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 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' 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,