him to 
 come, or bring him here ?" 
 
 It immediately occurred to Dugazon that Mi- 
 nette possibly feigned to be more alarmingly ill 
 than she really was, for the sake of having a pre- 
 text for seeing another doctor ; and that this other 
 doctor was M. Lassonne, the name of Dessair 
 being evidently that which she wished him to 
 assume on visiting her. 
 
 Dugazon immediately called on Dr. Lassonne, 
 the queen's physician. He briefly related to him 
 the circumstances of the extraordinary affair, and 
 implored him to make a visit to the interesting 
 patient. The doctor readily complied. He was 
 well known to all our theatrical colleagues, and 
 was the ardent admirer of one of our favourite 
 actresses. 
 
 By revealing to the doctor the circumstances
 
 THE FREXCII STAGE. 261 
 
 disclosed by Minette, by minutely describing her 
 oppressor, and by relating the avowal made by 
 the mysterious man himself, that M. Lassonne 
 might possibly throw some light on the subject. 
 But on the contrary, the doctor declared that his 
 memory did not enable him to trace any circum- 
 stance having reference to the story related by 
 Dugazon, which however had so deeply excited his 
 curiosity and interest, that he was most ready to 
 do any thing in his power to assist in clearing up 
 the mystery. He agreed to go to Banieres' house 
 that very day ; at the same time expressing a wish 
 that Dugazon should not accompany him. He 
 proposed, before he saw the patient, to have a 
 little conversation with the doctor who had been 
 previovisly attending her; wishing to appear as 
 though he had been summoned for a consul- 
 tation, and had not come at the request of any of 
 the family or their friends. 
 
 Dugazon, however, fancied he could discern, 
 from Dr. Lassonne's manner, that he said less 
 than he really knew. But he felt the impropriety 
 of annoying him by further questions, and though 
 the proposed plan did not precisely accord with 
 his impatience, yet he expressed his concurrence 
 in it. 
 
 In the evening Dr. Lassonne paid a visit to the 
 green-room of the Comedie rran9aise, and draw-
 
 263 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 ing Dugazon aside, assured him that all had tran- 
 spired precisely as he had wished. " But/' pur- 
 sued he, " I did not see the man of mystery. No 
 doubt he was informed that a stranger was there, 
 and consequently did not choose to show himself. 
 My design was to order the patient change of air, 
 but I found her in so weak a state that I feared to 
 do so. We must devise some other scheme." 
 
 Dugazon proceeded to inform me, that having 
 resolved to make me his confident, he called on 
 me for that purpose. This happened on the very 
 morning, when, as I have already stated, I was 
 summoned to Versailles, and was myself in no 
 very tranquil state of mind. Lassonne, without 
 explaining himself, had requested Dugazon to meet 
 him at Banieres, and to bring with him a friend, a 
 man of nerve and courage, for perhaps, added the 
 doctor, w^e may require his assistance. He at the 
 same time enjoined Dugazon to observe profound 
 silence as to all that he knew; for that on his silence 
 his own fate and that of Minette might depend. 
 
 Dugazon, on finding that I could not accom- 
 pany him, hastened in search of Saint Fal, a 
 young actor, who had recently joined our com- 
 pany. Saint Fal consented to go, and he and 
 Dugazon set off at full speed in a cabriolet. 
 
 However, they did not proceed verj'^ far on their 
 journey. On turning the Boulevard, near the site
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 263 
 
 of the present Chateau d'Eau, they perceived 
 M. Lassonne's carriage. Dugazon thought that 
 the doctor had set off only a httle time previously, 
 and he was therefore surprised to see the carriage 
 coming towards town. Was the doctor in it? 
 This, for a moment, he doubted, when he caught a 
 glimpse of a gentleman, whom at first he did not 
 recognize. But as the two vehicles were passing 
 each other, he observed the gentleman beckon to 
 him. He immediately alighted from the cabriolet, 
 the carriage door was opened, and he saw the 
 doctor himself; but having changed his well 
 known wig for another, he was so disguised as to 
 be scarcely recognisable. 
 
 " Step into the carriage, Dugazon," said the 
 doctor, " M. Saint Fal will excuse you. I wish to 
 have a few minutes conversation with you in 
 private." 
 
 Saint Fal immediately extended his hand to 
 Dugazon, wished him good morning, and the 
 cabriolet and carriage drove off in opposite direc- 
 tions. 
 
 "All has ended, my friend," said the doctor 
 to Dugazon, "^ more happily than I dared venture 
 to hope. I have perhaps overstepped my func- 
 tions as a physician, but no one can reproach me 
 with not having fulfilled my duty as an honest
 
 264 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 man. I have delivered society from a monster 
 ... I have saved Minette !" 
 
 Having uttered these words, he paused, as if 
 fearful to proceed. 
 
 " But," resumed he, " I have not preserved her 
 for you ; that was not in my power. She loves 
 you — ^but she earnestly implores that you will 
 not seek to see her again. She has renounced 
 the world, therefore do not . . . (Here Dugazon 
 manifested signs of impatience, and was about to 
 open the carriage door) . . . Stay ! hear what I 
 have to say, and you will be convinced that her 
 resolution is wise — that it has been well con- 
 sidered, and that it is irrevocable . . . Besides, 
 she is still in a most precarious state ; I am not 
 prepared to say that she is yet out of danger ; the 
 scene which has just taken place has agitated her; 
 and an interview with you is more than she is 
 capable of bearing ... Be patient for a few days, 
 and we will see what can be done. Come with 
 me to my house, and hear what I have to relate to 
 you ; you can afterwards determine what course to 
 adopt." 
 
 On reaching home, the doctor conducted Du- 
 gazon to his study, and after locking the door to 
 guard against interruption, he related the following 
 extraordinary story.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 265 
 
 " About three years ago, when I was, travelKng 
 in the south of France, I visited a town in which 
 there are some curious vestiges of antiquity. 
 Having passed several days in examining these 
 remains, I was about to proceed on my journey, 
 when a medical gentlemen, to whom I had been in- 
 troduced, called on me, and begged that I would 
 assist him by my advice in the conduct of a 
 difficvdt case. 
 
 "An atrocious murder had been committed 
 under the most appalling circumstances. A cer- 
 tain individual was suspected to be the murderer 
 — his name indeed seemed to be indicated by the 
 frightful pecuharity of the wounds of the victim. 
 I had acquired some reputation by my observa- 
 tions and evidence in cases in which medicine is 
 connected with criminal legislation. When called 
 upon for my advice and assistance in this case 
 I felt it my duty to suspend my journey for a time, 
 and remain in the town. 
 
 " At length the person suspected was arrested ; 
 he is the man whom you have met at Banieres', a 
 rich and powerful nobleman, endowed with high 
 talents — but sullied with crime. He is a member 
 of one of the most illustrious families in France, a 
 family even more illustrious by virtues than by 
 descent — but this man, sent like a scourge, has 
 blotted the scutcheon of his noble house. 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 366 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 " He was possessed of princely wealth, which 
 he scattered with a prodigal hand, whilst at the 
 same time he spread terror and desolation through- 
 out the surrounding country. Misery was the 
 doom of all who dwelt within the reach of his in- 
 fluence. Young females, previously chaste and 
 pure, suddenly abandoned the paths of modesty 
 and chastity, and by adopting a depraved course 
 of life, proved the demon's skill in the art of 
 seduction. 
 
 "One family alone, of all who resided in the 
 vicinity of this man's domains, had hitherto es- 
 caped the contagion of his hcentiousness. In this 
 family there was an only daughter, a pattern of 
 virtue ; and one of the most beautiful young women 
 in that district of France, where women are pecu- 
 liarly distinguished for beauty. She was the affi- 
 anced bride of the son of a notary residing in the 
 province, a fine young man, of honourable cha- 
 racter, and in every respect worthy of her; to 
 whom she was devoutly attached, as was he to 
 her. 
 
 "Minette's father filled an official post either 
 at Marseilles or Toulon, but in consequence of 
 some unexpected reductions in several of the 
 ministerial departments, he was dismissed from 
 his situation. The young lovers Avere joyfully 
 anticipating a speedy consummation of their hap-
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 267 
 
 piness, when this misfortune caused the post- 
 ponement of their marriage. The family were 
 overwhelmed with grief and disappointment. Poor 
 Minette passed whole days in weeping. 
 
 One of her young companions, whom she made 
 the confidant of her grief, said : 
 
 i( i Were I in your place, I know what I should 
 do.' 
 
 " Minette inquired what she meant. 
 
 '■^ ' I,' replied the young girl, ^ would apply to 
 Monseigneur ; he has high influence, and I am 
 sure he would exert it in your behalf.' 
 
 "'But every one speaks so ill of him,' said 
 Minette. 
 
 " ' Yes,' said the friend, ' but people speak ill of 
 him without any reason. You have met Mon- 
 seigneur when you have been out walking ; ^vhat 
 did he say to you ?' 
 
 " ' Nothing :' replied Minette, 'he merely bowed, 
 and passed on.' 
 
 " ' There,' said her companions, ' you see what 
 false stories go abroad. Every country place is 
 haunted by a ghost, or perhaps an ogre, who goes 
 about devouring little children ; but do you believe 
 all you hear? I tell you what Minette, if you will 
 promise not to say anything about it, I will go 
 with you to tlie chateau, and you shall tell your 
 story to Monseigneur himself.' 
 N 2
 
 388 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 " Minette hesitated, and said she must take 
 time to consider of the project. But then she 
 thought of her father, who had suffered so much 
 sorrow through the loss of his post. The httle 
 money he had saved, and which he had destined 
 for her dowry, was now insufficient to maintain the 
 family. Then she thought of her lover. Her friend 
 again repeated the assurance that all might easily 
 be arranged ; at least, it would be as well to try . . . 
 There could be no danger if both went together. 
 The result of all this persuasion was, that Minette 
 adopted her friend's suggestion, and the two girls 
 set out on their secret eiTand. 
 
 " Minette had an interview with Monseigneur ; 
 and shortly afterwards, either by chance, or from 
 some particular interest exerted in his favour, the 
 father received a profitable appointment under the 
 government. This good fortune had not, however, 
 the effect of reviving Minette's drooping spirits ; 
 on the contrary, she became more depressed than 
 ever. Her lover's visits were renewed, and he 
 urged her to fix an early period for their marriage ; 
 but Minette postponed her consent, until at length 
 she decisively discarded and rejected him. Her 
 conduct excited general surprise; no one could 
 guess the motives which could have prompted so 
 strange a resolution, in direct opposition to all 
 her former feelings and protestations ; and after
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 269 
 
 the affair had made as much noise, as such affairs 
 usually create in a country town, people ceased 
 to speak about it. 
 
 " All who knew Minette were soon aware of the 
 fatal fact that she was now no longer mistress of 
 herself. She visited the chateau on prescribed 
 days and at fixed hours. She received commands 
 from Monseigneur, which, in spite of herself, she 
 implicitly obeyed. She was under the yoke of 
 an imperious master, and the lives of her father 
 and mother would have paid the forfeit of her 
 resistance. Horrible secrets had been imparted 
 to her, and she was branded by a mark, which 
 made her for ever the slave of her odious per- 
 secutor. 
 
 " On the north of the ancient Gothic chateau, 
 and in the most secluded part of that spacious 
 structure, its owner had constructed a circular 
 saloon, fitted up in the style of an eastern pavilion. 
 This apartment was decorated with Asiatic luxury, 
 and every object it contained seemed to be in 
 strict accordance with the habits and customs 
 of the oriental nations. There were no windows 
 in the walls ; but one in the vaulted roof, which 
 diffused light through the saloon, was painted in 
 richly coloured designs ; and the rays of the sun 
 beaming through the tinted glass, produced the 
 effect of a summei^s twilight. A vast circular divan 
 n3
 
 270 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 extended round the whole of the wall. To this 
 mysterious apartment no external noise could 
 penetrate, and no sound from within it, was audi- 
 ble without. In the centre of the saloon, on a 
 sort of elevated platform, stood a golden enamelled 
 vase, out of which a perpetual flame exhaled the 
 sweetest perfume. The room contained no other 
 furniture, excepting miiTors and pictures, the for- 
 mer multiplying in every direction, subjects which 
 the pencils of some unscrupulous artists had 
 boldly traced in the latter. 
 
 " This apartment, though adorned like a temple 
 devoted to luxur}'^ and pleasure, was in reahty a 
 place of punishment and torture. When the 
 atrocious sultan, who here ruled with despotic 
 sway, observed that any of his unfortunate vic- 
 tims manifested signs of remorse, or a wish to 
 return to the path of virtue, she w-as summoned 
 to the mysterious boudoir. The satellites of the 
 tyrant clothed the victim in a rich silken robe of 
 the brightest hue, the lining of which was inter- 
 nally covered with sharp steel points, resembling 
 needles, stuck thickly together, which lacerated 
 the flesh of the wearer at every movement. In 
 this manner the sufferer was dragged to the centre 
 of the apartment, where the cruel author of 
 her miserj^ drew from the vase a heated iron, and 
 stamped on her bosom the brand of degradation."
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 271 
 
 " Enough ! enough !" exclaimed Dugazon, in- 
 terrupting the doctor at this point of his story. 
 ..." I see. ... I understand all ! . . . The name 
 of this man ! . . . Tell me his name !" 
 
 " That you will never know," resumed the 
 doctor. ..." I should not have taken the pains to 
 adopt so many precautions but with the determin- 
 ation of not disclosing who he is. He still lives ; 
 but his power of inflicting misery is ended ! . . . 
 When I requested you to repair with a friend to 
 Banieres' cottage, I thought I might require your 
 aid for the protection of Minette. I know him 
 well, and I was fully aware that w^hen he should 
 find himself caught, as it were, in a trap, the 
 blood would mount to his head ; and when excited 
 to rage he has the strength of a furious maniac. I 
 dreaded his vengeance. M. Lenoir, and a strong 
 body of the police in disguise, surrounded the 
 garden; but Fate anticipated all our schemes. 
 The culprit had no doubt received warning during 
 the night, by some signal from without, that 
 danger awaited him. He made an attempt to 
 escape by a secret path, which Banieres alleges 
 was known to few besides himself. To reach this 
 path he had to climb across a paling, and whilst 
 in the act of so doing he missed his footing, 
 and falling with great force was seriously hurt. 
 Notwithstanding the pain occasioned by this ac- 
 N 4
 
 272 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 cident, his presence of mind, which never on any 
 occasion forsook him, prevented him from calhng 
 out. He contrived to crawl back to the house, 
 but was unable to walk up stairs to his own room. 
 Having received intimation of the accident, I 
 entered the apartment, and found Banieres and 
 his wife dragging him, as well as they were able, 
 to that of Minette, with whom he had said he 
 wished particularly to speak. I called out loudly, 
 " Leave him where he is !" He doubtless recog- 
 nized my voice, and by a sudden effort to rush 
 away, disengaged himself from the grasp of 
 Banieres and his wife. ... At that moment the 
 lieutenant of police and his assistants entered 
 the house, and noAV I am happy to say, for all 
 our sakes, that he is secure for the rest of his 
 days." 
 
 Dugazon informed me, that some months after 
 Doctor Lassonne related to him the above curious 
 stoiy, he received a farewell letter from Minette, 
 who stated that she had entered a Carmehte con- 
 vent at Lyons, where she was soon to take the 
 habit of St. Theresa, and pronounce her vows ^ 
 
 1 One has heard much of the romance of real life, but we must 
 say this little history exceeds anything connected with recent 
 times and modern civilization that we remember to have read. 
 We regret the delicacy which mduced the doctor, and subsequently 
 M. Fleury, to conceal the gentlenian's name, Ed.
 
 273 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Fashions and follies of the year 1784. — Beaumarchais' Marriage 
 of Figaro. — Extraordinary sensation created by it. — State of 
 French comedy at the close of the eighteenth century. — Af- 
 fected prudery. — The plays of Moliere. — Performance of the 
 Man'iage of Figaro prohibited at the The'atre Franjais. — Pre- 
 parations for its performance at court. — Distribution of the 
 characters. — Rehearsals. — Comit de Vaudrcuil. — Stage por- 
 ti"aiture of drunkemiess. — Rules laid down by Garrick.— Anec- 
 dote of Preville and Garrick. — A wager. — Public disappoint- 
 ment. — Royal prohibition of the performance of Beaumarchais' 
 play. — Approbation of the censor. — The play acted at Genevil- 
 liers. — Read at the residence of Baron de Breteuil. — The 
 baron's bon mot. — Madame de Matignon's ribbon. — Perfomi- 
 ance of the Marriage of Figaro at the Theatre Fran9ais. — 
 Crowding and confusion. — Brilliant auditory. — Excellence of 
 the performance. — Mademoiselle Contat in Suzanne, — The 
 play performed at court. — The Count d'Artois in the part of 
 Figaro. — Beaumarchais the preciu'sor of the revolution. 
 
 Young girls in hoops, married ladies in frocks ', 
 fashions a la Marlborough, scarlet coats with black 
 
 1 These frocks, or fonrreaux, were robes of materials of very 
 light texture, and made with little fulness, so as to develope the 
 contour of the figui-e. This style of dress, which presented a com- 
 N 5
 
 274 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 buttons, little hats, and enormous masses of friz- 
 zled hair, pictorial waistcoats \ Mesmerian rods, air- 
 balloons, and milliner cures ^ — were amongst the 
 wonders of the year of grace 1784. To croAvn the 
 year of folly with something in unison with its 
 characteristic traits, was a natural idea; and the 
 writer who of all others best understood his age 
 and his countrymen produced " The Marriage of 
 Figaro." 
 
 In allusion to this comedy it has been observ^ed, 
 that the talent required to write it was not more 
 extraordinary than the cleverness evinced by the 
 author in his endeavours to have it performed. To 
 succeed in getting his comedy acted at the close 
 
 plete contrast to the hoop, began to be mtroduced about the year 
 1781. 
 
 1 About this tune waistcoats were absolutely pictures. At first 
 theu' patterns consisted of flowers or animals, landscapes and his- 
 torical events. At length portraits of emment men were intro- 
 duced, and nothing was so fashionable as a waistcoat exhibiting 
 the portrait of Destaing, Broglie, Conde, or La Fayette. Every 
 petit-maitre m Paris had his glllet des grandes hommes. 
 
 2 The cure' of the parish of Saint Sulpice set the example of 
 turnmg marchaml des modes. At the meetings which were held in 
 his residence for the reHef of the poor, about a dozen clerks, 
 ranged on each side of a long room, offered for sale all sorts of 
 fancy articles and millinery. Other cures speedily imitated this 
 original mode of exciting charity, which was liberally patronized 
 by ladies of quality. Our own charitable bazaars and fancy fairs 
 probably are derived from this admirable source. Ed.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 275 
 
 of the eighteenth century, was in fact tantamount 
 to commencing the revolution ; for the great effect 
 produced on pubHc opinion by the " Marriage of 
 Figaro," partook more of a pohtical than a dra- 
 matic character. 
 
 In order to enable the reader to understand the 
 obstacles which were opposed to the performance 
 of this singular comedy, it is necessary to explain 
 what was the situation of our comic drama when 
 Beaumarchais boldly braved the rules and broke 
 the old dramatic mould. 
 
 Various circumstances had operated to bring 
 about the decline of French comedy. Our comic 
 muse, by affecting an excessive degree of purity 
 and decorum, had become artificial, cold, and in- 
 sipid. Too timid to venture upon boldly-drawn 
 characters, or to satirize prevailing vices or follies, 
 she withdrew within a narrow circle convention- 
 ally traced out, seeking to compensate for the 
 deficiency of humour by an interesting plot, 
 and make amends for the absence of wit and sa- 
 tire, by the introduction of common-place senti- 
 ment and dull tirades. It was not that subjects 
 were wanting to writers, but that writers were 
 wanting for subjects ; and another thing was want- 
 ing, also ; the liberty of treating those subjects 
 freely and fearlessly on the national stage. 
 
 A change had been wrought in our majmers 
 N 6
 
 276 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 and feelings, not only since Moliere's time, but 
 also since the time of those comic writers of a 
 secondary rank, who had more or less successfully 
 trod in his footsteps. Such fine ladies, as were 
 of themselves distinguished for literary talent, and 
 whose houses were the resort of our principal 
 writers, affected to be shocked at the writings of 
 the father of French comedy. Moliere Avas not 
 sufficiently refined for them; their delicate ears 
 were wounded by the occasionally equivocal and 
 somewhat free expressions scattered, as it were, 
 accidentally through some of his plays. The 
 polished court of Louis XIV. had heard them 
 without blushing ; but our more refined belles of 
 the eighteenth century could not endure such 
 licence. Even courtezans spread out their fans, 
 and with hypocritical prudery affected to take 
 alarm at the least indication of double entente. 
 The plays of our best comic writers who suc- 
 ceeded Moliere, were scarcely ever acted, and but 
 faintly applauded. Regnard was Hstened to 
 with cold indifference ; Daucourt was banished the 
 stage ; and Lesage pronounced gross. Destouches 
 alone kept in favour, because his characters con- 
 versed in that strain of dull common-place Avhich 
 was congenial with the taste of the fashionable 
 world. 
 
 The decline of the comic drama was obvious.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 277 
 
 Palissot, Rochon, Vigee, and Cailhava, produced 
 nothing above mediocrity. One writer alone, 
 Beaumarchais, had given proof of a greater share 
 of comic talent and humour than fell to the lot of 
 all our contemporary play-writers. He was want- 
 ing, it is true, in taste and judgment. He took 
 pleasure in creating monstrosities in the Spanish 
 style, rather than genuine comedies. The success 
 of the " Barbier de Seville" did not turn him to the 
 right course ; but nevertheless the " Barber" sug- 
 gested to him the idea of " Les Noces de Figaro." 
 
 This comedy had been long talked of in the 
 fashionable circles, in the green-rooms of the 
 theatres, and at the petits soupers. But though 
 the author was in the habit of constantly reading 
 the play in private company, yet at the Comedie 
 Franpaise we had no positive notion of its nature 
 or merits. I was present at one of the readings at 
 the house of the Duchess de Villeroi, but there was 
 such a crowd and confusion that I could only 
 catch now and then a fragment of what was read ; 
 and I should have known very little about the 
 comedy, had not Count Lauraguais given me an 
 account of it next day. The king had in the most 
 positive manner refused his consent to its per- 
 formance in Paris ; but nevertheless Beaumarchais 
 declared that he would distribute the parts, and
 
 278 THE FREXCH STAGE. 
 
 get the play rehearsed and performed at the resi- 
 dence of the Count d'Artois, at Maisons. " There 
 is but one thing- more I wish for/' said the daunt- 
 less author, " and that is that my play should be 
 thought very dangerous and veiy reprehensible ; 
 above all, I hope that the king will continue to 
 oppose it, and then I am sure of soon finding my 
 way to the Comedie Fran9aise. Only give me 
 enemies and obstacles enough, and I am certain 
 of success." 
 
 In the month of April, 1783, we received orders 
 to study the several parts in " Le Mariage de Fi- 
 garo, ou La suite du Barbier de Seville,^' prepara- 
 tory to its performance at Versailles. Having 
 learned from Madame Campan, that when she her- 
 self read the manuscript to their majesties, the 
 king declared that it was not fit to be acted, I was 
 not a little surprised at a command which seemed 
 to justify the inference, that a play which was not 
 decorous enough for the public theatre, was never- 
 theless sufficiently correct for the court. I com- 
 municated to my theatrical comrades the inform- 
 ation which I had received on this subject from 
 Madame Campan, and we came to the con- 
 clusion, that either she was mistaken, or that 
 the author must have made considerable alter- 
 ations in his play; and as we earnestly wished
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 279 
 
 to bring it out, we flattered ourselves into the be- 
 lief, that the success it would obtain at Versailles, 
 would speedily justify its appearance in Paris. 
 
 Beaumarehais himself confirmed these conjec- 
 tures, by reading us the comedy, interspersed with 
 his own remarks. He read it most admirably, 
 and it won all our suffrages. No piece that had 
 been read to us for a long time previously, had 
 impressed us with so favourable an opinion of its 
 merits. The performers were all eager to have a 
 part in it. Beaumarehais consulted Mademoiselle 
 Contat about the distribution of the characters. 
 Preville, to whom the part of Figaro was offered in 
 the first instance, declined it, and took in its stead 
 the character of Brodoisin, on which, though really 
 a secondary part, he conferred first-rate importance 
 by his manner of acting it. The part of Figaro 
 devolved on Dazincourt, whose talent was cer- 
 tainly not equal to the task ; but the author find- 
 ing him docile in following his advice, confided to 
 him the peg upon Avhich hung the success of his 
 play. Dazincourt being the first representative 
 of the part, fortunately escaped a comparison which 
 must have been to his disadvantage, had Preville 
 been seen before him. The part of Count Almaviva 
 was assigned to Mole, Avho had already been the 
 successful representative of the same character in 
 the " Barber of Seville." As to Suzanne, Beau-
 
 280 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 marchais was too gallant, and understood his own 
 interest too well not to offer that character to the 
 actress whom he had consulted as his privy coun- 
 sellor in the whole affair, viz. Mademoiselle Contat. 
 Mademoiselle Sainval was the representative of 
 the gentle Countess, and Mademoiselle Ohvier, a 
 clever and pretty young actress, was the Page. 
 For myself, whose task it was to write down this 
 distribution of the characters, I felt once or twice 
 tempted to slip in my own name among the list of 
 the elect, having a strong presentiment of the 
 favour with which the play would be received; 
 but the principal characters wxre all admirably 
 filled, and I did not feel my power sufficient to 
 give effect to a second-rate part. Preville alone 
 could soar like an eagle in such characters as 
 Brodoisin. 
 
 Meanwhile great mystery was maintained re- 
 specting the time and the place at which this 
 comedy was to be for the first time acted. During 
 the month of May, it was reported that the per- 
 formance would take place in the Petits Apparte- 
 meiis ; next Trianon was mentioned; and then 
 successively Choisy, Bagatelle, and Brunoy. The 
 first rehearsals took place in Paris at the Tliedtre 
 des Menus-Plaisirs, by a tacit toleration conceded 
 to Beaumarchais, through the patronage of the 
 Count d'Artois. In granting this patronage, his
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 381 
 
 highness probably yielded to the influence of the 
 persons forming the queen's social circle, at the 
 head of whom was the elegant and chivalrous 
 Count de Vaudreuil, a warm friend of Beau- 
 marchais. In reference to whom I will here in- 
 troduce a little anecdote, taking it for granted 
 that the reader is by this time getting tolerably 
 well accustomed to my digressions. 
 
 At the period here referred to, the most fashion- 
 able amateurs of the drama were this same Count 
 de Vaudreuil and M. Hue de Miromesnil, an 
 amateur actor, possessed of very considerable 
 comic talent. Both piqued themselves on the 
 superiority of their judgment and taste as dra- 
 matic critics. It happened, that in an amateur 
 performance given at the residence of some person 
 of rank, M. de Miromesnil had to personate a 
 drunken character. His acting elicited great ap- 
 plause from every one except Count Vaudreuil. 
 This was remarked, and some one ventured to 
 ask the count what fault he found with the per- 
 formance of a scene which every one else thought 
 so excellent. 
 
 " I find fault," replied the count, " because this 
 representation of drunkenness appears to me to 
 be false, extravagant, and in every respect contrary 
 to principles." 
 
 Observing that the term " principles" called
 
 283 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 forth a smile, the count explained himself as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 " Monsieur Miromesnil endeavours to stagger ; 
 now a drunken man endeavours to keep himself 
 steady. Monsieur de Miromesnil tries to lose his 
 equilibrium ; but a di'unken man tries to recover 
 it when he feels himself falling, seeking by all sorts 
 of ridiculous positions and attitudes to solve the 
 problem of the centre of gravity. He does not 
 stagger from weakness ; on the contrary, intoxica- 
 tion imparts a temporary strength ; but he staggers 
 because he has forgotten how to walk. The in- 
 toxication is in the head, and, above all, in the 
 eyes. The amusing pai't of drunkenness is to ob- 
 sen^e the working of the mind in its effort to 
 recover memory; and the self-abandonment to 
 despair which takes place after the failure of every 
 eifort. M. de Miromesnil pourtrayed the very 
 contrary of all this. He seemed to say to himself, 
 ' Now to the right — now to the left ; now foi'ward 
 — now backward; now a hop — now a skip, &c.' 
 whereas the drunken man says to himself, ^ I must 
 go neither to the right nor to the left ; neither for- 
 ward nor backward; and above all, I must not 
 venture to hop, skip, slide, or jump. I must keep 
 my feet firmly on the ground, and try to walk up- 
 right.' Consequently you always see a drunken 
 man dragging his feet along the ground, or, if he
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 283 
 
 ventures to raise them, he does so with the greatest 
 caution." 
 
 The persons to whom these observations were 
 addressed, were much astonished at them. They 
 seemed to be dictated by experience, and were 
 consequently quite inconsistent with the habits 
 and manners of the elegant Count de Vaudreuil. 
 The company began to pay him all sorts of jesting 
 compliments. 
 
 " Spare me, gentlemen," said he, " the remarks 
 I have just made are not my own. I can lay no 
 claim to their merit. They are borrowed from 
 Garrick — from Garrick, the celebrated English 
 actor. They were repeated to me by M. de Lau- 
 raguais, who heard them during an argument be- 
 tween Garrick and Preville. It was one day as 
 they were walking on the Boulevards, that Garrick 
 gave Preville this lesson; and Preville gave a 
 practical illustration of it in the presence of some 
 working men, who took the mimicry for reality, 
 and thought Preville really as drunk as he pre- 
 tended to be." 
 
 After this proof, and the citation of such autho- 
 rities, the company were inclined to tax M. Miro- 
 mesnil with having imjjosed on them, and gained 
 approbation to which he was not lawfully entitled. 
 He, however, disputed the authenticity of the 
 anecdote, and, above all, the place where the in-
 
 284 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 cident was alleged to have occurred. He main- 
 tained that it happened in the Champs Elysees, 
 and insisted that he could prove an alibi with 
 respect to M. Lauraguais. He proposed a wager 
 on the question of the Champs Elysees or the 
 Boulevards. The Count de Vaudreuil was piqued ; 
 but he hesitated to lay the wager. It was for a 
 considerable amount, and he was aware that his 
 informant, M. de Lauraguais, occasionally indulged 
 in flights of imagination. He was undecided what 
 to do, when Beaumarchais, who was one of the 
 company, stepped up to him, and whispered, 
 " Take the wager. I am going away for a few 
 minutes, and on my return you will be the winner." 
 M. de Vaudreuil took the wager. It was suggested 
 that the question should be decided by Preville ; 
 but in a few moments Beaumarchais returned 
 with a letter, ^ratten by Garrick at the time, which 
 stated that the Boulevards was the scene of Pre- 
 ville's successful performance. 
 
 This incident gained for Beaumarchais the 
 friendship of M. de Vaudreuil, who was mindful 
 of the little act of service, and returned it by a 
 very great one, \dz. assisting in getting his play 
 performed. 
 
 At length it was determined that " Figaro" 
 should appear at the theatre of the Menus Plaisirs. 
 But who were to compose the audience ? and by
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 285 
 
 whose order, and at whose expense was the per- 
 formance to take place? These were questions 
 which everybody asked, and to which nobody was 
 able to give a satisfactory answer. Every succeed- 
 ing day appeared to clothe the secret in additional 
 mystery. At length the day of performance was 
 named, after thirty rehearsals, the few last of which 
 might be considered as almost public '. 
 
 Friday, the 13th of June, was fixed for the 
 representation, and in the forenoon of that day, 
 between twelve and one o'clock, an express order 
 was sent to the theatre, and to the police, to stop 
 the performance. His majesty's note, which was 
 sent to the theatre by the Minister of the Interior, 
 prohibited the performance of the "Marriage of 
 Figaro,'^ under pain of disobedience. No one in 
 Paris entertained the least expectation of such a 
 prohibition being issued. The general surprise 
 may be imagined, when at the time of opening the 
 theatre doors, between five and six hundred car- 
 riages were turned away, with the intimation that 
 there would be no play that night. As to the 
 performers, they were in despair, for the comedy 
 had excited so much curiosity, that even if it had 
 
 ^ What would modern English actors think of thirty re- 
 hearsals ? — Ed.
 
 286 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 not succeeded, it would have brought not a little 
 money to our treasury. Beaumarchais, however, 
 confidently alleged that the prohibition would be 
 revoked. He was imperturbable. 
 
 On the following day our company, together 
 with that of the Comedie Italienne, were sum- 
 moned before the lieutenant of police, who com- 
 municated to us his majesty's express prohibition 
 of the performance of the play in question in any 
 theatre. 
 
 Any other man than Beaumarchais would have 
 been utterly defeated by such an announcement as 
 this, accompanied as it was by all the forms which 
 the royal authority usually employed only on the 
 most important occasions. But Beaumarchais was 
 as sanguine as ever. He knew the age he lived in, 
 and was well acquainted with the state of public 
 feeling ; all that savoured of opposition was certain 
 of securing favour and support. 
 
 The untired author was aware that the power 
 was on his side, and that sooner or later it would 
 be exercised in his behalf. Therefore he asserted 
 confidently to his private friends that the play 
 would be acted. Meanwhile he paid out of his 
 own pocket the expenses incurred by the rehear- 
 sals, amounting in all to ten or twelve thousand 
 livres. Truly, had Beaumarchais been poor, the
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 287 
 
 public would have had little chance of ever being 
 made acquainted with the most original production 
 of the French drama. 
 
 At length he carried his point by a circuitous 
 course : about the beginning of September M. de 
 Vaudreuil expressed to Beaumarchais a wish to 
 have the " Marriage of Figaro" performed before 
 some persons belonging to the court, at his coun- 
 try residence at Genevilliers. The cunning author, 
 who had got his theme ready, replied with well 
 feigned modesty, that the prohibition against the 
 performance of a play, in all respects so harmless, 
 had subjected the piece to a suspicion of immo- 
 rality; and that therefore he could not consent 
 to its being performed anywhere, until the appro- 
 bation of a censor should purify it from the 
 stigma. Nothing could appear more reasonable and 
 proper than this answer ; and it was considered 
 nothing more than justice to concede the examina- 
 tion of the censor. M. Gaillard, of the French 
 Academy, Avas appointed to perform the task of 
 revision, and he pronounced his approbation, on 
 condition of the sacrifice of some trivial passages, 
 to which the author readily assented. 
 
 The alterations and omissions in the piece, 
 though really quite unimportant, were made much 
 of and loudly proclaimed. The consequence was, 
 that M. de Vaudreuil solicited and obtained per- 
 
 6
 
 200 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 mission to have the play acted at GenevilUers by 
 the performers of the Comedie Fran9aise. It was 
 understood that the performance would be quite 
 private, but nevertheless, three hundred persons 
 were present. The queen, the Count d'Artois, 
 and several of the ladies composing her majesty's 
 private circle, were among the audience ; in short, 
 the elite of the court and the world of fashion were 
 there. 
 
 It was easy to infer from the success which at- 
 tended the performance at Genevilliers, that this 
 admirable comedy was not destined to be for ever 
 lost to the French public; though it was stated 
 that most of the spectators had declared it to be a 
 XQTj immoral production, and utterly unfit for 
 performance on a public stage. Nevertheless, it 
 alForded the means of calculating the power 
 and resources of Beaumarchais' genius ; and the 
 author himself was much less afraid of all the 
 unfavourable opinions that might be pronounced 
 on his play, than the utter oblivion to which the 
 recent order of the king threatened to doom it. 
 The representation at Genevilliers had rescued it 
 from that, at all events. His address, his apti- 
 tude in turning circumstances to his advantage, 
 joined to his unparalleled perseverance, all in- 
 duced us to believe that he would triumph over 
 every obstacle, and that the difficulties wliich the
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 289 
 
 government raised in his way, would serve only 
 to stimulate his vanity, for Beaumarchais had 
 been heard to say : " The eyes of the civilized 
 world are intently fixed on my Marriage, and on 
 me. From England, Germany, Spain, and Ame- 
 rica, nations which are the scenes of other exploits 
 and other successes, I claim attention. . . . My 
 honour and reputation depend on my play being 
 acted .... and acted it shall be." 
 
 The personal hostility of the king to the per- 
 formance of the "Marriage of Figaro," was re- 
 garded by Beaumarchais as a very insignificant 
 obstacle. There existed other hostilities of a more 
 formidable nature, and among them was that of 
 M. de Breteuil, Minister of the Interior, who M^as 
 exceedingly prejudiced against the play, and to 
 conciliate whom, was Beaumarchais' grand object, 
 for he was fully aware of the influence of a noble- 
 man of his character and station. The Baron was 
 devoted to the Queen and the Count d'Artois, and 
 was himself by no means insensible to courtly 
 seduction. Eventually, however, our author suc- 
 ceeded not only in obtaining the interest of the 
 Count d'Artois, but even in prevailing on her ma- 
 jesty to say a word in his behalf. Both these 
 illustrious personages assured the minister, that 
 in addition to the corrections required in the 
 " Marriage of Figaro," by M. Gaillard of the 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 290 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 French Academy, the author was ready to make 
 still more important alterations, if required. The 
 minister's opposition immediately softened ; but 
 he declared, that before he could venture to in- 
 terest himself for the work, he must hear it care- 
 fully read, in the presence of some hteraiy men of 
 his o'ivn selection. 
 
 On the day appointed, Beaumarchais proceeded 
 with his manuscript to the Baron's residence, 
 where he found assembled, besides the master of 
 the house, MM. Gaillard,Champfort, and Rulhiere, 
 Madame de Matignon, the minister's daughter, 
 and several other ladies, her friends. Beaumar- 
 chais commenced by declaring that he would sub- 
 mit without resen'e to all corrections and omis- 
 sions which the ladies and gentlemen present 
 might deem requisite. He began reading ; he was 
 stopped — some remarks were made, and a Uttle 
 discussion arose. At every interruption Beau- 
 marchais yielded the point in dispute. But when 
 the reading was ended, he went over the whole 
 ground again, and defended the least details with 
 so much address, such forcible reasoning, and 
 such captivating pleasantry, that he completely 
 silenced his censors. They laughed and ap- 
 plauded, and at length, all declared that the 
 play was " a most original and unique produc- 
 tion.'' Instead of omissions, additions were pro-
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 291 
 
 posed. Every one of the party was eager to 
 interpolate a word or two. M. de Breteuil sug- 
 gested a bon-mot, which Beaumarchais thankfully 
 accepted : "^ This will save the fourth act/* said 
 he. Madame de Matignon chose the colour for 
 the page's ribbon. The colour was approved ; it 
 would become quite the rage: "Who would not 
 be proud to wear Madame de Matignon^s colours ?" 
 said Beaumarchais. "But M. de BreteuiPs bon- 
 mot would not be heard, the elegant ribbon would 
 not be seen, if the second Figaro were not per- 
 mitted to appear on the stage." That he must 
 appear was eventually the unanimous opinion. 
 
 Beaumarchais completely succeeded in throwing 
 dust in the eyes of the Baron de Breteuil, and 
 the consequence was, that on Tuesday the 27th of 
 April, 1784, the bill of the Theatre Franyais was 
 posted up in all quarters of Paris, triumphantly 
 announcing : 
 
 LE MARIAGE DE FIGARO; 
 
 ou, 
 
 LA FOLLE JOURNEE. 
 
 Many hours before the opening of the ticket 
 office, I really believe that half the population of 
 Paris was at the doors. Here was a triumph for 
 Beaumarchais ! If he sighed for popularity, he
 
 292 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 had gained it. Persons of the highest rank, even 
 princes of the blood, besieged him with letters, 
 imploring to be favoured with the author's tickets. 
 At eleven o'clock in the forenoon, the Duchess de 
 Bourbon sent her valet to the office to wait until 
 the distribution of the tickets, which was to take 
 place at four o'clock. At two o'clock the Duchess 
 d'Ossun laid aside her accustomed dignity and 
 hauteur, and humbly solicited the crowd to allow 
 her to pass ; and Madame de Talleyrand, doing a 
 violence to her parsimonious disposition, paid triple 
 price for a box. Cordons bleus were seen elbowing 
 their way through the crowd jostled by Savoyards ; 
 the guards were dispersed, the doors forced open, 
 the iron bars broken down, and an inconceivable 
 scene of confusion and danger ensued. One halt 
 of the people had not been able to procure tickets, 
 and threw their admission money to the door- 
 keepers as they passed, or rather, as they were 
 carried along. But whilst all this was happening 
 outside, the disorder which prevailed within the 
 theatre was, if possible, still greater. No less than 
 three hundred persons who had procured tickets 
 at an early period, dined in the boxes. Our 
 theatre seemed transformed into a taveni, and 
 nothing was heard but the clattering of plates 
 and the di'awing of corks. Then, when the audi- 
 ence were assembled, what a brilliant picture pre-
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 293 
 
 sented itself! The elite of the rank and talent 
 of Paris was congregated there. What a radiant 
 line of beauty was exhibited by the first tier of 
 boxes ! 
 
 The style in which the comedy was acted, was 
 in all respects worthy of so brilliant an audience. 
 Dazincourt was full of spirit and intelligence; 
 Preville rendered Brodoison a masterly character ; 
 Mademoiselle Sainval, in the Countess, evinced 
 a degree of talent which she was not previously 
 supposed to possess ; Mole increased his already 
 high reputation, by his personation of the Count 
 Almaviva ; Mademoiselle Olivier threw the most 
 enchanting archness and espieglerie into the cha- 
 racter of the Page. But the gem of the whole 
 performance was Mademoiselle Contat's persona- 
 tion of Suzanne. That actress had heretofore 
 played only the fine ladies of comedy ; but it was 
 a happy thought of Beaumarchais to offer her the 
 soubrette. He guessed the versatility of her talent. 
 As soon as the play was over, Preville ran up to 
 her, and embracing her, said : " This is my first 
 infidelity to Mademoiselle Dangueville." 
 
 The first twenty performances of this play 
 brought to the treasury of the Comedie rran9aise 
 one hundred thousand francs ; and the attraction 
 continued unabated during seventy-five nights. 
 People flocked from the provinces to see Figaro ; 
 o3
 
 294 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 and, in short, its success was unparalleled in the 
 annals of the French stage. 
 
 It might naturally have been supposed that the 
 author would have been satisfied with the triumph 
 of getting his piece performed at our theatre, 
 but not so; Beaumarchais next aimed at what 
 seemed an impossibility, yet even in this he suc- 
 ceeded. His play was acted at the Queen's pri- 
 vate theatre by the Queen, before the King, who 
 had so decidedly prohibited it, and by the Count 
 d'Artois, who had so severely judged it. His 
 royal highness, in the round jacket of Figaro, 
 played the barber with very considerable talent. 
 
 Beaumarchais himself never suspected that Paris 
 and the court would run mad on the subject of 
 his " Folic Journee." The performance of this 
 comedy marks an epoch in the history of the 
 French drama, and in the still more curious his- 
 tory of French caprice and inconsistency. Beau- 
 marchais drew his own portrait in the character of 
 Figaro, and the likeness is striking. The play 
 comprises all the incidents which rendered the 
 life of Beaumarchais so singularly celebrated; it 
 moreover presents a sort of allegorical picture of 
 the age. He painted with unexampled boldness 
 the vices of the great. He ventured to speak with 
 unrestrained freedom of the ministers of the day, 
 of the Bastille, the freedom of the press, the police.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 295 
 
 and the censorship. To the latter, indeed, he felt 
 himself to be in a peculiar degree indebted, which 
 is an additional trait to be added to the history of 
 this singular comedy. 
 
 Beaumarchais was the only man who dared 
 write thus boldly, only five years before the revo- 
 lution, of which he was really the precursor. This 
 boldness was crowned with success ; and his writ- 
 ings have lost none of their attractiveness in pass- 
 ing through the vicissitudes which have operated 
 so injuriously to the French theatre. 
 
 o 4
 
 296 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Cagliostro. — The trial relating to the queen's necklace. — Ghost 
 stories. — Apparition of D'Alembert. — Lady Muntz. — Her cre- 
 dulity. — Origin of Cagliostro's celebrity. — His cure of Madame 
 Sarrasm. — His beautiful wife Seraphina. — The philosopher's 
 stone. — Cagliostro banished from France. — The merchant and 
 his wife. — Test of conjugal fidelity. — Cagliostro's phial. — The 
 black Tom cat. — The Redoute Chinoise. — Cagliostro plajdng at 
 see-saw. — Conversation with the conjuror. — Mysterious an- 
 nouncement to Dugazon. — Anecdote of Palissot. — A prediction 
 fulfilled. 
 
 I AM now about to introduce to my readers a 
 man, who for a time was the exclusive object of 
 attention in Paris. For him, hterature, the di*ama, 
 and all other subjects of general interest were tem- 
 porarily forgotten. I allude to the celebrated con- 
 juror Cagliostro, who counted among his numerous 
 dupes the Cardinal de Rohan. But to work on 
 the worthy cardinal's credulity was perhaps no 
 very difficult task.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 297 
 
 It is not my purjjose to touch upon the atfair of 
 the Queen's necklace, which is still enveloped in 
 mystery. I do not feel disposed to enter upon so 
 long a tract of beaten ground, though I could 
 mention some new and curious details connected 
 with that memorable case. I was in the right 
 channel for receiving authentic information. My 
 sister was at Vienna whilst the Cardinal Prince de 
 Rohan was ambassador from France to the Aus- 
 trian court ; I was myself on terms of friendship 
 with Madame Campan; Grammont Roselly had 
 already endeavoured to make Mademoiselle Oliva 
 a servant of Thalia ; I knew Caghostro before his 
 gi'eat adventures, and I beheld the idol when he 
 was in the plenitude of his glory : thus qualified, 
 I might sit down and write a history of the neck- 
 lace. But a few unpublished details, though 
 curious, would throw no more light on the affair, 
 than that which is already sufficiently apparent : 
 namely, that all that long and deplorable case arose 
 out of the mystifications practised on a noble- 
 man by an intriguing woman ; and the scandal 
 which was attempted to be fixed upon the Queen, 
 was the preface to the revenge of the ministry of 
 Aiguillon upon the preceding ministry of M. de 
 Choiseul. 
 
 But to return to the Italian conjuror. Six or 
 eight months before the celebrated process, a great 
 o5
 
 298 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 deal was said about Cagliostro. He was reviving 
 the miracles of the Count de Saint Germain. He 
 had not, however, gained credit at court. The 
 Q,ueen good-humouredly rallied those who related 
 to her Cagliostro's prodigies, and the King sharply 
 rebuked -several noblemen who sought permission 
 to present him. Our good Louis XVI. had no 
 faith in charlatans . . . save those who happened 
 to be his ministers. 
 
 Cagliostro exhibited his ghost-scenes for pay- 
 ment, and at various prices. For a certain sum 
 one might be indulged M-ith a sight of one's de- 
 ceased relatives, friends, and acquaintance; and 
 by doubling the sum, one might be introduced to 
 a group of ghosts composed of some of the cele- 
 brated personages of past ages. Lady Muntz, 
 with whom I have ah'eady made the reader ac- 
 quainted, gave me an account of the apparition of 
 D'Alembert, one of Caghostro's grand evocation- 
 scenes, at which she was present, together w4th 
 some other superannuated ladies and gentlemen 
 of quahty. Her description of this mysterious 
 ceremony was as follows. 
 
 For the reception of the spectators, who were 
 distinguished by the more dignified appellation of 
 guests, arm-chairs were ranged along the wall of 
 the apartment, on the east side. This latter point 
 was essential. On the west side the Grand Copt,
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 299 
 
 (the title assumed by Cagliostro when in the 
 exercise of his mysteries), placed the chair des- 
 tined for the reception of D'Alembert. An iron 
 chain, hung within arms' length of the spectators, 
 kept them at a distance from the apparition. 
 There was a little deviation from the time which 
 tradition has fixed for the Meandering of ghosts, 
 and three o'clock in the morning was the hour 
 chosen by Caghostro for the evocation of his 
 spirits. 
 
 About three o'clock then, an order was heard 
 for the removal from the scene of mystery, of cats, 
 dogs, horses, and birds, and all reptiles, should 
 there be any near. In the lapse of a few seconds, 
 another command ordained that none but free 
 men should remain in the apartment. The ser- 
 vants were accordingly dismissed. . These cere- 
 monies being ended, a profound silence succeeded, 
 and the lights were suddenly extinguished. The 
 same voice, but now in a louder and more autho- 
 ritative tone, ordered the guests to shake the iron 
 chain. They obeyed; but no sooner had they 
 touched the chain, than a strange indescribable 
 emotion pervaded their whole frames. At length 
 the clock slowly struck three; and during each 
 prolonged vibration of the bell, a flash, sudden 
 and transitory as lightning, illumined the apart- 
 ment. During the flash which succeeded the first 
 06
 
 300 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 stroke of the clock, the word Philosophy ! was 
 seen in legible characters above the empty arm-chair 
 reserved for D'Alembert. In another moment all 
 was enveloped in obscurity, and at the second 
 stroke of the bell, another flash of light illumined 
 the word, Nature ! Another interval of dark- 
 ness succeeded, and then was heard the third 
 stroke of the clock, and a word appeared more 
 brilliant than those which preceded it. This word 
 was Truth ! The lustres were suddenly relighted 
 as if by enchantment. Stifled cries were heard 
 as if proceeding from some person whose mouth 
 was gagged — a noise similar to that of some one 
 strugghng to break loose from those detaining him ; 
 and Cagliostro appeared. 
 
 The Grand Copt wore a costume, to which it 
 would be difficult to name anything analogous. 
 A flowing drapery set off his figure to advantage, 
 and the glow of enthusiasm which kindled in his 
 countenance made him look really handsome. He 
 delivered a short but impressive address, com- 
 menting on the words Philosophy, Nature, 
 and Truth. Turning successively to the four 
 cardinal points, he uttered some cabalistic words, 
 which resounded back as if from a distant echo ; 
 he then again commanded darkness, and directed 
 the guests once more to shake the chain. 
 
 This was a terrific moment ! The light vanished,
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 301 
 
 and with the clanking of the chain was renewed 
 the singular emotion I have before alluded to. 
 The outline of the empty arm-chair became gra- 
 dually perceptible, as though the lines had been 
 traced on a black canvas with a crayon of phos- 
 phorus. In another moment, and as if by the 
 same process, a winding-sheet was discerned, and 
 from beneath its outspreading folds two fleshless 
 hands were seen resting on the arms of the chair. 
 The winding-sheet gradually opening discovered 
 an emaciated form ; a short breathing was heard, 
 and two brilliant, penetrating eyes were fixed on 
 the spectators. This was D'Alembert. 
 
 To the spectators was conceded the faculty of 
 seeing the person thus called from the dead ; but 
 Cagliostro alone had the power of hearing him 
 speak, and transmitting his replies to any ques- 
 tions that might be addressed to him. 
 
 " And what questions were addressed to D^Alem- 
 bert?" said I to Lady Muntz. 
 
 "He was asked whether he had seen the other 
 world." 
 
 " What was the philosopher's reply ?" 
 
 " Ah, Monsieur Fleury, it was a terrible reply 
 . . . most distressing — especially to one like me, 
 who after suffering so much misery in this world, 
 look forward with hope to a better future. . . . 
 Would you believe it? ... he replied in that
 
 302 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 shrill tone of voice, just, you know, as he used to 
 speak." 
 
 *' How should I know how he used to speak ? 
 . . . You mean to say, I suppose, that CagUostro 
 spoke for him." 
 
 " Well, perhaps he did . . . but nevertheless, 
 it was the ghost of D'Alembert that seemed to 
 speak ; and the answer to the question was : 
 ' There is no other world.' " 
 
 " Was that the answer ?" said I. 
 
 " It was. We were all filled with horror." 
 
 ''And did no one make any reply ?" 
 
 " Reply ! who could venture to reply to the 
 ghost of M. d'Alembert. ... a dead academician 
 ... a philosopher returned from . . . whence ?" 
 
 " That is precisely," said I, " what you should 
 have asked him. You should have said : ' M. 
 d'Alembert, if there is no other world, where do 
 you happen to come from now ?' " 
 
 Lady Muntz acknowledged that the question 
 would have been very just ; but observed, that 
 had I been present, I probably should not 
 have had courage to address the ghost. I hinted 
 the possibility of Cagliostro having imposed 
 upon her and the rest of his visitors, but she 
 would not admit such a suspicion ; she affirmed, 
 that he himself was quite passive in the cere- 
 mony.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 303 
 
 " As to M. d'Alembert," pursued she, " I ob- 
 served whilst he was speaking, a Httle impatient 
 movement of the right leg — as though he had been 
 trying to put his foot on the rail of his chair. 
 That was a remarkable habit with D'Alembert 
 during his lifetime." 
 
 I made no further attempt to shake the lady's 
 faith, lest by doing so I should defeat the object I 
 had in view. Lady Muntz was acquainted with 
 Cagliostro, and I hoped through her to be intro- 
 duced to him. 
 
 The origin of that charlatan was unknown. He 
 represented himself to be the natural son of a 
 grand master of the order of Malta. He was 
 born in Naples, had studied medicine and che- 
 mistry, and with the view of perfecting himself in 
 those sciences, had travelled much. His reputa- 
 tion for medical skill was his first passport to 
 notoriety. As he killed or cured by methods 
 different from those usually employed in the me- 
 dical profession, and as there is no class of people 
 so credulous as invalids, he soon gained dupes, 
 and pocketed plenty of fees. 
 
 His first lucky chance was the cure of Madame 
 Sarrasin, the wife of a wealthy Swiss banker. He 
 recovered this lady from a dangerous illness, and 
 her husband rewarded the itinerant Esculapius by
 
 304 THE FREXCH STAGE. 
 
 furnishing him with letters of credit on eveiy place 
 with which he was in correspondence. Cagliostro 
 was thus supplied with the means of living in 
 affluence in the principal cities of Eui'ope, and of 
 applying himself to the mysterious exercise of his 
 magic wand. Cagliostro had another talisman in 
 the charms of his beautiful wife Seraphina, who 
 was an important help to him in the art of dupery, 
 in which she was no less an adept than her hus- 
 band. 
 
 Their house was frequented by all the beau- 
 monde of Paris ; and Cagliostro was rapidly making 
 his own fortune, whilst pretending to teach other 
 people how to make theirs ; for besides his medi- 
 cines and his conjuring of spirits, he affirmed that 
 he had discovered the art of making gold. Se- 
 raphina's bright Italian eyes, and her husband's 
 enthusiasm, candied conviction to eveiy heart. 
 CagUostro made his disciples beheve in the phi- 
 losophers' stone ; and Seraphina made her admirers 
 believe whatever she pleased. By this means 
 they soon established a sort of fi'ee-masonry, of 
 which he was the presiding deity, and she the 
 grand priestess. The idol required offerings — the 
 grand priestess accepted presents ; and matters 
 proceeded prosperously. The temple of the ma- 
 gician was a scene of irresistible attraction, and
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 305 
 
 the balls, concerts, and sumptuous banquets, which 
 were given there were frequented by all the rank 
 and beauty of the capital. 
 
 The trial relating to the Queen's necklace aug- 
 mented, in no small degree, the reputation of 
 Cagliostro. The most extraordinary statements 
 were published, the most romantic stories were 
 circulated and eagerly listened to. Cagliostro's 
 celebrity was then at its height ; but at the con- 
 clusion of the process he received orders to quit 
 France. 
 
 In obedience to this command our conjuror 
 left Paris, with the intention of proceeding to 
 Germany. On his way through Metz, a curious 
 incident occurred, the particulars of which have 
 been variously related. The following is, I have 
 reason to believe, the authentic version. 
 
 M. Latour-Eccieu, who had amassed a con- 
 siderable fortune in some of the colonies, married, 
 on his return to France, a lady whom he had met 
 with in a secluded country place, his choice being 
 influenced by the maxim of Sganarelle : 
 
 " Epouser une sotte est pour n'etre pas sot." 
 
 But in his prudent calculations there was one 
 little circumstance which M. Latour-Eccieu, like 
 many other similarly wise gentlemen, lost sight of; 
 namely, that though an ignorant novice may be
 
 306 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 very willing to keep the right path, yet it is a 
 hundred chances to one if she does not, on her in- 
 troduction to the world, meet with somebody who 
 will lead her into the wi'ong one. Thus it hap- 
 pened in the case here referred to : and the at- 
 tentions paid her by an officer of the garrison 
 became very particular. 
 
 The husband grew suspicious, and his suspicions 
 were confirmed by the whisperings of friends ; 
 which, added to some pecuniary disappointments, 
 determined him to adopt a project which he had 
 some time contemplated. This plan was to freight 
 a vessel with merchandise, and to go abroad agam 
 on a mercantile speculation. " If," said he, " my 
 wife be guilty, I wdll leave her enough to live on, 
 and I w ill depart alone. If she be innocent, I w ill 
 take her with me, and make every exertion to 
 secure to her a fate w^orthy of her fidelity." 
 
 Whilst settling his afiairs, wdth a view to this 
 final departure, he had occasion to make several 
 little journeys. On returning from the last of these 
 progresses, he informed his wife {who was exceed- 
 ingly superstitious), that whilst travelling he had 
 been lucky enough to meet wdth Cagliostro ; — that 
 that celebrated man, w^ho possessed the faculty of 
 penetrating the inmost recesses of the human 
 heart, had obsen ed his depression of spirits, and 
 had hinted to him the possibility of his wife's in-
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 307 
 
 fidelity during his absence from home. The wife 
 vehemently protested her innocence, and expressed 
 her indignation at the suspicion. M. Latour- 
 Eccieu soothed her by the assurance that he would 
 never accuse her wrongfully. Cagliostro, he added, 
 had furnished him with the means of infallibly 
 arriving at the truth. So saying, he drew from 
 his pocket a small phial, containing a coloured 
 liquid. " To-night," said he, " when we retire to 
 rest, I have only to drink this magic potion. If 
 my suspicions be well founded, you will find me 
 to-morrow morning transformed into a cat." 
 
 " Into a cat !" exclaimed the wife. 
 
 " Into a black torn cat !" said the husband. 
 
 ^'^ Gracious heaven ! . . . but surely you will 
 never be so rash as to drink that horrid draught. 
 ... It would be tempting the judgment of heaven, 
 which you know the Church forbids." 
 
 " But there are commands of the Church as 
 well as prohibitions . . . and I wish to ascertain 
 whether her commands have been observed," said 
 M. Eccieu. " Besides, you may retaliate ; for this 
 potion answers equally well both wife and hus- 
 band. If therefore I have ever broken my faith 
 to you, you have only to drink this potion at 
 night on going to bed, and next morning I shall 
 find you metamorphosed into a cat !" 
 
 " Me metamorphosed into a cat ! . . . Do you
 
 308 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 imagine I would ever consent to drink your horrid 
 potion ? . . . A cat, indeed ! ... To catch mice, 
 and cry ' Mew !'....! shudder at the very 
 idea of it. . . . Now, never think of taking that 
 stuff, my dear. . . . Let me persuade you to throw 
 it away.^' 
 
 But the more the lady inveighed against the 
 potion, the more firmly was the husband deter- 
 mined to follow out his plan ; and accordingly that 
 same night, when he retired to rest, he swallowed 
 a good part of the mystic beverage. The lady 
 tried to suppress her emotion ; but notwithstand- 
 ing her credulity, she felt a hope that the whole 
 was merely a trick prompted by jealousy. She 
 pretended to fall asleep ; but every now and then 
 curiosity forced her to stretch out her hand to- 
 wards her husband, in order to ascertain whether 
 the metamorphosis had commenced. M. Latour 
 observed this ; and distracted as he was by his 
 fears and hopes, it was not without considerable 
 satisfaction that he ascertained by her snoring that 
 she had really fallen soundly asleep. 
 
 About seven in the morning the lady awoke. 
 All her recollections of the potion and the cat 
 «eemed to be the effect of a dream. She yawned, 
 rubbed her eyes, and then turning round, missed 
 her husband. She called him, but received no 
 answer. She became alaraied, and was about to
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. , 309 
 
 rise, when she observed something moving in the 
 bed. She turned down the bed-clothes, and to her 
 horror beheld a large black cat ! ... It was her 
 husband . . . her dear husband ! . . . The fatal 
 potion had wrought its destined effect, and her 
 crime was discovered ! . . . But in his present 
 altered state, her unfortunate husband could not 
 reproach her. She fell on her knees beside the 
 cat, called him by the tenderest names, confessed 
 her fault, and sued for pardon. The cat at length 
 raised his head, and stared with apparent astonish- 
 ment at the lady, who was hanging over him with 
 suppliant hands. " He will not recognise me," 
 she exclaimed. " He despises me ! . . . Alas ! I 
 well deserve this !" Meanwhile the husband, who 
 was concealed in a closet, overheard every word 
 uttered by his wife during this curious scene. He 
 seized the first opportunity of effecting his escape, 
 and on quitting the house proceeded straight to 
 the sea-port, where the ship was waiting which was 
 destined to convey him abroad. 
 
 The disconsolate wife now lavished all her 
 affection on the cat. Her friends endeavoured in 
 vain to convince her that she was the victim of 
 delusion ; but in vain. The inexplicable disap- 
 pearance of her husband, the well-known power 
 of Cagliostro, the phial, and the mystic potion — 
 all convinced her of the terrible truth. In the hope
 
 310 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 of expiating her error, she resolved to devote her 
 future existence wholly to her Black Tommy. As to 
 the animal, he showed himself perfectly satisfied 
 with a mistress who tended him with such affec- 
 tionate solicitude. During the day his resting-place 
 was an embroidered cushion, at the fire-side ; and 
 his dinner consisted of a pate or some other dainty, 
 cooked and served to him by the lady's own 
 hands. The fair penitent interpreted every look, 
 answered every mew of her favourite, and was 
 never more happy than Avhen, at night, he vouch- 
 safed to repose on the couch beside her. 
 
 Such was the state of affairs for the space of six 
 whole months. The lady was gradually beginning 
 to reconcile herself to the metamorphosis ; but un- 
 fortunately the cat grew weaiy of his monotonous 
 happiness, and sighed again to taste that libert}^ 
 which he was wont to enjoy before he became the 
 honoured representative of M. Latour-Eccieu. One 
 fine spring morning he was discovered to be missing, 
 and after an anxious and vigilant search he was at 
 length discovered on the roof of a neighbouring 
 house, holding gentle converse with an amiable 
 minette of his acquaintance. It now became Ma- 
 dame Latour-Eccieu' s task to pardon : but this 
 escapade helped somehow or other to reconcile her 
 to her own conscience, and to banish remorse. In- 
 deed, report affirmed that she renewed her acquaint-
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 311 
 
 ance with her old friend the officer ; and if he did 
 not altogether succeed in undeceiving her, it is 
 nevertheless certain that the lady and the cat be- 
 came more and more indifferent to each other; 
 mutually closing their eyes to each other's foibles, 
 and thenceforward living on the easy terms of a 
 Parisian husband and wife. 
 
 But to return to Lady Muntz, and my intro- 
 duction to Cagliostro. Finding that her ladyship 
 was inclined to evade the fulfilment of her promise, 
 I determined to introduce myself; but before I 
 could accomplish this intention, accident brought 
 me into contact with. the celebrated personage. I 
 beheld him, too, divested of all the pomp and cir- 
 cumstance of his mystical state ; and, to speak 
 figuratively, en robe de chambre. 
 
 I was fond of the game of tennis, and had ac- 
 quired a reputation for being a good player. 
 Dugazon, who was partial to all active amuse- 
 ments, asked me to give him some lessons ; and 
 for the pm'pose of practising we used to go to the 
 garden of the Redoute Chinoise, a place of public 
 amusement, but quite unfrequented on week-days. 
 The garden was surrounded by walls, and attached 
 to it was a cafe, where Dugazon and I frequently 
 breakfasted, repairing afterwards to the garden to 
 play at tennis, and sometimes to rehearse our 
 parts.
 
 312 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 One morning, when we entered the cafe of the 
 Redoute, the Mttle woman who presided at the 
 comptoir beckoned to us, whilst we were making 
 our accustomed reverence. On our advancing to 
 her, she said, with a sort of mingled gladness 
 and mystery : " Gentlemen, I have such news for 
 you .... Count Cagliostro is here. He came 
 with his wife to breakfast. . . . Take no notice ; 
 but go into the garden. Give Jacques a trifle, and 
 he will procure you a sight of the great con- 
 juror \" 
 
 We did as we were bidden, and presented an 
 ecu to Monsieur Jacques, who was shortly to be 
 married to the lady of the cafe. Jacques was quite 
 overjoyed at the good luck of meeting with us, and 
 we were proceeding along one of the paths of the 
 garden, when the little woman came running 
 quickly after us. " I forgot to tell you," said she, 
 *' that Count Cagliostro requested we would not 
 admit anybody to the garden Avhilst he should be 
 here. But I could not think of denying entrance 
 to such good customers as you, gentlemen ; and 
 I told him that I would let no one in except two 
 or three conseillers de bailliage, who are in the 
 habit of coming. I don't know what may be 
 your profession, gentlemen ; but it struck me 
 that you might possibly be conseillers de bailliage. 
 At all events, you can easily pretend you are ; for
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 313 
 
 I should not wish him to know that I have told 
 an untruth." 
 
 "But, madame/' said I, "you forget that the 
 count is a conjuror." 
 
 " Ah !" said she, laughing, " conjuror as he is, 
 he does not know the difference between Bur- 
 gundy and Bourdeaux. I will answer for it he 
 will not find you out." 
 
 We promised to maintain our new characters to 
 the best of our ability. I was all anxiety to see 
 the mysterious count, and Dugazon was dying 
 with impatience to catch a glimpse of his pretty 
 wife. We were not kept very long in suspense. 
 
 We observed a little movement, (which I should 
 find it difficult to describe), regularly given to the 
 branches of a lilac tree. The branches swung; 
 backward and forward as regularly as the pen- 
 dulum of a clock. At the same time we perceived 
 a sort of wand rising and falling, though we 
 could not see the hand that held it ; the foliage 
 of the lilac tree, and some thick clustering shrubs, 
 intercepting our view. The measured movement 
 above mentioned was not unaccompanied by 
 sound; some words were uttered, but they were 
 in a foreign and to us unintelligible tongue. 
 
 We prepared ourselves to witness some sublime 
 mystery, and we eagerly hurried along the little 
 garden path, which, after several turnings and 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 314 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 windings, suddenly opened on a grass-plot. Judge, 
 reader, what was our amazement when we beheld 
 the Grand Copt, the awful Cagliostro, playing at 
 see-saw ! . . . grotesquely bestriding the swing, 
 which formed the favourite diversion of the 
 little girls and boys who visited the Ridoute on 
 Sundays. Madame was setting the machine in 
 motion, whilst the count held in his hand a light 
 switch or cane, which he used in the way of a 
 horsewhip, at the same time uttering some incom- 
 prehensible words. To what language these words 
 belonged I do not pretend to say ; they were pro- 
 bably a compound of Greek, Latin, Hungarian, 
 and Italian, for the count spoke all those lan- 
 guages, and their meaning was probably synony- 
 mous to the phrases used by children Avhen 
 amusing themselves in a similar way : " Va done ! 
 allons done ! va done /" &c. 
 
 An irrepressible burst of laughter announced 
 our presence. The count looked round, and was 
 evidently confused at being caught in so ludicrous 
 a position ; but immediately recovering his self- 
 possession, he jumped down from the machine 
 and advanced to us. He was a handsome man — 
 handsome, at least, as far as regarded the noble 
 and intellectual expression of his countenance : his 
 figure was not tall, but his head and countenance 
 were exceedingly fine.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 315 
 
 "Gentlemen," said he, speaking French with 
 a strong Italian accent, " I cannot but regret 
 having been thus surprised, more particularly on 
 my wife's account; but if you be philosophers, 
 you will acknowledge that nothing is futile, and 
 that after breakfast the swing is not a bad thing 
 to assist digestion." 
 
 Dugazon, who had not yet quite subdued his 
 inclination to laugh at the drollery of this intro- 
 duction, replied : " Surely none but persons pos- 
 sessing very peculiar constitutions could hope to 
 assist digestion by means of swinging. With regard 
 to myself, I can only say the elFect would be quite 
 the reverse." 
 
 A glance from Madame Cagliostro cut him 
 short; he could proceed no further. The lady 
 suddenly turned upon him her beautiful dark eyes. 
 It was, to use Dugazon's expression, un eclair de 
 velours, and it completely overwhelmed him. I 
 stepped in to his relief. I apologized to the count 
 for our abrupt intrusion upon him, adding that these 
 innocent amusements did him infinite honour; 
 that we were too happy to have found him in one 
 of those moments when ceremony is laid aside ; and 
 that we should consider ourselves much honoured 
 if he would accept our company for a quarter of 
 an hour. 
 
 He assented with all the easy frankness of a 
 p 2
 
 316 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 man of the world, and we promenaded about the 
 garden, chatting together as familiarly as old 
 friends. Cagliostro discoursed of his travels, and 
 of the impressions produced on him by his visit 
 to Paris ; and assured us that he was deeply sen- 
 sible of the kind reception he had experienced in 
 the circles of the French nobility. 
 
 " You are right to say the French nobility . . . 
 you have not met with much favour in some other 
 circles — ^in ours, for example," said Dugazon, recol- 
 lecting his character of the conseiller de bailUage. 
 
 "If you allude to the magistracy," said Cag- 
 liostro, "what have I to fear from them? I have 
 no other secrets than those of medicine and che- 
 mistry. I assist the poor gratis, but I make the 
 rich pay me liberally; I follow a very honest 
 course, and I see nothing in it that can give um- 
 brage to the parliaments." 
 
 "But you know, count," said I, "it is confi- 
 dently alleged that Satan furnishes the recipes 
 for your medicines, and . . ." 
 
 " Satan !" interrupted he sharply ;...." Sa- 
 tan ' How can I derive the power of doing good 
 from the principle of evil? .... No; I obtain 
 my power from providence ! . . . Would your par- 
 liaments persecute a man whose power is delegated 
 from heaven? Gentlemen of the law," said he 
 with a bitter smile, " let me tell you that such a
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 317 
 
 proceeding would be a violation of all law, divine 
 and human." 
 
 Perceiving that Cagliostro was getting warm, I 
 tried to turn the conversation to another subject. 
 I wished to hear something of the ghost-scenes, 
 and especially about the apparition of D'Alembert, 
 so strangely described to me by Lady Muntz. 
 
 " Yet nevertheless," said I, " count, you deal in 
 the supernatural. For example : those spirits that 
 you conjure up." 
 
 "^ Ah !" said the Count, " you have heard of 
 those spirits that appear at my bidding — those 
 ghosts that rise from the grave at my command ! 
 . . . But have you seen them? Until you see 
 them with your own eyes, reserve your opinion." 
 
 '' But," resumed Dugazon, " all Paris . . . ." 
 
 " All Paris has not seen them," interrupted 
 Cagliostro ; " I am not a mountebank, who ex- 
 hibits a show in the public streets. I have made 
 myself acquainted with wonderful secrets : I pos- 
 sess a profound knowledge of the natural sciences. 
 Your savans who would have rejected me as a 
 man of science, receive me as a conjuror. I la- 
 bour for the benefit of mankind. I work my 
 cures by securing an ascendancy over the ima- 
 gination of my patients : I prepare their minds 
 in such a manner, that even the touch of my hand 
 will in some cases effect a restoration to health. 
 p3
 
 318 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 I must confess that I expected to find In certain 
 classes of French society, more true philosophy." 
 
 " Since their faith is no longer there/' said the 
 beautiful Seraphina, raising her left hand to hea- 
 ven, and with her right hand making the sign of 
 the cross, " they are ready to put faith in anything.'"' 
 
 From the remarks that had fallen from Caglio- 
 stro, I naturally supposed that he had been imposed 
 upon by our assumed characters, and that he took 
 us to be nothing less than members of the sove- 
 reign magistracy. I was confirmed in this belief 
 by perceivang that he wished to break off the 
 conversation, apparently fearing that it might lead 
 to something unpleasant. My surprise may there- 
 fore be conceived when Cagliostro drew out his 
 watch, and after looking at it, repeated the follow- 
 ing lines from Moliere's " Tai'tufie :" 
 
 " II est, Monsieui*, trois heiires et demi ; 
 
 Certain devoir pieux me demande la-haut, 
 Et vous m'excusei'ez de vous quitter sitot." 
 
 Then offering his arm to his wife, he bowed to us 
 profoundly ; and Seraphina bade us farewell with 
 a most gracious smile and courtesy. 
 
 " Adieu, M. Fleury ! Adieu, M. Dugazon !" 
 said Cagliostro. "You wished me to act a part 
 for your entertainment — but you have been acting 
 for mine." 
 
 "But I hope," said the lady, "we leave no 
 unfriendly feeling behind us."
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 319 
 
 " By no means, madame," we exclaimed with 
 one voice ; " we continue friends. Au revoir /" 
 
 " Au revoir ! gentlemen. I hope we shall meet 
 again ; you especially, M. Dugazon. I have some 
 strange things to disclose to you about Banieres." 
 
 Truly the magician now gave proof of his power. 
 Dugazon stood transfixed, and as if suddenly pe- 
 trified. When he came to himself, he would have 
 pursued Cagliostro and his wife, had I not forcibly 
 detained him. Our curiosity was roused, and we 
 both resolved to seek an interview with the magi- 
 cian for the purpose of clearing up the mystery. 
 But ere we could fulfil our intention, Cagliostro 
 was arrested ; and after the judgment pronounced 
 against Madame Lamothe, his banishment from 
 France was so promptly decided on, that we had 
 no opportunity of seeing him again. 
 
 That Cagliostro should have recognized us was 
 nothing very extraordinary. As to Dugazon's 
 romantic adventures, they were known to one or 
 two individuals in Paris besides myself and Dr. 
 
 , and it is not impossible they might have 
 
 reached the ears of Cagliostro. As to his assertion 
 of having something to disclose, I do not believe 
 it had any foundation in truth. I have no doubt 
 that it was made for the mere purpose of taking 
 leave of us with a coup (Teffet. 
 
 Before I have done with Cagliostro, I must 
 p 4
 
 320 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 relate the following little anecdote. Palissot 
 was invested with the cross of a Dutch order of 
 knighthood. When some friends were offering 
 him their congratulations, he said : " Do you 
 know that the famous Cagliostro prophesied that 
 I should have this honour." 
 
 " Indeed !" said some one, " how was that ?" 
 " I will teU you. I had reason to be dissatis- 
 fied with my treatment at court. I conceived 
 myself entitled to a reward for real and important 
 services T had rendered to the monarchy; in short, 
 I had T^Titten an answer to the ode addressed by 
 the King of Prussia to Louis XV. To wound the 
 vanity of an author — the vanity of a royal author, 
 — the vanity of Frederick II., was something. 
 What was my recompence ? To be banished the 
 com't. That same day, I happened to be on a \'isit 
 to Madame d'Angevilliers ; Cagliostro was one of 
 the party. I told him what I had done, adding, 
 that I conceived myself entitled to the cordon of 
 Saint Michel, but that I had got nothing but 
 ingratitude." 
 
 " One day or other," observed Cagliostro, " you 
 will have something quite as good as that cordon, 
 and you will receive it from the hands of a great 
 monarch. You see, gentlemen, he foretold my 
 investiture with this cross ; and the prophecy 
 having been fulfilled, I firmly believe in all his 
 other predictions."
 
 321 
 
 CHAPTER XVII*. 
 
 Performance of the " Widow of Malabar" at the provmcial thea- 
 tres. — Intolerance. — The Bull Unigenitus. — The draper of 
 Toulouse. — His daughter Marianne. — A visit to Bourdeaux. — 
 Performance of the " Widow of Malabar" in that city. — Prosper 
 d'Ussieux. — His success in the character of the young Brahmin. 
 — He becomes enamoured of Marianne Crussol. — Quits the 
 stage, and enters into business. — The marriage ceremony in- 
 terrapted. — The priest's anathema. — Nuptial banquet. — Poi- 
 soned wine. 
 
 The good people of Toulouse had not emerged 
 from the darkness of the thirteenth century, when 
 all the rest of France were in the eighteenth. 
 Toulouse had been the scene of the murder of 
 Galas, an atrocity which the populace of that 
 city had applauded, and even instigated. The 
 spirit of religious dissension, and the conflict be- 
 tween Protestantism and Catholicism, were kept 
 up in that strong-hold of credulity and fanaticism. 
 At length, however, the light of intelligence was 
 beginning to dawn in certain classes of Toulousian 
 society, and it is possible that Lenicerre's " Widow 
 p 5
 
 322 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 of Malabar^' might have produced its effect in 
 Toulouse as well as in other places, but for an 
 event which created a great sensation in that city, 
 and which for a considerable time precluded all 
 possibility of performing the piece. 
 
 The tolerant disposition of the archbishop (which 
 was so great as to subject him to the suspicion of 
 encyclopedisme) produced no beneficial influence. 
 Certain old Cures kept up within their resjDcctive 
 parishes a furious spirit of opposition ; and when 
 in Paris all the absurdities relating to the Bull 
 Unigenitus were, or ought to have been, at an end, 
 these incorrigible priests obstinately maintained 
 the points in dispute, and gloried in being, as 
 they styled themselves. Cures constitutionnaires. 
 
 The granting of confessional tokens, and the 
 refusal to administer the sacrament, were still con- 
 tested questions in some churches of the suburbs. 
 These disputes were not openly maintained, it is 
 true ; but the warfare was not the less dangerous 
 by being carried on secretly and artfully. The 
 consequence was, that those persons who had fol- 
 lowed the spirit of the age, were doomed to die 
 without receiving the last consolations, for which 
 they appealed in the sincerity of their religious 
 faith. 
 
 In vain were these instances of injustice and 
 persecution represented to the Archbishop ; the
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 323 
 
 Cures evaded all investigation, and in the mean- 
 while the invalid was left to die without the ob- 
 servance of the sacred rite. Some families referred 
 their cases to the magistrates, and the refusals to 
 administer the sacrament were rescinded; but 
 what consolation could be conveyed to a truly 
 pious mind, by the extreme unction when obtained 
 through magisterial interposition. 
 
 By this intolerant exercise of their spiritual 
 authority, many priests became the tyrants rather 
 than the guides of their flocks. Families were 
 ruled by fear; and those especially, of whom a 
 grandfather or other aged person was the head, 
 felt the full force of the persecution. The dread of 
 what might be inflicted on the dying, helped 
 priestly despotism to tyrannize over the living. 
 
 The event to which I have above alluded, and 
 which influenced the fate of the " Widow of 
 Malabar" in Toulouse, arose out of the following 
 circumstances. There was in Toulouse a shop- 
 keeper named Crussol, a dealer in those coarse 
 woollen cloths which are manufactured in that 
 part of France. His family consisted of himself, 
 his wife, and an only daughter, Marianne, whom 
 he loved with the tenderest affection. Madame 
 Crussol was a woman of the most scrupulous 
 piety ; and the only interruption of conjugal har- 
 p 6
 
 324 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 mony between her and her husband arose out of 
 questions on religion. Crussol was in the habit 
 of traveUing about in different parts of France in 
 pursuit of his business; and it sometimes hap- 
 pened that he returned from those journeys less 
 pious than when he departed. He would then 
 indulge in a little philosophic pleasantry^, after the 
 Parisian fashion, and would go to the theatre even 
 on Sundays ; sins which gave serious umbrage to 
 his better half, who, in her efforts to reclaim him, 
 spared neither exhortation nor scolding, 
 
 Madame Crussol was the more vexed at 
 her husband's conduct, inasmuch as Marianne 
 listened to her fathei-'s cheerful conversation with 
 more pleasure than to her mother's lectures ; and 
 felt more interest in the perusal of a novel than in 
 poring over the sacred pages of pious works. 
 The excellent mother recommended Marianne to 
 read and meditate on these, but their leaves re- 
 tained their unsullied purity, whilst those of the 
 romance of "Zaide" or of "Don Quixote" bore 
 obvious marks of having been frequently turned 
 over. 
 
 The spiritual condition of Marianne occasioned 
 great uneasiness to her mother, and at length the 
 good lady was induced to pour her sorrows into 
 the bosom of a confessor. The priest, whilst he
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 325 
 
 gave her every consolation as far as regarded her- 
 self, assured her that her husband and daughter 
 could not hope for salvation, unless they altered 
 their course of life. The holy man especially 
 condemned M. Crussol's taste for theatrical enter- 
 tainments ; but in that particular Madame Crus- 
 sol despaired of effecting any conversion. 
 
 Meanwhile Crussol felt that he was advancing 
 in years. He had in Bourdeaux an elder sister, 
 possessed of a competent fortune, which Marianne 
 was destined one day or other to inherit. The 
 aunt had expressed a wish to see her niece, and, 
 in consequence, M. Crussol thought he could not 
 do better than make a journey to Bourdeaux in 
 company with his daughter. 
 
 The state of Crussol's business had not hitherto 
 rendered it necessary for him to keep a clerk or 
 assistant ; but now, being about to leave home for 
 a time, he deemed it expedient to look out for 
 some one to take charge of the shop during his 
 absence. For this purpose he engaged a young 
 man, whose profligate habits were well known to 
 the inhabitants of Toulouse ; but he was clever 
 and active in business, and as Madame Crussol's 
 age protected her against slander, the arrange- 
 ments were straightway concluded. 
 
 After listening patiently to all the prudent re- 
 commendations of Madame Crussol, the travellers
 
 326 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 set out on their journey. Marianne tore herself 
 from the arms of her mother, and took her seat in 
 the coach. Half an hour after the heavy rumbling 
 vehicle had left its starting-place, the white hand 
 of Marianne might be seen waving a handkerchief 
 towards Toulouse in token of adieu. 
 
 Crussol and his daughter were received with 
 transports of joy by their affectionate relative at 
 Bourdeaux. The old widow Bampierre spared no 
 efforts to show her visitors all that was curious 
 and amusing in the city. They made visits to the 
 port, and went on board the principal vessels in 
 the harbour, and the old lady even procured the 
 governor's permission to enable her relatives to 
 view the ramparts of the Chateau-Trompette. 
 Among all the various amusements w^hich Bour- 
 deaux afforded, the theatre was not forgotten. 
 
 For the first time in her life Marianne saw a play, 
 and though her mother had inveighed forcibly 
 against that sin, yet it seemed to her to be one 
 which best deserved absolution. She even wished 
 to read the play she had seen performed, and 
 she was at a loss to comprehend how an amuse- 
 ment which was calculated to refine the taste and 
 the feelings, could have an evil moral influence. 
 In the letters which she addressed to her mother, 
 Marianne did not mention that she had been to 
 the theatre ; this concealment was painful to her,
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 327 
 
 for among the many excellent qualities which dis- 
 tinguished her, candour was conspicuous. She 
 would rather have confessed her fault and suffered 
 the punishment ; but she found it necessary to 
 dissemble to screen her father from reproach. 
 
 The " Widow of Malabar" was performed at 
 Bourdeaux with a degree of success equal to that 
 which had attended it in Paris. Sainval, who was 
 still strolling about the provinces, played the cha- 
 racter in which his sister had produced so much 
 effect in Paris. Though wanting in the exquisite 
 delicacy and tenderness which characterized his 
 sister's personation of the part, yet his perform- 
 ance was marked by more of power and energy, 
 and all that depth of feeling with which he was so 
 peculiarly gifted. 
 
 In the Bourdeaux company, the actor who 
 took the line of characters allotted to what is 
 termed the jeune premier, rarely performed in tra- 
 gedy. When the " Widow of Malabar" was 
 brought out, he ceded the principal character to a 
 young performer whose theatrical appellation was 
 Prosper Aimery, or d'Emmery, but whose real 
 name was d'Ussieux. His father was maitre- 
 d'hotel to the Count de Ganges, and the young 
 man's passion for the stage had caused him to de- 
 sert his home. His talent was of a superior order ;
 
 328 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 and in several provincial theatres his efforts in 
 tragedy had been crowned with success. In short, 
 he bade fair one day or other to become a brilliant 
 ornament to the French stage. 
 
 The clergy of Bourdeaux e\anced no less hosti- 
 lity to the " Widow of Malabar" than had been 
 manifested by their brethren in Paris. The city 
 of Bourdeaux was under the command of Marshal 
 de RicheUeu, who was on terms of intimate friend- 
 ship with the Archbishop of Paris ; and accordingly 
 an application was made to that prelate, in the name 
 of the chapter, to request him to use his influence 
 with the Marshal to suppress the performance of 
 the piece. The Duke de Richelieu, who had ap- 
 plauded the tragedy in the capital, and in his capa- 
 city of first gentleman of the king's chamber had 
 patronized the author, was about to despatch an 
 order to prohibit the performance of the play at 
 Bourdeaux : thus condemning in his military ca- 
 pacity of commandant, that which he had sanc- 
 tioned and approved in his courtly office of gen- 
 tleman of the chamber. However, the prohibition 
 was rendered unnecessary by the sudden illness of 
 Sainval, which caused the performance of the play 
 to be suspended. 
 
 D'Emmery, or, to call him by his right name, 
 d'Ussieux, was now without any engagement; but
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 329 
 
 SO great had been his success in the character of 
 the young Brahmin, that several theatrical ma- 
 nagers in other parts of France otfered him en- 
 gagements on the most advantageous conditions. 
 
 Marianne and her father were in Bourdeaux at 
 the time of the performance of the " Widow oi' 
 Malabar." Crussol observed many passages in 
 the play which he thought would serve as excel- 
 lent replies to some of the bigotted dogmas of his 
 wife. He even learned several of these passages by 
 heart, with the intention of making them serve as 
 defensive weapons against the arguments of his 
 wife and the cure of their parish. Marianne ad- 
 mired the poetry of Lemierre, but she admired 
 above all the character of the young Brahmin. 
 At that scene in the fourth act, in which the bro- 
 ther and sister recognise each other, she melted 
 into a flood of tears, and thought if heaven had 
 granted her such a brother, their humble dwelling 
 in Toulouse, frequently so dull, would have been 
 the scene of unvaried cheerfulness and contentment. 
 An amiable and kind-hearted brother always en- 
 livens a family circle ; and then again, Marianne 
 reflected that if her father had had a son, he might 
 have dispensed Avith the services of a clerk . . . 
 and for the first time in her life she felt a regret 
 that she was her father's only child. 
 
 The period allotted to their visit to Bourdeaux
 
 330 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 having drawn to a close, Crussol and his daughter 
 set out on their return home. There were few 
 passengers by the coach; but it happened that 
 d'Emmeiy, who had some business to arrange 
 in Toulouse, was among the number. Neither 
 Crussol nor his daughter recognised him, which 
 was not to be wondered at, as the dress he wore 
 in the '^ Widow of Malabar" greatly altered his 
 appearance. But he was an extremely handsome 
 young man, both on and off the stage, and there 
 was a charm in his voice which was irresistibly 
 attractive. He conversed most agreeably, and 
 was fond of relating anecdotes and adventures 
 which exhibited pictures of refined sentiment . . . 
 not only tales of love, but those which pourtrayed 
 the devoted affection of a parent, the filial piety of 
 a child, or a generous sacrifice made in the cause 
 of friendship. During the journey from Bour- 
 deaux to Toulouse, Crussol listened to him with 
 deep interest. He who so dearly loved to have his 
 share in conversation, now remained a silent 
 hearer, and seemed as if fearful of losing a single 
 word that fell from his travelling companion. As 
 to Marianne, she almost fancied she was listening 
 to her Brahmin, and that he was reading to her 
 some pages of her favourite romance of " Zaide." 
 
 Nothing had fallen from d'Emmeiy which could 
 lead to the supposition of his being an actor ; and
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 331 
 
 Crussol and his daughter imagined him to be a 
 young gentleman traveUing for his pleasure. 
 However, from an observation which fell from 
 Marianne, d'Emmery learned that her father was 
 a tradesman in Toulouse ; and he felt himself sud- 
 denly inspired by the idea that the active life of a 
 man of business was preferable to any other. . . . 
 " Well," said he, " should I ever succeed in 
 realizing a sufficient sum of money, I will pur- 
 chase a business, and establish myself in some 
 provincial town . . ." only he had not precisely 
 made up his mind as to what part of France he 
 should settle in. 
 
 Marianne thought that the young traveller 
 could not do better than settle in Toulouse, 
 though she could not venture to give him such a 
 hint. However, her father, who happened to be 
 of the same opinion, bluntly recommended d'Em- 
 mery to establish himself in Toulouse. 
 
 On the first day of the journey our young actor 
 might be said to be playing a part ; but on the 
 following day he began to reflect that the idea of 
 settling in Toulouse was not altogether unworthy 
 of consideration. As yet he had been scarcely 
 conscious of feeling any particular interest for 
 Marianne. But about the middle of the journey 
 he began to speak in a tone of confidence of his 
 
 «^
 
 332 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 commercial plans ; and then for the first time he 
 began to feel that he had fallen in love with his 
 fair travelling companion. 
 
 And how could he have avoided lo\ing Mari- 
 anne ? She was so amiable, and so affectionately 
 attached to her father. There was a piquant ex- 
 pression in her countenance which gave it a charm 
 more attractive than the beauty which depends 
 merely on a regular set of features. Her lively 
 blue eyes and white teeth imparted an irresistible 
 fascination to her smile ; and a slender figure, a 
 sweetly-toned voice, together with small and ex- 
 quisitely formed hands and feet, formed an ensemble 
 which speedily captivated the heart of d'Emmery. 
 
 A little beyond Agen, at a place called Maloste, 
 there was an alarm that a party of robbers were 
 advancing on the coach for the purpose of attack- 
 ing it. " Oh, save my father !" exclaimed Mari- 
 anne, throAving her arms round the old man's 
 neck, and casting on d'Emmery an imploring 
 look, which seemed to say that she trusted to him 
 for their defence. 
 
 The alarm of robbers proved to be unfounded ; 
 but the travellers encountered a danger of another 
 kind. The coach, which had been driven at a 
 rapid pace, overturned upon some rugged frag- 
 ments of rock, with which that part of the road is
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 333 
 
 flanked. The passengers raised a simultaneous 
 cry of terror. The danger was the more imminent 
 as the coachman had lost his hold of the reins, and 
 the horses galloped forward, so that the coach 
 was dragged over the rocks, at the risk of being 
 dashed to pieces. 
 
 " Oh, my father ! . . . my dearest father !" ex- 
 claimed Marianne, in an agony of despair. 
 
 D'Emmery forced open the coach-door, and at 
 the risk of his life succeeded in grasping the reins, 
 and checking the horses. At the very first shock 
 of the overturn, Marianne with great presence of 
 mind placed her arm between M. Crussol and that 
 part of the coach which struck against the rock. 
 By this means she protected her father from a blow 
 which would probably have fractured his skull ; but 
 in the effort to save him her own arm was broken. 
 
 Some time after this occurrence an old man, on 
 his death-bed, appealed for the prayers and the 
 succour of the church. At first his appeal was re- 
 jected, but finally the clergy relented, and a priest 
 attended the bed-side of the invalid. After linger- 
 ing for some time, apparently at the brink of death, 
 he suddenly became better, and to the great joy 
 and surprise of his family finally recovered. The 
 Cure of the parish failed not to attribute this 
 almost miraculous recovery to the efficacy of the
 
 334 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 sacrament ; and poor M. Crussol, who had been 
 on the very verge of death, and whose intellects 
 were impah'ed by bodily infirmity, suffered his 
 conscience to be controlled, and became as priest- 
 ridden as his wife. 
 
 The clerk, who had been engaged on Crussol's 
 departm-e for Bourdeaux, was now dismissed, and 
 superseded by one who was beloved by M. and 
 Madame Crussol as their son, and by Marianne 
 regarded as her future husband. This was no 
 other than d'Ussieux. He had renounced the 
 profession of the stage, which would have been an 
 insuperable bar to his union with the object of his 
 affections. At that time the nobility, and liberal- 
 minded persons in all classes of society, loved the 
 drama, and patronized and treated actors with re- 
 spect ; yet old prejudices existed in full force 
 among the commercial and trading classes, espe- 
 cially in Toulouse, where the theatre was regarded 
 as a school of philosophy and perdition. 
 
 To persons of this mode of thinking, no play 
 could possibly be more hateful than the 
 " Widow of Malabar ;" and the Toulousian clergy 
 set every spring in motion to prevent its perform- 
 ance. However, in spite of this potent opposition 
 the play was actually in preparation ; but the 
 absence of the actor who was to give effect to 
 12
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 335 
 
 the character of the young Brahmin, did more 
 than all the efforts of the priests ; it prevented the 
 play being brought out. 
 
 Meanwhile the day fixed for the union of Mari- 
 anne and d'Ussieux arrived. The betrothed lovers 
 were at the altar, the aged parents of the bride 
 gazed on their children, and inwardly prayed for 
 their happiness. The priest was performing the 
 ceremony, and was on the point of uttering that 
 interrogation that binds the married pair for 
 ever. Suddenly a man, forcing his way through 
 the assembled group of spectators, advanced to 
 the balustrade in front of the altar. This was the 
 clerk who had been dismissed by Crussol, and 
 who was superseded by d'Ussieux. The priest, 
 indignant at this interruption, was about to order 
 the intruder to quit the church, when the man 
 handed to him an open billet. The priest took it, 
 and as he perused the writing his brow lowered 
 and his colour rose. Then raising his voice, he 
 thus addressed the bridegroom : 
 
 " Your name is not Prosper d'Ussieux, but 
 Prosper d'Emmery." 
 
 " My name is Prosper d'Ussieux," replied the 
 young man in a tremulous voice, taken by sur- 
 prise by this unexpected address.
 
 336 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 " Swear, I command you, before God and 
 his minister, that your name is not d'Em- 
 mery !" 
 
 " My name is Prosper d'Ussieux ; and I swear 
 before God and his minister ... to be faithful to 
 Marianne, and to devote my whole life to her hap- 
 piness.^' 
 
 " The happiness of a Christian woman cannot 
 be intrusted to your hands,'' rejoined the priest. 
 " See, imprudent parents !" continued he, handing 
 the billet to Crussol and his wife, — " would 
 you give your daughter to an actor?" 
 
 An exclamation of horror resounded through 
 the church, and every one indignantly repeated 
 the words, " an actor !" 
 
 " An actor ! . . . Yes, my brethren, an actor ! 
 . . . And this man has dared to approach the 
 holy altar, for the purpose of profaning it ! A 
 child of perdition, on whose head I was about to 
 pronounce a benediction ; but on whCm I now in- 
 voke an anathema! — And you," said he, turning 
 to Marianne, who gazed at him with a look of 
 stupor ..." my anathema be on your head, if 
 you banish not all thought of this impious union." 
 . . . Then addressing d'Ussieux with vehemence, 
 — " Quit the church !" said he : — " Begone,
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 337 
 
 this instant. . . . Make way for him/' added he, 
 addressing the people. ..." No longer let him 
 sully this sacred place with his presence !" 
 
 This command was easily obeyed, for d'Ussieux 
 had fallen senseless on the ground, as if struck by 
 a thunderbolt. It seemed to be doubtful whether 
 he was living or dead. Some men among the 
 crowd raised him up, and conveyed him to a 
 neighbouring housCg in which actors were in the 
 habit of lodging. 
 
 Marianne evinced more fortitude than d'Ussieux. 
 . . . Not a word escaped her lips . . . not a tear 
 fell from her eyes. She raised her father, who 
 had sunk down upon his prie-Dieu, and she of- 
 fered him her arm, whilst Madame Crussol leaned 
 on that of a friend. D'Ussieux was carried out at 
 a door oil one side' of the church, and Crussol and 
 his family went ou^^at the other. It seero^d as\. 
 though the anathema of the griest was henceforth 
 'to"^lixerat^^Sf re^oilection of d'Ussieu^ ft-om theX 
 heart of his brieve. After quitting the church, \ 
 Marline cast a glance — a sihgle ^ratice^ towards *^ 
 the house whither the apparently dying man had 
 been conveyed; but no trace of regret was dis- 
 cernible in her countenance. Thus, in spite of 
 fanaticism, more than one feeling heart pitied the 
 actor, and censured the pious bride. 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 338 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 D'Ussieux received all possible attentions from 
 the manager of the Toulouse theatre, and several 
 actors who happened to be lodging in the house. 
 On recovering from the state of stupor into which 
 the shock had thrown him, despair took possession 
 of him, and he was wdth difficulty prevented from 
 laying violent hands on himself. But on being 
 made acquainted with the indifference evinced 
 towards him by those who were to become his 
 parents, and by the woman whom he had re- 
 garded as his wife, he made an effort to summon 
 resolution to bear his misfortune. Something 
 like a feeling of vengeance even arose in his 
 mind, and he felt a desire to live were it only to 
 gratify that feeling. 
 
 About eleven o'clock at night, he was pacing 
 up and down his chamber in a most painful state 
 of agitation, when he heard a gentle tap at his 
 door, accompanied by some words uttered by a 
 voice which he thought he recognized. He 
 started, and his heart beat \'iolently. Another 
 tap was given at the door ; he opened it, and 
 beheld his bride ! 
 
 " Marianne ! My wife !" he exclaimed, clasp- 
 ing her in his arms, whilst a ray of joy animated 
 his almost broken heart. 
 
 " Hush !" said Marianne, placing her finger
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 339 
 
 on his lip. " Close the door." D'Ussieux obeyed. 
 " Look !" continued Marrianne, throwing open her 
 cloak, and showing the wedding garments which 
 she wore when at chin'ch in the morning. 
 
 D'Ussieux could not believe his eyes. He 
 thought that what he beheld was a dream. 
 
 " It is I !" said Marianne ; " it is I ! This is 
 our nuptial day ! I am your wife, and no power 
 can part us. Heaven has heard our vows, and I 
 am yours for ever ! My parents love you. Pro- 
 sper ; but they fear the priest's anathema. I fear 
 the anathema of Heaven, if I desert my husband. 
 Therefore have I come to you." 
 
 D'Ussieux embraced her in a transport of joy 
 and affection. He could not find words to express 
 his happiness. 
 
 " Come," said Marianne, " let us sit down to 
 our nuptial banquet. At every wedding there 
 must be a feast." 
 
 She had brought in her hand a basket of pro- 
 visions, which she spread upon a table. D'Ussieux 
 gazed at her, and the idea occurred to him that 
 possibly grief had turned her brain. But no, her 
 countenance was placid and serene, and her eyes 
 still beamed with their wonted gentleness of ex- 
 pression. He reflected that possibly he was him- 
 self under some visionary delusion. But no : he 
 q2
 
 310 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 felt that the feverish dehrium which had during 
 the day agitated him was now assuaged ; that he 
 was collected and self-possessed, and that the 
 supposed -^dsion was reality. 
 
 The bridal feast was spread, and the bride and 
 bridegroom sat down to table. Marianne pressed 
 D'Ussieux to eat, and smilingly offered to pledge 
 him in a glass of wine. He poured it out, and 
 they both di*ank. In a few moments a feeling of 
 stupor began to overpower them. 
 
 " Give me my wedding-ring," said Marianne. 
 
 D'Ussieux drew from his pocket the ring which 
 had been destined for the ceremony of the morn- 
 ing, and which in one of his paroxysms of phrenzy 
 he had been on the point of breaking. Marianne 
 placed it on her finger, and sinking back in her 
 chair said, in a faint tone of voice, " Marianne 
 Crussal and Prosper d'Ussieux shall not be se- 
 parated by the priest's anathema !" 
 
 In the morning the bride and bridegroom were 
 found dead — the wine and meat which Marianne 
 had brought had been loaded and saturated with 
 poison.
 
 341 
 
 CHAPTER XVni*. 
 
 Fran9ois de Neufchateau. — His literary talents.— His play, enti- 
 tled, " Pamela." — His marriage. — Expulsion from the corpora- 
 tion of Advocates. — Death of his wife. — His return to Paris. — 
 Singular interview between a father and son. — The dead author 
 brought to life. — Neufchateau created a senator. — His exer- 
 tions in behalf of the French drama. — A message from Made- 
 moiselle Raucourt. — Her curious shawl. — Brokers' stalls on 
 the Pont Neuf. — Martin the fortime-teller. — Description of his 
 apartment and personal appearance. — Mademoiselle Raucourt 
 consults him respecting the affairs of the Come'die Fx'an9aise. 
 — His answers. 
 
 Ix a subsequent part of this work, I shall have 
 occasion to detail the extraordinary circumstances 
 which attended the performance of Fran9ois de 
 Neufchateau's play, called, " Pamela." This play 
 was the irtnocent cause of a long series of disasters 
 to the Comedie Franyaise, and the disturbances 
 which took place at its representation led to the 
 imprisonment of the actors. I find among my 
 scattered notes some interesting particulars rela- 
 q3
 
 343 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 tive to the life of Franyois de Neuf chateau, which 
 I will here present to the reader. 
 
 In his early boyhood Neufchateau evinced a 
 genius for poetry, and in the maturer development 
 of his talents he became the author of several 
 admired productions. But his literary efforts 
 were not devoted solely to one style of writ- 
 ing ; his varied and extensive information opened 
 to him a wide field for the exercise of his talent ; 
 and eveiy thing he w rote bore the impress of an 
 accompUshed and able mind. He would doubt- 
 less have become a most distinguished dramatist, 
 but after his first essays in that line, politics 
 absorbed his whole existence. 
 
 At the time when I first knew him he was an 
 amusing observer of the fashions and follies of the 
 gay world of Paris ; he seemed to have inherited 
 the lorgnette of the Abbe de Voisenon. On many 
 subjects his ideas were whimsical and eccentric ; 
 these ideas seemed sometimes to be taken up for 
 the sake of mere diversion, though they doubtless 
 originated in a peculiar organization. In spite of 
 his ardent love of literature, and his admiration of 
 distinguished authors, yet I am sure he would have 
 shrunk fi'ora taking a leading rank in the path of 
 letters. I have heard him say that the exercise 
 of genius is the sacrifice of a man for the benefit 
 of society.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 343 
 
 He was brought up to the law ; but having 
 no private fortune, while he was anxiously labour- 
 ing to get forward in his profession, an oppor- 
 tunity of forming an advantageous marriage 
 presented itself to him. The young lady was 
 accomplished and beautiful, and possessed a 
 tolerably good fortune. He married her. But 
 this union, which rendered him happy, and seemed 
 destined to promote his worldly prosperity, well 
 nigh marred all his hopes of professional advance- 
 ment. The young lady was the niece of an actor, 
 a circumstance which caused great scandal among 
 the corporation of advocates, who are profession- 
 ally gentlemen. Such a union was regarded as 
 an affi'ont to the sovereign body, and it was de- 
 termined that young Neufchateau should in con- 
 sequence of his misconduct be expelled from it. 
 
 We players earnestly wished to see Frangois 
 de Neufchateau enter upon a public discussion 
 with the Minos of the order ; and this wish was 
 shared by nine-tenths of the play-going Parisian 
 public. Even had he been subdued, he would 
 have gained honour by the conflict. But the 
 blow overwhelmed him. He quitted Paris, and 
 purchased an appointment in a little baillage of 
 Lorraine : there he buried his hopes of fortune, 
 together with those talents which could flourish 
 only in Paris. Amidst the petty rivalry and am- 
 Q 4
 
 344- THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 bition of a small town he found himself out of 
 place. For some time he dragged on a monoto- 
 nous and melancholy life, when at length his poor 
 wife, brokenhearted by the reflection that she was 
 the cause of marring her husband's fortune, re- 
 leased him from the obstacle by her death. 
 
 The young advocate returned to Paris, and 
 once more entered the field of professional exer- 
 tion. He spared no efforts to recover the rank 
 from which the prejudice against players and 
 their relations had excluded him. He had paid 
 a very large sum for the piu'chase of his ap- 
 pointment in Lorraine, and on his return to the 
 capital he found. himself possessed of few resources 
 beyond his literary and legal attainments. After 
 he had been for some considerable time a widower, 
 his friends wished him to form a second marriage. 
 With this view, they prevailed on him to mingle 
 again in society. They introduced him to a lady, 
 to whom he became attached, and who returned his 
 attachment. Neufchateau offered his hand ; it 
 was accepted ; and the preliminaries were arranged 
 by a notary, with the concurrence of the relatives 
 on both sides. Then commenced a mysterious 
 series of misfortunes, of which various versions 
 have been given. The following I believe to be 
 the true one : — 
 
 As they were alighting from the carriage, at the
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 345 
 
 door of the notary who was to arrange the mar- 
 riage settlements, Neufchateau's father drew him 
 aside, — " I wish to speak to you," said he ; and 
 his trembhng voice betrayed the profound emo- 
 tion by which he was agitated. The young man, 
 filled with alarm, gazed anxiously at his father, 
 who lingered behind. 'He entered the library, and 
 all the company not having yet arrived, he made 
 that excuse for absenting himself. He rejoined 
 his father, and both walked into the garden. 
 
 " What have you to say to me, father ?" en- 
 quired Neufchateau. 
 
 " Franyois," said the old man, " I have to tell 
 you that this day will be the last of my existence." 
 
 So saying, he ©pened his coat, and Neufcha- 
 teau with terror beheld a loaded, pistol. 
 
 The ^on,^ by^ a sudden— and powerful grasp, 
 possessed himself of the instrumen^bf death. He 
 gazed intently on his father, hoping to see inxhis 
 countenance some traces of insanity, whicliM^oiiflJt. ^'^A i 
 have been a consolation in comparison with what 
 he dreaded. But no, — the old man was not mad ; 
 his countenance, his voice, his manner, betokened 
 deep anguish, but perfect collectedness of mind. 
 
 " What means this, my father?" said Neufcha- 
 teau. 
 
 " Pardon me, — pardon me !" said the old man, 
 Q 5
 
 246 THE FRENCH STAGE, 
 
 in a suppliant tone of voice^ and still hesitating 
 to explain himself. 
 
 " Speak, father, I entreat you !" said the son ; 
 " you have something to communicate to me, — 
 tell me what it is. The company are waiting for 
 us, and in a few moments we shall be summoned 
 to join them." 
 
 Scarcely were these words uttered, when the 
 old man fell prostrate at his son's feet, convul- 
 sively grasping with his hands. A thought, a 
 suspicion which had already faintly occurred to 
 the mind of Neufchateau, now presented itself in 
 a more decided form. The evidence arose in clear 
 and terrible colours. For some moments the old 
 man lay at his son's feet ; not a word had yet been 
 interchanged ; their eyes had not met ; and a ter- 
 rible secret was about to be divulged. 
 
 After a painful struggle of feeling, the father 
 confessed his love for the affianced bride of his 
 son, and his determination not to outlive the day 
 when she should become the wife of Fran9ois. In 
 an agony of grief, Neufchateau embraced his un- 
 happy parent, and uttering the words " Farewell, 
 for ever !" left him. This painful scene took place 
 in an avenue of the garden screened from obser- 
 vation. 
 
 Having lingered for a short time to collect him-
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 347 
 
 self and recover from the agitation into which this 
 interview had thrown him, the father rejoined the 
 family circle. He did not perceive his son, and 
 inquired where he was. No one knew. A search 
 was made for him, but in vain; he had disap- 
 peared, and was no where to be found. 
 
 It was whispered that a secret marriage united 
 him to the lady he loved, and who, on her part, 
 devotedly loved him. One thing is certain : he was 
 supposed by many of his friends to be dead. His 
 loss had been affectionately and religiously 
 mourned, and was nearly forgotten, when the 
 Abbe Geoffroy announced his intention of pub- 
 lishing an edition of his works. The news reached 
 Neufchateau in his retirement. The desire of 
 literary distinction once more revived in his breast ; 
 and all France learned that the dead man was living. 
 
 The world is often very liberal in its contribu- 
 tions to posthumous fame. So large an allowance 
 of admiration was conferred on M. de Neufchateau, 
 in the belief that he was dead, that when he re- 
 appeared in the world, he found himself possessed 
 of a stock of reputation which even a popular author 
 might have envied. Recommended by his political 
 writings, he presented himself to the electors, and 
 was made a member of the Legislative Assembly. 
 
 When " Pamela^' was brought out, the author 
 shared the persecution which was visited on the 
 q6
 
 348 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 actors. He was for a considerable time a pri- 
 soner in tlie Luxembourg. The Directory released 
 him, to give him a place in the ministry, from 
 which he retired to take his seat on the Directo- 
 rial throne. In that eminent position he was 
 superseded by colleagues, whose ambition was 
 more active than his own. After that. Napoleon 
 gave him a seat in the Imperial senate, the gulf in 
 which he buried those men whose talents were 
 likely to be troublesome to him. An entombment 
 in that illustrious body defied all possibility of 
 resuscitation. 
 
 Fran9ois de Neufchateau was indefatigable in 
 his efforts to remove the obstacles which opposed 
 the revival of the French drama after our release 
 from prison. But unfortunately his views were 
 thwarted by a midtitude of arrogant pretensions 
 and evil passions. For a time we were in utter 
 despair, and I began to turn my thoughts to- 
 wards Russia, whence I had received very advan- 
 tageous offers for an engagement. One day, 
 whilst I was meditating on what it would be best 
 for me to do, I received a note from Mademoiselle 
 Raucourt, requesting that I would call on her. 
 
 I went without delay. On being ushered into 
 her apartment, I found her attired in an elegant 
 walking dress, and apparently just ready to go 
 out. A most beautiful shawl, such a one as was at
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 349 
 
 that time worn only by ladies of the highest rank, 
 was gracefully draped over her shoulders. Observ- 
 ing that I fixed my eyes on the shawl, she said, 
 " Do you like it?" 
 
 " Beautiful," replied I ; " and the dress, the 
 spencer, the bonnet, — all are in excellent taste. 
 But where are you going?" 
 
 " I will not tell you," said she, " until you 
 look at my shawl, and give me your opinion of it 
 more decidedly." 
 
 " I have already told you, and now I tell you 
 again, it is beautiful, — exquisitely beautiful ! 
 Roses, lilies, and jasmins " 
 
 " But observe," resumed Raucourt, " the form 
 of the leaves, — and the peculiarly fantastic style 
 in which the flowers are intertwined together. 
 Do you not perceive something more than the 
 mere bouquets ?" 
 
 " Ah ! — I do perceive ! How strange that I 
 should not have seen at first that this ingenious 
 grouping of the flowers represents the heads of 
 the king, the queen, and the dauphin ! The heads 
 are clearly defined." 
 
 " Yes, and the likenesses striking, — are they 
 not, Fleury?" 
 
 " Ma foi !" said I, " if this should come under 
 the notice of the Directory, the shawl faction will 
 be exposed to a fearful vengeance."
 
 350 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 " Never mind that ;" said she " I want you to 
 come with me, and we will try to find out what 
 measures the Directory contemplates with regard 
 to us and our theatre/^ 
 
 " Go with you," exclaimed I — " with that shawl 
 on ? Are you aware of the danger ?" 
 
 " Bah ! bah \" answered Raucourt " there is no 
 danger. But if you suspect that there is, you are 
 bound in gallantry to afford me your protection." 
 
 " Most assuredly," I replied ; " and I feel the 
 more bound to accompany you, since I not only 
 suspect, but am convinced, there is danger." 
 
 A carriage was waiting for us at the door, — and 
 as though it had been decreed that the day should 
 be consecrated to fashion, the carriage was one 
 of the square-formed vehicles then in vogue, which 
 rolled along like a train of artillery. On these 
 carriages the coachman was perched up so high, 
 and his seat was so wide, that he looked like a 
 telegraph mounted on a sofa. 
 
 For some time after we were seated in the car- 
 riage Raucourt uttered not a Avord, and in spite of 
 her attempts to look serious, I could now and 
 then see a smile lurking on her lip. I, too, ob- 
 served silence, until it became so wearisome to 
 me that I resolved to break it. Pointing to our 
 Phaeton, on his elevated coach-box, I said, " An 
 excellent post that for an observer of manners.
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 351 
 
 I should like to ask our coachman what is going 
 on in the entresols." 
 
 " Do not," returned Raucourt ; " we shall not 
 be in time " 
 
 " At the Luxembourg/' interrupted I, insi- 
 diously. " Is it a private audience }" 
 
 No answer; and mutual silence was resumed. 
 I soon perceived that instead of going in the di- 
 rection of the Luxembourg, we w^ere driving 
 towards the Pont Neuf. My attention was ar- 
 rested by the novel spectacle then exhibited on 
 the quays. And the Pont Neuf! — How changed 
 was its aspect ! In spite of the fine width of its 
 trottoirs, they were choked up to such a degree 
 that a man of the slenderest bulk could with diffi- 
 culty find room to pass along them sideways. 
 The impediments in the way of the free thorough- 
 fare were chiefly occasioned by the stalls of some 
 brokers, who exhibited for sale a variety of articles 
 truly emblematic of the great social convulsion 
 which had agitated France. 
 
 Beside an old earthen chaffing-pan there lay a 
 set of fire-irons, curiously and elaborately wrought ; 
 a washing tub stood close to an elegant hai^Dsi- 
 chord; ruffles and shoe-buckles fastened to the 
 hands of a marble figure of Mercury ; rusty iron 
 casseroles lying on a fragment of beautiful Berga- 
 mo tapestry ; a fine bronze bust of Turenne near
 
 352 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 some old salad baskets ; and the figure of a weep- 
 ing Niobe stretched at full length next to a rat- 
 trap. It would be difficult to conceive the effect 
 produced by this whimsical combination of ob- 
 jects, suggesting to the mind the most incongru- 
 ous ideas of luxury and poverty. These brokers' 
 stalls presented a picture, which might not un- 
 aptly be likened to the halt of a band of gypsies, 
 after the pillage of a noble chateau and a humble 
 cottage. Alas ! it was a picture of la France nou- 
 velle ! 
 
 I was roused from my reflections by the smiling 
 countenance of a beautiful boy, about seven or 
 eight years of age, who was nimbly skipping about 
 by the side of our carriage, which was unable to 
 proceed faster than at a w^alking pace. The boy 
 passed and re-passed several times, so that I had 
 an opportunity of observing his movements, which 
 excited my curiosity. To the men he addressed 
 a few words, and then left them ; but he followed 
 the women more closely, especially those of the 
 well-dressed class. After speaking earnestly to 
 them, he unfolded a bill, to which he drew their 
 attention ; then, when they had glanced at it, he 
 folded it up again and tripped away to go through 
 the same manoeuvre with the next who came up. 
 
 " What a beautiful boy that is,'' said I to my 
 taciturn companion. " I am quite amused by 
 12
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 353 
 
 obsei-ving his fantastic and mysterious move- 
 ments." 
 
 " He is a page," observed Raucourt ; " and he 
 has a message for me." 
 
 " A page !" said I ' " thcjn I presume we are to 
 have an adventure?" 
 
 No sooner had I uttered these words than the 
 boy approached the carriage, and, standing on 
 tiptoe, held up his bill, crying out, " Look, 
 Madame ! look Monsieur ! — would you like to 
 draw the cards ?" 
 
 Raucourt threw some money to the boy, and 
 then showed him two tickets. He looked at them 
 and then said, " Yes, Madame, it is to-day." 
 
 He stopped, as if expecting something more to 
 be said, and at that moment our coachman pulled 
 up. The coach door was opened, we alighted, 
 and I offered my arm to my fair companion. The 
 boy walked before us gravely and silently. We 
 passed more than twenty carriages, all di'awn up 
 in a line. At length we reached the Rue d'Anjou, 
 formerly the Rue Dauphine, and we stopped at 
 the door of a house, which might have been called 
 a hotel, had not repubhcan equality banished titles 
 even from houses. 
 
 In the name of wonder, thought I, whither are 
 we going? How are we to discover in the Rue 
 Dauphine the intentions of the Directory in rela-
 
 354 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 tion to the Comedie Fran9aise. My curiosity was 
 excited to the highest pitch, but, nevertheless, I 
 held my tongue. I felt assured that I should very 
 soon have an explanation, and therefore I willingly 
 deferred it for a few moments. We passed through 
 a court-yard, and having ascended a flight of steps, 
 entered the house. In the court yard and in the en- 
 trance hall I saw assembled numbers of elegantly 
 dressed ladies and gentlemen, all looking very serious 
 and very anxious, and apparently feeling the same 
 impatience that I did to discover some mystery 
 which could not be very easily guessed at. Still 
 preceded by the boy, who ushered us through the 
 assembled throng, Raucourt and I entered an apart- 
 raient on the ground floor, in which a respectably 
 dressed man was waiting. The lady presented her 
 two tickets, and the man showed us into an inner 
 room, closing the door after us. Our pretty little 
 page instantly disappeared behind some old tapes- 
 try with which the walls of the chamber were 
 hung. This apartment was darkened by thick 
 window curtains, nearly covering the whole of the 
 windows. Skeletons of birds and skins of ser- 
 pents were lying here and there in different parts 
 of the room. On a side table, I observed a human 
 skull, crowned with a garland of coquelicots, such 
 as might have been worn by a fashionable belle ; 
 and casting my eyes in another direction, I beheld
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 355 
 
 a long lock of hair fastened to the wall by the 
 blade of a poignard. Such were the adornments 
 of this mysterious chamber. After allowing me 
 to gaze around in utter amazement for some mo- 
 mentSj Raucourt solved the mystery by acquaint- 
 ing me that I was in the residence of Martin, the 
 famous fortune-teller, and that she had come to 
 consult the Oracle of Fate. 
 
 At this time, Martin w^as in the zenith of his 
 popularity, and his house was the rendezvous of 
 all the fashionable company in Paris. The for- 
 tune-teller and his predictions were the engrossing 
 topics of conversation. High and low, rich and 
 poor, those who feared to lose, and those who 
 feared to give, — all thronged to the house of the 
 celebrated soothsayer. The little satisfaction we 
 derived from looking back at the past rendered 
 us the more desirous to peep into futurity. We 
 were anxious to know whether fresh storms and 
 disasters were impending over our heads. Those 
 who had not courage to maintain the conflict 
 against Fate paid their court to oracles. In 
 Paris there were sybils, whose prices were suited 
 to all the different grades of fortune. Their bills 
 were distributed on the promenades and public 
 places, and their advertisements were inserted in 
 the journals. We had fallen back into the super-
 
 356 THE FREXCH STAGE. 
 
 stitions of the thirteenth century; and yet the 
 grass had scarcely grown over the graves of Vol- 
 taire, Rousseaux, Helvetius, and Diderot. 
 
 Never did nature endow a man with personal 
 advantages so well suited to his calling, as those 
 possessed by Martin, the fortune-teller. He was 
 a hideous little dwarf, closely resembling Le 
 Sage's description of Asmodeus. His legs were 
 so exceedingly short, that when he walked, or 
 rather rolled, into the room, he appeared to me to 
 have no legs at all. 
 
 The wizard, as soon as he perceived us, made a 
 slight inclination of his head. He then seized a 
 pair of crutches, on which he adroitly fixed his 
 arms ; his little figure was thus for a few moments 
 suspended, and swang to and fro, his feet being 
 several inches from the ground. Then taking a 
 powerful leap, he seated himself on a stool which 
 was placed beside a table. In this position, stand- 
 ing, as we did, at some distance from him, we 
 could discern little more than his head. Direct- 
 ing his eyes towards us, he smiled, and in a very 
 pleasing tone of voice uttered a few words in a 
 decided Italian accent. 
 
 Raucourt was required to state the nature of the 
 subject on which she wished to be enlightened by 
 the soothsayer ; for Martin had classified the sub-
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 357 
 
 jects over which he pretended to exercise the power 
 of prophecy, and he regulated his prices according 
 to the importance and value of the information 
 demanded of him. For disclosing the success or 
 failure of ambitious schemes, a certain sum was 
 fixed ; a little more was demanded for predictions 
 on love affairs ; and there was a slight augmenta- 
 tion in the amount for information relating to in- 
 fidelities. Heirs who wished to ascertain the time 
 of succession to their fortunes paid according to 
 the extent of their inheritance, and also to the 
 mode of attaining them, as to whether it were 
 direct or collateral. To gain intelligence of an 
 absent husband, or rather of the exact time of his 
 return, the anxious wife was required to pay an 
 enormous premium. But the highest price was that 
 demanded for the disclosure of circumstances re- 
 lating to the discovery of robberies. To obtain a 
 knowledge of the decrees of Fate on any one of 
 the above subjects, required, as Martin alleged, a 
 distinct course of study ; to solve some questions, 
 he said, demanded the labour of a whole week. 
 
 A dialogue of some length ensued between 
 Martin and Raucourt, in which the lady digressed 
 very widely from the professed object of her visit. 
 The fortune-teller then very politely requested her 
 to define with more precision the nature of the
 
 358 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 subject on which she wished him to throw light, 
 by aid of his prophetic power. At this moment 
 a man, who officiated as a sort of clerk to Martin, 
 entered the room, holding a plate in his hand. I 
 understood the sort of precise definition that was 
 alluded to, and I dropped a piece of gold into the 
 plate. Raucourt then, turning to Martin, said, 
 " Citizen, the subject is this : — There is a certain 
 affair now pending, in the success of which we 
 are deeply interested ; and we wish you to inform 
 us whether we may count on its success }" 
 
 " You make your enquiiy in very vague terms, 
 lady," returned Martin (he did not address her by 
 the title of citizeness). " You remind me of poor 
 Vestris, who, on the day of his wife's debut, wished 
 to have a mass performed ; but, fearing a refusal, 
 he begged that the priest would offer the holy 
 sacrifice to obtain the success of something." 
 
 Raucourt and I gazed at one another with 
 amazement ! Vestris mentioned by Martin ! A 
 family anecdote related ! We had not announced 
 our names, and we supposed that the fortune- 
 teller did not know us. Had he guessed who 
 we were, or was it by mere chance that the a pro- 
 pos incident occurred to his mind? I was not a 
 little puzzled ; but recollecting that we had no 
 time to waste, and that people in greater trouble
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 359 
 
 than ourselves were anxiously awaiting their turn 
 for an interview with the sorcerer, I was prepar- 
 ing to shape our question in a more definite form, 
 when Martin interrupted me, saying, — 
 
 " You must write down your question, and I 
 will answer it. But," added he, with a most 
 mysterious air, " the written question must re- 
 main on the table here, and I Mall withdraw into 
 the next room, and answer the question, without 
 seeing what you may write down." 
 
 So saying, he resumed his crutches, and retired 
 with the same peculiar motion with which he had 
 entered, and we saw no more of him. 
 
 We felt very much disposed to profit by his 
 exit, and to make our escape also, when we were 
 detained by the entralice of the little page, who 
 presented tovRaucourt a sheet of letter paper and 
 a pencil, requesting her to write her question. 
 Raucourt wrote, acccg:4iflg to my dictation, the 
 following words : — " Will the dispersed company 
 of the Comedie Fran9aise be re-united ?" 
 
 Scarcely had my fair companion traced the final 
 letter of the last word in the above question, than 
 a stentorian voice exclaimed, " Listen !" 
 
 Raucourt trembled; but the boy, looking up 
 in her face, banished her alarm by one of his 
 ingenuous smiles. I expected that we were to
 
 360 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 have the usual accompaniment of thunder and 
 hghtning, but I was disappointed. Martin went 
 economically to work. Subduing his voice to a 
 more gentle pitch, and imparting to it a tone such 
 as might induce us to suppose that we were sepa- 
 rated from him by thick walls, he said, — 
 
 " Look on the table !" 
 
 We obeyed. There Avas nothing on the table 
 but a large map of Paris and its vicinity, which 
 seemed to have been spread out by way of serving 
 the purpose of a table cloth, for it exhibited vari- 
 ous circular yellow stains, apparently produced by 
 greasy plates, and other smaller stains of a purple 
 colour, looking very much like the marks of wine 
 glasses. 
 
 " Well, what are we to look at on the table ?" 
 said Raucourt, making a grimace as she directed 
 her eyes to an object not very congenial with her 
 elegant feelings. In another moment the boy 
 approached us, and taking the crown of flowers 
 from the skull threw it on the table. 
 
 " Now what do you see ?" said Martin, doubt- 
 less taking his cue from the rustling of the flowers 
 as they fell on the paper. 
 
 " A wreath of flowers lying on a map," was the 
 answer. 
 
 " And what is in the centre of that wreath ?"
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 361 
 
 " The district enclosed within the circle of the 
 wreath." 
 
 " Place your finger on the south of that circle, 
 Madame, and read aloud what you see written." 
 
 " Choisy le Roi," answered Raucourt. 
 
 " Place your finger. Sir, on the opposite line, 
 and read it aloud." 
 
 " Saint Maur," said I. 
 
 " Descend towards Paris, Madame, and read." 
 
 " Le Port a 1' Anglais." 
 
 " Descend towards Paris, Sir, and read the 
 word." 
 
 " Charenton." 
 
 " Descend, both of you. Where are you now ?" 
 
 " At the confluence of the Seine and the 
 Marne." 
 
 " Begone, then ! your question is answered." 
 
 This jugglery amused more than it surprised 
 us. No doubt Martin knew us, and he was judi- 
 cious enough to render his oracular answer agree- 
 able, by making it predict precisely what we 
 wished. 
 
 The history of our adventure afforded no little 
 amusement to those to whom we related it. The 
 proximate courses of the Seine and the Marne, 
 and their union into one river, furnished a con- 
 soling source of speculation to those among us 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 362 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 who wished for the reunion of our company. 
 Choisy-le-Roy and Charenton were ominous 
 names, considering, that is to say, that the Vieille 
 Comedie took the road of Choisy-le-Roi. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 Gilbert & Rivington, Primers, St. John's Square, I oiuion.
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET, 
 Jan. 1841. 
 
 Mr COLBURN^S 
 
 LIST OF NEW PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 QUEEN VICTORIA, 
 
 FROM HER BIRTH TO HER BRIDAL. 
 
 2 vols, post 8vo, with Portraits, 21s. bound. 
 
 " These attractive volumes furnish not merely an adequate and autlientic record of the pure 
 and haijpylife of our young Queen, but the only available one that has hitherto been given to the 
 world. The charming letters of Miss Jane Porter, contained in the work, offer some of the most 
 deUghtful reminiscences of the infancy and childhood of Queen Victoria that have ever been made 
 public." — Naval and Military Gazette. 
 
 II. 
 
 PRINCE ALBERT; 
 
 AND THE HOUSE OF SAXONY. 
 
 BY FREDERIC SKOBERL, ESQ. 
 
 Second Edition, Revised, with Additions — By Authority. 
 Id One Vol. post 8vo. with a Portrait of the Prince. 8s. 6d. bound. 
 
 " The best and most authentic work on the subject of the piince-consort and his family." 
 
 John Dull. 
 III. 
 
 LETTERS ILLUSTRATIVE OF 
 
 THE COURT AND TIMES OF WILLIAM III. 
 
 Addressed to tlie Duke of Shrewsbury, by James Vernon, Esq., Secretary of State. 
 
 Edited, with Introduction and Notes, by G. P. R. James, Esq., 
 Autlior of " Richelieu," &c. 3 vols. 8vo, with Portraits, 42s. bound. 
 
 " These letters detail, in a familiar manner, somewhat after the fashion of Horace Walpole's 
 celebrated epistles, all the imjjortant and interesting events which took place at the period in 
 question, with a liberal infusion of Court gossip ; forming valuable historical illustTations of a 
 reign of which our knowledge has hitherto been very limited." — Globe. 
 
 IV. 
 DEDICATED, BY PERMISSION, TO HER MA.JESTY. 
 
 LIVES OF THE QUEENS OF ENGLAND, 
 
 FROM THE NORMAN CONQUEST. 
 
 WITH ANECDOTES OF THEIR COURTS. 
 
 Now first published from Official Records and other Authentic Documents, private 
 
 as well as public. 
 
 By AGNES STRICKLAND. 
 
 First Series, complete in 3 vols., price 10s. 6d. each, bound, either of which may be 
 
 had separately. 
 
 " This interesting and well-written work, in which the severe truth of history takes almost the 
 wildness of romance, will constitute a valuable addition to our biographical literature." — 
 Morning Herald. 
 
 " This agreeable book may be considered a valuable contribution to historical knowledge. It 
 contains a mass of every kind of matter of interest." — Atlie.naium. 
 
 " The execution of this work is equal to the conception. Great pains have been taken to make 
 it both interesting and valuable." — Literary Gazette. 
 
 " This important work will form one of the most useful, agreeable, and essential additions to 
 our historical library that we have had for many years." — Naval and Military Gazette.
 
 2 MR. COLBURN'S NEW PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 V. 
 
 MR. BURKE'S 
 
 HISTOKY OF THE LANDED GENTRY; 
 
 A COMPANION TO THE PEERAGE AND BARONETAGE, 
 COMPRISING ACCOUNTS OF 
 
 ALL TPIE EMINENT FAMILIES IN THE UNITED KINGDOM, 
 
 And of upwards of 100,000 Individuals connected with them. 
 Illustrated with the Armorial Bearings of each Family, Portraits, &c. 
 Complete in 4 vols., price 18s. each; or in 16 parts, price 4s. 6d. each. 
 
 This important work has been undertaken by Mr. Burke as a companion to his well-known 
 and established " Dictionary of the Peerage and Baronetage of the United Kingdom," and upon 
 a somewhat similar plan, in order that the two publications may embrace the whole body of 
 the British Peerage, Baronetage, and Gentry, and may furuish such a mass of authentic inform- 
 ation, in regard to all the principal Families in the Kingdom, as has never before been brought 
 together. 
 
 *»* Subscribers should give immediate orders to their respective Booksellers for the completion 
 of their sets of this work, (a very small extra number of odd parts and volumes having been 
 printed for this purpose) which will eventually become exceedingly scarce and valuable. 
 
 ALSO, BY THE SAME AUTHOR, 
 
 BURKE'S peerage" AND BARONETAGE 
 
 With important Additions, beautifully printed on a new plan, in one large volume, 
 with an Emblazoned Title-page, and upwards of 1500 Engravings of Arms, &c., 
 price 38s. bound. 
 
 Containing all the New Creations, and much other New Matter, the resvdt of 
 great research, and of Communications with the various Noble Families; forming 
 the most complete, the most convenient, and the cheapest Work of the kind ever 
 offered to the public. 
 
 VII. 
 
 BURKE'S EXTINCT, DORMANT, & SUSPENDED 
 
 PEERAGES OF ENGLAND, IRELAND, 
 
 AND SCOTLAND. 
 
 A COMPANION TO ALL OTHER PEERAGES. 
 
 New and Cheaper Edition, beautifully printed, in double columns, 1 vol. 8vo., with 
 Emblazoned Title-page, &c., price 2Ss. bound. 
 
 This work, formed on a plan precisely similar to that of Mr. Burke's very popular 
 Dictionary of the present Peerage and Baronetage, comprises those Peerages which 
 have been suspended or extinguished since the Conquest, particularizing the members 
 of each family in each generation, and bringing the lineage, in all possible cases, 
 through either collaterals or females, down to existing houses. It connects, in many 
 instances, the new with the old nobility, and it will in all cases shew the cause which 
 has influenced the revival of an extinct dignity in a new creation. It should be 
 particularly noticed, that this new work appertains nearly as much to extant as to 
 extinct persons of distinction ; for though dignities pass away, it rarely occurs that 
 whole families do.
 
 HISTORICAL WORKS. 
 
 QUEEN ELIZABETH AND HER TIMES. 
 
 A SEillES OF ORIGINAL LETTERS. 
 
 Selected from tlie Inedited Private Correspondence of the liOrd Treasurer Burghlcy 
 — the Great Earl of Leicester — tlie Secretaries Walsingham and Smith — Sir 
 Christopher Ilatton — and most of the distinguished Persons of the Period. 
 
 EDITED BY THOMAS WRIGHT, M.A., F.S.A.&c. 
 
 DEDICATED, BY PERMISSION, TO HER MAJESTY. 
 
 "2 vols. 8vo, witli PonTRAiTs, price 32s. 
 
 " One of the most interesting historical works that liave issued from the press for some time. 
 The editor's object has been to do for English history what Bishop Percy did for English poetry ; 
 and by his judicious and instructive notes he has rendered his pages as interesting to the reader 
 who may fly to them for amusement, as valuable to the UKiuirer who may resort to them for in- 
 formation." — Literary Gazette. 
 
 IX. 
 
 OLIVER CROMWELL AND HIS TIMES. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED IN A SEillES OF LETTERS BETWEEN THE DISTINGUISHED MEN 
 OF THE PERIOD. 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES, BY DR. VAUGHAN, 
 
 Author of " The Life of Wickliffe,'' &c. 
 
 2 vols. 8vo, with Portraits. Price 32s. 
 
 " These volumes arc highly important ; they give authentic information of one of the most 
 complicated periods of English history, and exhil)it the workhigs of some of the most powerful 
 minds wliich ever guided or ilisturhed a state. They develop the general policy of the great 
 leader of the Commonwealth with a clearness and an interest of the most explicit and satisfactory 
 nature." — New Moiithlij. 
 
 X. 
 
 THE LIFE OF SIR EDWARD COKE, 
 
 LORD CHIEF JUSTICE IN THE REIGN OF JAMES I. 
 
 WITH MEMOIRS OF HIS CONTEMPORARIES. 
 
 By C. W.JOHNSON, Esq., Barrister -at- Law. 
 
 Second and Cheaper Edition, 2 vols. 8vo, with Portraits. Price 16s. bound. 
 
 " This Is a very valuable work, illustrating one of the most important periods in our history, 
 and written in a candid spirit, whose judgment is based on materials collected with great in- 
 dustr)'. Mr. Johnson has neglected nothing that could make his work complete ; and it does 
 equal honour to his intelligence and liis industry." — Literanj Gazette. 
 
 DIARY OF THE REV. J. WARD, A.M., 
 
 VICAR OF STRATFORD-UPON-AVON, 
 
 Extending from 1648 to 1G78, now just published, from the original MS. in the 
 Library of the Medical Society of London. 
 
 EDITED BY CHARLES SEVERN, M.D, 
 
 I vol. 8vo, price 12s. bound. 
 
 " This is one of the most curious and interesting works that for a long period has been pre- 
 sented to the public. The Rev. J. Ward was all but contemporary with Shakspeare ; and part of 
 the work before us relates to our poet, and throws much light upon disputed portions of his 
 biography, and elucidates that relating to his death, of which liitherto we have been in ignorance. 
 Dr. Severn has presented to the public, from these invaluable records, a selection of very singular 
 interest. ' ' — Dispatch .
 
 4 MR. COLBUEN'S NEW PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 XII. 
 
 THE COURT AND TIMES OF QUEEN ANNE ; 
 
 II.LUSTRATKD IN THE 
 
 MEMOIRS OF SARAH, DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH. 
 
 BY MRS. A. T. THOMSON, 
 
 Author of " Memoirs of Henry VIII.," " Life of Sir W. Raleigh," &c. 
 2 vols. 8vo, price 28s. bound. 
 
 " The author of these volumes is so well knovrn for her Memou-s of Henry VIII. and Life of 
 Sir Walter Raleigh, that the readers of her new work will at once perceive in it the grace and 
 vio-our of style which so distinguish her former efforts. The political intrigues which so dis- 
 tracted the Court of Queen Anue are all veiy ably set forth. Circumstances have called pubUe 
 attention to these matters ; so that we consider Mrs. Thomson's publication as peculiarly well 
 timed. But even had there been no such introduction to oiu- notice, the delightful manner m 
 which she narrates the varied incidents of the Life of one of the most illustrious ladies who 
 have become celebrated in our history, the an.xiety to place the character of the Duchess of 
 Mailborough in a right light before our readers, would recommend the work to general accept- 
 ance. It supplies a portion of historj' wliich was much wanted, and we are bound to say that 
 Mrs. Thomson has executed her task with diligence, fidelity, and grace." — Age. 
 
 THE DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH'S PRIVATE 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE COURT AND TIMES OF QUEEN ANNE. 
 
 (Now first published from the Originals.) 
 
 WITH HER SKETCHES AND OPINIONS OF HER CONTEMPORARIES 
 
 Second edition. 2 vols. 8vo, with Portraits, price 28s. 
 
 " This is a very delightful work. We have closed the volumes vrith a confirmed impression that 
 in many of the highest points of conduct, corn-age, and understanding, the Duchess of Marlborough 
 was the most remarkable woman of her own or any other iX&y."— Examiner. 
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE BEAUTIES OF THE 
 COURT OF CHARLES II. 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTORY VIEW OF THE STATE OF FEMALE SOCIETY, 
 AND ITS INFLUENCE, DURING THAT REMARKABLE REIGN. 
 
 BY MRS. JAMESON. 
 
 COMPRISING 
 
 A SERIES OF TWENTY-ONE SPLENDID PORTRAITS, 
 
 Illustrating the Diaries of Pepys, Evelyn, Clarendon, and other contemporary 
 
 writers of that gay and interesting period, — engraved by 
 
 the most distinguished Artists. 
 
 NEW AND CHEAPER EDITION, WITH CONSIDERABLE ADDITIONS, 
 
 Now complete, in 2 vols. Svo, bound, price 45s. , or in Six Parts, price 7s. 6d. each. 
 
 •• Nothing is wanting to make this publication perfect in its kind. We have the multum in 
 parvo of the finest forms of female beauty in the world— the choicest e.xceUeuce of England's 
 school of portrait painting— the most masterly execution which modern engraving can bestow, 
 and an interesting memoir of each of the celebrated characters thus brought before oiu- eyes by 
 the chaste and judicious pen of one of the most accomplished female writers of the day. The 
 paper and t3T)Ography are of the most superior description, and the price is mcdemte in the 
 extreme."— Vublin Evening Mail.
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL WORKS. 
 
 DEDICATED TO THE RIGHT HON. GENERAL LORD HILL, 
 
 G.C.li., G.C.II., K.C., ETC. 
 
 LIFE OF FIELD MARSHAL, HIS GRACE THE 
 DUKE OF WELLINGTON, 
 
 EMBRACING HIS MILITARY, CIVIL, AND POLITICAL CAREER, TO THE 
 PRESENT TIME. 
 
 EDITED BY SIR J. E. ALEXANDER, K.L.S. 
 
 LIBUT.-COL. PORTUGUESE, AND CAPTAIN, BRITISH SERVICE. 
 
 In Two Large Volumes, 8vo, price 28s. bound; or in Eleven Parts, at 2s. 6d. each. 
 
 Beautifully embellished with Portraits, Battle Scenes, &c., 
 
 by Landseer, Heath, Warren, &c. 
 
 ' ' Sir James Alexander's Life of Wellington has the treble advantage of being the cheapest — of 
 inserting a large portion of the original correspondence — and of condensing within popular limits 
 the dry military details." — Globe. 
 
 " Sir James Alexander possesses every requisite for this great undertaking. His work is 
 peculiarly attractive. No doubt can be entertained that it will obtain a prominent place in 
 the library of those to whose hearts tlieir country's glory is dear, and be received as a standard 
 work In all military circles." — Duhlhi Kveninir Packet. 
 
 "This work is Ukely to have a prodigious circulation. It contains the most complete, correct 
 and authentic details of the eventful life of this e.xalted military hero, profound statesman, and 
 patriotic politicicin." — Bath Herald. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 THE LIFE AND TIMES OF THE RT. HON. 
 HENRY GRA^ITAN. 
 
 BY HIS SON, HENRY GRATTAN, ESQ., M.P. 
 
 In 2 vols. 8vo, with Portrait, &c., price 28s. 
 
 " This truly valuable work will unquestionably form one of the most important and interesting 
 additions to our biographical and historical literature that our own day has produced. The 
 large body of private correspondence which is here brought to bear upon the early and private 
 life of Grattan will be read with an eager and intense interest. Moreover, tliere is a fund of 
 personal anecdote scattered through the volumes, all of which is characteristic as well as 
 new." — Naval and Military Gazette. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON, 
 
 Commander-in-chiefof the American Armies, and First Presidentof the United States. 
 
 WITH HIS DIARIES AND SPEECHES, AND VARIOUS OTHER PAPERS. 
 
 BY JARED SPARKS. 2 vols. 8vo, with Portraits, price 28s. 
 
 " The Life of Wasliington is now first given to the world from original sources. Every infonn- 
 ation and document of value and undoubted authenticity that remam in the recollections and 
 cabinets of America, France, and England, have been procured or examined, and here used at 
 vast trouble and expense, and at the sacrifice of many years of labour. In short, the life of 
 Washington is now complete ; and every new addition to our knowledge of him only serves the 
 more clearly to exhibit him as (in the resolution of Congress on his death) ' The man first m 
 war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of liis feUow-citizens.' " — Sun. 
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JOSEPH HOLT, 
 
 GENERAL OF THE IRISH REBELS IN 1798. 
 Edited from his Original MS. BY T. CROFTON CROKER, ESQ. 
 2 vols. 8vo, with Portrait, price 28s. 
 " We have read this work w^th great interest and satisfaction. It is a most remarkable piece 
 of autobiography, teeming with romantic incidents."— C/iroratcie.
 
 MR. COLBURN'S NEW PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 WOMAN AND HER MASTER; 
 
 on, THE msTOIlY OF THE FEMALE SEX FROM THE EARLIEST TERIOD 
 TO THE PRESENT DAY. 
 
 BY LADY M O R G A N. 
 
 2 vols post 8vo. Price 21s. 
 
 " Lady Moreran lias imparted to history the charm of romance. We hare read her series of 
 rapid but brilliant and vigorous sketclies with an interest which many a novel fails to excite." — 
 M'eeUl// Chrunicle. 
 
 " Lady Morgan has in these volumes undertaken to investigate the position which woman 
 shonld occupy in society. She has sought in the records of the past, g-uidance and direction 
 for the future ; she has subjected the p^ges of history to a vigorous moral analysis, testing 
 their facts with the skill of a critic, and deducing results with the wisdom of a philosopher." — 
 Athenaum. 
 
 XX. 
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF BEETHOVEN. 
 
 BY HIS FRIEND, A. SCHINDLEll. 
 
 Edited, with Notes, &c., by IGXACE MOSCHELLES. 
 
 2 vols, with Portrait, &c., 21s. bound. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 MEMOIRS AND LETTERS OF MADAME 
 MALIBRAN, 
 
 WITH NOTICES OF THE PROGRESS OF THE MUSICAL DRAMA IN ENGLAND. 
 
 Second and Clieaper Edition, 2 vols, post 8vo, -n-ith Portrait, i6s. Ijound. 
 
 " These memoirs are full of interesting details, much of which is entirely new to the public, 
 and of a nature to give new ideas and impressions of the extraordinary woman to whom they 
 relate. We could fill several columns very pleasantly with those singular personal anecdotes 
 and traits with which these volumes are filled; but extracts are unnecessar}-, as the book v.-ill 
 be universally read. In addition to the chief memoir, there is a large body of miscellaneous 
 anecdote, and a selection of Malibran's Letters, all singularly characteristic and amusing." — 
 Naval and Military Gazette. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 THE DUCHESS OF ST. ALBANS' MEMOIRS. 
 
 Third and Cheaper Edition, in 2 vols, witli Portraits, &c., price 16s. bound. 
 " A life of this very extraordinary woman, whose career was so plethoric of good fortune, and 
 whose singular destiny placed her in so many and so varied situations, in wliich persons of every 
 rank in life were involved, has at length been written with candour and fidelity. It would be 
 next to impos :ible lor us to give even an analysis of volumes so full of interest ; every page teems 
 with proofs of the late Duchess' kind-heartedness and good sense, while the numerous ai;ecdotes, 
 thickly interspersed, at once attract and instruct. The volumes are written with that taste and 
 good feeling, which must command general approval, and will obtain the patronage, not only of 
 those intere^ied in theatrical matters, but of those who Eire watchers of the great stage of the 
 world." — Ag^. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 THE LIFE, CORRESPONDENCE, 
 AND POSTHUMOUS WRITINGS of M. G. LEWIS. 
 
 Author of" The Monk," " Castle Spectre," &c. 
 
 " Hsul ! wonder-working Lewis." — Btkox. 
 
 2 vols. 8vo, with Portrait, &c. , price 28s. bound. 
 
 " The Life of the great magician of hon-ors, whose genius partook of the very essence of 
 German ' wonder-working' and mysterious creation — the Life of Monk Lewis, who knew, withal, 
 every one of the choice spirits of his time, affords a most tempting subject. Crammed full of 
 anecdote as these volumes are — theatiical, political, and Uterarj' — there is not a dull page 
 throiighout. The great body of the work has relation to theatrical matters, and gives us some 
 capital stories about the most prominent members of the histrionic profession of both sexes ; but 
 the editor has introduced so nmch matter of a dilferent kind — has ^fcpented us with so many 
 varieties of wit and humour^ — that the work is as free from the fault ^Riouotony as any we have 
 read."— Cowrf Journal.
 
 NAVAL AND MILITARY WORKS. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 NARRATIVE of the WAR in AFFGHANISTAN. 
 
 BY CAPTAIN HENRY HAVELOCK, 
 In 2 vols, post 8vo, price 215. bound, with a complete map of the seat of war. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 LIFE AND CORRESPONDENCE OF 
 
 ADMIRAL EARL ST. VINCENT. 
 
 BY CAPTAIN BRENTON, R.N. 
 
 Author of " The Naval History or Great Britain," &c. 2 vols. 8vo, 28s. 
 
 " To the several valuable records of the achievements and characteristics of our great heroes 
 which late years have produced, these excellent volumes aie now to be added. They will claim 
 a permanent place in the splendid collection, as wortliy to ranlc in design and execution with any 
 \v<irk of the class." — Court Journal. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 THE STANDARD 
 
 NAVAL HISTORY OF GREAT BRITAIN, 
 
 BROUGHT DOWN TO THE PRESENT TIME. 
 
 BY CAPTAIN EDWARD PELHAM BRENTON, R.N. 
 
 2 thick vols. 8vo, price 3ls. 6d.bd., comprising nearly 1400 closely-printed pages, with 
 numerous PORTRAITS OF DISTINGUISHED OFFICERS, Plans, &c. 
 
 " This important work has long been an esteemed cluonicle of the triumphant exploits of the 
 British Navy, but its value is much fiuther enhanced in this edition by the history being con- 
 tinued to the present time by the gallant author, who, in addition to his long experience of tifty 
 years' service, has also been facilitated in the progress of his work by the assistance of most of 
 the eminent men wliose actions he narrates." — Globe. 
 
 THE MARINE OFFICER. 
 
 BY SIR ROBERT STEELE, KNT., K.C.S., ETC. 
 
 In 2 vols, post 8vo, with Portrait. Price 21s. 
 
 " Our ' Marine Officer' is a very pleasant, lively, and intelligent fellow ; and we have accordingly 
 great pleasure \n directing the attention of our readers to his autobiography. In the commence- 
 ment of the work the writer gives an account of his birth, parentage, education, and first entry 
 into military life, which is admirably written, reminding us often of some of the best parts of 
 ' Peter Simple ;' but. Sir Robert Steele does not confine himself to his own adventures, 
 he touches, from tune to time, on mostof the leading events of the late war — fighting many naval 
 battles over again. For marine officers Sir Robert's book will have peculiar attractions, as it 
 records many anecdotes of the heroism and fidelity of the corps which would not discredit the 
 palmiest era of Roman valour." — United Service Gazette. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 CAPT. D. H. O'BRIEN'S ADVENTURES DURING 
 THE LATE WAR. 
 
 COMPRISING A NARRATIVE OF SHIPWRECK, CAPTIVITY, ESCAPES FROM 
 FRENCH PRISONS, &C., FROM 1804 TO 1827- 
 
 In 2 vols. 8vo, with Illustrations, 28s. bound. 
 
 " This is a work from the pen of a very distinguished officer, who has now added a literary 
 fame to his professional reputation. Capt. O'Brien's adventures are numerous and extraordinary, 
 and he narrates them in an unostentatious manly manner, and in a style, simple, natural, and 
 effective. Every page bears the strongest features of trath and nature ; so much so, that the 
 reader makes the case his ovim, and vividly enters into all the scenes of danger and noble daring 
 with which the work abounds." — Dispatch.
 
 MR. COLBURN'S NEW PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 THE VETERAN; 
 
 OR, FORTY YEARS IN THE BRITISH SERVICE. 
 
 BY CAPTAIN JOHN HA RLE Y, late Paymaster, 47th Regiment, 
 2 vols, post 8vo, price 21s. bound. 
 
 " This work will afford much amusement to military readers ; it is full of anecdotes of the 
 mess-table and flie barracks." — Times. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF CAULINCOURT, 
 
 DUKE OF VICENZA. 2 vols. 8vo, 18s. 
 
 " This is one of the very few works that are destined to acquire more than an ephemeral re- 
 putation. We have perused it with great interest, and look upon it as one of great historical 
 value. It may be said to be the first that has done full justice to Napoleon's real character as a 
 statesman and as a man." — Courier. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 MEMOIRS OF PRINCE CAMBACERES, 
 
 SECOND CONSUL, &c. 
 BY BARON LANGON. 
 2 vols. 8vo, with Portraits of Napoleon & Cambacekes, price 28s. 
 " This work contains many revelations littie inferior in interest to those contained in the 
 famous ' Voice from St. Helena.' " — Sun. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 THE BRITISH SENATE IN 1840: 
 
 A SECOND SERIES OF RANDOM RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 THE LORDS AND COMMONS. 
 
 ^y the Author of " The Bench and the Bak," " The Great Metropolis," &c. 
 2 vols, post Bvo, 21s. 
 " This work is exceedingly entertaining, as weU as instructive. Mr. Grant has here furnished 
 the public \\'ith a set of portraits of the members of Queen Victoria's Parliament. In the Lords 
 we have aU the new hereditaiy legislators, and those not particularly described in his former 
 work ; then all the new members are exliibited, and a very correct and impartial estimate of 
 their powers and abUities given, from the orator in embrjo to the fuU-fledged stager." — 
 Caledonian Mercury. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 THE BENCH AND TLIE BAR. 
 
 By the Author of " Random Recollections of the Lords and Commons," 
 
 " The Great Metropolis," &c. 
 
 New and Cheaper Edition. 2 vols, post Bvo, price 18s. 
 
 " In these volrunes, as in a mirror, the reader can catch a glimpse of all the leading members 
 
 of the legal profession. The work is higlily interesting, and will circulate extensively. The 
 
 anecdotes are lively, characteristic, and happily introduced." — Sun. 
 
 DR. JENNER'S LIFE AND CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 BY JOHN BAROX, M.D., F.R.S., 6cc. 
 
 Now first published complete, in 2 vols. 8vo, with Portraits, 24s. 
 
 (Vol. 2 may be had separately to complete sets.) 
 
 " To medical men these volimies will be ver>' valuable, as illustrations of the history of one of 
 the greatest discoveries in their science ; and the genei-al reader will feel the greatest interest in 
 the biographical portion of the work. We know of very few book.s more pleasingly wiitten, or 
 more likely to be of public benefit. Too much can hardly be said in praise of Dr. Jemier's private 
 character, and ever>' one who will peruse the history of his life wiU be siue to find himself the 
 better for having spent a few hours in such company. We wish, for the sake of the public, 
 there were more such biographies." — Times.
 
 BOOKS OF TRAVELS. 9 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 ITALY AND THE ITALIANS. 
 
 BY FEEDERICK VON RAUMER, 
 Author of " England in 1835," " Illustrations of History," &c. 2 vols, price 21s. bd. 
 
 " The contents of this attractive book are multifarious, and put together in a familiar and 
 agreeable spirit. It forms a most pleasant, varied, and interesting worli upon Italy as she is." — 
 Atlas. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 A SUMMER IN BRITTANY. 
 
 BY T. ADOLPHUS T R O L L O P E, ESQ. 
 
 Edited by Mrs. TROLLOPE. 
 
 2 vols. 8vo, with Illustrations, 32s. bound. 
 
 " A work full of every species of mterest and value wliich can attach to a book of travels. To 
 the UKiuiring tourist who is tired of the beaten tracks of the Continent, the author opens an 
 entire new field of travel, and smooths the paths through it. To the traveller whose journeys are 
 confined to books, he offers one in which there is as much variety as novelty, as much entertain- 
 ment as information. To the pliilosophic observer of human nature he presents a most interesting 
 object of study— to the antiquarian a most fertUe field of examination— to the lover of legendary 
 lore, and the inquirer into popular superstitions, an ample fund of new and strange materials 
 for thought and fancy. Finally, he puts on record a large body of singular and interesting facts, 
 touching an actual condition of society to which the extraordinary social changes that are at 
 hand throughout Europe, and especially in France, may, at no distant period, put an end'for ever. 
 Mixed with the graphic style of this book there is a liveliness and hun-hommie, which greatly add 
 to its charm, and which make the work altogether one of unusual attraction. The volumes are 
 embellished by mcuiy spmted and characteristic etchings." — New Monthly. 
 
 TRAVELS TO THE CITY OF THE CALIPHS, 
 
 ALONG THE SHORES OF THE PERSIAN GULPH AND THE MEDITERRANEAN. 
 
 BY J. R. WELLSTED, ESQ., F.R.S., F.R.A.S., ETC., 
 Author of " Travels in Arabia." 2 vols. 8vo, with Illustrations, 25s. bound. 
 
 " A publication of singular interest and entertainment." — Naval and Military Cassette. 
 
 " In these days of dull and fiat common-place, it is quite refreshing to come upon a narrative 
 of strange travel and wUd adventure like this, which recals to mind the exploits of the old 
 voyagers of Spain and England, when half of tlie world was vindiscovered, and the other half 
 unknown. Our traveller quits India by embarking on the Persian Gulf in a trading vessel bound 
 to Muscat, and the first important features of his narrative relate to that remarkable city. Here 
 he commences slave merchant, and embarks for Gambrun, visiting, in his way thither, some of 
 the singular islands in the Persian Gulf, and particularly those where the pearl fisheries are 
 established, of which he gives an interesting description. In due course he reaches Bagdad, the 
 celebrated ' City of the Caliphs,' remains there a considerable time, and affords many details of 
 it that are not to be found in the narrative of any other traveller. Among the most interesting 
 of his adventures are those which take place among the Arabs of the Desert, particularly the 
 Bedouins, with whom he passes a considerable period. Another point of great' interest in these 
 sketches is the celebrated city of Damascus, of which we have many graphic and characteristic 
 descriptions. The first volume concludes with a visit to Tripoli, Lebanon, and Baalbec. — 
 Naval and Military Gazette. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 A WINTER IN ICELAND AND LAPLAND. 
 
 BY THE HON. ARTHUR DILLON. 
 2 vols. postSvo, with Illustrations, price 21s. bound. 
 " The north of Europe presents much curious matter for investigation that has not yet been 
 explored as it deserves. Iceland and Lapland are all but untrodden regions. Mr. Dillon, inured 
 to the hardships of a northern winter, was induced by the interest he took in these nations to 
 attempt the hazardous expedition of visiting them in their remote and unfrequented homesteads ; 
 and these volumes, full of information, historical and descriptive, are the result of a journey not 
 less creditable to his literary character than his courage. Of Iceland he gives a very full account, 
 tracing the progress of the country from the earliest records of the first piratical descent on the 
 island in the ninth century to the present time. Tlie history is a sort of sea romance, in which 
 all the actors are marked by the strong features of a hardy clime and a daring spirit." — Atlas.
 
 10 MR. COLBURN'S NEW PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 A YEAR AMONG THE CIRCASSIANS. 
 
 BY J. A. LONGWORTir, f:SQ. 
 2 vols postSvo, with illustrations, 21s. bound, 
 
 " ^"'■oniparably the most valuable acconnt of Circassia that has yet appeared." — Court Journal. 
 
 " This account of Mr. Longworth's residence in Circassia will deeply interest our readers. 
 ^ Whether perused merely with a view to amusement, or studied as to the duties which England 
 has to discharge in the East,— in whatever aspect it is contemplated, Mr. Longworth's truly 
 g:i-aphic sketch cannot fail to reward the reader's attention."— Poii. 
 
 XL. 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE EAST; 
 
 BY D. URQUHART, ESQ. 
 
 Autlior of " Turkey and its Resources." Second Edition, 2 vols. 8vo. 28s. 
 
 " This is certainly one of the most interesting and valuable works of modern times. The infor- 
 mation, the learnmg, the admirable pictures of mankind in the eastern countries which the author 
 lays before us — the views of religion, legislation, social life, government and history — the errors 
 he clears up, and the facts, hitherto ahnost unknown, which he establishes — the felicity of his 
 illustrations, and the sprightliness of his narrative, make this one of the works of an age." — 
 Ti/ne Mercury. 
 
 XM. 
 
 LORD LINDSAY'S LETTERS on the HOLY LAND. 
 
 Third and Revised Edition, in 2 vols., with Illustrations. 24s. bound. 
 
 " Among the many travellers who have contributed to om- knowledge of the interesting regions 
 dignified by events recorded in Holy Writ, a promuient place must be assigned to Lord Lindsay. 
 His abilities and accomplishments are of a high order ; a spirit of inquirj- and a glowing enthu- 
 siasm liave been aided by various knowledge, and refined by a sincere pietj-. He exhibits a con- 
 siderable store both of ancient and modern learning, but liis draughts of Helicon have been 
 abundantly tempered by — 
 
 ' Siloa's brook, that flow'd 
 Fast by the Oracle of God.' 
 
 " Having gone out in the perseverance and devotion of a pilgrim, he has felt and recorded what 
 he saw with the wisdom of a phUosopher and the faith of au enhghteued Christian." — Quarterly 
 Review. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 A PILGRIMAGE TO PALESTINE. 
 
 BY THE REV. FATHER MARIE JOSEPH DE GERAMB, 
 
 Abbot and Procurator of La Trappe. 
 
 2 vols, post 8vo, with Illustrations, 21s. boiuid. 
 
 " These volumes are the most curious and interesting of their kind that we have lately met 
 with. They may be looked upon as the first written record ever made public of the actual daily 
 observations and feelings of a pilgrim to the Holy Sepulchre, and the other most famous scenes 
 of Holy Writ. The strong and evidently sincere religious feeling which per\-ades the volumes 
 throughout, will give them a strong interest with the religious portion of the commiuiit}-." — 
 Naval and Military Gazette, 
 
 XLIII. ! 
 
 TRAVELS IN PALESTINE AND SYRIA. | 
 
 BY GEORGE ROBINSON. ESQ. 
 
 2 vols, post 8vo, with Maps and Plans, price 21s. bound. 
 
 " Mr. Robinson has traversed the whole of SjTia and Palestuie, including the countries hing 
 east of the Jordan and the Ante-Libanus, and also many interesting portions of Asia Minor. Of 
 his travels he has here given a succinct, plain, and unornamented account. His joiu-nal is not 
 merely the best, but perhaps the only, guide through these remote regions." — Literary Gazette.
 
 VOYAGES AND TRAVELS. 11 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 NARRATIVE OF A TEN YEARS' 
 
 VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY 
 
 ROUND THK WORLD 
 
 OF H.M.S. ADVENTURE AND BEAGLE, 
 
 UNDER THE COMMAND OF 
 
 CAPTAINS KING AND FITZROY. 
 
 In 2 large vols. 8vo, witli M;ips, Charts, and upwards of Sixty Ilhistrations, 
 by Landseer, and other eminent Artists, price 21. 18s. bound. 
 
 " One of the most interesting narratives of voyaging' that it has fallen to our lot to notice, 
 and which must always occupy a distinguished space in the history of scientific navigation." — 
 Qunrter'.y Review. 
 
 These volumes detail the various incidents which occurred during the examination of the 
 Southern Shores of South America, and the Beagle's circumnavigation of the Globe, and add 
 considerably to our knowledge of Hydrography, Geography, and Natural History, and of the 
 Habits, &c. of the Aborigines. There will be found in them the materials of two distinct works, 
 embracing everything worthy of notice in the expeditions during a period of nearly ten years. 
 The lirst volume, by Captain P. P. King, F.R.S., relates to the expedition under his command, 
 with an Appendix by Major Sabine, R.A., F.R.S., containing discussions on the magnetic obser- 
 vations made during the voyages. The second volume is by Captain Robert Fitzroy, and 
 relates to the second voyage, with an Appendix, giving the determination of many positions and 
 measurements of meridian distances, and other nautical information. The work is beautifully 
 illustrated with etchings and engravings on steel, by Mr. Landseer and other eminent artists, 
 from dravs-ings by Mr. Martens and Mr. Earle ; and with Charts and Plans by Mr. Gardner and 
 Messrs. Walker: and an entirely new Map of South America, by Mr. J Arrowsmith, in which 
 the position of places may be ascertained to within less than two miles. In the volumes notices 
 will be found ot the Cape Verd, Falkland, and other Islands in the Atlantic Ocean — of the coasts 
 of Soutli America, from Pernambuco to Guayaquil — of the Galapagos Islands— the dangerous 
 Archipelago, or Low Islands — Otaheite — New Zealand — Australia — The Keeling Islands — 
 Mauritius— the Cape of Good Hope. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 MR. BREMNER'S NORWAY, DENMARK, 
 AND SWEDEN. 
 
 WITH NOTICES OF THE STATE OF PUBLIC OPINION IN THOSE COUNTRIES, AND 
 ANECDOTES OF THEIR COURTS. 
 
 2 vols. Bvo, with Portraits, 28s. bound. 
 " There is not a single reader of Mr. Bremner's admirable book on Russia who will not be 
 delighted again to encounter a traveller who unites in himself so many excellent qualities. 
 With liveliness and ban-hommie to please the most idle of readers, with good sense and impar- 
 tiality to satisfy the most critical, with activity, information, and judgment to turn all tlicse good 
 qualities to account, and a position in society that enables him to do so; these are the character- 
 istics which Mr. Bremner brings to the concoction of this new work. On every subject which 
 it touches — politics, statistics, public feeling, social habits and condition, agriculture, letters, 
 science, personal chai-acter — all is treated with impartiality and strong good sense." — New 
 Monthly. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 MR. BREMNER'S EXCURSIONS IN THE 
 INTERIOR OF RUSSIA; 
 
 INCLUDING SKETCHES OF THE EMPEROR NICHOLAS AND HIS COURT. 
 
 Second Edition, in two vols, post Bvo, with Illustrations, price 21s. bound. 
 " This ample and able work, the production of a man of sense and impartial observer, will soou 
 be in the hands of the majority of readers tliroughout the empire, and not improbably tlu-ougliout 
 Europe also." — Literary Gazette. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 AUSTRIA AND THE AUSTRIANS ; 
 
 WITH SKETCHES OF THE DANUBE AND THE IMPERIAL STATES. 
 
 2 vols, post Bvo, with Portraits, price 21s. 
 
 "This is at once an instructive and amusing book. It contains a great deal of inforraaticm, 
 a vast number of anecdotes ol distinguished persons, and a ma'^s of general instJTiction, im- 
 portant and novel." — Times.
 
 12 MR. COLBURN'S NEW PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 THE IDLER IN ITALY. 
 
 BEING A JOURNAL OF THE TRAVELS OF THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. 
 
 New and cheaper edition, 2 vols, post 8vo, with Portrait of the Author 
 after Landseer, price '2is. bound 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 LETTERS FROM THE SOUTH. 
 
 BY THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ., 
 
 Author of " The Pleasures of Hope,'' &c. 
 
 In 2 vols. 8vo, with Eleven Plates of Scenery, &c., 1/. lis. 6d. bound. 
 
 " A most remarkable and interesting work." — John Bull. 
 
 " There is much information and novelty in these volumes, and many sound reflections and 
 exquisite graces of poetical feeling." — Court Journal. 
 
 L. 
 
 SIR JAMES E. ALEXANDER'S EXCURSIONS 
 IN WESTERN AFRICA. 
 
 Second Edition, with Additions. 2 vols. 8vo., with ]Maps and numerous Plates, 
 
 24s. bound. 
 " This is a very interesting account of the colonies of Western Africa. Very little is known of 
 the new settlements on the African frontier, and it is a matter of surprise to us that no work, ex- 
 cept Mr. Martin's, has been published descriptive of theestabhshmentand rapid progress of these 
 acquisitions. The volumes before us contain a great deal of valuable and interesting intelli- 
 gence." — John Bull. 
 
 LI. 
 
 A JOURNEY ACROSS THE PAMPAS AND 
 THE ANDES, 
 
 FROM BUENOS AYRES TO VALPARAISO, LIMA, PANAMA, &c. 
 
 BY THE HON. P. CAMPBELL SCARLETT. 
 
 2 vols, post 8vo, with Illustrations, 25s. bound. 
 
 " These volumes abound wdth anecdotes and descriptions which will afford both information 
 and amusement to all classes of readers. The whole of the work wiil be read with pleasure ; but 
 the great commercial and political interests connected with the statements in it respecting steam 
 na\igation on the Pacific require tlie public attention to be particularly drawn to its considera- 
 tion." — Times. 
 
 LII. 
 
 TRAVELS IN EGYPT AND CANDIA; 
 
 WITH DETAILS OF THE MILITARY POWER AND RESOURCES OF THOSE 
 
 COUNTRIES, AND OBSERVATIONS ON THE GOVERNMENT, POLICY, 
 
 AND COMMERCIAL SYSTEM OF MOHAMMED ALL 
 
 BY CAPT. C. R. SCOTT, H.P. Royal Staff Corps. 
 
 2 vols. 8vo, with Illustrations, price 28s. 
 " One of the most sterling pubUcations of the season." — Naval and Military Gazette. 
 
 EXCURSIONS IN THE MOUNTAINS OF 
 RONDA AND GRANADA. 
 
 BY CAPT. C. ROCHFORT SCOTT, 2 vols. 8vo, with Illustrations. 28s. bound.
 
 WORKS ON SPORTING. 13 
 
 HISTORY OF THE BRITISH TURF, 
 
 FROM THE EARLIEST PERIOD TO THE PRESENT 1 
 
 BY JAMES CHRISTIE WHYTE, ESQ. 
 In Two Large Volumes, 8vo, with Illustrations. Price 28s, bound 
 
 COMPRISING : — 
 
 1. Memoirs and Anecdotes of re- 
 
 markable Sporting Characters 
 
 2. The Performances and Pedigrees 
 
 of celebrated Racehorses 
 3. Descriptions of the Racecourses 
 in Great Britain 
 
 4. The Plates and Stakes annually 
 run for over them 
 
 5. Accounts of the most approved 
 
 Method of Breeding, Training, 
 and Managing Racehorses 
 
 6. Notices of celebrated Jockeys 
 
 7. Description of the principal Races and Matches. 
 
 Also, every Particular, technical and otherwise, to which the Lover of Racing may 
 
 desire to refer, either as a matter of business or amusement. 
 
 " This work must become a standard authority on the subject of horses and horseracins:, and 
 no one at all interested in such subjects will be without it, whilst the general reader will be de- 
 lighted with it for the pleasant spirit in which it is written, and the singular traits of extraor- 
 dinary character with which it is so profusely studded." — Argus. 
 
 LV. 
 
 THE SPORTSMAN IN IRELAND, 
 
 AND THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 BY R. ALLEN, ESQ., A.M., F.S.A., &C. 
 
 In 2 vols, post 8vo, with numerous illustrations, price I8s. bound. 
 
 " A most well-informed, humorous, and agreeable travelling companion. The leading features 
 are all, more or less, of a sporting nature ; and in this point of view the work has uncommon 
 interest. The details the author gives of his various ' experiences' in the beautiful lands which 
 he passed over, cannot fail to send hosts of sportsmen thither who never before contemplated 
 such a visit, and many more who would scarcely have ventured such an undertaking without the 
 guide here placed at their disposal. The work is embellished with very many spirited and inter- 
 esting sketches of remarkable localities, and is altogether one of the most readable and amusing 
 books of its kind that we have had for many a day."— JVezu Monthly. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 SCENES AND SPORTS IN FOREIGN LANDS. 
 
 BY MAJOR E. NAPIER, 46th Regt, 
 2 vols, small 8vo, with Nineteen Illustrations, 21s. bound. 
 
 " Through the medium of these pages the sportsman in England may enjoy his leisure by 
 becommg ac(|uamted with the proceedings of his brother sportsmen abroad, in climes where the 
 game sought, instead of bemg confined to hare, pheasant, partridge, and similar timid denizens 
 of our stubbles and coverts, comprises tigers, wolves, bears, jackals, buffaloes, elks, and other 
 dangerous inhabitants of the tropical wilderness. But, whatever may be the risk attendant on 
 their pursuit and death, our gallant adventurer will here be found seeking them in their desert 
 and jungle retreats, eager to attack whatever might offer in the way of sport, from a sni))c to an 
 elephant ; the result of which is, that the wide 'preserves' of the far East are thrown open for 
 the reader, and he is shewn the various methods pursued to bring down the game, while enter- 
 tained with the amusing adventures of tlie daring hunter." — Age. 
 
 SPORTING EXCURSIONS IN THE ROCKY 
 MOUNTAINS. 
 
 BY J. K. TOWNSHEND, ESQ. 
 
 2 vols, post 8vo, with Illustrations, 18s. bound. 
 
 " Mr. Townshond supplies in those volumes a fund of very curious and entertaining matter. 
 There is much variety and information of a practical kind in the book, and it will be especially 
 acceptable to naturalists on account of the dcscrii)tions of the animals with which the regions 
 traversed by the writer abound. On the whole, the work forms a most valuable addition to the 
 library of American travels." — Atlas.
 
 14 MR. COLBUKN'S NEAV PUBIJCATIONS. 
 
 COMIC MISCELLANIES. 
 
 IN PROSE AND VERSE. 
 
 BY THE LATE JAMES SINIITH, ESQ. 
 
 One of the authors of" Rejected Addresses." 
 
 With a Selection from his Correspondence, and Memoirs of his Life. 
 
 BY HIS BROTHER, HORACE SMLfH, ESQ. 
 
 Second edition, with additions, 2 vols, post 8vo, with portrait, 21s. bound. 
 
 " One of the most amusing books that have seen the light, since the ever famous Rejectetl 
 Addresses themselves." — Globe. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 COMMENTARIES ON THE HISTORICAL 
 PLAYS OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 BY THE RIGHT HON. T. P. COURTENAY. 
 
 2 vols, post 8vo, 18s. bound. 
 
 "We have read this work with pleasure as the production of a scholar and a gentleman of 
 refined taste and acute judgment. The many new points of view which he takes, and the many 
 lights which he throws upon passages of the immortal bard, command our lively interest. It 
 deserves the attention of the public as an almost inseparable companion to Shakspeare's Plays. 
 Indeed, it is a work without which we do not look to see a respectable hbraiy, or collection of 
 polite literature." — Lit. Gazette. 
 
 LX. 
 
 VISCOUNT DE CHATEAUBRIAND'S SKETCHES 
 OF THE LITERATURE OF ENGLAND. 
 
 2nd Edition. 2 vols. 8vo, 24s. 
 
 "There has not appeared, for along time, any work so calculated to pique the curiosity of 
 the hterary world as this new production of the celebrated Chateaubriand, in which he discusses 
 the merits of Shakspeare, Milton, Byron, and the whole galaxy of ancient as well as modern 
 English wTiters j drawing the most curious comparisons and analogies." — Globe, 
 
 LXI. 
 
 LORD BROUGHAM'S OPINIONS 
 
 ON POLITICS, THEOLOGY, LAW, SCIENCE, LITERATURE, ETC. 
 
 WITH A MEMOIR OF HIS LORDSHIp's LIFE. 
 
 One very thick and closely-printed volume, price 12s. bound. 
 
 " The design of this volume is to afford a collective view of his Lordship's opinions and practical 
 objects. It embodies not only the most brUliant passages from his celebrated speeches and 
 writings, but also unfolds to the reader the gradual development of his mind on thosegreat ques- 
 tions in politics, literature, and science, in which learned men of aU countries and all ages must 
 ever take a lively interest. To the selections is prefixed a prefaton- memoir, wliich will be found 
 more complete, accurate, and elaborate, than any that has hitherto appeared, containing paiti- 
 culars of his Lordship's early, and also of his more advanced, life, with a philosophical analysis of 
 his mind and writings." 
 
 "This volume is calculated to be of infinite ser\dce, by teaching its readers to think, and think 
 justly, on aU the great pchtical questions of the day." — Sun. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 THE AMERICAN IN PARIS ; 
 
 OR, SKETCHES OF THE NEW INSTITUTIONS, THE EMBELLISHMENTS, THE 
 SOCIETY, THE ECCENTRIC CHARACTERS, THE WOMEN, THE PRESS, 
 THE LITERATURE, ETC., OF PARIS. 
 
 2 vols, post 8vo, price IBs. 
 
 " We cordially recommend this book to our readers as by veri- far the best, because incom- 
 parably the most amusing as weU as informing. Guide to Paris that we are acquainted with in 
 the Knglish language, or indeed in any other."— A'ut'u/ aiid Military Gazette.
 
 POETICAL WORKS, &c. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 WRITTEN AND SET TO MUSIC DY 
 
 HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCE ALBERT, & PRINCE ERNEST. 
 Translated from the German, by G. F. Richardson, Esq. 
 
 DEDICATED, BY PERMISSION, TO H.R.H. THE DUCHESS OF KENT. 
 
 Imperial 4to, containing Fourteen Songs, and Forty-two Pages of Music, with a 
 beautifully engraved Portrait of Prince Albert, price 12s. 
 
 LIST OF THE SONGS. THE WORDS IN ENGLISH AND GERMAN. 
 
 I 1. Farewell to Home. 
 
 2. To my lirother. 
 
 3. Italian Song'. 
 
 4. The Bark dashes wildlj'. 
 
 5. The Wanderhig Hai'per. 
 
 6. Sleep, O Sleep. 
 
 7. Say, sleepest thou, Love ? 
 
 S. To an absent Friend. 
 
 9. Yonder, thou shalt find the 
 
 blessing. 
 10. All silent were the foun- 
 tains. 
 
 1 1 . Come, dearest, come. 
 
 12. How sweet this hour of 
 pure devotion. 
 
 13. As the bark dashes wildly. 
 
 14. The star of splendour. - 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 THE DREAM ; AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON. 
 
 Second Edition, with Additions. In 1 vol., with Fine Portrait of the Authoress, 
 after a Drawing by E. Landseer, R.A., price KJs.Gd. bound, 
 
 " A very beautiful poem. This lady is the Byron of our modem poetesses." — Quarterly 
 Review. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 POPULAR SONGS OF IRELAND. 
 
 Collected and Edited, with Introductions and Notes, by 
 
 T. CROFTON CROKER, ESQ. 
 
 1 vol. with Illustrations, price 10s. 6d. bound. 
 
 " A volume of singular interest and curiosity. It is even more than this, — it is a publication 
 
 of real value, as illustrative of the past and present condition, bothmental and moral, of the most 
 
 singular people in the world. At the same time, it is, as a collection of lyrical compositions, full 
 
 of the graces and beauty of which that class of poetry is so eminently sasceptible." — Naval and 
 
 Military Gazette. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 TPIE ROSE-FANCIER'S MANUAL. 
 
 BY MRS. CHARLES GORE. 
 New and cheaper edition, one elegant vol., price 6s. bound. 
 
 CONTENTS : 
 
 Geography of Roses — Culture of Roses^Glossology of Roses— Hybridity — Importanceof Specific 
 Characters— Comparison of Specific Characters — On Species — Distinction of Species and Variety 
 — Bibliography of the Rose — Pharmacopoeia of Roses — Monography of the Rose, comprising 
 notices of 2500 Varieties — List of the Species admitted by Botanists, &c. &c. 
 
 "AH the lovers of flowers, and especially the fairer portion of our readers, ought forthwith to 
 have this elegant volume in their possession." — Sun. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 THE ART OF NEEDLEWORK, 
 
 FROM THE EARLIEST AGES. 
 
 With Notices of the Ancient Historical Tajjestries. 
 
 EDITED BY THE RIGHT HON. THE COUNTESS OF WILTON. 
 
 Second edition, revised, in I vol. post 8vo, 10s. 6d. bound. 
 
 " An admirable volume. It should be possessed by every lady." — Times. 
 
 " A charming volume. We congratulate our fair countrywomen on this valuable addition to 
 their libraries." — Herald.
 
 16 MR. COLBURN'S NEW PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 LXVIIT. 
 
 THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES 
 
 OF 
 
 MICHAEL ARMSTRONG, THE FACTORY BOY. 
 
 BY MRS. TROLLOPE. 
 
 Now complete in 1 Vol. 8vo., price 12s. bound, or in 12 Parts at Is. each, printed 
 and embellished uniformly with " Nicholas Nickleby," &c. 
 " We are exceedingly glad that Mrs. TroUope has devoted the energies of her powerful and 
 fertile mind to the production of tliis at once striking, amusing, and useful work. Without any 
 desire to depreciate the value of simUar productions, we cannot but consider this as infinitely 
 more valuable than any which we have yet seen." — Metropolitan Conservative Journal. 
 
 NOW IN COURSE OF PUBLICATION, IN OCCASIONAL VOLUMES, 
 PRICE ONLY 6s. EACH BOUXD, 
 
 Printed uniformly with Byron and Scott, and beautifully embellished with the 
 
 Portraits of the Authors, and other Engravings, by the Findens 
 
 and other eminent Artists. 
 
 COLBURN'S STANDARD NOVELISTS, 
 
 A SELECT COLLECTION OF 
 
 OF 
 
 THE MOST DISTINGUISHED ENGLISH WRITERS, WHICH CANNOT BE PROCURED 
 
 IN ANY OTHER COLLECTION. 
 
 The Proprietor of the Series here announced having had the good 
 fortune to publish averj' large proportion of the most masterly modern 
 works of Fiction — such as have become incorporated with the literature 
 of the country, — is obviously placed in the most favourable position 
 for an undertaking of this nature ; and he has determined that no 
 composition of inferior and ephemeral character shall be admitted into 
 the collection ; but that those works- alone which have received the 
 stamp of unequivocal public approbation, and which may be read 
 from time to time with still recurring pleasure and profit, shall 
 constitute the Series. 
 
 "Vtrorks Ttrliicli bave already appeared in tlie above Collection. 
 
 SIR E. L. BULWER's PELHAM 
 
 SIR E. L. BULWER's DISOWNED 
 
 SIR E. L. BULWER's DEVEREUX 
 
 MR. ward's TREMAINE 
 
 MR. smith's BR.AMBLETYE HOUSE 
 
 MR. smith's ZILLAH ,^^ 
 
 MR. lister's GRANBY 
 
 LADY morgan's o'dONNEL 
 
 LADY morgan's FLORENCE MACAETHY 
 
 " ' ColbiuTi's Modem Novelists' present a series of those works of fiction that have most tended, 
 with the writings of Sir Waiter Scott, to elevate this description of literature. This publication 
 presents a concentration of imaginative genius." — Globe. 
 
 *^* Due notice ivill be given of the future appearance of each new volume of this itork. 
 
 - — — —f 3 5 10 
 
 AGENTS FOR SCOTLAND : MESSRS. BELL AND BRADFDTE, EDINBURGH. 
 AGENT FOR IRELAND : MR. JOHN CUMMING, DUBLIN. j 
 
 T. C. Savill, Pnnter, 10", St. Martin's Lane. 
 
 CAPT. MARRYAT S FRANK MILDMAY 
 MR. hook's sayings AND DOINGS 
 
 (First Series) 
 MR. hook's sayings AND DOINGS 
 
 (Secoid Series) 
 MR. hook's SAYINGS AND DOINGS 
 
 {Third Series) 
 
 MR. James's richelieu 
 
 ME. GLEIg's CHELSEA PENSIONERS
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below 
 
 JWi\ 1 2 
 
 a4ft 
 
 _. A.M. 
 
 F£l 3 19if 
 MAY 7 195t" 
 
 NOV 2 - 1959 
 
 :fk 
 
 t^l965i 
 
 MAlW-^^Ai 
 
 AP« 1. 
 
 liioi^j^^^i^^gj^:^ 
 
 ^ glU8H1967. 
 
 -fiECT) 
 
 M4R24f96f 
 
 1955 
 
 i >••■.>:• •Sol 
 
 
 p^.5"iy>"*^^wj:£g'g^igii 
 
 45 
 
 Fonn.L-9-21 
 
 ™^"«'^ERsmr OF c alitornu 
 
 -AT 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 LIBRART
 
 PN2638.F5 H7 
 
 L 009 523 342 5 
 
 ' AA 001275 688
 
 f,