JCT7TF SffUPTS, 
 M, t
 
 UNIVERSITY of (SftLIFORNT/
 
 BRICHANTEAU
 
 BRICHANTEAU 
 
 actor 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 BOSTON 
 LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 
 
 1897 
 
 102579
 
 Copyright, 1897, 
 BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. 
 
 JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
 
 BRICHANTEAU, ACTOR. 
 2De&icattotu 
 
 LIFE on the stage is the never-ending race for the 
 Chimera. 
 
 I dedicate this book, in which I have set down, 
 with so many souvenirs from my own experience, 
 many confidences of the vanquished in the dramatic 
 art, to the artists of the Comedie- Franchise, those 
 glorious actors who have been my collaborators dur- 
 ing more than ten years of my life. 
 
 More fortunate than the wanderer whose joyous or 
 illusory adventures I have related, they have not lived 
 that haphazard life. They know these distresses that 
 they may alleviate them. Being the privileged ones 
 of the art, they have more pity than any one else for 
 its castaways. 
 
 I trust that they will find in these sincere pages 
 some truth which may remind them of comrades left 
 behind them on the road in the great journey toward 
 glory ; and, surely, a full expression of the sympathy of 
 a man of letters who, as director or dramatic author, 
 has always loved those who have battled with him 
 or for him. 
 
 JULES CLARETIE.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. THE MODEL . i 
 
 II. THE LASSO 31 
 
 III. THE CARD PHOTOGRAPH 70 
 
 IV. ONE OF BRICHANTEAU'S GREAT DAYS . 101 
 
 V. THE EMPEROR WAS OURS! 126 
 
 VI. BRICHANTEAU'S PAST 168 
 
 VII. FOR NAPOLEON 210 
 
 VIII. THE CASTING 241 
 
 IX. THE LATE PANAZOL 256 
 
 X. SHOOTING STARS 281 
 
 XI. THE LAST MEETING 318
 
 JULES CLARETIE. 
 
 THE name of M. Jules Claretie is, I imagine, 
 as well known in New York as it is in France. 
 And this, not only because the man who bears 
 it occupies a high official position, but also be- 
 cause he is the general manager of the Come'die 
 Franchise, an academician, and a commander 
 in the Legion of Honor. All this has undoubt- 
 edly added to his reputation and contributed to 
 spread it beyond the frontiers. But his chief 
 title to fame is the number and importance of 
 his works. 
 
 M. Jules Claretie is what is called a polygraph. 
 He has always taken a lively and intelligent 
 interest in a great variety of subjects. History, 
 current events, the fine arts, the novel, the stage, 
 have all, in turn, engaged his attention. He is 
 one of those who may be said to have taken for 
 their motto, Nulla dies sine line a " Let no day 
 pass without writing something." He writes 
 with an ease and felicity of expression which 
 do not exclude, in the historian, a decided 
 taste for exact documentation, nor, in the novel-
 
 Vlll JULES CLARETIE. 
 
 ist, habits of precise observation and profound 
 reflection. 
 
 He has, above all, a singularly keen sense for 
 discovering subjects that are, as we say, in the 
 air. I mean by this subjects which, without 
 having been yet discussed, are in some sort 
 expected by the public. It was in this way 
 that he came to write " M. le Ministre," a novel 
 which has already reached its seventieth edition. 
 M. le Ministre is the politician who, a year 
 after arriving from his province, and still un- 
 familiar with Parisian life, suddenly finds him- 
 self, thanks to the parliamentary game of chance, 
 raised to the office of Minister of the Home 
 Department. 
 
 He becomes puffed up with pride ; he snatches 
 eagerly at the joys which power gives ; he de- 
 vours greedily the pleasures of his new exist- 
 ence; he falls into the hands of a woman 
 against whom a true Parisian would have easily 
 defended himself, but who takes possession 
 of this unsophisticated soul and moulds it to 
 her will. The first hundred pages of the novel 
 are among the most brilliant in our contempo- 
 rary literature. 
 
 M. Jules Claretie has had a wide acquaint- 
 ance with actors. For he has put upon the 
 stage, and consequently has had rehearsed, 
 some plays which had an immense success,
 
 JULES CLARETIE. IX 
 
 " Princesse Zilah," " Les Mascadins," and " Mar- 
 ceau." But he has had an opportunity of study- 
 ing them still more closely since he has been the 
 manager of the Come"die Frangaise, for he has 
 constantly had to bear with their foibles and 
 their eccentricities, at the same time that he 
 has learned to esteem their great and sterling 
 qualities. 
 
 In this way it was that the idea occurred to 
 him of writing " Brichanteau." Brichanteau is 
 a type which is probably unknown to you in 
 America, but examples of which are numerous 
 among us. He is the actor enamoured of his art, 
 but who, for one reason or another, has not 
 achieved success ; he is the man who has failed 
 in his career, to use an expression brought 
 into fashion by Alphonse Daudet, but he is a 
 failure without melancholy or envy, an optimist 
 failure. 
 
 Brichanteau had received rich gifts from 
 nature, a voice which drowned the thunder- 
 ing voice of Beauvallet, his master, a quick 
 intelligence, and a love for his profession. He 
 would have entered, had Heaven so willed it, the 
 Comedie Frangaise, where he would have shone 
 beside Maubant. But fate was against him. 
 Beauvallet was jealous of his powerful organ, and 
 did him an ill turn. Instead of pursuing the 
 path which would lead to fame and fortune,
 
 x JULES CLARETIE. 
 
 Brichanteau went astray at the cross-roads. He 
 made the tour of the provincial theatres; he 
 played, according as his engagements chanced 
 to require, the best and the worst parts ; he was, 
 by turn, Orestes in " Andromache," Andres in 
 " Les Pirates de la Savane," Ruy Silva in Victor 
 Hugo's " Hernani," and Orsini in " La Tour de 
 Nesle." He had even been a monk in the 
 " Huguenots," and a man-at-arms in " Gene- 
 vieve de Brabant," without considering himself 
 lowered thereby. There is no humiliation in 
 discharging the lowest functions when one does 
 it with the consciousness of rendering a service 
 to art. 
 
 As he grew older he grew poorer, but still 
 without losing his dignity. Finally, to avoid 
 dying of starvation, he accepted an insignificant 
 employment in the velodrome of Buffalo Bill. 
 He became a " starter" in the cycle races. It 
 was his duty to give the signals. These func- 
 tions, however little brilliant they might be, gave 
 him the occasion for making some graceful 
 gestures, and these gestures, which were really 
 artistic, compensated him for his mortifications ; 
 he needed but very little to console him. 
 
 You are, of course, familiar with Dolobella in 
 Alphonse Daudet's celebrated novel, " Fromont, 
 Risler, and Company." Brichanteau has cer- 
 tain points of resemblance with Dolobella.
 
 JULES CLARETIE. XI 
 
 They are, however, very different men. Dolo- 
 bella is an egotist who sacrifices everything, 
 including his wife and daughter, to his devour- 
 ing pride ; and who is not even conscious of 
 the sufferings which he inflicts on the victims 
 of his vanity, which in the end becomes fatal to 
 them. 
 
 Brichanteau injures no one. His harmlessness 
 is carried to so ridiculous an extreme that it is 
 positively touching. 
 
 Brichanteau is charming because he is always 
 treading the boards, because be believes, in 
 good faith, that his life is a drama in which he 
 plays the principal part. Claretie has described 
 with delightful irony this ridiculous side of the 
 character of his hero, who wears in ordinary 
 life the nodding plumes of the stage. Nothing 
 could be more delightful than the episode in 
 which Brichanteau tells, with the utmost serious- 
 ness, how, in 1870, he had formed a plan to 
 kidnap the King of Prussia at Versailles, and 
 how, if this plan, as marvellously constructed as 
 the plot of one of D'Ennery's pieces, had suc- 
 ceeded, France would have been saved. 
 
 Brichanteau is altogether artless. He allows 
 himself to be carried away by the sentiments 
 he utters. In his tours through the provinces 
 he takes with him a wreath which is to be pre- 
 sented to him in the last act, as he is leaving
 
 Xli JULES CLARETIE. 
 
 the stage. When it is given to him, he weeps 
 real tears of pride and emotion. He is sincere, 
 for he is an illusionist, or, as we would say now, 
 he is a victim of self-suggestion. 
 
 For every circumstance of his life he has 
 words taken from his repertory. He does not 
 say: "I shall require five louis." He thinks 
 of " Hernani " and speaks of five carolus d'or. 
 He goes boating of an evening and thinks of 
 Mordaunt in " The Three Musketeers." If his 
 nose bleeds, he remembers the blood-stained 
 handkerchief which Andre Roswein, in Octave 
 Feuillet's drama, offers to Dalila. What we call 
 the professional bent is strongly marked in 
 Brichanteau. Wherever he is, whatever he may 
 be doing, he is always on the boards. 
 
 But what distinguishes him from many of his 
 congeners is that he is neither disagreeable nor 
 cynical. Brichanteau's fatuousness is always 
 good-humored, and his vanity is always relieved 
 by a deep feeling for art. We can easily for- 
 give him his little oddities because he loves his 
 profession, because he holds it to be the highest 
 of all professions, because he will never be 
 guilty of a meanness which might dim its splen- 
 dor in the eyes of the Philistines. 
 
 Jules Claretie has grasped all the shades of 
 character of his hero, and has rendered them 
 with great delicacy. Brichanteau is a living
 
 JULES CLARETIE. xill 
 
 person whom we have all known, and who unites 
 in himself a whole generation of actors of a 
 bygone day, who have now disappeared or 
 who are fast disappearing. 
 
 The work is written with a sprightly and 
 witty pen. The language is easy to under- 
 stand, however little familiar one may be with 
 the French of the day. I think, therefore, that 
 the book will be appreciated among you as it 
 has been in Paris. I do not know, in any case, 
 where you could find more curious and exact 
 information regarding the spiritual state of the 
 exceptional being whom we call the actor when 
 he succeeds in his profession, and the strolling 
 player when he struggles against evil fortune or 
 when he is overwhelmed by it. FRANCISQUE 
 SARCEY, Staff Contributor to Arts and Letters 
 Department, in the Cosmopolitan Magazine,
 
 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 i. 
 
 THE MODEL. 
 
 BEFORE the statue of The Roman Soldier Humiliated 
 Under the Gallic Yoke, Brichanteau stood for a long 
 time, his felt hat over one ear, his hands in his pock- 
 ets, contemplating that work of art with the air of a 
 connoisseur, indulgent and almost tender; while I, 
 glancing from the statue to the actor, traced a vague 
 resemblance between the carven features and those 
 of Sbastien Brichanteau, interpreter of leading roles 
 in various theatres in France and in foreign lands. 
 
 The statue stood in an obscure corner of the Gar- 
 den of Sculpture, at the Salon, near the kitchens of 
 some refreshment-rooms, or the ash-heap of some 
 engine, one of those corners where no one passes, 
 the works of art being left exposed to a lamentable 
 sort of neglect. There the smiling statues take on 
 a melancholy air, and the sorrowful plaster-casts 
 assume even more lugubrious attitudes. The con- 
 i
 
 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 quered Roman, with his number pasted on the ped- 
 estal, 3773, and the ox-yoke on his neck, bowed his 
 head with more bitterness in that solitude, where, 
 perhaps, Brichanteau and I alone had disturbed him 
 since Varnishing Day. A manly figure, moreover, 
 with a gloomy, sorrowful expression, a frown on his 
 brow, a trifle theatrical, but painful to see, the statue 
 angrily bent its broad shoulders, and the muscles of 
 its arms seemed to grow harder in the effort to break 
 the bonds which rudely cut its wrists. 
 
 "That Roman resembles you, Monsieur Brichan- 
 teau ! " I said to him. 
 
 The great man bowed, with a beautiful gesture, 
 respectful and solemn, like Ruy Bias presenting the 
 King's letter to the Queen of Spain; then, with "his 
 usual pomposity, tempered on this occasion by an 
 emotion voluntarily dissembled, he said, 
 
 " There is nothing astonishing in that, monsieur ! 
 This warrior, this vanquished one, why, it was I who 
 posed for him ! Yes, I ! I am sometimes a model 
 in my leisure hours. I do not think that I have the 
 right to refuse to art the external gifts that nature 
 has bestowed so bountifully upon me, if I do say it. 
 Art never varies : my intelligence, then, is at the ser- 
 vice of the poets in their interpretation; and my 
 body always ready to guide the inspiration of painters 
 and sculptors. Hugo would go into bankruptcy if 
 I did not devote all my brain-power to him, and
 
 THE MODEL. 
 
 contemporaneous plastic art if I were sparing of 
 my fine presence. Those are sentiments you will 
 understand ! 
 
 " And so I posed for this Roman ! This Roman, 
 who embodies the grief of a nation, is myself, all 
 myself! Monsieur, you may believe me or not, as 
 you choose, but I intended to put into my pose the 
 soul of a whole people. I said to Montescure that 
 is the sculptor's name, his signature is there under the 
 left foot I said to him : ' Montescure, notice the 
 curl of my lip. Does it not express all the bitterness 
 of defeat? If it does not, I will make it do so.' It 
 is true, monsieur, I am a patriot ; it was foolish, per- 
 haps, but hi '70 I did my best to escape the embrace 
 of the foreigner. It was only by chance that arbiter 
 of the destiny of nations that I did not change 
 contemporaneous history, and I retain memories of 
 that time which I will call sadly glorious or gloriously 
 sad, as you prefer. Briefly, monsieur, I tried to 
 express all this in the curl of my lip. Again I asked : 
 ' Is it there ? ' and Montescure replied, coughing as 
 he spoke : ' It is there, Brichanteau ; do not tire 
 yourself, or it will turn to a grimace ! ' I had not 
 much time to tire myself, there were so many inter- 
 ruptions during the sittings. Poor fellow ! He was 
 sometimes taken with such fits of coughing that he 
 would sit down and bend over double on his chair. 
 Thereupon I would rise, bring him a glass of water,
 
 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 or make him a tisane; and when I resumed my pose, 
 you understand, there was nothing affected about the 
 curl of my lip then, nothing at all, and I had not much 
 difficulty in representing the bitterness of defeat. 
 
 " Montescure was very particular about that bitter- 
 ness. It was the idea of his face. He never began 
 on a statue without a fixed idea. I am of the same 
 school myself. He wanted to express all the impo- 
 tent rage of the vanquished, exactly as I do myself, 
 when I say to Henri III. : ' I defy you still, Sire, 
 although you hold me, disarmed, and foaming at the 
 mouth, under your iron heel ! ' He was a noble 
 youth, that Montescure. A brave heart ! and talent ! 
 ah ! such talent ! You have only to look at this 
 statue ! I believed that it was difficult to interpret 
 all the mute eloquence of my pose; you see, mon- 
 sieur, he did interpret it ! 
 
 " How did I come to know Montescure ? Oh ! it 
 is quite a long story. Let us sit down here ; I will tell 
 you. Poor Montescure ! On this bench where we 
 sit, I have seen many people sitting since the Opening. 
 No one looks at poor Montescure's Vanquished 
 Roman. High art has no chance to-day. And yet 
 God only knows the hopes Montescure built upon that 
 figure ! An order, a medal, a place at the Luxem- 
 bourg, in the Museum or in the garden. Ah ! his 
 brain kept going and going and became inflamed. 
 He had, moreover, a constant fever. I looked at
 
 THE MODEL. 5 
 
 him as he worked, and I could not refrain from say- 
 ing to him : ' Dear young master, take care ! The 
 blade wears away the scabbard as time wears away 
 grief.' He replied : ' Ah ! nonsense ! Let us keep 
 pegging away!' 
 
 " He was a child of the South, but not vigorous and 
 rugged like most of the people of that country ; no, 
 a half-Toulousan, thin as a Paris gamin, but very 
 courageous, on my word, and very poor. He began 
 his career as a member of the orchestra at the Theatre 
 du Capitole ; then he came to Paris, and, even in the 
 studio, he played the horn while moulding the clay. 
 He has often told me about it. Playing the horn ! 
 A villanous calling, you say? All callings are hon- 
 orable, monsieur, when art is their goal. There are 
 people who are passionately fond of the horn. At the 
 Conservatory there 's a teacher of the horn who has 
 grown old after doing nothing but that all his life, 
 playing the horn and teaching others to play. Statues 
 have been erected to less heroic men. Well, Mon- 
 tescure, before he entered the Chavanat studio, had 
 graduated from that hero's class, and with highest 
 honors. Highest honors for playing the horn ! That 
 triumph did him little good, however. He could put 
 on his card, Prize-winner at the Conservatory, and 
 could offer his services to play at wine-shops and 
 weddings. Artists, monsieur, endure sufferings that 
 the common herd will never understand.
 
 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 " In Montescure 's case, however, the horn was 
 simply a means of livelihood ; his object in life was 
 sculpture, to leave a name graven in marble or 
 bronze, or even in terra-cotta ; a laudable ambition, 
 I confess, monsieur, and worthy of a proud heart. 
 Montescure had said to himself that the horn his 
 horn would furnish food for his mind. Pardon the 
 juxtaposition of words which vaguely resembles a 
 pun, 1 a literary foible which I detest, as I do operettas 
 and farces, the enemies of art. And Montescure, who 
 worked at his sculpture during the day, played in the 
 evening in the orchestra at the Theatre de Mont- 
 martre, where the stringency of the time had com- 
 pelled me to accept an engagement, yes, myself, 
 Brichanteau ! 
 
 "A temporary engagement, however, and not 
 wholly without benefit to my talents. There, with 
 my eye upon an entirely unique and often very thinly 
 scattered audience, I was able to feel the artistic 
 pulse of the people of the outskirts of Paris. Mon- 
 sieur, those people still love the drama ! When I 
 appeared in Marceau, a patriotic thrill I could feel 
 it ran through those enthusiastic plebeian stalls. 
 I consented, one Sunday, at the earnest request of a 
 young actress of much promise, whose earnestness 
 
 1 The reference is to the use of the word cor (horn) which 
 somewhat resembles cceur (heart), in close proximity to the 
 word dme, sometimes used in the sense of "heart."
 
 THE MODEL. 
 
 moved me more than her beauty, although that was 
 disturbing to one's peace of mind I consented, I 
 say, to play Ruy Bias, at the last moment. Monsieur, 
 they nearly carried me in triumph, and the director 
 of the theatre at Nantes, who had come expressly to 
 hear Mademoiselle Pascali her name was Pascali, 
 Le"a Pascali said to me after the performance : ' I 
 came to see Mademoiselle Pascali, because I need a 
 jeune premiere ; but you have impressed me, you 
 only ! I profoundly regret that you are not a jeune 
 premiere' That compliment flattered me, though 
 decidedly original. It displeased Le"a, I ought to say, 
 and was the cause of a rupture which I might myself 
 otherwise have provoked, for I felt that that woman 
 held a place in my life that art alone should hold. 
 But let us pass on. 
 
 "I played, then, at the Theatre de Montmartre. 
 And when I appeared, above the tremolo of the 
 orchestra, I had often been struck by a note, at 
 the same time plaintive and vigorous, that accom- 
 panied my entrance, the note of a horn, melan- 
 choly and powerful, 
 
 ' Oh, how sad is the sound of the horn in the depths of 
 the woods ! ' 
 
 and in the depths of the orchestra also. 
 
 " Instinctively I looked down although I detest 
 music, the art of pure sensations ; inferior to poetry,
 
 8 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 which lives on thought. I looked at the musician 
 who played the horn. He was a very young man, 
 pale, thin, sickly, whose emaciated face became 
 purple when he blew into his horn with his weak 
 lungs ; often I have heard him cough and cough ; 
 and one evening, during the act in La Tour de Nesle, 
 where I say to Marguerite de Bourgogne : ' Queen, 
 where are your guards? When a man and woman 
 stand face to face, when the man commands and 
 the woman trembles, it is the man who is king ! ' 
 at that moment the musician was taken with a 
 fit of coughing oh ! such a dreadful fit of cough- 
 ing. Confusion, cries, protestations! 'Take him 
 out ! ' ' Silence ! ' ' Give him some jujube ! ' ' They 
 want a doctor ! ' As for me, I still held Marguerite 
 de Bourgogne terrified and shivering under the stern, 
 twofold menace of my gesture and my glance ; and 
 as the poor fellow's coughing continued in deplor- 
 able fashion, a cry came down from the upper gal- 
 leries, like a sharp sword, and struck the unfortunate 
 fellow full in the breast : ' Get out of the orchestra, 
 sirop de cadavre ! ' 
 
 " Monsieur, the spontaneous homage of a crowd 
 touches me as keenly as its cruelty tortures me. There 
 was in the hall, at the sally of that Chamfort of the 
 gallery of the gods if I may so express myself there 
 was, I say, such a burst of laughter that I was filled 
 with pity to the bottom of my soul ; and I was angry too,
 
 THE MODEL. 
 
 the more angry because Madame Nathan, who was 
 playing the role of Marguerite de Bourgogne, and 
 who, moreover, was one of those women who look upon 
 the stage much less as a place consecrated to art 
 than as a pedestal for their beauty, because 
 Madame Nathan burst out laughing ! yes, she, 
 Marguerite, Queen of France, who should have re- 
 mained overwhelmed and petrified beneath my gaze. 
 "A most distressing episode, monsieur, in a long 
 artistic career ! The unfortunate musician it was 
 Montescure rose abruptly under the lash of this buf- 
 foonery ; he passed quickly through the orchestra, 
 knocking down the bass viol in his haste, and nearly 
 sending the instrument out of the first and only 
 violin's hands, and disappeared rapidly through the 
 little door used by the musicians, as Mordaunt van- 
 ishes through the wall before the sword of D'Arta- 
 gnan. But swift as was his flight, my eye, accustomed 
 to take in every detail of a theatre, whether filled or 
 empty, saw upon the young man's emaciated face 
 one of those desperate expressions which art some- 
 times abandons the attempt to reproduce, and at the 
 instant he disappeared I saw him hastily put his 
 handkerchief to his eyes and then to his mouth, 
 and the linen was instantly soiled with a crimson 
 stain, which need I tell you ! was the stain of 
 blood ! 
 
 " Strop de cadavre I The jest rang cruelly in my
 
 IO BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 ears again and again as I finished the scene ; and 
 the thoughts of Buridan were for some moments very 
 far from Marguerite de Bourgogne. I thought of the 
 musician, and the fascination of art could not tear 
 me entirely from a recollection of the sad reality, 
 a handkerchief stained with blood, like the one that 
 Andr Roswein one of my best roles presents to 
 Dalila. I divined that sad, sombre reality. My act 
 finished, I went to my dressing-room, and on the 
 staircase I met, I almost stumbled against the musi- 
 cian, who was waiting for me, still holding his blood- 
 stained handkerchief to his mouth. 
 
 " He was trembling all over. 
 
 " ' Ah ! Monsieur Brichanteau, I am in despair, in 
 despair ! My God, "how grieved I am ! ' 
 
 " * Why so, my young friend ? ' 
 
 " ' Why this cough the scandal the way I 
 left the orchestra.' 
 
 " I had compassion inwardly for this timidity, 
 which was a sort of unconscious homage. 
 
 " ' My young friend,' I said to console him, ' take 
 courage ; I have seen many others ! I have some- 
 times defied popular tempests, and the claque has 
 more than once bombarded me with green apples, 
 those vegetable bombshells which the soldiers of art 
 defy. One interruption more or less matters little. 
 Especially as I was called before the curtain as usual 
 after the tableau, as you saw. Oh ! no, you did not
 
 THE MODEL. II 
 
 see it, you had gone out. And it was a very cordial 
 recall, altogether cordial ! ' 
 
 " He stood against the wall, pale and melancholy. 
 I invited him to walk into my dressing-room. And 
 I made my invitation the more urgent because we 
 were in a draught, and my voice, which is very 
 powerful, as you hear it, but very sensitive, dreads 
 hoarseness. Once in the room I begged him to take 
 a chair. Thereupon, twirling his felt hat between 
 his fingers, he told me his story, as I have told it to 
 you : his departure from Garigat-sur-Garonne, near 
 Toulouse, his double vocation of musician and 
 sculptor, or rather his desire to nourish his dream 
 of art, sculpture, by following his profession of play- 
 ing the horn which became the cornt-a-piston in 
 the orchestra ; and while speaking, he looked at me 
 so fixedly that I turned and looked in my mirror, to 
 see if I had made up my face badly. Not in the 
 least ! Superbly painted ! It was simply because I 
 was so admirably made up that he gazed at me so. 
 
 " ' You think that I have the right idea of Buridan, 
 do you not ? ' I asked. ' Do I resemble him ? ' 
 
 " I meant by that, monsieur, that I resembled the 
 ideal type that people generally conceive of the man. 
 The ideal, you understand ; I strive for the ideal ! 
 
 " He replied, ' I think, Monsieur Brichanteau, that 
 you have the air of a Roman.' 
 
 " Buridan was a Burgundian, and / had the air of
 
 12 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 a Roman ! It is true, I have the air of a Roman. 
 When I played tragedy at Montpellier, the prefect said 
 to me one evening : ' Monsieur Brichanteau, you re- 
 semble a medallion ! ' Montescure, the obscure musi- 
 cian, was of the same opinion as the prefect. I had 
 the air of a Roman, and, moreover, the air of a partic- 
 ular Roman, for whom he was searching as we artists 
 search for types. All the arts are brothers ! 
 
 " ' Ah ! Monsieur Brichanteau,' he said to me, ' if 
 I only had you before me, to pose for my statue 
 a model like you ! ' 
 
 "'A model?' 
 
 " He had touched a sensitive chord. I was very 
 young when M. Ingres, the late M. Ingres, chose 
 me to serve as a model for one of the figures in 
 his famous Saint Symphorien, The late M. Ingres 
 had also recognized the antique cast of my features. 
 He called me Talma the younger, Talma II. That 
 is why, more than once in the course of my existence, 
 I have consented to make my physical gifts nourish 
 my intellectual gifts. I knew M. Delaroche, M. 
 Lon Cogniet. My profile figures in three different 
 works, in the Museum at Versailles : as a Crusader, 
 as a gentleman of the time of Francois I., and as a 
 volunteer. You would recognize me, with or with- 
 out the mustache. But, for many years, I had not 
 posed. The stage was my all-in-all, nothing but 
 the stage with all its chances and hardships.
 
 THE MODEL. 13 
 
 "Meanwhile poor Montescure was telling me his 
 plans. He had hit upon an idea which he thought 
 a good one. He had shown his sketch to Monsieur 
 Falguiere, who approved of it. He proposed, as I 
 have told you, to delineate in a Roman under the 
 Yoke all the bitterness of defeat my thought, my 
 own thought once more. 
 
 "But no money to pay the model, not a sou to 
 bring the statue to completion. 
 
 " Oh ! well,' I said to Montescure, ' I will pose 
 for you, for your Roman ; I will make two parts of 
 my life as you do : one for the drama, the other for 
 the sculptor. When shall I come to your studio ? ' 
 
 " Ah ! it was a fine place, that studio of his ! 
 Poor devil ! A sort of hen-coop, made of boards, at 
 the end of a garden on the back side of the hill of 
 Montmartre. A mere hovel, where the poor fellow, 
 in the last stages of consumption, with holes as big as 
 that in his lungs, must have been numb with cold 
 while he worked. The light came in from above 
 through a window from which the glass was missing, 
 being replaced by pieces of newspaper pasted over 
 the holes. But in that hovel there were sketches, 
 studies, models, which were real masterpieces. Re- 
 markable pieces of work, if you think the word 
 ' masterpiece ' too strong ; little things done in an idle 
 moment, but very pretty in conception, and original. 
 And there, above all, was this Roman, the future
 
 14 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 number 3773, blocked out but well under way, bent 
 like an ox and with his head on one side, his brow as 
 threatening as that of a bull in the ring. 
 
 " On my word, when I saw the poor fellow, so thin 
 and pale, harnessed to that powerful figure, I fell in 
 love with the work. I said to myself : ' He shall 
 finish this statue of his ; I will be the inspiration of 
 this musician who moulds clay, I will be his co-worker, 
 I will be his model ! ' And I kept my word ! Be- 
 tween two rehearsals I went to the studio the 
 studio, what mockery ! and having been, the night 
 before, Hernani, or Mont^clain in La Closerie des 
 Genets, I became in the morning Montescure's 
 Roman, a Roman bent like the painter Gleyre's, a 
 Roman vanquished but threatening, such as I had 
 been in 1871, in prison at Versailles, when I came so 
 near kidnapping, yes, taking prisoner the King of 
 Prussia, I will tell you about that. For Montes- 
 cure's sake I fawned on the manager of the Odon, 
 a former comrade of mine, in order to obtain a 
 cuirass and parts of the costume of Horace. I 
 obtained those properties, and I, who was competent 
 and perhaps ought to have acted in tragedy at the 
 Com6die-Francaise, I, the Talma II. of the late Mon- 
 sieur Ingres, represented a vanquished centurion in 
 the frigid studio of a poor little obscure sculptor on 
 the back side of the hill of Montmartre ! Admirable 
 symbolism, by the way : the Caudine Forks, an
 
 THE MODEL. 15 
 
 image of my life, Caudine Forks that have availed 
 to sadden but not to subdue me ! 1 
 
 " And poor Montescure was mad with joy because 
 he had his model. And the poor little fellow worked 
 and worked ! 
 
 "'Don't kill yourself, Montescure,' I would say to 
 him. ' No fever ! Control your work. Diderot's 
 paradox is false; the artist should put his whole 
 heart, his whole being into his game, but only up to 
 a certain point. He ought to spit out his genius in 
 the face of his century, but not his lungs. Don't kill 
 yourself, Montescure ! ' 
 
 " That was very easy for me to say. But he, the 
 inspired, was in a hurry to finish his work. He felt 
 his life slipping away like the too wet clay between 
 his thin fingers. He often said to me, 
 
 " ' If I could only live till the Salon ! ' 
 
 "'Are you crazy?' I asked. 'You will bury me, 
 Montescure, and I have such muscles. Do you want 
 to do me a favor? You must carve my bust, to be 
 placed on my tomb : Sebastien Brichanteau, Come- 
 dien fran$ais ! ' 
 
 " He laughed. I added : 
 
 " ' I would like to be immortalized by a great 
 sculptor, as Talma has been by David d'Angers. I 
 shall be by you ! ' 
 
 1 The Caudine Forks was the name of a famous defile near 
 Caudium in Samnium, where the Roman army was compelled 
 by the Samnites to pass under the yoke.
 
 1 6 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 "And he was happy, so happy, burning brighter 
 like a lamp ; brave, almost stiong, was poor Montes- 
 cure. I suggested to him, monsieur, that he should 
 have faith in himself. 
 
 " Ah ! All that winter, that long winter, it was not 
 cheerful for the author of the Roman passing under 
 the Yoke. Montescure hammered away in his ice- 
 house, like a Belgian overseer in his mine, and the 
 perspiration sometimes poured off his thin body, and 
 over his forehead, where on either side, I could have 
 put three fingers in the holes. Then there were the 
 evenings at the theatre that were wearing out his 
 lungs and killing him ! I cudgelled my brains to 
 find a way to keep him from going to the orchestra, 
 from returning home at night in the snow and the 
 fog. To say nothing of the prowlers on the hill ! I 
 often went with him to his lodging, giving him my 
 arm and returning home at once, reciting poetry. 
 My robust health had become attached to his 
 weakness. 
 
 " I was not his model only and many a time 
 have I risked a cold and influenza in that infernal 
 studio. I was also his adviser. For had not poor 
 Montescure fallen in love with our ingenue ? He saw 
 her only as she appeared to him behind the footlights, 
 fair and red-cheeked and sweet, and he talked of 
 nothing less than marrying her if she would consent. 
 
 " ' My boy,' I said to him, ' the artist who puts his
 
 THE MODEL. 
 
 foot in an actress's slipper is lost. I know the 
 women ! They are most seductive creatures ; but 
 have you ever watched their smiles, studied their 
 voices ? Stagey ! stagey, I tell you ! What an artist 
 needs is a devoted companion, and what 's more, a 
 woman who will be the pot to which you put ears ! ' 
 
 " Montescure did not reply ; he heaved a sigh and 
 said : 
 
 "' Mademoiselle Martinet is very pretty all the 
 same ! I mean to make a statuette of her : Palm 
 Sunday? 
 
 " ' Oh ! Palm Sunday, as much as you please ! If 
 she inspires you, so much the better ! But as to 
 marrying her ' 
 
 " Thereupon he shook his head, sighed, laughed at 
 his own hopes. Palm Sunday ! Before even think- 
 ing of the new work, would he have time to finish the 
 Roman, which had given me so many cricks in my 
 neck? For I need not tell you, I posed conscien- 
 tiously, as I act. Model or actor, my devotion is the 
 same. 
 
 "And the Roman progressed slowly, very slowly; 
 the poor little fellow's strength was failing. Sculpture 
 is a strong man's art. I succeeded in inducing him 
 to give up playing in the orchestra at Montmartre. 
 He could retire earlier and not excite himself by gaz- 
 ing, as from the foot of an altar, at the fair hair of 
 Mademoiselle Martinet, the ingtnue, who made fun of
 
 1 8 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 him in the wings, and said that he played tunes in 
 which his cornet made eyes at her. I had assured 
 him that our manager would keep his place for him, 
 and that no substitute should succeed him. At last 
 he allowed himself to be persuaded. 
 " ' But how shall I live, Brichanteau ? ' 
 " ' Are you not living now? ' 
 " ' How can I pay you for your sittings ? ' 
 " ' Are you mad ? Was it not understood that this 
 was not to be spoken of between us? ' 
 
 " But the stove ! the stove eats up charcoal.' 
 " ' Oh ! well, let it eat it. Charcoal does not cost 
 much. They have just discovered some new coal-, 
 mines, very rich. Coke is getting to be a drug in the 
 market. They are giving away coke.' 
 
 " It was not really being given away, but the price 
 asked for it was not ruinous. I thought of starting a 
 subscription at the theatre, of putting up one of Montes- 
 cure's statues to be raffled : A raffle for the benefit of a 
 very interesting artist I But his was a lofty soul, very 
 sensitive. He would have felt hurt. I abandoned 
 that scheme, to which we often resort among ourselves, 
 and which has served to alleviate so much suffering. 
 There was also the extra performance : Matinee for 
 the benefit of an unnamed artist I 
 
 " I would willingly have again played Tyrrel in Les 
 Enfants d'Edouard on such an occasion. Tyrrel is 
 one of my triumphs ! But it was a bad season.
 
 THE MODEL. 19 
 
 Indeed we had not paid expenses ! Anything is pos- 
 sible. And then, it would have been proper, perhaps, 
 to consult Montescure, and he would have refused, 
 even with the understanding that it was to be 
 anonymous. 
 
 " Faith, so much the worse for me ; I took it all 
 on myself; that is, I myself carried in a basket or in 
 my pockets the coke that warmed the miserable little 
 studio. I often took him various nourishing articles 
 of food also, which I told him I had received from 
 the South, anonymous gifts always anonymous 
 from unknown admirers. I did not say unknown 
 female admirers, in order not to evoke the image of 
 Mademoiselle Martinet. On those days I breakfasted 
 beforehand, and ate little with Montescure, and I left 
 with him all that remained, saying : 
 
 " ' That 's for you ! I am not hungry ! ' 
 
 " It was as good a way as any other of supplying 
 his larder. And in order to do it, I did extra work ; 
 I gave lessons to a young Moldavian prince, a stam- 
 merer, who was destined for the Conservatory, and 
 who found that I knew the repertory better than they 
 did on Faubourg Poissoniere. Wherein he was right. 
 
 " In a word, I was to the sculptor that winter what 
 how shall I say it? that negro, I have forgotten 
 his name, was to the Portuguese poet. I, too, I 
 assure you, would have begged for that other 
 Camoens, the Camoens of sculpture. Especially as
 
 20 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 beggars often have a noble bearing. Witness Callot ! 
 If I had asked alms for Montescure, dressed in the 
 rays of Don Csar de Bazan, my purse would have 
 been filled with carolus d'or. 
 
 " I had no carolus (Tor. But my few sous were 
 enough to keep the life in the little Toulousan, whose 
 cough made me ill. And the days passed, the statue 
 progressed. The Roman lived, he became savage, 
 superb. I continued to express and Montescure 
 strove frantically to reproduce the bitterness of defeat. 
 Oh ! it is there ! Look carefully, the bitterness is 
 there ! And the buds swelled on the trees. It was 
 less cold on the hill. March passed, then April , 
 
 " { Well ! well ! ' Montescure exclaimed, ' I feel 
 now that I shall live till Varnishing Day ! ' 
 
 "And he was cheerful and happy. He scarcely 
 coughed at all. 
 
 "When the clay model was finished, money was 
 lacking for plaster and rough-hewers; I believe I 
 sold a few clothes, and one or two old books : 
 Polyeucte, with a dedication by Monsieur Samson : 
 To the young and already great pupil of Monsieur 
 Beauvallet. But I regretted nothing. The statue, 
 when it appeared as you see it, repaid me for all my 
 trouble. 
 
 " Montescure embraced me and said : 
 
 " ' Ah ! Brichanteau, if I make a hit, it is to you, 
 dear, devoted friend, that I owe it ! '
 
 THE MODEL. 21 
 
 " He was at the end of his strength, literally at the 
 end ; and the same day that the Roman was taken 
 from the poor studio on the hill to the Champs- 
 Elyse"es, to be passed upon by the jury, he took to 
 his bed. He fell, crushed with his efforts, unable to 
 do more. I can see him now, his eyes following the 
 plaster statue which he had kissed, as if he were say- 
 ing to himself : ' But suppose I should never see it 
 again ! ' I looked at his pale, hollow cheeks, his eyes 
 sunken as if in deep holes, his long hair, his sparse 
 red beard. He made me think of an emaciated saint 
 a spectral monk, and with it all he was in a high 
 fever; consumed with anxiety, he said to me, in a 
 hoarse voice, between two fits of coughing : 
 
 " ' If my figure is only received ! Yes, but sup- 
 pose it should be rejected, Brichanteau ! ' 
 
 " ' What do you mean ? a masterpiece ! ' 
 
 " ' Do you think so, really ? It is good, you think 
 it is good ! ' 
 
 " ' It is more than good, it is startling, tragic. It 
 is as fine as anything of Pere Rude's. Even if the 
 Roman were not modelled after me I should think 
 him admirable ! ' 
 
 " That seemed to comfort him, and he was a little 
 quieter in his bed, for he had remained in bed, pros- 
 trated. He was paying for his hard work during the 
 winter. And in the drawers of his wretched com- 
 mode, not a sou for cough syrup, for a doctor. But
 
 22 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 the doctor did not cost much. He was an habitu6 of 
 the theatre, an intern at the hospital, who also dabbled 
 in literature. 
 
 " He had attended me one evening, when, in Le 
 Bossu, that animal of a Dorbigny, who is very awk- 
 ward, had wounded me with a rapier thrust ; and we 
 had become friends. Montescure's story, which I 
 had told him, interested him, and he brought to the 
 sick man's bedside the succor of science, as I had 
 brought that of art. For I read and recited poetry 
 to Monte scure, in order to calm him, and even, I 
 confess without shame, to put him to sleep. 
 
 "A kind-hearted physician was my friend the in-- 
 tern, but he had no hope of curing Montescure. 
 
 " ' He is a used-up man, finished ! ill from want, 
 and/^ th, as our predecessors used to say, before the 
 new orthography.' 
 
 " The saddest part of it all, monsieur, was that the 
 poor fellow was going to die before he knew that 
 his Roman, our Roman was a success before know- 
 ing, even, whether the statue was received. He 
 passed away in my arms one morning weak as an 
 infant, and his head fell back against my shoulder. 
 He whispered : ' Thanks ! thanks ! ' His hands strove 
 to press my strong fingers. I heard him also repeat 
 a word, which is the great mirage that leads us all 
 on, < Glory ! ' 
 
 " Ah ! yes, glory ! The evil-minded have the
 
 THE MODEL. 23 
 
 money, which makes the noise ; the innocent have 
 the thorns. 
 
 " There were six of us who followed Montescure's 
 coffin : the doctor, two musicians from the orchestra, 
 Barigel, our stage- manager, and the portress of the 
 little hen-coop where the sculptor died. 
 
 " I had tried to persuade Mademoiselle Martinet 
 to come. She had something else to do. And then, 
 as she said : ' Do I know your musician ? ' It 
 would have pleased him, however, up yonder 
 poor fellow. Palm Sunday I One of his dreams. 
 No relations. The little Toulousan in Paris was like 
 a stone dropped in the sea ! When I returned to his 
 room after leaving him underground, on a most beau- 
 tiful day in April, an April that seemed to laugh at 
 us, really, the portress found an official envelope 
 addressed to Montescure. It was the notice of the 
 acceptance of the Vanquished Roman ! They placed 
 the Roman here, in a wretched light and on Varnish- 
 ing Day no one saw him. But henceforth " 
 
 At that moment Brichanteau interrupted himself. 
 
 " Excuse me ! " he said. 
 
 A huge wreath of artificial flowers, violets, a wreath 
 about which was entwined a tricolored ribbon with a 
 broad band of crepe, appeared on the scene, car- 
 ried by a messenger under the guidance of an 
 attendant. 
 
 And S6bastien Brichanteau, throwing back his mas-
 
 24 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 sive head, with its long mane-like locks, exclaimed 
 with a proud, triumphant gesture : 
 
 " There is something that will at least arrest the 
 steps and the glances of the vulgar herd, and will 
 say : ' Here are a masterpiece and an emblem of 
 mourning. Look ! '" 
 
 Brichanteau himself, hesitating no longer, had taken 
 up a collection at the theatre to purchase the wreath, 
 and with pious devotion caused it to be laid there on 
 the pedestal of No. 3773. 
 
 Some curious spectators came up while Brichanteau 
 was arranging the ribbon and the crepe. A number 
 of loungers hurried to the spot. 
 
 " Poor Montescure ! " said the actor, shaking his 
 head ; " his receipts are just coming in ! " 
 
 Then, stepping back a little, in order to judge the 
 effect of the wreath, like a manager on a poet's birth- 
 day when a wreath is placed on the poet's bust, 
 
 " It needs a palm," said Brichanteau. " It shall 
 be there to-morrow ! " 
 
 Then, drawing near to me, he whispered softly in 
 my ear : 
 
 " Better than that. It seems that there is much 
 excitement at the Beaux-Arts over Montescure's death. 
 The State must purchase his statue and have it cast 
 in bronze. There are no two ways about it. It must 
 be done. The Roman must be sent into the pro- 
 vinces, and he will appear, standing, an awe-inspiring
 
 THE MODEL. 25 
 
 figure, amid the verdure of some public square. Poor 
 Montescure ! He will not have carved my bust, no ; 
 but he will have made all human griefs and protests 
 incarnate in my person ; it is I, they are my features, 
 which he will have handed down to posterity, and if, 
 as I dare not hope, life affords me a recompense, and 
 permits me by some unforeseen creation to assert my 
 artistic personality, then, not in the show-windows 
 of fashionable photographers must my fleeting image 
 be sought ; thank God ! no, I have now the 
 most sovereign contempt for that Pantheon of the 
 street, where the dancers at public balls pose side 
 by side with the less contestable celebrities of our 
 country, no, in the open air, among the trees, in 
 the sunlight, shall be found, maltreated by time and 
 with the proud lineaments of a Roman soldier, 
 Se"bastien Brichanteau, that soldier of art who had 
 the honor of sharing his bread with Claude-Andre" 
 Montescure, born at Garigat, near Toulouse, 
 (Haute-Garonne), graduate of the Ecole des Beaux- 
 Arts at Toulouse, 'No. 3773,' see Catalogue! 
 And who knows ? To have served as a model for that 
 poor fellow will, perhaps, prove my best role ! 
 That wreath looks well ! as all last wreaths do ! " 
 
 Then Brichanteau left me for a moment. 
 
 He had noticed, near a neighboring statue, a man 
 of robust aspect, with a florid face, a dingy gray 
 beard, and eye-glasses perched on his short nose,
 
 26 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 who stood looking at the statues as near-sighted per- 
 sons look at paintings, at very close range, so that 
 one longs to say, as Rembrandt did when any one 
 approached too near his canvases : " Stand back ; that 
 smells bad ! " 
 
 "The deputy-mayor of Garigat-sur-Garonne," said 
 Brichanteau, hastily. " I will be at your service in a 
 moment, monsieur ! " 
 
 He had carried his hand a slender, beautiful 
 hand, made to handle the brush or the rapier with 
 a noble gesture to his broad-brimmed brown felt hat, 
 which gave him the air of a guardsman, and in three 
 steps he was beside the man with the gray beard, 
 whom he accosted with an amiable but very dignified 
 air, a proud and well-bred manner of presenting 
 himself, like D'Artagnan saluting the queen when he 
 returned her diamonds. 
 
 And I watched him while he talked, very erect, 
 very animated, gesticulating freely and gracefully, 
 the excellent actor of an earlier time, who was in my 
 eyes the incarnation of more than one generation 
 of artists, with their feverish ambitions, their hopes, 
 their devotion, this Sbastien Brichanteau, a poor 
 waif of art tossed about by every wave like the hulk 
 of a packet-boat after a storm, the worthy man 
 who had, at twenty years, dreamed of glory and 
 fortune, the two poles of Chimera, and who, at 
 sixty, with artless kindness of heart and the devoted
 
 THE MODEL. 2/ 
 
 affection of an elder brother, took from his own 
 mouth the crumbs of bitter bread filled with gravel 
 that his destiny grudgingly left him, to give them to 
 a companion in distress less robust than he. 
 
 He had interested me with his history of Monies- 
 cure ; I divined in him a vast fund of reminiscences. 
 He had seen so much, the poor strolling player, so 
 very much, in his rough journeys ! And life had 
 left him as good as he was handsome. Tall, with 
 head erect, deep-chested, he had rather the air of 
 a Gaul defying the fall from- heaven, than of a 
 Roman passing under the yoke, had this sexagena- 
 rian, whose long, black hair, and heavy, drooping 
 mustaches, with here and there a stray silver thread, 
 old age had respected. With his beautiful dreamy 
 blue eye, a little sad, yet sometimes flashing fire, 
 which was easily kindled beneath those bushy eye- 
 brows, and despite his rather full cheeks, and 
 slightly flaccid neck which he held as straight as 
 if he were going to the scaffold, one would have 
 called him fifty, or forty-five, if necessary, as they 
 say on the stage. He seemed cut from the very 
 heart of the oak. 
 
 " I resemble Flaubert ! " he would often say to 
 me in our future conversations. He was right. He 
 was a giant of that temper. Montescure, in making 
 him so handsome, had simply made him as he was. 
 
 He came back to the bench where I had re-
 
 28 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 mained seated, after three minutes' conversation 
 with his Southerner, from whom he had parted with 
 a dignified grasp of the hand ; he came toward 
 me radiant, the light of joy beaming in his eyes. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said, " but it is Montes- 
 cure again for whom I have been working. Yes, 
 that is M. Cazenave, the deputy-mayor of Garigat- 
 sur-Garonne ; I knew him at Toulouse. He is some- 
 thing of a poet is Cazenave, a poet in the raw, and 
 I have recited his verses. Some of them are very 
 patriotic. Service for service. Seeing him, a thought 
 passed through my brain like a flash of lightning. 
 When I say that Montescure was from Toulouse, I 
 mean that he was born near there, at Garigat-sur- 
 Garonne. Well ! this is my idea. It is sublime. 
 If the State makes a wry face or has not the money, 
 the Municipal Council of Garigat-sur- Garonne must 
 buy the Roman Passing under the Yoke ! Yes, yes, 
 I will stand or fall by that ! I have sown the seed. 
 It will germinate. Cazenave did not say no. The 
 souls of poets and actors are sisters. Cazenave will 
 help me, and I swear to God, yes, on my life I swear 
 that reparation shall be made the poor devil whose 
 masterpiece is so wretchedly placed." 
 
 Then, addressing the statue of the Vanquished 
 Roman, Sebastien Brichanteau magnificent to 
 behold, with his impetuous gesture in an apos- 
 trophe that would have drawn a crowd to any other
 
 THE MODEL. 29 
 
 part of the garden than that deserted corner, swore 
 a mighty oath, as if upon the manes of the vanquished 
 sculptor, that Montescure's statue should be placed 
 in the museum of Garigat-sur-Garonne ; and, if his 
 native town had no museum, in the bright sunlight 
 of the Forum, before the eyes of all passers-by, ex- 
 posed to the gaze of curious tourists and to the 
 admiration of the passing crowd. 
 
 "Yes, Montescure, your work shall be described 
 in the Guides Joanne, your old friend Brichanteau 
 gives you his word. I can see you now, to employ 
 your time while your model is resting, poor fellow, 
 take up your cornet and blow till your lungs give 
 out, rehearsing the tunes you are to play in the 
 evening at the theatre ! How many times I have 
 snatched your instrument of death from your hands ! 
 You, play tremolos ! you who were made to people 
 the Luxembourg and the Louvre with your visions 
 in marble ! Montescure, I will keep my oath, and 
 reparation shall be made to you ! Montescure, you 
 shall be avenged ! " 
 
 He turned to me once more. 
 
 " Yes, monsieur, I, who have never been known to 
 bestir myself on my own account, will bestir myself 
 now ! I, who am no schemer, will scheme ! I will 
 give performances at the cafes-concerts, if neces- 
 sary. I will obtain signatures to petitions, I will pass 
 around subscription lists in the foyers of the theatres.
 
 3O BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 My comrades are fierce-looking fellows, but they 
 have kind hearts ! Even the women who have no 
 hearts know how to find one when they are moved ! 
 And when Montescure is famous, it will seem to 
 me that Se"bastien Brichanteau, the Talma of an 
 earlier time, has his revenge. I am entitled to that 
 revenge. Ah! chime" I ahi ! ahi! povero Calpigil 
 Monsieur, if you knew what my life has been ! " 
 
 He asked nothing better than to tell his story, to 
 tell the black beads of his existence, he, the van- 
 quished one of art, the Roman wearing the yoke of 
 poverty. He longed to pour out his heart for 
 he had a heart and, in default of hopes, to prattle 
 of his reminiscences. 
 
 I had listened to him on that day by chance ; I 
 determined thenceforth to make a business of listen- 
 ing to him ; one by one I seized on the wing and 
 jotted down the confidences of that untamed artist, 
 always trustful, always high-minded ; and he himself 
 it is, with the original flavor of his words, metaphors, 
 fragments of roles, scraps of long speeches, tinsel 
 and glitter, picaresque and picturesque, Sdbastien 
 Brichanteau himself, French actor, who has been on 
 the rolls of all the theatres in France, who is about 
 to give free wing to his souvenirs, good and bad, 
 that are still beating their broken wings against their 
 cage.
 
 II. 
 
 THE LASSO. 
 
 I RECALL even now with sadness the season that I 
 passed at Perpignan. I was engaged to play leading 
 roles there, and in that out-of-the-way provincial 
 capital, far from the eyes of the Parisian public, 
 my true public, I played my parts with as much care, 
 I put as much soul into my work, as if I were creating 
 one of Hugo's dramas before the great critics of 
 Paris. So I shall not astonish you when I tell you 
 that I became the idol of the people of the Pyre"ne"es- 
 Orientales. I acted successfully in my whole reper- 
 tory, and I consoled myself with the triumphs of art 
 for my exile on the Spanish frontier. 
 
 For Perpignan, the end of the world, was a place of 
 exile to me, ambitious as I was to act at the Porte- 
 Saint-Martin, the Comddie-Francaise or, at the 
 worst, the Ambigu. But when one acts where one 
 can, the important thing is to act as well as one can. 
 " If you have not a church to decorate," said Eugene 
 Delacroix (I knew him and posed for him as a Turk- 
 ish cavalier) , " paint a fresco in the first public square 
 you come to ! " I said to myself that, after all, at 
 Perpignan, as everywhere, there are lovers of art, and
 
 32 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 it was for them that I acted. They understood me, 
 they applauded me. I was consoled and strength- 
 ened by them. 
 
 Moreover, I became popular, and people saluted 
 me when I passed through the streets. I remember 
 that one day as I was leaving the court-room, the first 
 president accosted me in front of the statue of Fran- 
 cois Arago to congratulate me on the way I had 
 played Lazare le Patre ; and one Sunday, after a per- 
 formance of Ruy Bias, the prefect told me personally 
 that the piece had never been better interpreted in 
 Paris. That sort of thing is consoling. 
 
 The press also was favorable to me. It was not 
 numerous, but I had it all with me. It comprehended 
 my efforts, it encouraged them. I was touched. I 
 trouble myself little about the press, and yet I have 
 never been able to refrain from reading the papers to 
 see if the verdicts of the critics accord with my 
 views. Nearly always they do. 
 
 One evening, however, during an entr'acte of Beaux 
 Messieurs de Bois-Dort, my friend Paturel, a fine 
 fellow, said to me with an expression that astonished 
 me : 
 
 " Have you read the Argus ? " 
 
 The Argus was a small paper, political and literary, 
 a vine-growers' paper, too, which championed the 
 interests of the farmers about Perpignan, and pos- 
 sessed a special artistic critic, recently come from
 
 THE LASSO. 33 
 
 Rivesaltes, who was called, with respect, the Jules 
 Janin of Rivesaltes. In the provinces Janin, the 
 prince of critics, is not yet forgotten, you see. I have 
 always found, in my provincial tours, an authorized 
 critic who was called, according to the time, some- 
 times the Janin, sometimes the Sarcey of the town. 
 Somebody would say to me when I arrived : " You 
 must leave your card on Richardin, or Verdinet; 
 he 's the Sarcey of the town." Thus there is a Sarcey 
 at Lyon, a Sarcey at Bordeaux, a Sarcey at Lille. 
 Formerly it was a Janin. 
 
 I knew the Jules Janin of Rivesaltes from having 
 seen him at the cafe* at Perpignan. He was a good 
 fellow, square-shouldered, with well-rounded paunch, 
 very red-haired and very pale, who held his head 
 proudly erect, a head with hair that bristled defiantly, 
 although bald in spots, and wore his mustaches 
 turned up at the ends in the Russian fashion ; a 
 bumptious blade who had entered journalism as he 
 had sold wine, and who wrote his article with the pro- 
 lixity and self-importance of a commercial traveller. 
 It seems that he had at first treated me very hand- 
 somely in the Argus ; then, when he found that I did 
 not manifest sufficient gratitude, and that I evidently 
 failed to appreciate his power, his epithets assumed a 
 different character, and the number of the Argus of 
 which my friend Paturel spoke contained an extremely 
 disagreeable article, an article in which the words 
 3
 
 34 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 strolling actor were used and applied to me, to 
 me, Brichanteau, the pupil and rival of Beauvallet ! 
 
 "What have you done to Baculard, in Heaven's 
 name?" Paturel asked. 
 
 "I? Nothing. I have never spoken to him." 
 
 " Then that 's the hitch ! " my friend replied. 
 " Baculard likes to have homage paid him. You 
 have not done it; you have wounded his self- 
 esteem ! " 
 
 " My dear Paturel, I have one principle. Criticism 
 is free to judge me, and it is not for the artist to 
 solicit its good-will, or to thank it for its decrees. 
 The Jules Janin of Rivesaltes writes what he thinks : 
 he does his duty, I do mine." 
 
 " Why no, why no ! " exclaimed Paturel. " There 's 
 a misunderstanding. A hand-shake will make it all 
 right with Baculard ! " 
 
 "After his article? Impossible. The artist may 
 forget ; the man, never ! " 
 
 I must tell you that the article in the Argus was 
 terribly insolent. My fingers fairly itched as I read 
 it. But no ! the fellow was perfectly at liberty, after 
 all, to consider my performance execrable, and, as 
 long as he did not attack my private life, I might be 
 cut to the quick, but I had nothing to say. 
 
 However, when on the following day again in 
 front of the statue of Arago I met the bulky, inso- 
 lent fellow, smoking a cigar and talking with a news-
 
 THE LASSO. 35 
 
 vendor, I made a point of passing directly in front of 
 him, looking him in the eye and not removing my 
 hat. He had seen me coming, and planted himself in 
 my path, his head thrown back, his sly, self-satisfied 
 face already preparing a smile, and I knew well that 
 he was waiting for a touch of the hat and my out- 
 stretched hand to say jocosely : 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! Brichanteau, so we had to come to it, 
 eh?" 
 
 I was so sure of his intention that I assumed the 
 pose of Don Ce"sar staring Don Salluste out of coun- 
 tenance, and stalked haughtily past the stupefied 
 Jules Janin of Rivesaltes. And I was well content. 
 I had seen that puffy face redden slightly, an angry 
 flash had shot from those wicked eyes. The strolling 
 actor had his revenge. 
 
 A petty revenge beyond question, but there is a 
 satisfaction in staring in the face of the man who in- 
 sults you and emptying a whole basketful of contempt 
 upon him in a glance. This Baculard, who, like my- 
 self, dreamed of Parisian glory, practised down there 
 in the provinces the profession of literary terrorist, 
 which those people are eager to adopt who have 
 neither imagination, the power to charm, the re- 
 sources of style, nor, in the majority of cases, talent, 
 but who are bent upon attracting attention to them- 
 selves and making themselves feared, and who suc- 
 ceed. Humanity is cowardly, monsieur.
 
 36 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 When one does not know how to talk, one cries. 
 Baculard howled. He posed as the apostle of high 
 art, while thinking principally of low women. A 
 paladin of the ideal, he advanced sublime theories, 
 and supped with actresses who feared him ; and, at 
 dessert, between two glasses of chartreuse, he pro- 
 claimed the ideas to which he had devoted his life, 
 the first of which was to enjoy. 
 
 To enjoy everything, his reputation, which he 
 proposed to establish by a reign of terror; money, 
 which he proposed to accumulate in large quantities ; 
 love, or what is called love, that is to say, women, 
 whom his lustful nature craved; ay, even honor, or 
 that which takes its place, in a word, everything 
 that a bold pen, dipped in a muddy ink-well, can 
 obtain. Of course he dreamed of Paris, of exer- 
 cising in Paris his talents as a boxer ; for Paris alone 
 bestows reputation, money, and women lavishly. I 
 cannot say what it was that detained the excellent 
 Baculard in the Pyre'ne'es-Orientales. Perhaps he 
 told the truth when he said, laughing his coarse 
 laugh : 
 
 " I am getting my hand in here at Perpignan and 
 Rivesaltes ; this is my fencing-school. But the battle- 
 ground is Paris. When I have mastered my thrusts 
 and parries, I shall go there ! " 
 
 And his plan for making his dbut in Paris was 
 very simple. Oh ! there was no concealment about
 
 THE LASSO. 
 
 him. He made known his plan to anybody who 
 chose to listen, in the friendly chats at the cafe. 
 
 " I arrive in Paris. I keep my eyes open for an 
 opportunity ; I manufacture one if necessary. I spot 
 some prominent, very brilliant personage, who is 
 right in the swim. I attack him. Oh ! I strike 
 home ! How everything will smoke ! Then, what a 
 scandal ! A prosecution or a meeting will follow. I 
 am convicted or wounded, it makes little difference, 
 if I kill my man, so much the better, and I am 
 in the saddle. Known, feared, fawned upon, after 
 that little hubbub. In a word, success ! Let 's see, 
 whom can I fall upon first?" 
 
 And he would begin to consider. 
 
 " Bah ! that will depend on the reputations that 
 are in the order of the day when I arrive. This one 
 or that ; I snap my fingers at them ! Some one who 
 is some one, that 's all I want ! They can take their 
 choice ! " 
 
 Meanwhile, the various troupes, comedy and opera, 
 that came to Perpignan trembled before him. Bacu- 
 lard ! devil ! When any one spoke of Baculard, it 
 seemed as if he had mentioned the Czar of all the 
 Russias. The prima donna turned pale, the ingenue 
 shivered, and tears of fright came to the eyes of the 
 jeune premiere. For my part, as I told you, I cared 
 as much for him as for the skin of an apple. And by 
 passing before the statue of Arago without saluting 
 
 10.2579
 
 38 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 Baculard, I had certainly made an enemy an enemy 
 sterling, as I say in Giboyer of the Jules Janin of 
 Rivesaltes ! 
 
 Paturel said to me : 
 
 " Do you know about Baculard ? He is foaming 
 at the mouth. Beware of his slaver ! He says cruel 
 things. Cruel words are his specialty. He has hard 
 teeth, and, as they are decayed too, do you think it 
 will be like a caress when he bites? One of these 
 mornings you will awake to find some great slaughter- 
 ing going on in the Argus" 
 
 " Oh, well," I replied, " the awakening will not 
 keep me from sleeping the following night ! " 
 
 The slaughter did in fact take place. Oh ! it was 
 tremendous, as Paturel had predicted. Spew your 
 venom, Baculard ! He had spewed it. It was an 
 estimate of my talent in one of the roles in which I 
 was most successful, a subordinate role, which I 
 rendered, according to universal opinion and my own 
 feeling, almost literary by force of my art and my 
 skill, Andres, in the Pirates of the Savane. 
 
 The Argus accused me of playing it like a fool, 
 like a mountebank unworthy of the Fair at St. Cloud ; 
 like a village stroller, etc., etc., etc., three columns 
 of amenities of this kind; a pen-lashing worthy cf 
 first prize ; cruel jests by the dozen ; and, by way of 
 conclusion, this appreciative paragraph which I still 
 remember :
 
 THE LASSO. 39 
 
 "Monsieur Sbastien Brichanteau is not an actor. 
 With his bull-pricker's or Castilian torero's poses, he 
 seems better fitted for the role of chulo than for that 
 of dramatic artist, and we can better imagine this 
 buffoon engaged as a vaquero in a circus, and 
 throwing the lasso in some Mexican pantomime, than 
 declaiming prose, of whatever character it may be, 
 upon the boards of a theatre. He is a circus-rider ; 
 he is not and never will be an actor ! Back to your 
 tent, Monsieur Brichanteau, with your big felt hat 
 and your lasso ! " 
 
 I admit that my first thought, after reading the 
 article, was to go and punch Baculard's head, and tell 
 him what I thought of him to his face. As Saint- 
 Vallier did to the King at Marignan. But, after all, 
 although impertinent, he was but exercising his right 
 of criticism. The artist belongs to the public, to the 
 press, to the man who judges him, to the man who 
 hisses him. I conquered my anger, and I went, like 
 a dutiful soldier, to rehearse according to orders, as 
 if nothing had been said. I arrived at the theatre, 
 putting a bold face on the matter, divining, smelling, 
 catching glimpses of the numbers of the Argus, which 
 were hiding in the pockets of my comrades, all of 
 whom were overjoyed. 
 
 That day there was a partial rehearsal of Le Cour- 
 rier de Lyon. I played Dubosc, Dubosc and Le- 
 surques, a double role. And during the rehearsal I
 
 40 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 vaguely heard Tholozet, the jeune premier, humming, 
 evidently to irritate me and remind me of Baculard's 
 Castilian torero : 
 
 " Toreador, prends garde ! 
 Toreador, toreador ! " 
 
 I had a strong desire to thrust the air from Carmen 
 down that grasshopper Tholozet's throat, and perhaps 
 I should have done it, but little Jeanne Horly, who 
 was playing the part of my daughter, said to me, 
 from behind a fly, in a low, timid, mournful voice : 
 
 " Monsieur Brichanteau, between ourselves he 's 
 very wicked, isn't he, that Monsieur Baculard?" 
 
 I looked at the poor child. She was leaning 
 against the scenery and looking anxiously into my 
 eyes. Fair, slender, graceful, but very thin, with 
 years of want to redeem, with little hands on which 
 the marks of the needle could still be seen, a little 
 Parisian brought up upon almost nothing, odds and 
 ends of pork and cafe au lait in her mother's attic, 
 but with the sacred fire in her eyes, and a great but 
 painful charm in all her little drudge's body. Still 
 another who was not made for the slavery of the 
 stage ! 
 
 "Why do you say he is wicked, my dear?" I 
 asked her. 
 
 She hesitated. 
 
 " You can safely speak ; go on ! "
 
 THE LASSO. 41 
 
 " Well, Monsieur Brichanteau, just now some one 
 read an article aloud that article that is to say, 
 the article " 
 
 " My article, you mean ? The article in which he 
 calls me a buffoon? And what then? " 
 
 "What then, Monsieur Brichanteau, what then? 
 "Why, the fact is that Monsieur Baculard is paying 
 court to me and I don't like him, and yet I feel that 
 if I send him about his business " 
 
 " He will tear you to pieces, eh ? " 
 
 " That 's it, Monsieur Brichanteau. And Monsieur 
 Carbonier " he was our manager " Monsieur 
 Carbonier said to me : 
 
 " ' Let Baculard hammer away at Brichanteau, that 's 
 all right ; Brichanteau's shoulders are broad enough 
 to stand it, Brichanteau has the public on his side ; 
 but fix it so that Baculard won't come down on you, 
 for I could n't carry my whole troupe in spite of the 
 Argus, if the Argus should take hold hi earnest. Do 
 you understand? ' " 
 
 " Carbonier said that? " 
 
 " Yes, Monsieur Brichanteau." 
 
 " Is Carbonier afraid of Baculard?" 
 
 " Yes, Monsieur Brichanteau." 
 
 And the little one added : 
 
 " And I am too, Monsieur Brichanteau ; I 'm afraid 
 of him too ! Just think ! If Monsieur Carbonier 
 should cancel my engagement, what would become of
 
 42 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 me, with my little one out at nurse and mamma a 
 charwoman in Paris?" 
 
 I looked again at little Jeanne, Jeanne Horly, a 
 mere child, a gamine. So slender ! As big round as 
 one's wrist ! And she had to pay a nurse for another 
 human creature somewhere about Nevers, a boy 
 born of the amours of that child with a fellow-pupil 
 at the Conservatory, who had deserted in order to 
 avoid military service, and who was then singing 
 comic songs in Belgian beer-gardens or London 
 music-halls. In receipt of a very moderate stipend 
 at Perpignan, the poor girl saved enough out of her 
 month's wages to send by the post what the Nivernais 
 nurse sharply demanded, and what the mother in 
 Paris needed for her footwarmer and her tobacco. 
 Ah ! the pity of it ! 
 
 And that delicate and pretty, very pretty creature 
 had only one fear, that the manager, alarmed by the 
 attacks of the Janin of Rivesaltes would dismiss her ! 
 Was it possible? 
 
 " Don't you be afraid of these scarecrows to 
 frighten sparrows," I said to her, "but send the 
 Argus back to Rivesaltes ! " 
 
 " Ah ! Monsieur Brichanteau. That is so easy for you 
 to say ! If I only had your talent, your position ! " 
 
 Poor girl ! My position ! my talent ! They were 
 of much service to me, were they not? One must 
 needs have the sacred fire, an artist's soul nailed to
 
 THE LASSO. 43 
 
 his breastbone, to endure what I endured and to 
 resign one's self to play the Pirates or Lesurques in 
 the provinces, when in Paris there were associates 
 But let us not talk about it. I lavished my eloquence 
 on little Jeanne Horly, urging her to snap her fingers 
 at Baculard's attentions as well as at his attacks, and 
 promising to talk with Monsieur Carbonier himself on 
 the subject and to tell him what I thought of his 
 pusillanimity. 
 
 " If Baculard attacks you, have no fear, for I, yes, 
 I will see that you are applauded ! " 
 
 And I left little Jeanne for it was nearly time for 
 me to go on in much better spirits, standing in the 
 wings where we had been talking. But what weak 
 creatures women are ! Frailty, thy name is woman, 
 says the Bard of Avon. Some days after this inter- 
 view at rehearsal, I was going back to my lodgings 
 near the ramparts one night after the play, it was 
 the dead of winter and it had snowed very hard 
 that day, when, a few yards in front of me, I 
 espied, splashing through the muddy snow, a sadly 
 ironical couple : the corpulent Baculard, with his 
 broad back, strutting along, his head and sallow 
 face proudly erect, and little Jeanne Horly trail- 
 ing along at his side, hanging to the giant's arm 
 like some little Poucette being carried off by an ogre 
 starving for fresh meat. They were on their way, he 
 and she, to some house of assignation, the heavy
 
 44 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 shoes of one and the other's thin little boots sinking 
 into the dirty, melting snow. And there was such an 
 air of bestial triumph in the red-mustached victor's 
 swagging stride, and such resigned, timid, shivering 
 melancholy in the little one's drooping shoulders and 
 bowed head, that I do not know even yet whether I 
 was more disgusted than grieved at the lamentable 
 sight. Vive Dieu, messeigneurs, it was enough to 
 make one weep ! 
 
 I deliberated for a moment whether I should pass 
 Baculard, and show myself to him, an unexpected 
 apparition, as the cunning witness of his good fortune. 
 But I decided that it would make too much trouble 
 for the poor girl. And what good purpose would it 
 serve? She had yielded. She had been frightened, 
 the little one being hungry, and the foster-father, the 
 Nivernais peasant, thirsty. And, in face of the 
 threats of the Argus and the fear of Monsieur Car- 
 bonier, she had yielded. She was the victim of that 
 man, who craved reputation, money, and pleasure. 
 Blackmail ! That is not paid simply in checks to 
 bearer. There is blackmailing in debauchery, and 
 the woman who trembles pays like the banker who is 
 intimidated. 
 
 I returned home that evening more depressed than 
 I had ever been in my days of greatest depression. 
 I said to myself again and again, " Poor little girl ! 
 poor little girl ! " And I saw once more that ill-
 
 THE LASSO. 45 
 
 omened group : the slender girl dragged along, cling- 
 ing to the conqueror's arm. I was more angry with 
 Baculard for making that bargain with the poor girl 
 than for the diatribes he had directed against me. 
 On my word, there is something of Don Quixote in 
 me ; yes, Don Quixote of La Mancha, and I am 
 proud of it. 
 
 At that moment the date fixed for my benefit was 
 drawing near. It was the hour for the wreath. 
 
 Yes, the wreath ! the wreath of green laurel ! It 
 was what I had always dreamed of, worshipped, 
 striven for in my long artistic career. A crown of 
 thorns sometimes ! I craved the wreath, the tri- 
 umphal wreath. And often, yes, very often, mon- 
 sieur, it has cooled my brow. 
 
 I was, indeed, so thirsty for glory that I was accus- 
 tomed, I confess it to-day, but without remorse, 
 when I was touring in the provinces, or when I was 
 to have a benefit performance, to make sure of that 
 final proof of public sympathy, that concluding note, 
 that apotheosis of acting, that materialization of suc- 
 cess. I do not blush for it. The audience might be 
 absent-minded, might forget. One must be able to 
 think for one's self. And it was that precaution which 
 precipitated the definitive what shall I say in- 
 evitable collision between Baculard and myself. Yes, 
 inevitable. And this is how it came about. The 
 date of my benefit was at hand, as I have told you.
 
 46 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 I was at liberty to choose my own play, to word my 
 announcements as I saw fit. I had therefore agreed 
 to present, expressly for that solemn occasion, an 
 unpublished drama by a young author of the Pyre"ne"es 
 Orientales, who had read his work to me at the Caf 
 Arago. The young man interested me. To tell the 
 truth, authors are less interesting than actors. We 
 have our glory for our lives only, whereas they have 
 the immortality of the library. After twenty-five or 
 thirty years of hard work, what is left of us ? Wrin- 
 kles. They, even though they have gone themselves, 
 leave their books behind them. I ought to say that, 
 were it not for us, their dramatic works would be 
 absolutely dead. The actor alone gives life to the 
 drama : an unpublished drama is like unlighted foot- 
 lights. That is why we are rightly said to create 
 roles. " Create " is the proper word. 
 
 I had promised, as I say, to create J. J. Puget's 
 Le Gaucho, a play in which I had, by the way, a 
 part cut to my measure, a Melingue of the good old 
 days, Don Esteban, the Mexican Gaucho. It 
 seemed to me that the first work of a child of the 
 province, a product of the soil, would attract the 
 public much more than a drama already well-known, 
 and I had asked my manager to loan me the cos- 
 tumes worn in the Pirates, the famous Pirates of the 
 Savane in which Baculard had insulted me to 
 costume the Gaucho.
 
 THE LASSO. 47 
 
 "Whatever you want, Brichanteau," said Monsieur 
 Carbonier. 
 
 Good, very good, whatever I wanted. It was 
 understood that, as the beneficiary, I was to pay for 
 the gas, the box-openers, the doorkeepers. Young 
 Puget transferred his author's rights to me. Mon- 
 sieur Carbonier allowed me to advertise Le Gaucho 
 well in advance, provided I did not interfere with 
 the sale of seats for counter attractions. 
 
 A liberal man in business was Monsieur Carbonier, 
 a former bailiff, by the way, who had taken to the 
 business of theatrical manager for love of a singer ; 
 indeed, he was rather large-hearted, whatever his 
 attitude toward little Jeanne Horly might lead one 
 to think ; but he jumped from his arm-chair in his 
 managerial office when I said to him : 
 
 " Well and good, Monsieur Carbonier. But there 's 
 the wreath ! " 
 
 " The wreath ! what wreath ? " 
 
 " Why, the wreath that is usually presented to me 
 on my tours, in the name of the personnel of the 
 theatre, at the end of my benefit. Thejeune prem- 
 iere generally brings it to me at the end of the fifth, 
 and I receive it from her hands in the presence of 
 the audience, which is almost always profoundly, 
 wildly excited ! " 
 
 Monsieur Carbonier looked at me, compressing 
 his lips and shaking his head.
 
 48 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 " A wreath ! a wreath ! why, a wreath costs a lot 
 of money ; the management can't afford to pay for 
 it, and as for the personnel, as you call it, you are 
 well aware, my dear Brichanteau, that your colleagues 
 are not exactly rolling in wealth. And to take from 
 their salaries the price of " 
 
 I abruptly interrupted Monsieur Carbonier, and 
 observed with great dignity : 
 
 " Oh ! my dear manager, what are you talking 
 about? And can you think that I would make my 
 poor comrades of the company bear the cost of a 
 demonstration in my honor ? I, my dear manager ! 
 never in my life. This wreath, yes, this wreath 
 to which I aspire, I already have ! " 
 
 "You have it?" 
 
 " I own it. It is part of my wardrobe. Make 
 my colleagues pay for it ? the idea ! I always 
 carry it with me, in my trunk ; I keep it fresh, and, 
 when I need it, I take it out, dust it, and use it ! " 
 
 " Oh ! all right ! very good ! " exclaimed Mon- 
 sieur Carbonier, reassured. 
 
 " Now, my dear manager, you need not worry at 
 all about the arrangements for this little ceremony, 
 which is a very simple affair. Mademoiselle Jeanne 
 Horly will rehearse it once with me and nothing 
 more will be necessary. I don't even ask you to 
 have the stage set ; I will not take one of your re- 
 hearsal days. We will rehearse it after Le Gauche,
 
 THE LASSO. 49 
 
 which we will set up and make ready in the morning, 
 leaving the afternoon free for our repertory. 
 
 Monsieur Carbonier was enchanted. From the 
 moment that he knew that the wreath would cost 
 him nothing he became a warm advocate of the 
 wreath. He remarked, however, that as Jeanne 
 Horly was now under the protection of the Jules 
 Janin of Rivesaltes, it would seem as if, by seeking 
 my comrade's assistance, I were endeavoring to 
 secure the critic's neutrality. 
 
 " You are suggesting a cessation of hostilities," he 
 said. 
 
 " I ? Not at all, my dear manager. I select the 
 jeune premiere, because it is my custom. The jeune 
 premiere is always the one who salutes me and 
 hands me the wreath. I do not choose the woman, 
 but the position. If that gentleman sees in my 
 action any desire to mollify him or to make ad- 
 vances, he will be greatly mistaken. I follow tradi- 
 tion. Voila ! " 
 
 Monsieur Carbonier said nothing more. After all, 
 what mattered it to him whether Baculard was or 
 was not well-disposed toward me? My engage- 
 ment was near its close. I should soon leave Per- 
 pignan. The management was not involved in my 
 benefit. He washed his hands of the affair. 
 
 We distributed the parts, learned, rehearsed and 
 acted J. J. Puget's Le Gaucho in nine days. More 
 4
 
 50 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 than one scene a day. And I had some speeches 
 of a hundred and forty lines ! All the lovers of the 
 drama in town had taken tickets. 
 
 The ladies of Perpignan and I was flattered by 
 it were evidently anxious to see the beneficiary. 
 I was, I must say, and vanity is not one of my 
 weaknesses, I was truly remarkable in Esteban, 
 Esteban the Gaucho. There was one scene in 
 which I held, quivering beneath my iron heel, the 
 man who had insulted me in the prologue, Don 
 Pablo Zamoral, and in which I reached, I can 
 fairly say, the height of pathos. All Perpignan 
 shuddered ! 
 
 I felt that I was in the right mood ; all the more 
 because I saw in front of me, in one of the orchestra 
 chairs, Baculard's pale face, his fierce glance, his sneer ; 
 and it was to the critic of the Argus that I seemed 
 to address the epithets which I hurled at Pablo 
 Zamoral : " Ah ! you have insulted me, senor, but the 
 Gaucho will have his revenge, and the point of my 
 navaja, Don Pablo, will surely find thy heart, if it 
 is stitt within thy body, and through the open 
 wound despatch thy soul, if soul thou hast, to Satan's 
 dominions!" Young J. J. Puget had a fine style. 
 Indirect taxes held him in check, absorbed, anni- 
 hilated him. ' Tis a great pity. 
 
 Le Gaucho was a triumph. The author was called 
 for. Everybody applauded. Baculard alone remained
 
 THE LASSO. 51 
 
 impassive in his chair. The prefect came to con- 
 gratulate me. The mayor pressed my hand, accom- 
 panying the gesture with cordial, flattering words. 
 The moment had come for the presentation of the 
 wreath. 
 
 The curtain rose, all my comrades were grouped 
 on the stage, some in Mexican costume, some in 
 ordinary dress. Encompassed by their sympathy, I 
 had before me the enthusiasm of the public, and I 
 felt as if enclosed in a circle of good feeling, of indul- 
 gence, or I might better say, of justice. Monsieur, 
 there was a glow at my heart. 
 
 I looked at the wreath, my wreath, which I had, 
 again and again, received from the jeune premiere, at 
 Moulins, at Tours, at Nantes, at Nancy, even at 
 Etampes. It was always fresh, well dusted, bright 
 and green, with its ribbon which I had renewed from 
 time to time, the ribbon with the gilt letters : To 
 Brichanteau, from his friends and admirers! And 
 little Jeanne Horly, in Mexican costume, she played 
 Lola, the Cigarette Girl in Le Gaucho, held in her 
 hands that wreath whereon I read with emotion the 
 gilt letters ! His friends and admirers ! Those were 
 two titles which I was well entitled to bestow upon 
 the spectators, whose justice, whose indulgence, if you 
 please, hailed me with loud acclaim. 
 
 Thereupon, the whole hall being wrapped in 
 silence, Jeanne Horly, little Jeanne Horly, whose
 
 52 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 heart-rending appearance in the snow and mud I for- 
 got at that moment, Jeanne Horly, who was no longer 
 the poor creature hanging on Baculard's arm, but my 
 Muse, the Muse of my hopes and of dramatic art, 
 living Posterity Jeanne Horly walked toward me 
 and said in her very soft, deeply moved voice : 
 
 "Accept, O master" I had dictated the speech 
 to her and told her what words to emphasize 
 "accept this wreath, the worthy reward of your 
 aesthetic efforts ! Such wreaths are never, like the 
 wreaths of conquerors in war, stained with the blood 
 of the common people ; they are and it is much 
 better so wet with the honest tears immortal art 
 has caused to flow ! " 
 
 She delivered the little speech very well, with much 
 feeling, did little Jeanne Horly ; so well that I was 
 deeply moved, the tears of which she spoke came to 
 my eyes, and I wept ! I wept tears that did me 
 good. That ceremony, always the same, was, however, 
 always new to me ; and I have never been able to go 
 through the scene with dry eyes. Although repeated 
 frequently, yet it was always to me the sweetest and 
 the dearest of surprises. Do you understand me? 
 Every actor will know what I mean. The effect of 
 my tears upon the audience was, however, startling, 
 literally startling. The orchestra stalls rose, hand- 
 kerchiefs were waved in the boxes, and they shouted : 
 " Vive Brichanteau ! Do not go away ! Remain
 
 THE LASSO. 53 
 
 with us ! Brichanteau ! Brichanteau ! " Such emo- 
 tion, even on the Spanish frontier, consoles one for 
 many disappointments. Every one has not experi- 
 enced it, and when, after I had taken the wreath, my 
 wreath, from Jeanne Horly's hands, my comrades 
 came one by one and embraced me, there was a per- 
 fect delirium in the audience. Kisses were wafted to 
 me which I returned with repeated salutations; it 
 was even suggested that I be carried in triumph. I 
 avoided the ovation, carrying home with me, like a 
 true egoist, the ineffaceable memory of the evening of 
 Le Gaucho and my wreath, my dear wreath, which 
 was destined to afford me like emotion many times 
 again. 
 
 What a blissful memory ! But there was, as there 
 is in all triumphs, Roman or Pyrenean, there was in 
 my shadow the licensed insulter, the player upon the 
 shrill-toned flute. Baculard was there, Baculard, to 
 whom I, the beneficiary, had sent a complimentary 
 ticket without my card. He was not long in making 
 me pay for my joy. The next morning the first 
 column of the Argus contained an article headed The 
 Gaucho 's Tears, and I need tell you no more ! Your 
 poor Brichanteau was abused in that article like the 
 meanest clown at a fair. I had played before the 
 public in a wretched comedy, I had wept, at a stated 
 time, before a vulgar wreath which I carried about 
 through the provinces as a necessary property ; I had
 
 54 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 rehearsed and pumped up my tears, had held a spe- 
 cial rehearsal of my emotion ; I myself, in gelatinous 
 style, had arranged the compliment whose sickish 
 odor I had had the audacity to inhale in public. I 
 was the most brazen-faced strolling player to be met 
 on the highway, where the chariot of the Comic Novel 
 sticks fast in the mud. This Baculard could not 
 understand that we, putting our whole soul into 
 everything we do, can weep in presence of a wreath 
 that we know and recognize, just as Pygmalion can 
 fall in love with the statue he has created ! For that 
 wreath was, in one point of view, my Galatea ! 
 
 And the article wound up with this shaft : " When 
 the troupe returns, we shall call again for Esteban- 
 Andres Brichanteau, of the saw-dust ring of the 
 circus, to perform, between two of his clown's pirou- 
 ettes, those lasso tricks that he knows so well. The 
 lasso ! that is his function, and to tell the truth, 
 it is his only talent. In a travelling circus I promise 
 him a much more profitable benefit than that he 
 received, the beggar of sous, as a pseudo-actor." Ah ! 
 I could restrain myself no longer. That man had 
 insulted me, not only as an actor, but as a beneficiary, 
 that is to say, as a man. I determined to reply to 
 him, to avenge myself; and an idea took root in my 
 brain, an artistic idea, monsieur, a delicious idea ! I 
 went the next day to the Caf Arago, where the Jules 
 Janin of Rivesaltes was usually to be found astonishing
 
 THE LASSO. 55 
 
 the bourgeois with his paradoxes, and more like a 
 strolling- player than I, making a parade of his wit. 
 He was there, surrounded by good people whom he 
 amused, and taking his bitters as he puffed away at a 
 cigar. I approached him slowly, and stopped two 
 steps from the table at which he was seated. 
 
 "Monsieur," I said, "we. have a long-standing 
 account to settle. Is it your pleasure that it be 
 settled soon?" 
 
 He seemed astonished at first, looked at me with a 
 jeering air, as he raised his insolent face, and let fall, 
 with excellent effect, by the way, a 
 
 " When you desire ! " 
 
 " Very well ! the sooner the better. It has gone 
 on too long. I respect the press, I owe to it the best 
 part of my joys and the greatest part of my pleasant 
 memories. But I brook no insults. You will either 
 declare that your articles are absurd, or you will give 
 me satisfaction ! " 
 
 He rose, casting an angry glance at me, and the 
 proprietor of the Cafie, the customers and habitues of 
 the place, gathered about us. 
 
 "My articles?" stammered the great braggart, 
 " You dare, you dare " 
 
 "Certainly, I dare. People are too much afraid 
 of you ! As for me, I laugh at you ! And, if you 
 do not retract what you have written, you must 
 fight me."
 
 56 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 " Oh ! as much as you please," he exclaimed, de- 
 lighted to show the gallery how brave he was. 
 
 " We will fight," I rejoined coldly, for I was mas- 
 ter of myself as of the universe, " and as I am the 
 insulted party, I have the choice of weapons ! And 
 I choose my favorite weapon ! my strolling-player's 
 weapon, Monsieur Baculard; my travelling-circus 
 weapon ; my Gaucho weapon ! We will fight with the 
 lasso ! " 
 
 I had enunciated each word enunciation is a great 
 thing with studied, contemptuous, stinging moder- 
 ation. When the word " lasso " fell upon his head, 
 he shook it as if he were under a shower-bath. He 
 made no reply at first, looking about, trying to laugh 
 it off, seeking in the eyes of those around us some 
 signs of reprobation for me, or an assertion of the 
 utter absurdity of my preposterous proposition. 
 
 " With the lasso ! You are mad ! With the 
 lasso ! " 
 
 " I am not mad. You have insulted me, called me 
 torero, chulo, picador, and God knows what else ! I 
 shall fight with the weapon you have ridiculed ! my 
 favorite weapon, monsieur ! If I played Harlequin, 
 I would tell you that I would fight with the wooden 
 sword ! I play Esteban the Gaucho ! I shall fight 
 with the Gaucho 's weapon ! " 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " You 're a buffoon ! " he said.
 
 THE LASSO. 57 
 
 Then turning toward the spectators, he continued : 
 
 " A lasso ! Do you see this mountebank ? I will 
 give you a lesson " 
 
 " With your pen, perhaps. I propose to give you 
 one with my lasso ! The lasso, you hear, the lasso ! 
 And if you undertake to play cunning, I will haul 
 you out of your chair at some first performance, and 
 drag you on to the stage with the weapon of the 
 Gaucho, the mountebank, and the clown ! Hasta la 
 vista, senor!" 
 
 And leaving him stupefied, gasping, his usually 
 pale face suffused with blood, I pulled my big felt hat 
 down over my head like a sombrero, and stalked out 
 of the cafe" as I make my exit in Don Cesar de 
 Bazan, every one making way for me until I reached 
 the threshold, where, turning once more, I hurled at 
 him, in the tone of a To horse, messieurs I a magnifi- 
 cent, Au lasso / which echoed through the room like 
 a peal of thunder. 
 
 Paris is a great provincial city, but Perpignan is a 
 small one. The episode of the Cafe" Arago was soon 
 generally known. The Independant des Pyrenees- 
 Orientales spoke of it the same day in veiled words. 
 In the green-room of the theatre, that evening, the 
 boldest of my comrades gave me an ovation, the more 
 prudent ones shunned me; they were afraid of 
 Baculard. Little Jeanne Horly was weeping. It seems 
 that Baculard had said that he would have my skin,
 
 $8 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 and that I should leave Perpignan with my face 
 pounded to a jelly. I played Latude that evening. I 
 made a great hit. But I still pursued my delicious 
 idea, by asking Monsieur Carbonier to announce Le 
 Gaucho for the following Sunday. I sent J. J. Puget 
 to second my request. J. J. Puget was a distant 
 cousin of the mayor's brother-in-law, and Monsieur 
 Carbonier was not sorry to show his good-will to a 
 connection of the municipality. 
 
 " But," observed the manager, " suppose Baculard 
 hisses you? " 
 
 "Before Sunday the question at issue between 
 Baculard and myself will be settled ! We shall have 
 fought with the lasso, or he will have backed out." 
 
 " Le Gaucho it is, then!" said Monsieur Car- 
 bonier. 
 
 And he advertised it accordingly. 
 
 He did not quite realize the gravity of what I 
 asked him to do when I suggested a second perform- 
 ance of Le Gaucho. J. J. Puget's lines were not in 
 his mind at the time. At a given moment Esteban 
 the Gaucho says to Don Pablo Zamoral : " / will use 
 against thee the weapon of the peons and the Gauchos, 
 vile wretch, and I will drag thee to my hacienda, 
 hanging behind my saddle like a strangled Jaguar/ " It 
 was that phrase, and a sonorous piece of writing it is, 
 as they would say to-day, that I proposed to deliver 
 in my agreeably guttural voice. Monsieur Carbonier
 
 THE LASSO. 59 
 
 forgot that phrase; otherwise he would have cut it 
 out, or else he would have asked J. J. Puget to put 
 something in its place. And Puget would have com- 
 plied for the sake of being acted. 
 
 It was Friday. The affair at the Cafe" Arago and 
 the insult I had offered Baculard were the talk of the 
 town. Would we fight? Wouldn't we fight? Was 
 I in the wrong ? Was I in the right ? Opinions were 
 divided. Some were in favor of my lasso, others 
 against it. There were lassoists and antilassoists in 
 Perpignan. The town was as torn by faction as on 
 the day of a municipal election. The antilassoists 
 I say it without personal bias were in the minority. 
 Generally speaking, they held that the insulted 
 artist's attitude, even to his tears, the Gaucho 's tears, 
 was decidedly swaggering, and that it was an original 
 idea of the actor to fight Mexican fashion, to carry 
 into real life the fancies of the drama and of litera- 
 ture. In the streets hats were raised to me, not 
 more frequently, but more cordially. The salutations 
 seemed to say, Bravo t to me. 
 
 I had sent two friends to Baculard : old Touraille, 
 who played the noble fathers and who was once a 
 drummer in the National Guard, and a customs offi- 
 cial, a friend of mine and a man of spirit. Baculard 
 replied that the proposition of a duel with lassos 
 was perfectly absurd, and that I ran the risk of being 
 hissed on the street as well as on the stage. Good
 
 6O BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 for you, my man ! I awaited the next number of 
 the Argus. It appeared. Under the heading, Puppet- 
 shows in town, it contained these lines : 
 
 " An insignificant actor, passing through Perpignan, 
 has given us, before taking his leave, which he ought to 
 have done long ago, a performance of a cheap low vau- 
 deville, in a cafe" which we will not name. We had be- 
 lieved that such vulgar interludes were confined to the 
 class of prestidigitators who can find no halls in which to 
 exercise their talents. The insignificant actor had, as 
 usual, no success." 
 
 It was very weak for a parry. The general opinion 
 was that it was an insignificant performance, insignifi- 
 cant, to use his own word. Touraille said to me, 
 " He is n't in love with the lasso ! " And the hat- 
 raisings in the street became even more sympathetic. 
 
 Sunday came, and Jeanne Horly tremblingly said to 
 me: 
 
 "Are you going to act, Monsieur Brichanteau ? " 
 
 Yes, my child." 
 
 " Are you going to play Le Gaucho ? " 
 
 " Yes, dear child." 
 
 " Will you speak of the lasso? " 
 
 " Necessarily." 
 
 "Ah ! how unfortunate ! " 
 
 She was pale as a ghost. 
 
 "Why unfortunate?" 
 
 " If he should do what he says, Monsieur Brichan- 
 teau ! "
 
 THE LASSO. 6 1 
 
 "What does he say, my child? " 
 
 " That he will hiss you first, then go on the stage 
 and slap your face ! " 
 
 " So be it. Then it will be time for the lasso to 
 take a hand. You can tell him that from me, my 
 child." 
 
 I must say, and I do not mean to make myself 
 out any braver than I am, I dreaded the hiss, and 
 I was not at all comfortable about the slap. I might 
 strangle my man after I had received it, but then I 
 must receive it first. However many insults one 
 may avenge, it is disagreeable to submit to them. I 
 laid out my plan of campaign ; if he hisses, I will 
 retort by some such phrase as this : " The hissing of 
 the viper is not so effective as the hissing of an honest 
 man's lasso" If he comes toward me on the stage, 
 I will seize his right hand or take him by the throat, 
 and then But whatever might happen I was de- 
 termined to play Le Gaucho and to carry out my 
 plan to the end, my idea of a duel with the lasso, of 
 what Baculard called a low vaudeville performance 
 " My resolution had become a statue ! " 
 
 Where there 's a will, there 's a way. 
 
 Sunday arrived. A full house. The small Per- 
 pignan theatre fairly groaned, being far too small 
 for the great audience. I walked upon the stage. 
 Esteban does not appear until the second, and the 
 first had been listened to coldly, I should say impa-
 
 62 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 tiently. I walked upon the stage, I say, and volleys 
 of bravos greeted me, not the bravos of claqueurs, 
 but the bravos of the audience. One hardly ever 
 mistakes one for the other, they have not the same 
 sound. The bravos of the claque seem to stop short 
 with mathematical precision, while those of the real 
 audience go on irregularly and spontaneously. I 
 played my scene, the first, in which Esteban tells 
 Cora the story of his life, Jeanne Horly was Cora, 
 and, as I played, I looked about to see if Baculard 
 was in the hall. I wanted to know from what direc- 
 tion the hiss would come, assuming But Baculard 
 was not there. The second came to an end ; I was 
 recalled, but I said to the stage-manager : 
 
 "No, don't ring up the curtain, I shall not go 
 out ! " 
 
 " Why not? They are calling for you ! " 
 
 " I do not want to appear to be forcing my popular- 
 ity ! After the third, if they recall me, well and 
 good ! but not after the second, it is too early ! " 
 
 And despite the cheers, the clapping and stamping, 
 the curtain was not raised. 
 
 There was rather a long intermission before the 
 third. J. J. Puget took advantage of it to come 
 behind the scenes and embrace me. He told me 
 that I had been sublime, author's exaggeration. 
 But he also told me that Baculard had arrived, with 
 his hat at a fighting angle and an insulting sneer.
 
 THE LASSO. 63 
 
 " Look out for the next act ! " said poor Puget. 
 " Suppose you cut the passage about the lasso, my 
 dear Brichanteau, what do you say ? " 
 
 "What do I say?" 
 
 I waited a moment to make my reply more impres- 
 sive. 
 
 " I say that I would rather cut off my right hand 
 than cut that passage. I am here for no other pur- 
 pose than to throw it in that man's face ! " 
 
 " For the love of God ! " muttered J. J. Puget. 
 " Why, if the Argus tears my play to pieces, it will be 
 all your fault ! " 
 
 " I take the whole responsibility upon myself ! " I 
 replied. 
 
 Ah ! that third act ! One of the most exciting 
 occasions, and one of the successes of my life. The 
 moment that I went upon the stage I had seen 
 Baculard planted in the balcony, aiming an enormous 
 opera-glass at me, with studied affectation. I had 
 thereupon cleverly pretended not to notice him, and 
 I played all the first part of the third as if the Janin 
 of Rivesaltes were not there. Excellent Jules Janin ! 
 The idea of comparing that gallant, high-minded man 
 to such a fellow as that ! The spectators were visibly 
 interested in the double play of Le Gaucho, in the 
 drama itself, and in the sort of duel which was in 
 progress between the actor on the stage and the 
 pamphleteer in the hall. No one knew what he
 
 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 expected to happen, but there was a smell of sulphur 
 in the atmosphere as at the approach of a storm. 
 Stretched out in his chair, his shoulders bearing hard 
 against the back, Baculard cast at me I saw it out 
 of the corner of my eye glances of ironical pity, 
 such as one might bestow upon a circus clown. And 
 I felt, yes, I felt magnetically that a part of the audi- 
 ence thought that his contemptuous attitude was a 
 success. But I bided my time. My time was com- 
 ing, it came. 
 
 I had Don Pablo Zamoral before me, and it was 
 time for me to hurl the famous passage in his face. 
 Thereupon, turning a little away from Cambouscasse, 
 who was playing Zamoral, I walked straight forward 
 to the footlights yes, so near that I almost brushed 
 against the lamps ! and gazing in Baculard's face, 
 gazing at him deliberately, with head erect and in a 
 loud voice I declaimed, in trumpet tones, the aveng- 
 ing phrase that had been rumbling for two days past 
 in my breast : 
 
 " / will use against thee the weapon of the peons and 
 the Gauchos, vile wretch, and I will drag thee to my 
 hacienda, hanging from my saddle like a strangled 
 jaguar ! " 
 
 Ah ! what an effect ! What a thunderbolt ! At 
 first a sort of stupor ! Every eye was turned upon 
 him whom my gaze sought out and smote. An awful 
 silence. He, pale and terrified; I, with my arm
 
 THE LASSO. 65 
 
 extended like Mirabeau speaking to to Dreux 
 Dreux to the king's messenger, whoever he was ! 
 Then suddenly a great uproar, loud acclamations, a 
 whirlwind of bravos, a tempest of cheers, a cyclone of 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 " Vive Brichanteau ! " 
 
 " Bravo, bravo, bravo, Brichanteau ! " 
 
 " Again ! again ! again ! again ! " 
 
 I have had ovations in my life, I may say, indeed, 
 that I have had them without number, notwithstanding 
 my final destiny, but I think I have never had one to 
 be compared to that. The common herd in poli- 
 tics as in art, in art as in politics the vulgar herd 
 loves audacious, daring men and unequivocal situa- 
 tions. Therein lies all the art of acting as well as the 
 art of government. What I did on that occasion was 
 not complicated; I picked up a stone, as I would 
 have picked up a pebble, and I hurled it at that 
 Brummagem Goliath with my distinct enunciation for 
 a sling. The man of the Argus, fairly livid with rage, 
 tried to rise, put out his arm in my direction, hurled 
 at me some retort which I did not hear, which no one 
 could have heard ; but, amid the cheers which liter- 
 ally made the building tremble, which did not cease, 
 which were constantly renewed with ever-increasing 
 force, he sat down again, or rather cowered in his 
 chair, crushed by the acclamations that greeted me, 
 me, the dispenser of justice. 
 S
 
 66 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 The act ended with the scene between Esteban 
 and Zamoral, luckily, for it could not have gone 
 on. When the curtain fell I was recalled once, twice, 
 thrice, four times. The recalls were endless. And 
 I continued to answer them ! Vainly did I look for 
 Baculard in the place he had occupied a few moments 
 before. He was no longer there. He had slunk 
 away in a rage at the turn affairs had taken. 
 
 I expected to see him appear in the wings, and I 
 had my lasso in my hand ready for an emergency. 
 Being naturally very dexterous, I had learned to use 
 it, and genuine Gauchos had given me lessons during 
 my South American tours. Baculard would have had 
 a warm reception, I promise you ; but Baculard did 
 not appear. And the play came to an end, like the 
 third act, amid enthusiastic bravos. Poor J. J. Puget 
 was as red as a tomato with delight. 
 
 I was escorted home, must I say in triumph ? Well, 
 yes, in triumph. And the demonstration, I was well 
 aware, was bestowed upon the man of stout heart as 
 well as upon the artist. 
 
 The next day I received a visit from two friends 
 of Baculard. They came to demand an apology 
 or satisfaction for the affront of the preceding 
 evening. 
 
 " Apology, never ; satisfaction, to his heart's con- 
 tent," I replied. " But Monsieur Baculard knows 
 my weapon."
 
 THE LASSO. 67 
 
 "The lasso?" 
 
 " The lasso." 
 
 " You are jesting ! " 
 
 " Not in the slightest degree ; I fight with my 
 acrobatic weapon. I fight with the lasso. And hav- 
 ing declared my purpose publicly, before a whole 
 theatre full of people whose bravos solemnly approved 
 my conduct as by a plebiscite, I will fight with nothing 
 but the lasso. I have said it." 
 
 This episode of the lasso amused Perpignan might- 
 ily, and Baculard was not considered the hero of the 
 affair. In vain did his seconds, in their report pub- 
 lished by the Argus, declare that I had declined to 
 give the satisfaction demanded ; the whole town was 
 agreed that I declined nothing at all, since I was 
 willing to fight with the Mexican lasso ; and certain 
 officers who declared at first that my idea was abso- 
 lutely grotesque, subsequently, after reading Bacu- 
 lard's articles, declared that my method was a clever 
 one, after all, and that, having been insulted in my 
 profession, I had defended myself in my own way, 
 and a very good way it was. 
 
 Remarks uncomplimentary to Baculard accumu- 
 lated rapidly, and all the shrinking enmities united 
 against the awe-inspiring man, now that he was down. 
 He had spoken of administering a thrashing when he 
 met me ; but being informed that, with characteristic 
 obstinacy, I always carried my lasso with me, he did
 
 68 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 not put himself out to meet me. And by slow de- 
 grees, he, once so feared, became an object of ridicule. 
 They wrote songs about him, they sent him, by way of 
 mockery, miniature lassos in sealed packages. The 
 gamins shouted at him from a safe distance, " Where 's 
 your lasso, Baculard ? " A circus passing through the 
 town advertised and that was the finishing stroke 
 Lasso Exercise, and its receipts were enormous. 
 They had a white-faced clown dragged by an attend- 
 ant about the ring with a lasso around his neck, and 
 the clown, whose name was John Lee, was christened 
 Baculard. 
 
 Finally, Baculard was in such a frenzy of impotent 
 rage, he felt that he was so humiliated, so discredited, 
 so uprooted, as it were, at Perpignan, that, 'faith, he 
 took a decided step ; he left sooner than he intended 
 and took the train for Paris. I was applauded more 
 warmly than ever the next day, when I appeared in 
 Gaspard le Pecheur. Everybody was satisfied, as was 
 my honor. 
 
 " Ouf ! " said Monsieur Carbonier, " I sha 'n't have 
 to worry any more about the snarling and sneering 
 of the Argus / " 
 
 I did n't like to say, " Never fear, others will 
 come." 
 
 Little Horly alone had red eyes. 
 
 " He promised me," she said, " that he would look 
 out for my future ! "
 
 THE LASSO. 69 
 
 To her, too, I was inclined to reply, " Never fear, 
 others will come ! " 
 
 I was mistaken, the poor girl had no future. Per- 
 haps she trusted to the promises of too many succes- 
 sive Baculards. I saw her again last winter. She is 
 a box-opener at the Theatre Dejazet. Not. very old, 
 but aged, oh ! so aged ! And she talked about 
 sending her child, now almost a man, to the Conser- 
 vatory ! Ah ! dame, when one has the stage in one's 
 blood ! I pity her, poor little Horly and I admire 
 her! 
 
 As for Baculard, he continues to put himself on ex- 
 hibition, to torture, to crucify, to tear to pieces ; and 
 he has made a fortune at the Bourse, or by gambling, 
 I cannot say which. He is fashionable, he is cor- 
 rect. He lives well, he will die fat. And I, who am 
 now nothing at all, say to myself, when I think of 
 him, who has made some name for himself although 
 he does not amount to much, after all, I say to 
 myself : 
 
 " All the same, had it not been for the lasso, the 
 Jules Janin of Rivesaltes might have stayed down at 
 Perpignan ! It was I I, Brichanteau who en- 
 riched Paris with him ! "
 
 III. 
 
 THE CARD PHOTOGRAPH. 
 
 You must see from these confidences that I do not 
 gloss over the truth. I have just described one of 
 my notable exploits ; I would tell you of all my weak- 
 nesses with the same frankness. My adventure with 
 Lady Maud Hartson, for example, exhibits me in a 
 less heroic light. I will not, however, keep silent 
 concerning it. What would you have? I am a sin- 
 cere man. And strangely enough the Pirates of 
 the Savane was involved in that page of my destiny 
 also. Melodrama, what hast thou against me? 
 
 If I were called upon to give practical advice in a 
 love affair, I would repeat to the woman the trite in- 
 junction, " Never write ! " and I would say to the man, 
 " Never give your photograph ! " How photographers 
 have persecuted me to induce me to pose for hours at 
 a time ! I have seen my face so often in their show- 
 windows in the provinces, and in all sizes : cabinets, 
 cards, life size and stereoscopic size ! I can truly 
 say that if I had as many crowns as photographs I 
 should be a millionnaire. I knew how to vary my 
 attitudes, I did not need the legendary : Now don't
 
 THE CARD PHOTOGRAPH. /I 
 
 move ! to keep me from moving. For the camera, as 
 for Montescure, I was the ideal model ! 
 
 Ideal, not only by reason of my immobility I did 
 not even wink, being accustomed to look the sun of 
 Art full in the face ! but I was ideal also because 
 of the diverse types I could furnish. I arranged and 
 disarranged my hair at will : scattered to the winds 
 like a poet, pulled over my forehead like a conspir- 
 ator, brushed flat on my temples like a student 
 of the Middle Ages, erect and bristling on occa- 
 sion, like a lion's mane. And the play of my fea- 
 tures harmonized with the modifications of my 
 head-dress. My mask is so mobile, monsieur, tragic 
 and comic in turn, that a learned physician, au- 
 thor of a Treatise on the Human Face, a large 
 octavo, crowned by the Academy of Sciences, asked 
 me to pose for the different expressions he described 
 in his book : Wrath, Envy, Avarice, Lust. And I did 
 it. If you ever come across Doctor Fargeas's Treat- 
 ise on the Human Face, and if you scrutinize the 
 features in the illustrations of various gentlemen in an 
 exasperated or ecstatic frame of mind which you will 
 find there, you will see only me, Brichanteau. My 
 portrait is there a hundred and sixteen times in dif- 
 ferent attitudes. The only thing lacking to my glory 
 was to figure thus in a medical book. 
 
 So, you see, I have had my picture taken many 
 times in my life, and I have given away vast quan-
 
 72 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 tities of them, some to cities, some to women. I 
 had regular formulae for the purpose : " To my dear 
 Anna, forever and ever I" Or, " To the noble city of 
 Saint- Gaudens, in memory of a never-to-be-forgotten 
 evening. Her guest who would gladly be her son." 
 Or, again, " To the Municipal Council of Pontarlier. 
 An adopted child! " These municipal dedications cost 
 me little ; I enjoyed writing them, in a style that was 
 at once simple, and I venture to say, artistic; and, 
 even if they have not procured for me the lasting 
 gratitude of the cities I have visited, no Municipal 
 Council ever acknowledged the receipt of my gift, 
 at least they have never been a source of embarrass- 
 ment to me in my career. Not in the least degree. 
 
 I cannot say as much of the portraits with what I 
 will call feminine dedications. To say nothing of 
 the experience I have sometimes had of finding on 
 the quays, in boxes sold at a sou, like the oldest of 
 old books, portraits of myself accompanied by qua- 
 trains which have cost me many a wakeful night, to 
 say nothing of all that, I have had the mortification 
 to receive, by special messenger, more than one of 
 those photographed souvenirs, returned to me with a 
 most discourteous letter from some furious husband 
 or some supplanted lover. How is it that my dedi- 
 catory imprudences have not oftener led me to the 
 duelling-ground? Perhaps because the way I fenced 
 in Le Bossu or La Dame de Monsoreau made an
 
 THE CARD PHOTOGRAPH. 73 
 
 impression on those malcontents, whose prudence 
 equalled their guile. Well, between ourselves, as I 
 have passed my sixtieth year, I can venture to tell 
 you that I was and am only a very ordinary fencer. 
 In case of a duel my heart is at the end of my sword ; 
 but I have at my service neither the address of Bussy 
 d'Amboise nor Lagardere's famous thrust. I created an 
 illusion. By dint of my art and my virtuosity I had the 
 awe-inspiring air of a swashbuckler, an optical illu- 
 sion ; let us not speak ill of it, as it served me well. 
 
 Among the vast number of faces, melancholy or 
 smiling, that stand out against the misty background 
 of memory, my thoughts linger with peculiar pleasure 
 about that of an adorable Englishwoman whom I 
 had the good fortune to meet at Pau. She was pass- 
 ing the winter there for her health, and I was acting 
 with the Lestaffier troupe. Indeed, Lady Maud was 
 the cause of a rupture between the manager and 
 myself. I was not insensible to the charms of my 
 manager, a superior and charming woman, an ad- 
 ministrator of the first rank, and very lively in her 
 leisure moments. But jealous. That was the least of 
 her faults. Very jealous. But jealousy is the spice 
 of love. Othella, I called my manager Othella ! 
 
 Lady Maud Hartson belonged to the category of 
 English brunettes, whom I consider more beautiful 
 than blondes, because, with their amber-colored com- 
 plexion and their caressing eyes, they have the most
 
 74 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 exquisitely sweet disposition, whereas there is an 
 indefinable something of the wild beast under the 
 apparent amiability of the blonde. A brunette with 
 the sweet exterior of the blonde, that is my ideal ! 
 Twenty-six years of age, rather tall, too tall, in 
 fact, and long-limbed ; but I compared her long, 
 flexible figure to the stalk of a lily, a lovely, graceful 
 lily. I had noticed Lady Maud for the first time in 
 one of the proscenium boxes, one evening when I was 
 playing the Pirates of the Savane. I remember how 
 miserable I was that evening because I was required 
 to act faster than usual. As the drama did not 
 develop sufficient drawing power, my manager con- 
 ceived the idea an excellent one from a practical 
 standpoint, but heart-rending from the standpoint of 
 art of adding an operetta ! I hate an operetta ! 
 As a disciple of the highest form of art, I consider 
 it beneath my dignity to divert myself with parodies. 
 But one must bow to facts. Without an operetta to 
 come after the play, the Pirates drew a six-hundred- 
 franc house; with an operetta, the receipts were 
 nineteen hundred francs. I resigned myself there- 
 fore to serve as a curtain-raiser for the operetta. 
 But Madame Lestaffier had said to me : 
 
 " Brichanteau, the performance will last too long, 
 and they '11 make us pay for extra gas. Act faster." 
 
 " Faster ! Faster ! And what about the by-play ? 
 A melodrama lives on by-play, just like a tragedy !
 
 THE CARD PHOTOGRAPH. 75 
 
 If I rush through it on post-horses, it is all up with 
 it ! No fine effects, no terror, no handkerchiefs, 
 nothing ! " 
 
 " What can I do, Brichanteau ? The gas makes 
 all the trouble. We must end at midnight. Cut if 
 you choose, but make it go faster ! " 
 
 I could not make up my mind to cut my part. 
 A part is a perfect whole. One sentence leads to 
 another. And even in a melodrama like the Pirates, 
 in an unliterary role like Andres, I prefer to respect 
 the author's ideas. Alas ! necessity is its own law ! 
 I said to myself, "Very well, I will act more 
 quickly ! " And I recall that hi the third my acting 
 ceased to be dramaturgic, if I may use the expression, 
 and became gymnastic. Yes, veritable gymnastics. 
 But actor does not mean simply reciter. The well- 
 equipped actor goes and comes, runs hither and 
 thither in a word, acts. The soul of Talma in 
 the body of a clown. Yes, monsieur ! A varied in- 
 telligence well served by supple organs. Voila f 
 
 Oh ! the great scene in the third! Did you ever 
 see the Pirates of the Savane ? No ? That 's sur- 
 prising and a great pity. There is in the third a 
 stage-setting that is a clou, a veritable clou, and a 
 scene in which, if I do say it, I was simply over- 
 whelming. I venture to use the word because it is 
 true. I never, in any city, failed to make a hit in 
 that scene.
 
 76 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 In the third, then, the scene is laid on a plateau, 
 with a perpendicular cliff on the garden side sepa- 
 rated from a high rock on the courtyard side the 
 courtyard is at the spectator's right, the garden at 
 his left by a mountain torrent which foams, or is 
 supposed to foam, between two steep banks. To 
 reach the plateau you must climb up a very nar- 
 row stairway cut in the rock. In the background, 
 lakes, forest, prairies. You can see it in your mind's 
 eye. 
 
 It was on that plateau, above the torrent, that I 
 rescued Eva. Eva was a child of six, whom I, as 
 Andres, the leading man's part, with the assistance 
 of Jonathan, first comedian, and Pivoine, second co- 
 median, saved from the hatred of Ribeiro, the villain. 
 It is a fetching situation. In the first place Andres, 
 bound hand and foot, is about to be murdered by 
 Ramon, a secondary character, when Eva, just as 
 the pirate approaches me, unbinds my hands; the 
 result being that I, throwing Ramon to the ground, 
 seize an axe and strike at him, which does not 
 prevent his darting off among the rocks to warn 
 his comrades. 
 
 His comrades are the pirates of the Savane. 
 Ramon leads them on. They are heard scaling 
 the cliffs. How are we to escape? There is no 
 bridge over the torrent. No, there is none. Then 
 it is that I cry, " I will make one ! "
 
 THE CARD PHOTOGRAPH. 77 
 
 I attack a cedar with lusty blows of the axe, while 
 Pivoine rolls stones over the edge of the plateau. 
 Jonathan assists me. He, too, attacks the cedar. 
 The tree bends. One more push. We put our 
 shoulders against it and the trunk falls with a tremen- 
 dous crash across the stream. Good. There is the 
 bridge we wanted. I take Eva in my arms and walk 
 slowly across the bridge. Pivoine and Jonathan follow 
 me. Hearing the pirates approaching, I cry : 
 
 " Plunge into the forest to avoid the bullets ! Go 
 toward the south and stay not until you reach the 
 Savane. As for me, I will close the path to the 
 pirates ! " 
 
 That is the grand climax. Andres seizes the axe 
 once more, or rather I, as Andres, do it, and hack 
 away anew at the trunk of the cedar. My purpose 
 is to cut it in two before the arrival of the pirates. 
 And just as they arrive tremendous effect ! the 
 tree falls into the torrent. 
 
 Ramon rushes upon me. 
 
 " It is he ! We have him ! " he cries. 
 
 " Not yet ! " I reply. 
 
 And I stab him. 
 
 Then, crying out, " May God protect me ! " I 
 plunge into the torrent. Ramon, at his last gasp, 
 says to his men : 
 
 " Fire on him ! " 
 
 I swim amid the bullets. The audience sees me
 
 78 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 disappear, then reappear, borne onward by the cur- 
 rent, across the transparent lake, which so says 
 the book of the play plunges over the precipice. 
 Oh ! that is not mere clap-trap ; no, but drama, 
 honest drama. 
 
 If, after that scene, I did not set the audience on 
 fire, I should not have been Brichanteau. Only, I 
 needed time to portion out the compassion, the 
 terror, the impression of heroism, the divers senti- 
 ments that make up that Scene VII. of the third. 
 There are psychological necessities. The catas- 
 trophe of a drama must not be scorched by rapid 
 acting. 
 
 And my manager kept saying to me from the 
 wings : 
 
 " The gas, Brichanteau ! The gas ! No extras ! 
 There are two acts more, and Genevieve de Brabant 
 after that ! " 
 
 What could I do ? I had no choice ; I redoubled 
 my energy and promptitude. I gained time, and in 
 order to gain time I undressed on the stage, yes, on 
 the stage, before the audience, in order to avoid 
 the entr'acte while the following scene, Morales' 
 hacienda, was being set up behind the curtain. 
 
 I did everything at once. I unbuttoned my clothes 
 as I cut down the cedar. A blow with the axe. A 
 button. I struck with one hand, undressed with the 
 other. It made my costume all the more pictur-
 
 THE CARD PHOTOGRAPH. 79 
 
 esque. A blow with the axe. A button. A blow 
 with the dagger. A button. I was at work on a 
 button when I jumped into the torrent. 
 
 " May God (a button) protect me!" 
 
 And at last I disappeared. I had never seen 
 spectators more excited, stirred up, beside themselves. 
 They called for me again and again. 
 
 " No curtain ! " I cried. " Don't raise the 
 curtain ! " 
 
 I did n't wish to make Madame Lestaffier lose any 
 time. I sacrificed the triumph of my self-esteem as 
 an artist, to the question, the paltry question of gas. 
 But could I refuse my manager anything? 
 
 However, after the fifth, the whole hall rang with 
 cries for Andres : " Brichanteau ! Brichanteau!" I 
 had to return and bow my acknowledgments, bow 
 in the setting of the first act of Genevih'e de Brabant, 
 which the scene-shifters were already at work upon. 
 I bowed, but very hastily, not so hastily, however, 
 that I did not notice the really flattering and at the 
 same time patrician attitude of a tall, lovely brunette, 
 in the proscenium box on the left of the stage, who 
 was applauding vigorously, standing up, leaning half 
 over the rail, her white-gloved hands striking against 
 each other like pretty little battledores. 
 
 A great lady, evidently ! Even during my rapid 
 acting and necessarily hurried by-play, I had noticed 
 the frequent use of her opera-glass, and, feeling
 
 80 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 highly flattered by the bravos which rose above those 
 from the audience, and which forgive the expres- 
 sion were the flower of them all, I bowed more 
 carefully, with respect blended with dignity, before 
 the fair stranger. 
 
 She was touched by it, and her patrician hands 
 clapped the louder. 
 
 As soon as I returned to the wings, Madame Les- 
 tafrler said to me with an expression of pique : 
 
 "Well, your Englishwoman makes a fine audience, 
 doesn't she? " 
 
 And as I stared at her in blank amazement, she 
 continued : 
 
 " Oh ! yes, an excellent audience ! She did n't 
 take her eyes off you during the performance. If her 
 eyes had teeth, you would be eaten up ! " 
 
 My manager was a charming woman, altogether 
 charming, but she was jealous. And her jealousy 
 had enabled her to detect manoeuvres and divine a 
 thought that I, in my artistic fervor and my precip- 
 itate haste to unbutton my clothes, should never 
 have dreamed of suspecting. Lady Maud it was 
 Lady Maud had simply been stricken by the 
 thunderbolt as she watched Andres. Such amorous 
 physical phenomena are of frequent occurrence, the 
 actor or actress being, to the public, the incarnation 
 of the ideal, the ideal of courage, of innocence, or 
 of honor.
 
 THE CARD PHOTOGRAPH. 8 I 
 
 " Man Dieu ! is it for such as he that women go astray ? " 
 
 as says the queen enamoured of her prime minister, 
 who is only a lackey, an improbable story. 
 
 I was walking the next day on the terrace, admir- 
 ing the magnificent panorama of the trees tinged by 
 winter with all the hues of copper, from dull red to 
 the yellow of fine gold, and the Pyrenees in the back- 
 ground like a gigantic necklace of snow in which each 
 mountain was a huge pearl, when, close beside me, 
 gazing at the same landscape and dreaming the same 
 dream, I saw the lovely Englishwoman who had 
 clapped her hands the night before at the exploits, 
 the wood-cutting, and the buttons of Andres. I 
 recognized her at once, she also recognized me, 
 and we talked together. She had a book of poetry 
 in her hand, and she told me that she had come 
 there to read facing the Pyrenees, in order to in- 
 duce a frame of mind adequate to the beautiful 
 picture. 
 
 Adequate surprised me a little. 1 But I soon real- 
 ized that I was in the presence of an exceedingly lit- 
 erary, and, as they say in England, aesthetic person. 
 She was reading Rossetti, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 
 of whom I have heard many pleasant things said, 
 although he never wrote for the stage. 
 
 1 The French word adlquat which is here used is, strictly 
 speaking, a philosophical term seldom used in ordinary 
 conversation. 
 
 6
 
 82 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 " I am very happy to meet you, monsieur," she 
 said, " for you afforded me much pleasure last night 
 in that melodrama. I only wonder how you can 
 express so many simple, human sentiments amid such 
 a mass of improbable incidents. You would be so 
 fine in Shakespeare ! Oh ! how fine ! " 
 
 You would have said that that ideal creature for 
 I looked her over point by point, and she was ideal 
 had divined all that there was within me of repressed, 
 unsatisfied dreams. Shakespeare ! To act Shake- 
 speare ! Parbleu ! I had no other ambition, and I 
 thought of nothing but translating Hamlet, Macbeth, 
 Othello ! Those sons of genius were made to my 
 measure ! But to play Shakespeare in the provinces ! 
 Shakespeare, when Madame Lestaffier had to resort 
 to Offenbach's music to make melodrama go ! 
 
 " I see, madame," I replied, " that you have a 
 soul ! " 
 
 She was devoted to literature. She told me that 
 she even wrote comedies in her leisure moments. 
 
 " Really, madame ? " 
 
 " Yes, I have written a Dalila, she pronounced 
 it DttiM, and I have designed the costumes for it 
 too. I dream of strange costumes a la, Botticelli. 
 But even more original than his. For instance, I 
 would give my Dalila a very strange kind of hair 
 very very very suggestive. I would have her 
 wear wear blue hair ! "
 
 THE CARD PHOTOGRAPH. 83 
 
 " Blue? " 
 
 " Yes, blue ! Nothing commonplace. Oh ! the 
 commonplace ! You do not like the commonplace 
 either, do you, Monsieur Brichanteau ? " 
 
 " I hate it, madame, I abhor it. But blue " 
 
 " Blue it is blue in my dreams ! " 
 
 And as she pronounced the word blue, she smiled 
 and turned her pretty, dark, very sallow face to look 
 over her shoulder; she said it so prettily that it 
 seemed to me perfectly natural that Dalila should 
 have blue hair. And in any event what difference 
 did it make to me? 
 
 What pleased me was that the woman was fasci- 
 nating, that it was soft and mild on the terrace, and 
 that our delightful chat had a lovely Pyrenean land- 
 scape for a frame. I learned in a very few moments 
 that my companion's name was Lady Maud Hartson, 
 that she was married to one of those English trav- 
 ellers who pass their lives away from home, and that 
 she had a passion for letters, art, music, and the 
 drama, as her husband had a passion for gambling. 
 
 She was kind enough to invite me to come and 
 hear her read one of her own productions and take a 
 cup of tea ; and when I remarked that my knowledge 
 of English was very slight, that I could simply count 
 up to twenty, ask for a room at a hotel, or for a ticket 
 at a railway station, etc., whatever was necessary in 
 travelling she replied :
 
 84 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 " Oh ! I will translate the scenes to you as I go 
 along." 
 
 I knew all about those ghastly stances, when an 
 author has you in his clutches, planted in a chair, face 
 to face with him, and inflicts upon you the torture of 
 the manuscript. One day, at Reims, I almost had an 
 attack of apoplexy, in the office of a notary who was 
 reading me a Greek comedy. But on this occasion 
 the invitation to the reading assumed the aspect of a 
 love affair, and I should have been very ill-advised to 
 refuse to listen to Delile, Lady Hartson's fair one 
 with blue locks. 
 
 " I will be on hand promptly, milady, at whatever 
 hour you do me the honor to name ! " 
 
 "Very well, to-morrow afternoon at five o'clock, 
 Monsieur Brichanteau ! " 
 
 " To-morrow at five o'clock, milady ! Hotel Gas- 
 sion, is it not?" 
 
 "No, oh, no; I have hired apartments opposite 
 the house where Bernadotte was born." 
 
 And she went away with her volume of verse 
 under her arm, with the undulating motion of a great 
 swan, like a giraffe, Madame Lestaffier would have 
 said. 
 
 The next afternoon at five o'clock I waited upon 
 Lady Maud, and I must confess that I had dreamed 
 of the lovely long-limbed Englishwoman, who had 
 spoken to me so sweetly of Shakespeare. Her Dalila
 
 THE CARD PHOTOGRAPH. 85 
 
 frightened me not a little, but she had such beautiful 
 eyes, had Lady Maud, and her conversation was so 
 enthralling. 
 
 Although much agitated when I rang the seductive 
 creature's bell, I was entirely self-possessed when I 
 crossed her threshold. 
 
 " Lady Maud Hartson ! " I demanded, in the tone 
 of Benvenuto Cellini, entering the salon of the 
 Duchesse d'Etampes. 
 
 A lackey, after looking me over from head to foot, 
 ushered me into a salon, oddly furnished, the details 
 of which I grasped in a rapid circular glance, being 
 accustomed to the arrangement of scenery and stage- 
 setting. That salon a most original idea was 
 filled with tiger and leopard skins. They lay on the 
 floor, they were thrown over couches. Here and 
 there weapons were scattered about, carbines of 
 English make, and the latest improved revolvers. 
 Some white linen clothes, frayed at the edges and 
 stained with brownish spots, which might, strictly 
 speaking, be blood, perhaps mud, were tossed 
 upon an arm-chair, and beside them was a sort of cap 
 made of cork a tropical helmet. Under the table, 
 which was covered with papers, was a pair of enor- 
 mous, iron-shod boots. 
 
 Mechanically, without any purpose to be indis- 
 creet, I glanced at certain large sheets of azure blue 
 paper blue like Dalila's hair which were kept
 
 86 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 from blowing about the room by a paper-weight 
 made of a piece of an elephant's tusk. And I read 
 these words, which I at once translated to myself: 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 MY ELEVENTH TIGER. 
 
 " My eleventh tiger ! " 
 
 I readily guessed that they were a sportsman's 
 notes of travel, and, glancing anew at the relics of 
 wild beasts, leopards or jaguars, I said to myself that 
 if, as I could not doubt, that journal was Lord Hart- 
 son's and those tiger-skins the product of Lord 
 Hartson's hunting, Lady Maud, who had every right 
 to be beautiful, had great need to be prudent. And 
 why had that devilish lackey taken pains to make me 
 wait among those guns and revolvers and sheets of 
 azure paper : My eleventh tiger ? 
 
 My first thought, which came to me like a flash, 
 was to excuse myself, to leave my card, and to 
 abandon to oblivion the image of the lovely English 
 brunette whose glance haunted me. But I said to 
 myself that danger seasons love. And then, too, I 
 am the reverse of cowardly. 
 
 I thought of Saint-Me"grin going to the Duchesse 
 de Guise's, and I added, mentally: 
 
 " What difference does it make to you, Brichanteau ? 
 You are young, the woman is fair. What care you 
 for the duke?"
 
 THE CARD PHOTOGRAPH. 87 
 
 Especially as Lord Hartson was now at Luchon, or 
 rather at Portillon, where he was gambling heavily. 
 He won, by the way. Lucky at play, unlucky in love. 
 I would not have staked a hundred sous three hours 
 later, I was so happy in my love. Yes, from Rossetti 
 to Shakespeare, and from her play, The Sorrow of 
 Thinking, a play which she called reflectionist, and 
 which ended with the ecstasy of Nirvana, the blissful 
 fading away into the infinite, from poet to poet, and, 
 as the saying is, from the thread to the needle, we 
 had reached a point where we had earned the ven- 
 geance of milord and a shot from the rifle of the 
 slayer of tigers. 
 
 " Oh ! he would kill me if he knew," she said, 
 " and he would kill you too \ Terrible, it 's terri- 
 ble ! But what effect has that thought on you, my 
 dear ! " 
 
 " None at all, oh ! none at all ! It has none at all. 
 Absolutely none at all ! " 
 
 "Besides, do not you also kill wild beasts, 
 darling!" 
 
 "I?" 
 
 " Yes, you Andres the Pirates of the Savanc I " 
 
 " Why, to be sure ! of course ! I kill a tiger on 
 the stage and appear with the skin over my shoulders. 
 And then, throwing it at my feet, I say : ' Dead ! a 
 noble animal, eh, comrades? ' Indeed, it 's my entr/e 
 in the second, a fine entree, as you saw ! But it 's
 
 88 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 a property tiger, a stage affair, while he he my 
 eleventh tiger How many tigers has Lord Hart- 
 son killed, pray? " 
 
 " How many? What do you care, my dear? " 
 
 " Oh ! I don't dream of trying it myself, but just 
 for curiosity, you know " 
 
 " Vulgar sport commonplace skill ! What are 
 tigers to you?" 
 
 " Oh ! it 's not the tigers ! But curiosity, vulgar 
 curiosity." 
 
 " Very well," said she, " he has killed twenty ! " 
 
 "Twenty?" 
 
 "Perhaps thirty. I don't really know. I never 
 talk about those things. Come, darling, repeat the 
 great speech from Ruy Bias /" * - 
 
 I recited the great speech from Ruy Bias as 
 well as I could, but I returned inevitably to the 
 tigers, as other people return to their moutons. 
 
 "Thirty," I said, "do you think so? He has 
 killed thirty!" 
 
 And Lady Maud tenderly replied, 
 
 "You have killed more than that, darling, in the 
 Pirates of the Savane /" 
 
 I did my best to convince her that it was by no 
 means the same thing. I killed my tigers in imagi- 
 nation. I killed them in a dream. She declared 
 that that was much the superior way, and that all 
 Lord Hartson's tigers were not worth the one Andres
 
 THE CARD PHOTOGRAPH. 89 
 
 carried on his shoulders in his fine entree in the 
 second. 
 
 She was certainly very fond of me. However, 
 as Madame Lestaffier's company had an engage- 
 ment at Mont-de-Marsan, I was obliged to leave 
 Lady Maud; but we parted with a solemn agree-' 
 ment to meet again. After that, from time to time, 
 when I was far away from her in the course of 
 my artistic peregrinations, I received verses, written 
 in her aristocratic hand, long like herself. Often, 
 just as I was going on the stage, the telegraph would 
 bring me one of her thoughts : " Success to you I 
 Remember I " One day, at Bordeaux, I was playing 
 in La Bouquetiere des Innocents at the Thatre- 
 Louis, the concierge handed me a little note on 
 blue paper, the husband's azure paper, on which he 
 noted down his massacres of tigers. 
 
 "I am coming," so ran the note. "Farewell 
 until this evening ! " 
 
 And that evening, in the proscenium box on the 
 right, I saw Lady Maud, who applauded me at Bor- 
 deaux in the Bouquetiere des Innocents, as she had 
 applauded me at Pau in the Pirates of the Savane. 
 That was the very evening when I came near can- 
 celling my engagement with Madame Lestaffier ; for 
 she had the face to say to me : 
 
 "Does your tall hop-pole travel about like the 
 Wandering Jew? "
 
 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 It all blew over, because I did not choose to 
 defend a woman whom I had no right to compro- 
 mise. But Madame Lestaffier had wounded me to 
 the quick. She repented afterward ; it was too late. 
 
 Lady Maud was alone at Bordeaux, all alone. 
 Lord Hartson was still gambling, somewhere or other, 
 a la cantonade. We belonged to each other, but I 
 belonged to the public, and in that great city of 
 Bordeaux we had to find ways of meeting without 
 arousing suspicion. Oh ! she would have defied 
 everybody and everything, would Lady Maud ! But 
 I was prudent for her, and I felt the prying eyes of 
 Madame Lestaffier following my every act. We 
 made appointments to meet at the Museum, and I 
 said to Lady Maud, standing in front of the pictures, 
 " I love you ! " There is a huge statue of Louis XVI. 
 there, a gigantic affair, which has heard our vows, 
 and blessed them, I doubt not. 
 
 Then, too, we went to Lormont, each by a differ- 
 ent boat, and met there at a little restaurant where 
 the grisettes went to eat fried fish on Sundays, but 
 where on week-days we were certain to be alone. 
 It was delightful. On the terrace it was written 
 that there should always be a terrace in my romance 
 with Lady Maud we talked, watched the boats pass- 
 ing up and down the Gironde, and the trains puffing 
 over Lormont bridge, and we were surrounded by 
 lovely May lilacs, of which Lady Hartson said :
 
 THE CARD PHOTOGRAPH. 9 1 
 
 " I adore the color of lilacs ! I will give you 
 some lilacs, yes, lilacs done in water-color by 
 myself ! " 
 
 That same day Lady Maud suddenly said to me, 
 speaking of the promised water-color : 
 
 " But your photograph, darling, I have no photo- 
 graph of you, you know ! " 
 
 "My photograph?" 
 
 " Yes, I would like to paint your portrait, too, to 
 keep it. Have you a photograph ? " 
 
 I had one. I thought it extremely good. A card 
 photograph, in one of the stock costumes, with the 
 features of Louis XIV. I liked it particularly on 
 that account. It recalled to me the costume I 
 should have worn on the boards of the Come"die- 
 Francaise if fate had been just, and, moreover, the 
 image of a king whom I can forgive much because 
 he did much for letters. The man who breakfasted 
 with Moliere was a man indeed ! I thought a great 
 deal of that picture, therefore, as it was the only 
 copy, and I felt that I was very foolish to take it 
 from my letter-case to show Lady Maud. 
 
 She glanced at it and uttered an exclamation : 
 
 " It is superb ! " 
 
 I was flattered, but ill at ease. I felt that the pic- 
 ture had already ceased to belong to me. 
 
 " Yes," she said again, " it is superb, and I am 
 going to keep it ! "
 
 92 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 " Another one, perhaps ! " 
 
 " No, no, I want this one ; I must have it. I 
 demand a dedication also ! " 
 
 How could I refuse? I called the maid who had 
 brought us the omelet with white wine, and asked her 
 for a little ink. And then and there, on the little 
 restaurant table, in that bower of lilacs, I wrote, at 
 the bottom of the photograph, this dedication, the 
 idea of which came to me, I assure you, quite with- 
 out reflection : 
 
 A LADY MAUD. 
 
 Non, ce portrait, ce riest pas moi, 
 Vous le reconnattrez sans peine : 
 Car, Madame, sij'&tais roi, 
 Vouz savez que vous seriez reine I 1 
 
 and I signed : 
 
 SEBASTIEN BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 Lormont. Un jour de mat. 
 
 One is always foolish to sign one's name. One is 
 always foolish to write. Always, always. One is far 
 more foolish to put one's name at the end of a 
 quatrain. But, let me tell you, Lady Maud was 
 enchanted ! 
 
 " Oh ! delicious ! delicious ! Not very involved, 
 but so gallant and very French, darling, very " 
 
 1 No madame, it is not I, 
 You will see it readily : 
 For, madame, full well you ween, 
 If I were king you would be queen !
 
 THE CARD PHOTOGRAPH. 93 
 
 "What would you have, milady? I am a simple 
 man ! " 
 
 "And an exquisite one ! " 
 
 She held out her aristocratic hand, which I kissed ; 
 and she herself, after touching her lips to the some- 
 what faded photograph, slipped it into her portfolio 
 and subsequently put it away in a little chamois- 
 skin bag, bound with silver and bearing her cipher. 
 
 That day I very soon forgot my photograph, to 
 remember only the living reality, what I had before 
 me and belonging to me ! 
 
 Then I left Bordeaux ; I resumed my wandering 
 existence, like that of the troubadours ; I had had a 
 definitive falling-out with Madame Lestaffier, after 
 a scene in which the endearments of passion were 
 succeeded by bitter insults, as was naturally the case, 
 and I thought only mistily of the lovely English- 
 woman whom fate had placed like an ideal ven- 
 geance, on my stony path, very rough and stony, 
 alas ! 
 
 In very truth I thought of her as in a dream, 
 always flattered to receive from her a note upon 
 azure paper, always enchanted to know that there was, 
 somewhere in the world, an aristocratic creature who 
 did not forget Andres the slayer of tigers. But to be 
 perfectly frank, that delightful memory, mingled with 
 others, did not interfere with my sleep. One morn- 
 ing, indeed, at Marseilles, after a fine night's sleep,
 
 94 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 succeeding a triumphal evening, during which I had 
 acted Le Docteur Noir at the Theatre des Varie'te's 
 one of Fre'de'ric's roles I was lying half- awake, 
 meditating upon the artistic impressions of the pre- 
 ceding evening, when there came a knock at the door 
 of my room. 
 
 " Come in ! " 
 
 "Open the door, then," answered a voice with an 
 English accent. 
 
 I quickly rose, drew on my trousers, gave a twist 
 to my dishevelled hair, and opened the door. 
 
 Thereupon a man, dressed entirely in gray, rushed 
 into the room like a hurricane, removing and replac- 
 ing his felt hat with a single abrupt motion, and 
 men whose lives contain a dash of romance have 
 such presentiments I knew that this stranger the 
 thought passed through my mind like a flash was 
 the husband, Lord Hartson, the tiger-killer, my elev- 
 enth tiger! 
 
 I can still see the tall, red-haired Englishman, with 
 the hair plastered down on his forehead, a long beard 
 that had no end a tawny beard and eyes as 
 fixed and staring as glass eyes, in a gaunt bony face, 
 bronzed by the suns of India ; a tall, thin, cold-blooded 
 devil, who, producing a card photograph from an 
 alligator-skin portfolio that made me think, " It was 
 he who killed that alligator ; he took aim at him with 
 those glassy eyes," said to me :
 
 THE CARD PHOTOGRAPH. 95 
 
 " This photograph ! this photograph in a mounte- 
 bank costume, is it you ? " 
 
 I did not need to look at the photograph. It 
 was mine. In a mountebank costume ! He called 
 my costume as Louis XIV. in Mademoiselle de la 
 Vattiere a mountebank costume, and I longed to 
 reply : 
 
 " My lord, do you know what clothes you are talk- 
 ing about ? A great king's clothes, my lord ! " 
 
 But I restrained myself. I cannot say why, for I 
 was not afraid, but I restrained myself. The croco- 
 dile's skin, the eleventh tiger perhaps ! Yes, I con- 
 fess, that eleventh tiger was much in my thoughts. 
 And that devilish, extraordinary, vitreous stare, too. 
 In short, I restrained myself. 
 
 He repeated, persistently : 
 
 " Is this mountebank you ? " 
 
 I replied with great dignity : 
 
 " It would ill become me to deny it, my lord ! '* 
 
 "You are Se"bastien Brichanteau ? " 
 
 " I am Se"bastien Brichanteau ! " 
 
 " Very good," said he. 
 
 I noticed, through his tawny beard, a peculiar 
 sneer that revealed a row of remarkable canine 
 teeth, protruding from beneath his lip like a boar's 
 tusks. 
 
 "What does it matter?" I said to myself. "You 
 must sell your life dearly, like Bussy d'Amboise,
 
 96 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 that's . all." And very coolly, if I do say it, I deter- 
 mined to measure my strength against the auburn- 
 haired hunter of wild beasts. 
 
 But Lord Hartson very carefully replaced the 
 photograph with the quatrain in the alligator- skin 
 portfolio, stowed it away in his gray waistcoat, which 
 he buttoned with great care, and said to me : 
 " Good! I am satisfied." 
 
 Satisfied the word had an ironical sound. I 
 was thinking of the probable outcome of the adven- 
 ture, and I already imagined that I heard, but without 
 a qualm, the cocking of the pistols with which we 
 were to fight. 
 
 " This photograph," continued the tall devil, coolly, 
 " I will keep. It is a fetich ! " 
 "A fetich?" 
 
 I did not understand, I tried to guess his meaning. 
 This tiger-killer had become a sphinx. 
 
 " I wanted to know if this picture of a mounte- 
 bank " how he clung to the word ! " was really a 
 picture of you." 
 
 " I understand, my lord," and I tried to smile, 
 " it was because of the quatrain. Pray believe that 
 I do not claim to be a poet." 
 
 The staring eyes, the glassy eyes, showed a trace of 
 animation. 
 
 " Oh ! the quatrain no, no ! The quatrain is 
 execrable ! The quatrain is commonplace, ridiculous !
 
 THE CARD PHOTOGRAPH. 97 
 
 No, it is on account of the photograph of yourself 
 yes, of you." 
 
 Phlegmatically, in an icy tone which I shall never 
 forget and of which I made a mental note, to adopt 
 in the role of the Duke of Alva, Lord Hartson 
 added : 
 
 " Yes, my only passion is play. Poetry is beneath 
 contempt ! Play and the chase, another kind of 
 play. And since I lost the finger-nail of a fellah 
 whom I killed at Boulak, I have had no fetich. I 
 lost, lost, a vein of black luck. I found this photo- 
 graph Where did I find it ? I need not tell you, 
 and never, never shall any other than myself keep 
 it in a portfolio. Never. Under present conditions, 
 the picture of a mountebank, a clown " I leaped or 
 at least was on the point of leaping at him at each 
 word " the photograph of a person in disguise, and 
 of a famous travesty " I was touched " should 
 be an excellent fetich excellent. It is really you, 
 Lady Maud did not lie to me. Excellent. Adieu, 
 monsieur." 
 
 And I invent nothing, I never invent Lord 
 Hartson, the terrible Lord Hartson, turning on his 
 heel like an automaton, disappeared, leaving me 
 stupefied, dazed, crushed, believing neither my eyes 
 nor my ears. 
 
 For a single moment I thought of running after 
 him into the hall, of calling him back, of demanding 
 7
 
 98 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 an explanation from him, before the whole hotel, of 
 the terms clown and mountebank. 
 
 But again I restrained myself. On the stage one 
 must be master of his acting ; in life, of his temper. 
 And, after all, was the insult really an insult ? Mounte- 
 banks and clowns have artistic minds. They are our 
 brothers, our wandering brothers. There are stroll- 
 ing artists whom I respect more highly than some 
 much applauded mediocrities. 
 
 And then, too, it was all so astonishing, so unex- 
 pected, so impossible, the idea of the tiger-slayer 
 returning home enchanted because he had found and 
 obtained possession of & fetich! 
 
 The passion for gambling, monsieur, ah ! the pas- 
 sion for gambling is as mad as love ! I learned, by 
 the way, that Lord Hartson broke the bank one 
 winter at Monte Carlo ! 
 
 Indeed, his name became proverbial there as the 
 tall Englishman who always wins. 
 
 That winter Lady Maud joined me at Angers. She 
 passed the season at a chateau on the banks of the 
 Loire, where she wrote her Memoires for an Ameri- 
 can review. My First Love, not her eleventh tiger, 
 no ! her first love / Perhaps ere this she has told 
 the story of her eleventh love ! I know nothing 
 about her. I have never seen her since. Her liter- 
 ary tastes bored me. 
 
 At Angers I said to her :
 
 THE CARD PHOTOGRAPH. 99 
 
 " That was all very well for once, you see. You 
 left my picture lying around in your box of paints, 
 but I don't bear you any grudge on that account. 
 But the affair might have turned out disastrously. 
 Gambling 's all right, but there 's the chase too, 
 there 's the chase. I Ve no objection to being a 
 fetich. Fetich it is ! But when it comes to being 
 a target ! A target, dear heart ! Think of that, a 
 target ! To break l the bank is all very well. But 
 to blow out 1 brains ! Ah !, that prospect is less 
 tempting ! " 
 
 I must confess that Lady Maud looked at me that 
 day with an expression in which her sesthetic gentle- 
 ness was replaced by an irony as ferocious as her 
 husband's teeth. 
 
 " Dust ! human dust ! " was her reply. 
 
 I understood that, being a symbolist, she intended 
 those words as a symbol that was not altogether 
 complimentary to me. What cared I? Farewell) 
 Adieu ! And, as for tigers, I still preferred those I 
 continued to kill in the Pirates of the Savane. 
 
 I have often regretted having forfeited the esteem 
 of an artist like my manager, Madame Lestaffier, for 
 love of that great lady. But I learned one lesson, 
 never to give away any more photographs. Never, 
 never, never ! To Municipal Councils, yes ! Sou- 
 venir of a cordial Reception. But those are official 
 1 Faire sauter
 
 IOO BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 photographs ; they never were the cause of any one's 
 death ! 
 
 And some day, when his fetich has lost its power, 
 perhaps Lord Hartson will blow out his brains in 
 some hotel on the sea-coast, and the police officials 
 and reporters will be much amazed, no doubt, to find 
 my photograph in his wallet over his heart ! 
 
 Although a fetich for him, I have never, alas ! 
 brought myself any luck !
 
 IV. 
 ONE OF BRICHANTEAU'S GREAT DAYS. 
 
 Louis XI. ! A great king and a grand role ! I have 
 played it, monsieur. And under such circumstances ! 
 You would hardly believe me if I should tell you the 
 story. It left with me a memory of pleasure, a per- 
 fume of joy. Louis XL ! that was my great day ! 
 one of my great days, for, God be thanked, my ca- 
 reer is well filled with them ! There are unknown 
 devotees of art, monsieur, who have accumulated in 
 their lives as many victories as the most famous 
 artists, and who have tasted, like all celebrated, illus- 
 trious, successful men, the intoxication of success. 
 Yes, on my word I sometimes say to myself that I 
 would not give my artistic life, unworthy as it is to 
 be written, for that of a socittaire of the Comdie- 
 Francaise. 
 
 I have no regular engagement, I have had no 
 chance ; I am a Bohemian, a free-lance of art, but I 
 have had my hour ! my hours ! 
 
 Louis XL, the performance of Louis XL at Com- 
 piegne, that is something to remember ! My old 
 comrade Courtillier had undertaken to produce it ;
 
 102 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 my comrade and my pupil. He knew that I was 
 without an engagement as usual, I, who at one time, 
 being a youngster and even then well spoken of, had 
 been within an ace of giving Rachel her cue in Amer- 
 ica, I whom the great Melingue used to call familiarly 
 the little Melingue. Courtillier, when he was organiz- 
 ing a tour, made up to me in wages the lessons I 
 had given him. A good fellow, not ungrateful, an 
 artist's soul. We were made, he and I, to commune 
 together in the domain of the Beautiful. 
 
 Courtillier had offered me the part of Tristan in 
 Louis XL A fair part. An apparition, a cold, for- 
 bidding creature. In a word, a sort of accommodation 
 part. I knew it thoroughly. Monsieur Beauvallet 
 gave me the traditions of the part at the Conserva- 
 tory, and I had long before rummaged through the 
 texts and memoirs and chronicles to saturate myself 
 with the character. Everything depends on saturat- 
 ing one's self with the past, monsieur, when one seeks 
 to evoke an historical figure. I annotated the Memo- 
 rial de Sainte-Helene to enable me to play Napoleon 
 better. So I was saturated with Tristan. I hated 
 him when I acted him. Yes, I hated him in order 
 to make him more hateful. I am for the art militant, 
 the art that proves something. 
 
 So I was to play Tristan ! But, if I played Tristan, 
 who would play Louis XL? I give you a thousand 
 guesses ! Monsieur Talbot of the Comedie-Francaise !
 
 ONE OF BRICHANTEAU'S GREAT DAYS. 10$ 
 
 I have n't a word to say against Monsieur Talbot, who 
 is a charming man, who adores his art and is devoted 
 to his pupils, and has played the Avare and Triboulet 
 with remarkable success ; but, between him and my- 
 self, perhaps Courtillier should not have hesitated. 
 He knew that I had dug up my Louis XI. among the 
 archives. I had seen Ligier in Les Grands Vassaux. 
 Very good, Ligier was. A little undersized, but very 
 good. Picturesque and profound. Another one of 
 those who saturate themselves with the characters 
 they represent. But what could you expect? Cour- 
 tillier had the Talbot superstition. A societaire, you 
 understand ! And Socitiaire de la Comedie-Fran$aise 
 on the posters means doubling up the receipts. 
 
 So it was that, on a damp, unhealthy day in Febru- 
 ary, like gallant soldiers setting out for the seat of 
 war, we took the Compiegne train at the Gare du 
 Nord at 8.55 in the morning, all in the best of 
 spirits. We talked together pleasantly in the train. 
 General exchange of views upon art and its destiny, 
 while the engine bore us along, purring vigorously I 
 was about to say sifflant, 1 but that would have had a 
 satirical sound. Courtillier told us that Thibouville, 
 the professor, who, after acting at the Ode"on, had 
 become Monsieur de Rothschild's reader, advised his 
 pupils to put a weight on their stomachs and accus- 
 tom themselves to breathing despite that obstacle. 
 1 Sifflant (whistling) means also hissing.
 
 104 BRIG H ANTE AU. 
 
 An excellent method of acquiring the power to recite 
 a long speech without stopping for breath. I main- 
 tained, for my part, that no known method was equal 
 to that of drawing in the breath, and that no artist 
 could ever tell, when he walked on to the stage, 
 whether he was going to act well or ill. That de- 
 pends on the state of his mind. It is an everlasting 
 subject of controversy. 
 
 We were still arguing when we reached Compiegne, 
 at 10.24, and we continued to argue as we sat about the 
 table at the Hdtel de la Cloche, where we breakfasted. 
 Then I walked about the city, all by myself, dreaming 
 of Tristan, regretting Louis XL, and devoting special 
 attention to the out-of-the-way corners of the old 
 town, where I might find some stray bits of gothic 
 architecture, in order to transport my mind, through 
 the medium of my eyes, back to the epoch when the 
 man I was to represent flourished. Yes, monsieur, 
 after texts, monuments. That is the way the actor 
 becomes the equal of the historian. I who speak to 
 you have read Michaud's History of the Crusades 
 as a preparation for acting Ne*restan's confidant in 
 Zaire. But by that means, as all my comrades will 
 tell you, I made my mark in the part ! 
 
 Having studied Compiegne from Tristan's stand- 
 point, I was returning thoughtfully to the hotel, when 
 I saw two men in the doorway, both much excited, 
 but in very different ways. The first, my com-
 
 ONE OF BRICHANTEAU'S GREAT DAYS. 105 
 
 rade and pupil, Courtillier, seemed in despair; the 
 other, Monsieur Talbot, was like a madman ! One 
 pale, the other red, a living antithesis. Life is full 
 of them, as is art itself. Behind the two men, equally 
 agitated, appeared the perplexed faces of the actors 
 and actresses who composed our improvised troupe. 
 "Well, well, what's the matter?" I cried, divin- 
 ing some disaster, I have experienced so many on 
 my travels. 
 
 "The matter? " said Courtillier ; " the matter is that 
 Monsieur Talbot's box of costumes has n't arrived ! " 
 " They have probably sent it somewhere else than 
 to Compiegne ! " said Monsieur Talbot. 
 " There 's evidently a mistake somewhere ! " 
 "Perhaps the box is at Saint-Quentin ! " 
 "The Come'die-FranQaise costume ! My costume," 
 said Monsieur Talbot. " And if I don't have my cos- 
 tume, why, I simply don't play ! " 
 
 "But what about the money?" interposed Cour- 
 tillier. "There 's been some money taken in 
 advance ! " 
 
 "The money can be returned," replied Talbot, 
 firmly. 
 
 To return money is always a disagreeable necessity. 
 The features of my comrades, men and women, ex- 
 pressed, at that prospect, a feeling very far removed 
 from joy. But how could we soothe Monsieur Tal- 
 bot ? His carefully studied costume made a part of
 
 106 ERICH ANTEAU. 
 
 his conception of the role. He could not be Louis 
 XI. without the fur cape and the legendary hat 
 adorned with images and medals from Notre-Dame 
 d'Embrun. To tell the truth, monsieur, heartsick as I 
 was at the thought of losing my share of the receipts, 
 I could not blame a dramatic artist, a successful 
 actor, a professor, for that excess of conscientiousness. 
 
 And yet I felt that it was a most deplorable thing 
 to return the money, absolutely deplorable. 
 
 "But you must know Louis XL," said Cape"cure, 
 who played Coitier, to me. 
 
 Did I know Louis XL? I knew the whole of 
 Casimir Delavigne as I know my whole repertory. 
 
 " Tell Courtillier that you '11 play it." 
 
 " You 're joking ! What about Monsieur Talbot? " 
 
 Monsieur Talbot was still justified in hoping that 
 the costumes would arrive in time. Courtillier was 
 studying the time-tables. He discovered that there 
 was a train that left Paris at 4.50, and reached Com- 
 piegne at 6.19, and another, a semi-express, that 
 arrived at 9.41. That would be too late. But the 
 train from Paris to Villers-Cotterets, train 1139, 
 arrived at 8.12. The boxes might, yes, must reach 
 Compiegne by train 1139. 
 
 " Telegraph ! Make a row ! Do the impossible," 
 said Monsieur Talbot, " If I have n't my costume, I 
 won't play Louis XL, and there you are ! " 
 
 "You shall have your costume, my dear sir,"
 
 ONE OF BRICHANTEAU'S GREAT DAYS. 1 07 
 
 replied Courtillier, trying to be calm. " Louis XI. 
 does n't appear till Scene VII. in the second. We will 
 gain time by commencing Act I. a little late. You 
 can dress during the entr'acte and make your entrte 
 in the second amid thunders of applause. 
 
 " ' Ne vous y jouez pas, comte, par la croix sainte ! ' 
 
 Meanwhile dinner is served. Let us dine. I will 
 offer a toast to your success at dessert ! " 
 
 I tell you, monsieur, that, despite the inevitable 
 anxiety that assailed us, the dinner was very lively. 
 Artists have childlike minds that do not understand 
 danger. We were in danger, in very great danger of 
 having to return the money that had been taken, and 
 yet we made puns. Monsieur Talbot alone did not 
 forget his anxiety and did not eat, and Courtillier 
 glanced at me across the table, as if to say, " What 
 a fix, Brichanteau ! " I comforted him with a smile. 
 I have seen many others as bad ! 
 
 We took our coffee and adjourned to the theatre. 
 I put on my Tristan costume, sharing my dressing- 
 room with Cape"cure, who was painting himself for 
 Coitier, and with Courtillier himself, who was grum- 
 bling to himself as he put on the auburn wig in which 
 he played the Dauphin. 
 
 "You will see, that train won't bring his costume ! " 
 
 Monsieur Talbot meanwhile was stalking up and 
 down the stage, which was set for a country scene, the
 
 108 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 Chateau of Pies sis in the background, a few scattered 
 trees at the side and he kept saying in a sort of 
 frenzy : 
 
 " If I don't get my costume from the Come'die, I 
 won't act, I won't act, I won't act ! " 
 
 Meanwhile the audience was impatiently calling for 
 the curtain to rise. A very good house, to judge 
 from a glance through a hole in the drop-curtain. 
 Fine toilets, uniforms, and the undercurrent of en- 
 thusiasm that gives promise of a successful occasion. 
 There are audiences of wood, and audiences of plaster 
 of Paris. That one seemed to be of lava. 
 
 The curtain rises, and I say my first words : 
 
 "Thy name?" a question put to Richard le 
 Patre. 
 
 "Thy name?" 
 
 " Richard le Patre ! " 
 
 " Stand ; and thy dwelling? " 
 
 " I have come thence but now." 
 
 " The king doth forbid all persons to come forth 
 at this hour ! " 
 
 That amounts to nothing, but it is the play. All 
 the weight of the king's authority should be made to 
 appear in the grand provost's interrogatory : " Thy 
 name ? " If that is well said and it was well said 
 the whole audience should at once anticipate some- 
 thing tragic. Thy name ? Nobody can pass, nobody 
 can leave his home after dark. It is terrible. Thy
 
 ONE OF BRICHANTEAU'S GREAT DAYS. 1 09 
 
 name? In those two words the hearer should at 
 once feel the two lines that follow : 
 
 " Return, or thy friends shall see ere sinks to-morrow's 
 
 sun, 
 The justice of the king hanging from yonder oak ! " 
 
 It would be more simple perhaps to say: Thou 
 shalt be hanged, but perhaps it would be a little too 
 simple. Thy name 1 I had felt a thrill run through 
 the audience. I had them in hand. Monsieur 
 Talbot as Louis XL could come now ; my Tristan had 
 smoothed the way for him. I speak only of my dic- 
 tion. As for my costume, I was Tristan from top to 
 toe, a masterly portrait. 
 
 Meanwhile Courtillier had sent old Saint- Firmin to 
 the station with the hotel carriage. Saint- Firmin was 
 to pounce upon the box when it arrived from Paris, 
 tear it from the hands of the Company's agents with- 
 out giving them time for reflection, and bring it back 
 to the theatre at full speed, swifter than thought. 
 
 "If he doesn't bring it, I don't act," repeated 
 Monsieur Talbot, determined to be consistent. 
 
 Now the first came to an end amid applause ; there 
 were calls for Brichanteau, although Tristan was not 
 on at the end of the act, and it was 8.44. Train 
 1139 must have arrived, and the box, the blessed 
 box, did not appear. Courtillier ran hither and 
 thither, fuming and biting the end of the Dauphin's
 
 I IO BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 wig. Suddenly there was a great outcry on the stage 
 where we were all assembled condoling with one 
 another. 
 
 " Saint-Firmin ! " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "The box?" 
 
 "The costume?" 
 
 " Nothing," replied Saint-Firmin, in despair. " The 
 box must have gone to Tergnier. They have proba- 
 bly sent it along to the frontier." 
 
 " Very good," chimed in Monsieur Talbot's well- 
 known voice. " I won't play." 
 
 " But we can get up a costume." 
 
 " A costume that would n't be the costume of the 
 Rue de Richelieu. A wretched makeshift ! I won't 
 act ! " 
 
 " With an announcement " 
 
 " I won't act ! " 
 
 " Ah ! but the announcement shall be made most 
 flattering to you ! " 
 
 " I won't act ! " 
 
 "But the money?" ' 
 
 "The money! Art first of all ! Art alone! I 
 won't act ! " 
 
 " Suppose the audience should consent to your act- 
 ing Louis XI. in street clothes?" 
 
 " I won't act, I won't act, I won't act ! " 
 
 Courtillier tore his hair, or the Dauphin's. Little
 
 ONE OF BRICHANTEAU'S GREAT DAYS. Ill 
 
 Declergy, from the Conservatory, who was to play 
 Marie, Commines' daughter, declared that she would 
 never sign a contract with Courtillier again, for he 
 had made her lose a morning performance at the 
 Elyse-Montmartre, where she would have recited 
 monologues. The stage, monsieur, but recently de- 
 voted to manifestations of art and the Alexandrines of 
 the poet, presented the appearance of a dismantled 
 ship. Everybody was talking, giving his or her advice. 
 Courtillier had taken up the time-table once more 
 and was studying it as Bonaparte studied the map of 
 Italy. 
 
 " Suppose we telegraph to Tergnier ? " 
 That was an idea. But, with the best will in the 
 world, the station agent at Tergnier, assuming that he 
 had Monsieur Talbot's costume, could forward it only 
 by one of three trains which reached Compiegne at 
 10.22, 11.17, an( i 2.04, respectively. What irony. 
 Four minutes past two ! Long before that, the cur- 
 tain would have fallen on the last line of Louis XL : 
 
 " One is king for one's people, and not for one's self." 
 
 A wretched ending, by the way. It is Francois de 
 Paule who says it, and the leading man's part, the 
 king, ought to give the cue for the curtain to fall. It 
 does n't interfere with the recall, however, as Louis XI. 
 is on the stage. 
 
 Ah ! we were in a pretty mess, everybody out of
 
 112 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 his senses, except Monsieur Talbot, who was firm in 
 the determination which tore our hearts, but which I 
 could not blame. However, if there are duties that 
 we owe to art, we also owe something to the public. 
 
 A sudden flash of light passed through my mind. I 
 took Courtillier's hand. 
 
 " It is all up with us, don't you think ? Monsieur 
 Talbot won't act. The evening is thrown away. Do 
 you want me to pull the fat out of the fire ? I have 
 so often been the terra nova of managers ! Do you 
 want me to play Louis XL?" 
 
 "You, Brichanteau ? " 
 
 " I know the part. I have ground at it. I am 
 ready. I will throw myself into the water." 
 
 " Brichanteau ! " 
 
 I thought at first that he was going to fall on my 
 neck, but he hesitated. 
 
 " And Tristan ? Who will play Tristan ? " 
 
 " Saint- Firmin. We can make an announcement ! " 
 
 " And the costume ? " 
 
 " I '11 get one up. I ask you for ten minutes." 
 
 " That 's very long ! The entr'acte has lasted an 
 interminable time already." 
 
 " Five minutes then. Make an announcement." 
 
 Courtillier had one of those moments of de- 
 cision which turn the tide of battle. " Alea jacta 
 est," * he said, as if he were still Charlemagne's 
 ' i The die is cast.
 
 ONE OF BRICHANTEAU'S GREAT DAYS. 113 
 
 tutor. And he was going to find the stage-manager 
 to tell him to strike the three blows, when I seized 
 his wrist. 
 
 " One moment. There 's one condition." 
 
 The word frightened him. He foresaw an increase 
 of perquisites, a demand for a larger share of the 
 profits, one of those blackmailing tricks to which 
 some artists resort under such circumstances, making 
 the most they can out of the impresarii, who gener- 
 ally give them as good as they send. But I have 
 never placed money before honor. 
 
 "The condition," I said, "is, that at the end of 
 the fourth, after the scene with Nemours, they 
 shall throw me the wreath intended for Monsieur 
 Talbot." 
 
 " True, true," said Courtillier, " there is a wreath. 
 But it 's a superb affair, that wreath ! " 
 
 " A reason the more. I demand it." 
 
 " Monsieur Talbot was to play Louis XI., he 
 does n't play Louis XL ; you were not to play Louis 
 XL, you do play Louis XL ; you shall have Monsieur 
 Talbot's wreath," replied Courtillier. " And now, the 
 three blows ! " 
 
 While the stage-manager struck the three blows 
 and called out, Attention / as they do at the 
 Comdie-Francaise, I saw Courtillier talking to Mon- 
 sieur Talbot. Monsieur Talbot listened, seemed to 
 remonstrate, apparently made some objections, then 
 8
 
 114 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 bowed as if in assent. And the curtain rose on the 
 throne-room at the Chateau of Plessis-les-Tours. 
 
 Thereupon Courtillier walked forward, bowing three 
 times, before the now silent audience. Every one 
 felt that there was something serious in the air ; and 
 I heard Courtillier's voice, as I undressed in hot haste 
 behind a screen, doffing Tristan's costume to don 
 that of Louis XI. Courtillier, deeply moved, was 
 saying : 
 
 " Mesdames and messieurs, a genuine disaster has 
 befallen us, a disaster that was very near preventing 
 the continuance of the performance." 
 
 The audience waited in suspense. I followed its 
 movements anxiously, I could hear its hard breathing. 
 
 " The costume of Monsieur Talbot of the Come'die- 
 Frangaise has, by a most unfortunate chance, gone 
 astray on the railway, we don't know where. At all 
 events, it has not arrived at Compiegne, and Mon- 
 sieur Talbot, always concerned for the truth and for 
 his dignity as an artist, has informed the management 
 that he cannot appear before the intelligent audience 
 which kindly listens to me and bears with me, with- 
 out his usual costume, the costume used at the 
 Come" die- Francaise ." 
 
 A frigid silence. The spectators were wondering 
 what Courtillier was coming at ; and Courtillier's voice 
 trembled a little, his emotion was mastering him. 
 Meanwhile I was saying to Saint- Firmin : "And
 
 ONE OF BRICHANTEAU'S GREAT DAYS. 115 
 
 the cap? Think up something for the cap and the 
 medals, my good old Saint- Firmin. Think, think ! " 
 
 " Mesdames and messieurs," continued Courtillier, 
 "we should be altogether helpless and despairing, 
 and compelled, notwithstanding the success of the 
 first act, to send you home " outcries and protests 
 " send you home to your own foyers, more comfort- 
 ing than ours," Some few persons smiled at the 
 joke, "were it not that our worthy comrade Bri- 
 chanteau, Sebastien Brichanteau, whose rare talents 
 you have but a moment since enjoyed in the role of 
 Tristan," " Yes ! yes / that is true /" " were it not, 
 I say, that our comrade Brichanteau has undertaken 
 to relieve both the management and all his colleagues 
 from the most cruel embarrassment by taking the 
 part of Louis XL without preparation." A moment 
 of suspense. "Monsieur Sebastien Brichanteau re- 
 quests from the enlightened audience he is about to 
 face its utmost indulgence. But, encouraged by that 
 very indulgence, he does not fear to assume a heavy 
 responsibility, and it will be the crowning honor of 
 his dramatic career, already a long one, to have in- 
 terpreted under such delicate circumstances so diffi- 
 cult a role, and that too, mesdames and messieurs, 
 in the noble and artistic city of Compiegne ! " 
 
 There was another pause, not very long, and I 
 heard the hall ring with applause as I was drawing on 
 the king's knee-breeches. I ought to say that I had
 
 Il6 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 literally carried the audience by storm in the first 
 with my complete, historically accurate Tristan. One 
 voice, however, loud as a clarion, asked : 
 
 "What about Monsieur Talbot?" 
 
 " Yes ! yes ! " chimed in several others. " What 
 about Monsieur Talbot?" 
 
 But Courtillier soon reassured them. He had 
 understood the whole bearing of the question. 
 
 " Do not believe, messieurs, that Monsieur Talbot 
 has, for the first time in his life, proved recreant to 
 his duty, or that the management had promised you 
 the services of an eminent artist with whom it had 
 made no contract. No ! Monsieur Talbot is at his 
 post. His costume alone has failed to keep its 
 appointment. But, to prove to your satisfaction the 
 good faith of the management and Monsieur Talbot's 
 good-will, Monsieur Talbot will witness the perform- 
 ance from the proscenium box on the left, the garden 
 side, as we say," "Bravo/" "and if you have 
 never had the good fortune to hear that excellent 
 actor, you will at least, mesdames and messieurs, have 
 the consolation of seeing him follow the efforts of his 
 substitute and admirer, Monsieur Brichanteau ! A 
 rare and signal good fortune, messieurs, for the re- 
 fined public of Compiegne : it will have before its 
 eyes at one and the same time, I will not say the 
 pupil, but the successor and the master!" 
 
 I have heard many announcements in my time. I
 
 ONE OF BRICHANTEAU'S GREAT DAYS. 117 
 
 have made several myself, and under circumstances 
 as diverse as the innumerable accidents of life. But 
 I have never heard one that was more warmly 
 received, more loudly applauded than that ! Ap- 
 plauded? No, let us rather say acclaimed. The 
 curtain fell upon a perfect thunder-storm of bravos. 
 
 " Now your mind ought to be at ease," said 
 Courtillier, in high good-humor. 
 
 " I have never had any fear," I replied. " That 's 
 a feeling that I don't know." 
 
 And I went on with my dressing. The effect of 
 the announcement was such that we had a few mo- 
 ments before us; and then before the king's entree 
 in the second, there is Marie's little monologue, the 
 scene with the Dauphin which is quite long, the entree 
 of Commines, the scene between Commines and his 
 daughter, and the arrival of Nemours. Saint- Firmin 
 could utilize the time. Ah ! what a man Saint- 
 Firmin was, monsieur ! A man of resource, accus- 
 tomed to all the expedients that necessity imposes 
 upon artists in their struggle with fate and with the 
 unexpected. It was Saint- Firmin who, on one oc- 
 casion, when he was playing Ruy Gomez in Hernani 
 at Lons-le-Saunier, in a theatre which had no scenery 
 representing a portrait gallery, nothing approaching a 
 gallery, said to the manager, " Have n't you at least 
 a photograph album ? " And, holding in one hand 
 the album filled with photographs of the manager's
 
 Il8 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 numerous family, he played the whole scene, turning 
 over the leaves of the blessed book : 
 
 " This is the oldest of the Silvas, the common an- 
 cestor, the great man of them all, Don Silvius ; thrice 
 consul he at Rome." 
 
 And he turned a leaf. 
 
 " Ruy Gomez de Silva, grand master of Saint James 
 and Calabrana. His gigantic armor would fit our 
 forms but ill." 
 
 And he turned another leaf: 
 
 " I pass him by and better men than he. This 
 consecrated head is my own father. He too was 
 great, although the last in order." 
 
 And he called Don Carlos's attention to another 
 photograph. 
 
 It was an admirable piece of work, and the inven- 
 tion of the album is still talked about. But Saint- 
 Firmin, monsieur, was fertile in miracles, like the 
 days when Joad lived. Do you know what Saint- 
 Firmin did while I was buttoning my doublet ? He 
 made the cap of the rapacious monarch I was to 
 represent, by tearing off the vizor of an old ktpi be- 
 longing to a chasseur of the garrison; and for the 
 medals with the effigy of Notre-Dame d'Embrun that 
 Louis XI. was supposed to wear, that devil of a Saint- 
 Firmin on my word, he's a very Edison for a 
 travelling company the fellow melted, in a spoon, 
 some lead soldiers he had bought from the con-
 
 ONE OF BRICHANTEAU'S GREAT DAYS. 1 19 
 
 cierge's little one. And, after melting them and 
 hammering them flat like medallions, he drew them 
 through coal dust to make them look old. It was 
 admirable, monsieur, that king's cap made from a 
 cavalryman's kepi, and those slugs of soldiers from 
 Nuremberg ! I arrayed myself in them and looked 
 at myself in a hand-glass. Being admirably painted, 
 I have the knack of making up my own face, I 
 cried with assurance : 
 
 " That 's just the thing. It is King Loys XI. to 
 the life ! Philippe de Commines would recognize 
 him ! To the curtain ! " 
 
 And so when, at the end of Scene VI. which the 
 audience found over- long because it was waiting for 
 me, the chateau official announced, " The King ! " 
 I entered, monsieur, followed by Olivier le Daim, the 
 Comte de Dreux, two citizens, and a horseman, with 
 no more emotion than if I had continued to act 
 Tristan. I attacked Scene VII. in an energetic, 
 awe-inspiring voice : 
 
 " Be not deceived, count; by the Holy Cross! 
 If but one murmur, one complaint, doth reach my ear, 
 I lay my hand on you, and, when my doubts are cleared 
 
 away, 
 I '11 send you hence to God to look for pardon ! " 
 
 I had not finished the last line, when a thunder of 
 applause drowned my voice. I glanced at Monsieur 
 Talbot in his proscenium box. He nodded approv-
 
 I2O BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 ingly, but his face was pale. And the whole perform- 
 ance was marked by the same spontaneous enthusiasm 
 and touching unanimity. I felt that I was borne on 
 toward success by a wave of sympathy, which, if I 
 may so express it, formed the synthesis of all classes 
 in the city of Compiegne. The army, which I saw 
 was represented by the garrison staff, the magistracy, 
 the literary bourgeoisie, the women, and even the 
 common people, whose taste is instinctive and far- 
 reaching, united to second me in my task. There 
 was a sort of communion, how shall I express my- 
 self? a collaboration between the audience and 
 myself to impart to that extemporaneous creation of 
 Louis XI. a definitive value. 
 
 Ah ! monsieur, I passed two delightful hours there, 
 which paid me for many mortifications. Without 
 preparation, to play without preparation a role that 
 Ligier had worked over, and that, too, under Monsieur 
 Talbot's eye ! It was a dream I should have de- 
 clared impossible of realization, even on the morning 
 of that unforgetable day in February ! February 23d ! 
 The date is written here, in my head and in my 
 heart ! 
 
 Recalled once after the second, with Saint- Firmin, 
 who succeeded me as Tristan, once after the third, 
 twice after the fourth, in which I rushed off the 
 stage in fine style, muttering inarticulate sounds, as 
 the text demands, I was recalled thrice after the fifth ;
 
 ONE OF BRICHANTEAU'S GREAT DAYS. 121 
 
 and Monsieur Talbot witnessed this spectacle : the 
 wreath, a magnificent wreath intended for him, falling 
 at my feet. I can see it still in all its fresh beauty, 
 that wreath of violets and roses, tied with a tri-colored 
 ribbon, which still hangs in my room, a palpable sou- 
 venir of the 23d of February ! On one of the rib- 
 bons were these words in letters of gold, words that 
 made me thrill with emotion : To the incomparable 
 artist! I picked up the wreath quickly with an 
 agitated gesture like a poet at the Olympic games ; 
 and condensing all my emotion and all my grati- 
 tude in expressive pantomime, I put it to my lips, 
 then pressed it against my heart. 
 
 It was of embarrassing size, was the wreath, but 
 the compliment was the more noteworthy. The au- 
 dience, when they saw my profoundly agitated pan- 
 tomime, were seized with a sort of delirium. They 
 cried and stamped and shouted my name until the 
 arches of the theatre rang : 
 
 " Brichanteau ! Bravo, Brichanteau ! Brichanteau ! 
 Brichanteau ! " 
 
 That name, repeated thus by enthusiastic lips, 
 seemed to me unexpectedly sonorous and grand. 
 But I retained my tranquillity in face of that hall 
 that seemed on the point of falling about our heads. 
 Courtillier was waiting for me in the wings to em- 
 brace me and call me his savior! Even Monsieur 
 Talbot himself, when the curtain fell, came and con-
 
 122 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 gratulated me, accompanied by a friend of his, a 
 famous druggist of Compiegne. The latter, being 
 addicted to psychology in his leisure moments, in- 
 vited me to breakfast with him the next day, being 
 desirous, he said, to analyze the sensations I had felt 
 during that memorable evening. But I was in haste 
 to steep myself in solitude. I returned to the hotel, 
 with my ears still ringing with the uproar and the 
 bravos, and I was lulled to sleep by their murmur, as 
 by the echo of the waves of the sea. A blissful 
 night, peopled with phantoms of glory. 
 
 For it was glory, monsieur, absolute glory. The 
 next day, when I went down to the common room, 
 those of my comrades who had not taken the earliest 
 train saluted me with repeated acclamations : 
 
 " Vive Brichanteau ! Bravo, Louis XI. ! " 
 
 And Courtillier was gentlemanly enough to ask me 
 what he owed me for having saved the company, 
 honor and money. 
 
 " What would I like ? The privilege of passing a 
 few days at Compiegne, so that I can visit the Chateau 
 of Pierrefonds and drink my fill of the Middle Ages, 
 to my mind the ideal epoch 1" 
 
 Courtillier did not hesitate ; he paid for my room 
 at the hotel and my meals for three days, and secretly 
 handed me a hundred-franc note in an envelope. 
 Then, his troupe having returned, I, being left alone 
 with my thoughts, lived amid those artistic surround-
 
 ONE OF BRICHANTEAU'S GREAT DAYS. 123 
 
 ings passing my time between Compiegne and 
 Pierrefonds three full days, saluted in the streets 
 by the authorities of the city, and returning courteous 
 salutations without number on every side, but seeking 
 by preference unfrequented corners, to meditate upon 
 my renown and to recite poetry ! 
 
 A reporter for a local newspaper was the only one 
 who disturbed my blissful retirement; he asked me 
 to give him some biographical details concerning 
 myself, but I replied : 
 
 "I am simply a passer-by, monsieur. And what 
 interest has the public in the life of an artist ? The 
 important thing is his work. Did I play Louis XI. 
 well or ill? That is the whole question. My roles 
 are yours, my life is my own ! " 
 
 The reporter was not content. He made that 
 apparent in his paper. But for every triumph there 
 must be a share of criticism, I will not say of insult. 
 I had my share. My triumph was complete. 
 
 On the third day I left the hotel on foot, having 
 around my body, like a scarf, the wreath of flowers 
 which had perfumed my room, the tri-colored ribbons 
 fluttering in the wind. Thus amid kindly glances 
 from the people, did I leave Compiegne, with my 
 valise in my hand, and my wreath worn bandolier- 
 wise. Not a shout as I walked along, but amiable 
 salutations and indulgent smiles. I walked through 
 the city in an atmosphere of sympathy.
 
 124 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 At the station they asked me if I would n't put my 
 wreath with the luggage; it was too large for the 
 netting- racks in the carriages. 
 
 " No," I replied ; " there are emblems from which 
 one does not like to be separated. I will take my 
 wreath across my knees ! " 
 
 As the train started, the railway employes and 
 some lovers of the drama who stood upon the platform 
 gave me a parting salute. I heard one last cheer, and 
 I even distinguished an Au revoir ! that went to my 
 heart. 
 
 It was done. The locomotive bore me away 
 toward the great city. But I had, stored away in my 
 memory, an imperishable souvenir, and in my hours 
 of despair I look at the faded wreath bearing the date, 
 sacred to me, of the 23d February, and I say to 
 myself : 
 
 " No weakness, Brichanteau ! Struggle on, Brichan- 
 teauj You have had your hour ! You have had 
 your day ! Never forget Compiegne, and take heart, 
 Brichanteau ! Remember Louis XI. ! No one ever 
 acted it as you did no one ! " 
 
 Ah ! I forgot and yet it is flattering to me ; an 
 art collector, bibliophile, and numismatist has kept 
 to this day the chasseur's k/pt, adorned with the 
 medallions made from lead soldiers. It is an addi- 
 tional testimony to my success. And if you have any 
 curiosity to see the headgear worn by Louis XL, look
 
 ONE OF BRICHANTEAU'S GREAT DAYS. 125 
 
 up the secretary of the Archaeological Society as you 
 pass through Compiegne; he will show it to you 
 hanging between a Roman soldier's helmet and the 
 tri-colored helmet of a French guardsman. Docu- 
 ments for use in writing the history of the coiffure I 
 
 But for my part I prefer to the kepi, historical 
 though it be, my old faded wreath, an image of the 
 artist's life, flowers and dust ! Let us be philoso- 
 phers, after all ! I know more ambitious men than I 
 who have not had their great day as I have.
 
 V. 
 
 THE EMPEROR WAS OURS! 
 
 WELL, yes, I nearly saved France ! It is a matter 
 of history. The late Monsieur le Baron Taylor, who 
 knew all about the affair, could have vouched for the 
 truth of what I am about to tell you. But I have no 
 need of witnesses to induce belief in my word. 
 Everybody knows Brichanteau; he has never lied. 
 My life may seem an extraordinary one, but the fact 
 is that life is a dream, as has been said by by 
 that Spaniard. Well, then, this is how it happened. 
 
 It was in the last days of the siege. Life was terribly 
 wearisome in Paris. September, October, November, 
 December, January, those months seemed like years. 
 At first, people said : " Patience, we are going to be 
 relieved, we shall crush the enemy under our walls, 
 the North is bestirring itself, the South is rising, it is 
 only a matter of a few weeks; we can surely give 
 credit to the country, the country is doing well, it is 
 being born again ! " But the days passed, nothing 
 came ; we could not leave the city, we became mere 
 snails on the ramparts, we were horribly bored there 
 is no other word for it, we were bored to death.
 
 THE EMPEROR WAS OURS ! 127 
 
 But with great dignity, eating little and that unfit to 
 eat, atrocious bread, horseflesh, refuse. And with it 
 all the small-pox and the cold. There is no use talk- 
 ing, it was not cheerful. I did my duty like the 
 others, you understand. I mounted guard in my 
 turn, I passed nights on guard, and when the battalion 
 marched out of the fortifications, ah, messeigneurs, I 
 thought that my chassepot was going to open the 
 road to Berlin and the King of Prussia had best look 
 to himself! 
 
 I ought to say that I had declined all civil appoint- 
 ments at the beginning of the siege. I had friends 
 among the authorities. Potel, the singer at the 
 Opra-Comique I can see him now, with his ktpi 
 adorned with a tri-colored ribbon had said to me, 
 " Do you want to join the Vigilance Committee of the 
 tenth arrondissement ? " He knew me ; I had been 
 a supernumerary at his side, and had acted at Laon 
 with him. I refused all his offers. The ramparts 
 were the place for vigilance ; I would go to the ram- 
 parts. And then, too, I have always kept out of 
 reach of politics. Yes, my artistic and private life is 
 free from all compromising entanglements in that 
 direction. What I had been, that I proposed to 
 remain. I simply placed all my art, all the vigorous 
 force of my talent, at the service of performances given 
 for the wounded, or for the regimental relief funds. 
 
 Often, too often, my assistance was declined on
 
 128 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 the pretext that the very long programme was already 
 made up ; but I did not force my services upon any 
 one. One evening during the bombardment I re- 
 cited poetry in the Salle des Menus- Plaisirs, between 
 Monsieur Delaunay and Madame Favart, and I will 
 not tell you who received the most applause. No, I 
 will not tell you, I am modest. However, I attribute 
 all the honor to the poet. I had recited Victor Hugo. 
 In spite of everything, I was bored. Yes, the siege 
 had the same effect on me as a play that dragged. 
 I said to myself, " What I need is action ! " We 
 had reached the fourth act. We divined that the 
 denouement, happy or unhappy, was at hand, and 
 it dragged, oh ! how that fourth act dragged ! And 
 I cudgelled my brains, saying to myself again and 
 again : " Come, there must be something to be 
 done ! The genius of France is not exhausted ! " 
 Like everybody else, I had tried to think up some- 
 thing that might be useful to the country. How to 
 relieve Paris, that was the problem. My comrade 
 Andrsi, of the Bouffes, proposed that we should 
 manufacture poisoned rings, each with an impercepti- 
 ble needle-point. Every Parisian woman would wear 
 her patriotic ring, and, if the Prussians entered Paris, 
 every Parisian woman would shake hands with a 
 German. And the little needle would prick the skin, 
 the deadly poison would do its work. How many 
 women were there in Paris ? The number could easily
 
 THE EMPEROR WAS OURS! I2Q 
 
 be calculated. Very good ! there would be just so 
 many Germans less in the German army. 
 
 Another friend of mine, Dubarol of the Porte-Saint- 
 Martin, said to me : " An axe, a knife, a navaja, a 
 lasso ; yes, Brichanteau, a Mexican lasso such as you 
 use in the Pirates of the Savane," the idea was not 
 a new one to me, as you know, " and let them send 
 us out against the Germans, breast to breast, eye to 
 eye ! " It was Dubarol again who suggested turning 
 all the wild beasts in the Jardin des Plantes loose 
 upon the Prussian advance guard. As we could not 
 feed them, we should in that way gam a twofold ad- 
 vantage; the beasts would no longer consume food 
 in Paris, and they would consume Prussians in the 
 suburbs. The Administration, always prudent, deemed 
 the project too extraordinary ! 
 
 I too, I must admit, disapproved of a project, bold 
 beyond question, but decidedly unpractical. I was 
 still saying to myself that there was certainly " some- 
 thing else to be done," when a cutting from a pro- 
 vincial newspaper, which reached Paris by balloon, 
 stirred within me all the conjoined fibres of patriot- 
 ism and of art. A man of heart, a Frenchman liv- 
 ing at Buenos-Ayres, had raised a gallant legion, the 
 Argentine legion, to come to France and defend his 
 natal soil ; and the brave fellows had just landed at 
 Bordeaux, where their leader, an ex- subaltern in the 
 army of Africa, ex-colonel in the army of General 
 9
 
 130 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 Lee during the War of Secession, was drilling and 
 organizing them. He proposed, with them, to join 
 Bourbaki's army, which was still intact. But the 
 thing that impressed me in the news contained in 
 the Victoire newspaper of Bordeaux, the thing that 
 stirred my imagination, always in love with the pic- 
 turesque, was this : the ex-colonel, being unable to 
 procure the uniforms that he desired for his com- 
 mand ready made when they disembarked, had pur- 
 chased the costumes of a theatrical manager who was 
 called upon for compulsory military service, among 
 others those of Les Trots Mousquetaires ; and he him- 
 self, insanely, I grant you, but heroically, you must 
 admit, was about to defy the bullets of the Dreysse 
 muskets in the hat and riding-coat of D'Artagnan. 
 
 Ah ! that newspaper cutting ! The possibility of 
 realizing a chimerical vision, of being one of Dumas' 
 mousquetaires ) not only between the wings and in 
 front of a canvas background, but in the open air, in 
 a real battle ! To protect our country, arrayed in the 
 felt hat and plume of the defenders of the Saint-Ger- 
 vais bastion ! To live in peril, wearing the costume of 
 a dream ! The thought intoxicated me, it went to my 
 brain, it drove me mad. I conceived a loathing for 
 my black trousers with the red stripe, my broadcloth 
 jacket, my laced hat, my woollen girdle ; I fancied 
 myself, sword in hand, cleaving helmets, and I deter- 
 mined, oh ! I determined, by hook or crook, despite
 
 THE EMPEROR WAS OURS! 131 
 
 closed gates, despite the blockade, despite Monsieur 
 de Bismarck, despite the devil, despite everything, to 
 go to Bordeaux and join the red-coated legion from 
 Buenos- Ayres ! 
 
 When a man with a will like mine has an idea, he 
 puts it into execution. To go from Paris to Bor- 
 deaux was no easy matter. But I would find my 
 way out of Paris ; I would play the part of a peasant 
 as far as Rouen, a market-gardener returning to his 
 village, and so I would reach Havre, the Germans 
 were not in possession of Havre, and go thence to 
 Bordeaux by sea ; I would make my escape by the 
 valley of the Seine. In the main it was the plan, the 
 famous plan, of Troehu, over which people made so 
 merry, and which the governor did not undertake to 
 carry out because, instead of operating upon Rouen, 
 the Tours authorities decided to operate upon Or- 
 le*ans. That is an historical fact which will come to 
 light later. I give it to you by the way. 
 
 To cut the matter short, my plan was a good 
 one. Ought I to intrust it to any one? That was a 
 question that I put to myself, and, after all, as long as 
 I intended to go, it was quite as well to turn my de- 
 parture to some good use. The government, which 
 sent out information and instructions by balloon, 
 might have some mission to intrust to a sure man. 
 Through an influential colleague, a societaire of the 
 Come'die-Francaise, I sent word to a member of the
 
 132 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 government that I was ready to pass through the 
 lines and to carry to any desired point a written or 
 verbal order, whichever they chose. 
 
 My influential colleague went so far as to present 
 me to the chief of staff of the Governor of Paris, 
 who looked me over I standing as erect under his 
 soldierly glance as I would have done before the 
 enemy's bullets and said to me : 
 
 "Your mind is made up, my boy?" 
 
 " Fully made up, general. I am stifling in Paris. 
 I propose to fight in the provinces." 
 
 "Yes, you dream of a breath of fresh air. You 
 don't want very much. We are all quartered in the 
 same inn. And you would undertake to carry a mes- 
 sage to the governor at Tours? " 
 
 " Yes, general, if I am not killed on the road ! " 
 
 " But suppose you are the bearer of a message in 
 writing, and you are arrested ? " 
 
 "I will swallow the message in writing. That is 
 the a b c of the trade." 
 
 "And suppose you are questioned? " 
 
 " I will not say a word. I have played that part in 
 Massena, or L 'Enfant Chert de la Victoire" 
 
 " Oh ! but there are ways of making people 
 speak ! " 
 
 " Not a word should pass my lips, general, though 
 they should put me to the torture. There are certain 
 secrets that die with some men. I will remember
 
 THE EMPEROR WAS OURS ! 133 
 
 
 
 Coconnas in La Reine Margot. It is a sympathetic 
 role. I came near creating it at Montparnasse." 
 
 Faith, it seems that I inspired confidence in the 
 chief of staff. He bade me return to the Place the 
 next day. I returned with military promptness. 
 They gave me my credentials to the government at 
 Tours on a little paper no bigger than that, written 
 very fine ; and they handed me, with a despatch in 
 cipher, a passport for the French outposts. The 
 general informed me that, all the information obtain- 
 able about me being satisfactory, they had decided to 
 intnist to me the mission that I solicited. If I suc- 
 ceeded in reaching Tours, I was to deliver my cre- 
 dentials and my despatch, and the government there 
 was, it seems, instructed to reward me. 
 
 " Oh ! general," I said hastily, when the subject of 
 reward was mentioned, " let us not mention that, I 
 beg of you. I am sufficiently rewarded by your 
 confidence and your esteem." 
 
 " Very well. But have you money in your pocket 
 for the journey?" 
 
 " I have, general. Base metal is not the patriot's 
 viaticum." 
 
 The general smiled at that phrase, which came 
 quite naturally to my lips and which I have never 
 forgotten. Then he wished me ban voyage. I had 
 not dared to say to him that if I rendered the 
 country the service that was expected of me, there
 
 134 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 was a reward, craved by many gallant men, which 
 would have made me mad with pride. But not only 
 did I not dare to mention it, I dared not even think 
 of it. Decorated ! I, Brichanteau, a chevalier of 
 the Legion of Honor ! It would have been too 
 much. No, seriously, I can honestly say that I did 
 not even think of it. I thought only of escaping, of 
 passing through the lines, of obtaining a breath of 
 fresh air, as the general had said, and of joining the 
 legion of mousquetaires from Buenos-Ayres. 
 
 Now, in what direction should I go? which gate 
 should I choose? Toward Vincennes I knew the 
 road like my own pocket : Nogent, Joinville, Cham- 
 pigny. But I should fall into the middle of the Prus- 
 sian lines, and I should have to make a long ddtour 
 to go westward. By Saint-Denis it was no more 
 promising. The easiest and at the same time the 
 most direct road was through the suburbs of Mont- 
 Vale'rien, Saint-Cloud, the forest of Ville-d'Avray, 
 Viroflay, and then the road to Normandie, in God's 
 keeping ! But ought I to start at night ? Ought 
 I to start by day? Questions that made my heart 
 beat fast, not with fear, no, but with hope. At 
 night I risked being taken by some prowler, or 
 brought down by a sentinel, it might be a French- 
 man. By day I could play my role of peasant more 
 easily and see danger approaching. All right, I 
 would start in the daytime.
 
 THE EMPEROR WAS OURS! 135 
 
 I had arranged for myself a very simple costume 
 of a worthy rustic who had taken refuge in Paris. 
 Nothing grotesque, not the cafe-concert peasant 
 who sings at Jean-Pierre's wedding ; not a Brasseur 
 role either. A realistic peasant, close-shaven chin, 
 cloth jacket, blouse with a blue-black cape and 
 melon-shaped hat. With the rest, a stout stick for 
 marauders, because there was no sense in being 
 armed against the Prussian. My conscience was 
 my weapon. 
 
 Off at last. I carried my passport, and, rolled up 
 like two balls of dough in my pocket, my despatch 
 and my credentials to the authorities at Tours. I 
 left neither love nor relations in Paris, so that my 
 heart, as it happened, was free ; and even if I had 
 been in love, I would have sacrificed that attach- 
 ment, caprice, or passion to the prospect of making 
 myself useful to my country and of fighting with the 
 Argentine mousquetaires. 
 
 I left the city by the Neuilly gate. Beautiful 
 weather favored my journey, which I began with a 
 self-assured demeanor. Mont-Valerien, which was 
 firing from time to time, seemed to salute my de- 
 parture as if I were a ship. The winter sun, the 
 smoke from the cannon floating in the clear air, 
 all seemed to me of good augury, and I walked on, 
 deliberately, not allowing my emotions to be stirred 
 even by the lamentable spectacle of war, trees felled,
 
 136 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 houses gutted, walls rased to the ground, which I 
 met at every step. It was for the purpose of aven- 
 ging and repairing this destruction that I walked 
 straight ahead, bound on an important mission ! 
 
 Everything went well as I passed through the dis- 
 mantled suburb, until I had passed our outposts on 
 the Sevres road. I remember the last warning word 
 of the officer of the flying column, when I showed 
 him my passport, which he kept, as I had no further 
 use for it. 
 
 " You know they are not far away ! How are you 
 going to cross the Seine? Beware : it rains bullets ! " 
 
 How was I going to cross the Seine? Upon my 
 word I had no idea. By swimming? Impossible. 
 Once on the other side, I must apply to the Germans 
 for a chance to dry my clothes. It was not probable 
 that I could find a boat in some creek or other. I 
 walked along the river, crouching as best I could 
 behind the leafless trees and shrubbery, and I said to 
 myself that I should probably have to return as I 
 came, the very first day. I was hungry. I sat down 
 at the foot of a birch and ate some bread siege 
 bread washed down with wine from my flask. 
 It was delicious, that repast in the open air ! I 
 said to myself: "If the Parisians were here, how 
 happy they would be ! They would be free ! " 
 
 No, not so free as they might be ! The Seine was 
 there, quite as effective as a wall, and I watched it
 
 THE EMPEROR WAS OURS! 137 
 
 flowing in the sunlight. It reflected the houses on 
 the other bank, where there were, perhaps, where 
 there certainly were Prussians. But I could not see 
 them. They were inside, smoking or reading or 
 playing cards. At one time I heard, far away, very 
 far away, a refrain from an operetta, an Offenbach 
 air that was wafted to my ears through the branches. 
 It was one of them playing La Belle Hetene on a 
 piano which they had not yet burned for firewood. 
 
 And if you knew how melancholy that refrain 
 from Offenbach sounded to me at that moment ! I 
 had heard it sung not long before at the Theatre de 
 Mourmelon, before our poor soldiers, formerly so gay 
 and reckless ! Ah ! to avenge them, them also, in 
 the red coat of a mousquetaire ! That thought re- 
 stored all my confidence, and I waited for nightfall, 
 saying to myself, as in Victorine, that the night brings 
 counsel. 
 
 Night came in due time, very cold, luckily quite 
 dark, even after the beautiful day, and I shivered 
 infernally on the bank. I even deliberated whether 
 I had not better fall back on our outposts and get 
 under cover until daylight. But that would have re- 
 minded me of the retreat in good order which we are 
 constantly hearing about in bulletins, and, as I was 
 near my goal, I must remain there. It was well for 
 me that I came to that decision, for it is probable 
 that, if I had retraced my steps toward Paris, the
 
 138 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 rain of bullets would have been a French shower, and 
 who knows, monsieur, if I should be here? 
 
 I said to myself: "I will remain, I will wait!" 
 And I longed to stamp on the ground to warm my- 
 self, but I was afraid of making a noise. The better 
 plan was to look along the river for some hovel where 
 I could lie until daybreak ; and as it turned out, while 
 I was looking for the hovel, I found the boat and the 
 ferryman who carried me to the other bank. 
 
 It was like this. I had discovered, from a distance, 
 something very high, like a wall, with something 
 ragged and full of holes on top, like a roof riddled 
 with shells ; a sort of shed it was, and I said to my- 
 self : "That 's just what I want for a nap; " but, as 
 I was going in, I heard somebody, whom I could 
 not see, moving near me, then a voice growled in 
 French : 
 
 "Who goes there?" 
 
 I replied, instinctively : 
 
 " France ! " 
 
 I should have made the same reply, on my word of 
 honor, if the question had been, " Wer da?" 
 
 The person on the ground approached. He was 
 some vagabond or other who came at night to try 
 and catch fish, in order to sell them the next day at 
 an exorbitant price at the Halle or at Bre'bant's, 
 one of the Redskins of civilization, who live on 
 everything and nothing, and would find a silk thread
 
 THE EMPEROR WAS OURS! 139 
 
 in an egg. There in that shed, under a pile of bricks 
 and straw, he had an old skiff that he used on occa- 
 sion, at the risk of receiving ten bullets in his head 
 for one. I learned all this by talking with him, at a 
 safe distance, my staff in my hand ; for, to tell the truth, 
 he seemed to be a famous rascal, did my new friend ! 
 
 Rascal or not, he was brave ! He agreed to set 
 me across the river for ten francs. That was not a 
 high price to pay. The least sound of oars might 
 arouse the Germans, and the whole shore would have 
 taken fire. But nothing venture, nothing have. I 
 poured out a glass of wine for my ferryman, which he 
 clinked against my flask, and we drank to France, 
 for perhaps the rascal was a good sort of fellow, after 
 all, and off we went. 
 
 Behold us in the skiff. 
 
 Not a star. I thought of Mordaunt aboard his boat 
 in the fifth act of Vingt Ans Apres. I said to myself 
 that we must cast Chinese shadows against the clearer 
 background of the water, and I expected, every 
 moment, to receive a volley. I had my two rolls of 
 paper between my fingers, ready to be swallowed, if I 
 had time, before the death agony. 
 
 But there is a God. Not a shot. They, the Ger- 
 mans, were sound asleep. 
 
 My boatman deposited me on the bank. 
 
 I gave him twelve francs two francs pourboire 
 and said to him :
 
 140 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 " At least let me know the name of the stranger 
 who has assisted me in my flight." 
 
 "What's my name to you?" he replied. "My 
 name is Auguste ! " 
 
 Whatever he may have been, I have kept that bap- 
 tismal name, Auguste, engraven on my heart, and I 
 associate it with my most heroic memory. Wherever 
 thou art, Auguste, if thou still livest, my blessing on 
 thee ! 
 
 I was on the other side of the river, but I was not 
 at the end of my troubles. I repeated the words of 
 Rysoor, there 's a part that I would like to act, a 
 fine Dumaine ! No, the trouble is not finished, it is 
 but beginning ! And I felt that I was in the enemy's 
 country. The darkness, the night, the silence, every- 
 thing seemed hostile to me. The simplest plan was 
 not to stir. When day broke, I would find my road. 
 And I kept myself out of sight, cowering in a ditch 
 on the hard ice, frozen stiff, absolutely frozen. 
 
 With the first ray of dawn I began to walk, to drive 
 away the numbness, to bring the blood back to my 
 feet. I had a sort of rush of blood to my brain. I 
 was walking straight ahead, not at random, for I knew 
 the roads, I was walking toward Saint-Germain, when 
 suddenly oh ! my odyssey was not of long dura- 
 tion ! I walked straight into a German patrol as if 
 I had banged my head against a closed door. 
 
 Ah ! it was no longer the Qui vive ? of my friend
 
 THE EMPEROR WAS OURS ! 141 
 
 Auguste. I heard the dreaded Wer da ? The crossed 
 muskets stopped me short. A corporal asked me 
 something in German. As I made no reply, a soldier 
 pushed me behind, and I was taken, surrounded by 
 tall, red-bearded devils, before a very light, very thin 
 officer, who, as he stared at me through a monocle, 
 seemed to me to be very tired, either because he had 
 risen so early, or because he had passed the night in 
 the little cottage where he was warming his boots, by 
 the light of a kerosene lamp still lighted. 
 
 The officer spoke French very well, with a very 
 slight accent that vaguely resembled the Gascon 
 accent. He asked me what I was doing in the 
 German lines, and where I came from. 
 
 I replied concisely : 
 
 " From Paris." 
 
 "What, from Paris? You have undertaken to 
 escape from a besieged city?" 
 
 Thereupon I summoned all my skill in the matter 
 of make-up and, if I do say it, I acted the Norman 
 peasant as he has rarely been acted on the stage. I 
 felt that it was an excellent performance. I was 
 in the good fellow's skin, a Bouff or a Paulin 
 Me"nier. 
 
 Have I told you, by the way, that while the red- 
 beards were escorting me to the cottage I had deftly 
 swallowed the two balls of paper intended for the 
 authorities at Tours? That is the alphabet of the
 
 142 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 juggler's art. Pass, muscades I And the Germans 
 had seen nothing ! I said to myself : 
 
 " Farewell to your despatch, Brichanteau ! Even 
 if you reach Tours, my boy, you will not receive the 
 reward you have dreamed of ! " 
 
 But I added that, after all, I might, even without 
 the papers, which by the way had nearly strangled me, 
 like over-large pills, furnish sufficient information for 
 them to recognize my zeal. 
 
 And then, too, I had not set out in search of com- 
 pliments, but of blows. I wanted to fight ! To fight 
 in the costume of D'Artagnan. The rest was inci- 
 dental. 
 
 "Why did you leave Paris?" the officer asked me 
 in a satirical tone. 
 
 " Because I was tired of staying there." 
 
 " Ah ! then you 're not a Parisian? " 
 
 "No, officer; / was a poor farmer in the out- 
 skirts of Rouen at Saint-Pierre ; I don't know if 
 you know Saint- Pierre?" 
 
 " No, I don't know it." 
 
 " Well, that 's where my people are. I took refuge 
 in Paris, or I should say I had business there, grain 
 to sell, and I was shut up there when the siege began. 
 At fi?sfc I says to myself : ' Pshaw ! this won't last 
 long ! They '11 raise the siege,' " the officer smiled 
 as if I had said an absurd thing ; " but, you see, they 
 did n't do it, and it seemed as if I could n't stand it,
 
 THE EMPEROR WAS OURS ! 143 
 
 to stay there without seeing my people ; so I came 
 out, yes, I came out, that 's the truth, preferring to 
 risk everything rather than stay shut up there like my 
 hens in the hencoop. And that 's the good God's 
 true truth, officer ! " 
 
 As I told you, I played my part admirably, although 
 peasants, the second comedian's parts, like Alain in 
 L'Ecole des Femmes, are not in my line. But I have 
 played many other parts that were not in my line ! 
 The gesture, the accent, the curl of the lip, every- 
 thing was there, and the tall, thin officer stared into 
 the whites of my eyes while I was talking my patois 
 to him. That stare would have confused me if I had 
 been on the stage, although I am not easily put out 
 of countenance. The fellow magnetized me ! 
 
 But, pshaw ! I was master of myself, and I deter- 
 mined to bewilder him with dames and bedames ! 
 
 " Look you, peasant, are n't you an emissary (emis- 
 saire} of the government of Paris?" inquired the 
 officer finally. 
 
 I made this reflection : " Brichanteau, if you under- 
 stand the word emissaire, you are lost." 
 
 I stammered and stuttered : 
 
 " Emi emis pere What was that word, 
 officer?" 
 
 " Emissaire ? Spy, if you prefer." 
 
 "Spy? me ! Ah ! don Dieu de ban Dieu I me, a 
 spy ! Spy on who? spy on what? "
 
 144 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 " In the first place, what's your name ? " 
 
 " Bonnin, Jean-Marie." 
 
 The officer wrote the name on his note-book. 
 
 That name suddenly came to my lips in memory 
 of Francois le Champi and Madame Sand, who saw 
 me play Claudie at La Chatre. Jean Bonnin ! I 
 shall never forget it. 
 
 " You were born?" 
 
 " At Saint-Pierre-du-Vauvray, the 3d December, 
 1830." 
 
 " Good. We will keep you and see what the in- 
 quiry will bring forth." 
 
 He made a sign to his soldiers ; they took me by 
 the shoulders once more and carried me to a vile 
 barrack, where they locked me up and kept me in 
 sight, without food or drink. I must have remained 
 there from five or six o'clock in the morning until 
 noon, something like that, when the door of my bar- 
 rack opened and a great longshanks of a German 
 growled at me, "Come ! " and with a gesture bade me 
 follow him. 
 
 A detachment was waiting at the door. 
 
 I glanced instinctively at the Dreysse muskets. I 
 said to myself : " Oho ! suppose they are loaded for 
 you, my old Brichanteau ! " 
 
 The squad escorted me through divers streets to a 
 large dwelling-house, in front of which a whole gen- 
 eral's staff was parading up and down, dragging their
 
 THE EMPEROR WAS OURS ! 145 
 
 swords behind them. There were hussar officers all 
 in blue, others all in red, and old officers, whom by 
 their helmets and their plumes I knew to be generals. 
 One of them, a beggarly little fellow, with spectacles 
 and not a hair of beard, looked me over when they 
 led me before him, and the villain said to me abruptly, 
 without a trace of accentuation : 
 
 " You come from Paris ? " 
 
 " Yes, I come from Paris." 
 
 " You were a bearer of despatches ? " 
 
 " I, good God ! I was bearer of nothing at all." 
 
 " Where are your despatches ? " 
 
 " Ah ! dame bedame, if you look for them you '11 
 waste your time like the devil. I 'm a poor man who 
 escaped from Paris because he wants to see his wife 
 and his little ones and the old folks. Voila ! " 
 
 " You are married ? " 
 
 Yes." 
 
 " You have children ? " 
 
 " Three." 
 
 Perhaps it was not a lie. One never can tell ! 
 
 " And your name is Bonnin, born " 
 
 "At Saint- Pierre- du-Vauvray, the 3d December, 
 1830. Bonnin, Jean-Marie, son of Bonnin, Pierre- 
 Lavinien." 
 
 " Enough ! " said the little old man. 
 
 He turned to his officers ; they whispered together 
 for a moment, and a little red hussar, all bedecked 
 10
 
 146 ERICH ANTEAU. 
 
 with gold lace, left the group and made a sign to the 
 squad that had brought me thither, whereupon it 
 drew up in front of me. 
 
 The whole staff looked on. 
 
 They motioned to me to take up my position in 
 front of a wall which, in the bright sunlight, looked 
 perfectly white like a winding-sheet. The devil ! 
 that had a bad look. The curious part of it is that I 
 noticed everything. 
 
 I knew where I was. 
 
 At Rueil. I had noticed the house particularly 
 one day when I had come to Rueil to recite poetry at 
 a concert for the benefit oi the municipal Fanfare. I 
 recognized the street. I saw the distant landscape 
 and, through the clear air, Mont-Val6rien, thundering 
 away, with its little columns of smoke floating upward. 
 
 And behind it I fancied that I could see Paris, 
 Rue de Bondy where my lodgings were, the Porte- 
 Saint-Martin, the Gaiete, the Chatelet, the Conser- 
 vatory from which I had graduated, the Comedie- 
 Francaise, where I ought to have been engaged ! 
 my whole life ! And it was all ended ! These men 
 in high boots, wrapped in their cloaks, with heavy 
 pie- shaped helmets on their heads, were going to 
 finish it all up, and adieu, Brichanteau ! Curtain ! 
 The lights are going out. 
 
 The staff did not stir. A subaltern planted me in 
 front of the wall, facing the squad, and the tall, thin
 
 THE EMPEROR WAS OURS ! 147 
 
 devil of an officer who had questioned me in the 
 morning I did not know he was there made his 
 appearance and drew his sword. 
 
 " Prepare arms ! " 
 
 I am not quite sure if that was what he said, but I 
 think so. However I distinctly heard the word arms, 
 which he pronounced with an h before it : harms / 
 how that would have made my teacher, Monsieur 
 Beauvallet, squirm ! 
 
 I folded my arms like Laferriere in La Barriere de 
 Clichy, or Monsieur Alexandre in Les Cosaques. 
 
 The little gold-bespangled red hussar came toward 
 me and very courteously asked me this question : 
 
 " His Excellency the general asks you if you have 
 no disclosure to make." 
 
 " Nothing," I replied. 
 
 " You have nothing to say? Nothing? " 
 
 An idea came into my mind, a wild temptation. I 
 longed to show those swashbucklers what a dramatic 
 artist's soul really is, and I felt that I was on the point 
 of replying 
 
 " I have to say that I die for my country," and 
 shouting : " Vive la France ! " 
 
 It was the only reply for a man who wants to die. 
 But why die? And, if I had yielded, to that natural 
 but heroic impulse, I should have ceased to be Jean- 
 Marie Bonnin, Norman peasant, and have become 
 Se'bastien Brichanteau once more; but I should
 
 148 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 have had a dozen bullets in my brain or my breast- 
 bone. 
 
 I had the courage to reply : 
 
 " Dame, I have to say that I wish you 'd send word 
 if you can to my wife and Pere Bonnin at Saint- 
 Pierre- du-Vauvray that I wanted to kiss my children 
 and it brought me bad luck ! That 's all ! " 
 
 The pretty red hussar went back to the little old 
 general. My officer of the morning still held his 
 sword in the air. The soldiers had their guns ready. 
 A charming tableau. But I said to myself : " When 
 he lowers his sword, the beast, it will be very nice ! " 
 And I already imagined the tall, white, sunlight- mottled 
 wall spattered with my blood. One has curious ideas 
 at such moments. 
 
 Then I thought : 
 
 "You will not join the Buenos- Ayres legion, Bri- 
 chanteau, and you will never, never enter the 
 Come' die- Francaise ! " 
 
 That disgusted me. Suddenly the little hussar, 
 after talking with his general, returned to the officer 
 commanding the squad, and I saw I half saw, for 
 all this going and coming was beginning to make my 
 head and my eyes rather dizzy the soldiers ground- 
 ing harms ! The general stepping toward me, stared 
 at me again through his spectacles, then he and his 
 staff all turned their backs on me. 
 
 Thereupon the red hussar, always polite, said to me :
 
 THE EMPEROR WAS OURS ! 149 
 
 "You're not afraid. You are to be taken to 
 Versailles. Your affair is worth the trouble of being 
 looked into." 
 
 " My affair ! " 
 
 " To be sure. For all we know, you 're a dangerous 
 fellow. We shall see how that is ! " 
 
 For my part, I saw but one thing. I had escaped 
 the squad of execution for the moment and destiny 
 led me back after many hardships to Versailles, my 
 native place, where, thank God ! I had left too few 
 reminders and acquaintances for any one to recognize 
 in Jean Bonnin, Norman peasant second comedian 
 little Sbastien who played hop-scotch on Avenue 
 de Paris, or the young Brichanteau who made his 
 dbut in Horace on the boards of the theatre of his 
 native town. It was so long ago! 1849! Think 
 of it! 
 
 And there I was ! The staff had gone, the squad 
 was going, and they bestowed me once more in my 
 hovel. I uttered an ouf! as in a fifth act, when the 
 young girl or the mother or the kind magistrate brings 
 the pardon of the condemned man. And I said to 
 myself that such excitement makes a horrible void in 
 a man, and that I would eat a morsel. On that point 
 the Germans were very cautious. Bread and water. 
 A little sausage. My first banquet did not ruin them, 
 and the expense of keeping me did not necessitate 
 an inroad on their war treasure. But a man fresh
 
 1 50 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 from Paris was not likely to be exacting, and that food 
 seemed to me worthy of the Maison-d'Or. Never, 
 no, never have I eaten with better appetite. 
 
 I passed the night in that dog kennel, and the next 
 day, with cords about my wrists, like Lesurques in the 
 last tableau of the Courrier de Lyo'n, I started for 
 Versailles on foot. I had the pleasure of espying the 
 palace from afar. I saw that the streets and avenues 
 of my poor great city were swarming with pointed 
 helmets, and I was taken to the prison, where I have 
 been so many times when a child, to watch the con- 
 demned men come out, and gazed at the door, the 
 great nails, the heavy knocker, never suspecting that 
 the day would come but let us be philosophers, 
 everything comes to pass. 
 
 And it was there, in the prison at Versailles, that I 
 conceived a plan which, if it had succeeded and it 
 might have succeeded would perhaps have saved 
 our country, and would in any event I say it 
 boldly have changed the course of history. 
 
 I say this, and I will prove it. This is the story. 
 
 In the first place they threw me into a dungeon 
 like a cell in a cloister. Good. I knew all about 
 dungeons. I had played Buridan and Latude. I 
 had heard bolts shoot and had seen the sinister faces 
 of jailers appear in doorways. But in the prison at 
 Versailles the bolts were not put on by stage car- 
 penters, and the massive door bore little resemblance
 
 THE EMPEROR WAS OURS ! 151 
 
 to the doors of painted canvas. The jailer was a sub- 
 altern officer in the German gendarmerie, and from 
 time to time I was taken before some stipendiary of 
 the provostry, who tried to make me confess that my 
 name was not Jean Bonnin, that I was not a Nor- 
 man from Normandie, and that I had left Paris with 
 "evil designs." So did they qualify my patriotic 
 purposes. 
 
 But King William's provosts exerted their cunning 
 to no purpose ; they did not succeed in making me 
 forget the part I was playing. I was Jean Bonnin 
 from top to toe, and, bedame, I thought of nothing but 
 getting back to my province, and I laughed well 
 jarnigue at the Parisians who persisted in firing 
 cannon to prevent my sleeping at night. 
 
 After a few days my cellular imprisonment ceased. 
 They allowed me to walk for two hours daily in a sort 
 of courtyard with other prisoners, all French. There 
 were soldiers there, and thieves, a little of every- 
 thing, a curious collection of people picked up here 
 and there around Paris by the German authorities : 
 poachers suspected of having fired at an Uhlan 
 by moonlight; freebooters who pretended to be 
 deserters, and who had, perhaps, like myself, been 
 intrusted with a commission by General Trochu. 
 Poor devils, locked up they hardly knew why, because 
 they were prowling about homeless, picking up cab- 
 bages and greens in the outskirts of Paris. Gardeners
 
 152 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 from Seine-et-Oise, some old soldiers of the Crimea, 
 who had made insolent replies to the questions of the 
 conquerors, everybody raging against the Prussians, 
 growling, and picketed there like a herd of angry 
 beasts. In all, thirty or forty individuals, thirty- 
 seven, to be exact, young and old, but gars, I 
 promise you. 
 
 And the herd assembled twice a day, taking the 
 air between four walls, under the surveillance of sen- 
 tinels with loaded guns. We heard the cannon on 
 Mont-Vale"rien, the crackling of musketry, and some- 
 times, when the noise seemed to come nearer, we 
 would look at one another, saying in undertones : 
 
 " They are leaving the city ! They are coming ! " 
 
 In Paris when we said they t we meant the Prus- 
 sians. Outside of Paris they were the French. 
 
 The days passed, however, and the weeks, and they 
 did not come. We had ended by becoming pretty 
 thoroughly acquainted with one another, meeting as 
 we did at stated hours. Sometimes one of us was miss- 
 ing at the promenade. Then we would ask the senti- 
 nel, in stumbling German, what had become of our 
 comrade. No reply. Perhaps they had sent him to 
 Germany, to Spandau, to the devil, or God knows 
 where ; perhaps they had shot him, against a wall or 
 at the corner of a wood. That might happen to any 
 one of us one of those fine mornings. But, strangely 
 enough, as soon as one had gone another appeared.
 
 THE EMPEROR WAS OURS! 153 
 
 They would bring us some French prisoner who had 
 rebelled, some newly caught marauder, and there 
 were always just thirty-seven of us, by chance, I think. 
 If we had risen to forty, we would have made a cross 
 and imagined we were at the Academy. 
 
 Thirty- seven stanch men, all with fire in their eyes, 
 tired of being behind bolts, annoyed at having eaters 
 of sauerkraut for jailers, tired of hearing cannon-shots 
 and musket-shots in the distance without fighting, 
 even thirty-seven men are something ; and I said to 
 myself that they might be put to some use, and that 
 the mousquetaires were only four when they shook 
 the world. 
 
 Fate seemed to have pointed out my duty to me by 
 allotting to me, a child of Versailles, a dungeon in my 
 native city. I knew that the prison in which I was 
 eating the bread of captivity was situated near the 
 Avenue de Paris ; it is only two hundred and sixty- 
 four paces I have counted them since and I knew 
 the distance by heart. from Rue Saint- Pierre, or 
 rather from Place des Tribunaux, to the Avenue de 
 Paris. I knew also that on that Avenue de Paris stood 
 the prefecture of the department, and that it was there, 
 in the buildings of the prefecture, that King William 
 lodged, slept, breathed, and took his repose ! 
 
 <4 Well, well," I said to myself, " it would put a 
 strangely different face on the war, if the King of 
 Prussia should wake suddenly from a sound sleep to
 
 154 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 find himself a prisoner in the hands of a few deter- 
 mined Frenchmen ! Yes, that would be a dream ! 
 And such a dream ! The conqueror sleeps. The 
 prisoners are on the alert. They throw themselves 
 upon their jailers, they seize their weapons, they gag 
 or kill the sentinels, they are free, and with one 
 accord they rush toward the prefecture which is con- 
 taminated by the presence of the enemy. A grating 
 embellished with the imperial bees forbids entrance 
 to the building. They break it down. The post 
 guarding the entrance is gagged. Doubtless some 
 German sentinel will fire and give the alarm; but 
 before any one has time to come from the neighboring 
 barracks, the apartments where the sovereign sleeps- 
 are invaded, the chancellors, the staff officers are 
 taken prisoners, and the old king sees at his pillow a 
 determined man, the leader of the expedition, who, 
 holding him in awed subjection under the barrel of a 
 German revolver snatched from one of his soldiers, 
 says to him : 
 
 " ' Not a word, not an outcry, not a movement, 
 Sire ! You are our prisoner ! ' " 
 
 Ah ! as soon as that idea took root in my brain, it 
 sowed fever there, a generous fever ! All my blood 
 boiled at the prospect of the adventure, and I no 
 longer regretted my failure to join the Buenos- Ayres 
 legion. No, no, I no longer regretted it. Was not 
 my present project, this thing that I could attempt
 
 THE EMPEROR WAS OURS! 155 
 
 there in Versailles, superior to all that the mobilized 
 provincial legions tried to accomplish? They at- 
 tacked the instruments, the subordinates, the super- 
 numeraries. I, Brichanteau, would smite the invasion 
 at its head. It was heaven that ordained that I should 
 be arrested at Rueil and thrown like a bandit into 
 the prison of Versailles. Fate pointed out my duty 
 to me. 
 
 To kidnap the King of Prussia the idea was rank 
 madness, wise men will say. Yes, to-day, when our 
 head rests quietly on our pillows, it seems like mad- 
 ness. But it was not, it was audacity. It was theatri- 
 cal, and honestly theatrical. Is not the stage life? 
 Did not Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and D'Artagnan come 
 near rescuing the King of England ? They would have 
 saved Charles I. if history had not been against them. 
 Whereas I had before me history not yet made, a 
 scheme which permitted the realization of all sorts of 
 possibilities. Once the king was my prisoner I would 
 dictate to his Majesty such conditions as I pleased. 
 Ah ! it would be a very different thing from the 
 commonplace information given me to carry to the 
 authorities at Tours, in the shape of a bullet ! 
 
 " You will raise the siege of Paris at once, Sire." 
 " Very well." " You will evacuate Champagne." 
 " It is done." " You will recall to Germany all your 
 garrisons in Alsace and Lorraine Ah ! not a word, 
 not an outcry, not a movement, Sire ! I have you
 
 156 ERICH ANTEAU. 
 
 fast. Well played, King William, but my country has 
 its revenge ! " 
 
 And I calculated that, however heroic a handful of 
 thirty- seven men might be, they would quickly have 
 been surrounded and wiped out in the prefecture, 
 surrounded as it was by the German garrison at 
 Versailles. But we should have our hostage, the 
 most precious of hostages, the king ! We should 
 have him cowering at the muzzles of our guns, his 
 guns. And we would not give him up until our re- 
 treat, assured by his presence in the midst of us, 
 was safely effected. Yes, until we had regained our 
 lines we would keep King William in custody. The 
 slightest movement on the part of one of his soldiers 
 and it would have been all up with him. I repeated 
 to myself the words from Les Funerailles de I'Hon- 
 neur, which I uttered so proudly at the moment I 
 was about to stab Don Pedro the Cruel : " One does 
 not kill a sleeping man ! " To which I replied, as in 
 the drama : " I will awaken him ! " Even so. And 
 if, by reason of some unforeseen necessity which one 
 must always provide against under such circum- 
 stances, we should be obliged to consent to set the 
 king at liberty on conditions less rigorous for him, 
 less satisfactory to us, than those I had fixed upon 
 in my own mind, our minimum would be the raising 
 of the siege and the withdrawal of the invader's 
 troops to a distance of twenty-five leagues from Paris.
 
 THE EMPEROR WAS OURS! 157 
 
 Oh ! upon those points, even though we should be 
 constrained to take the monarch's life and to leave 
 our own on the spot, we would agree to no com- 
 promise, I would agree to no compromise ! 
 
 And I already imagined myself, on a dark night 
 it was essential to select a night when there was 
 no moon, when the footlights were not lighted I 
 imagined myself at the head of the thirty-seven cap- 
 tive heroes, gliding along like shadows to the pre- 
 fecture, after depriving our jailers of their weapons ; 
 in thought I was present at that epic scene : the 
 scaling of the iron fence, the sudden irruption into 
 the prefect's salon, and William's sudden awakening 
 beneath that gilded canopy, reconquered by France. 
 And the flag ! We had no tri-colored flag, but we 
 would at all events strike the black and white flag of 
 the King of Prussia, or the black, white, and red flag 
 of Germany that was probably waving over the pre- 
 fecture ! That would serve the purpose. Ah ! to 
 hurl that black eagle down into the courtyard with a 
 loud shout of triumph, while some one of us surely 
 there would be a pianist in our number played the 
 Marseillaise on Madame la Prdfete's piano ! What 
 ecstasy ! 
 
 I tell you, it was possible. It was practicable. It 
 would change the whole face of affairs. The thing 
 that does not happen seems mad, but not more mad, 
 I swear, than the thing that actually happens. And
 
 158 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 I said to myself : " This shall be done ! Brichan- 
 teau, perhaps thou mayst never enter the Come"die- 
 Francaise, but thou shalt make an irruption into 
 history ! " 
 
 But I could not make the irruption all by myself. 
 I must have collaborators, I will not say accomplices. 
 At first I intrusted my plan to only one or two 
 among those of my companions who inspired most 
 confidence in me. There might be sheep 1 among 
 the prisoners. I opened my heart and mind freely 
 to an old Crimean Zouave who dreamed of nothing 
 but wounds and bruises, and was forever mumbling 
 in his grizzled red beard his rage at not having 
 brought down a Prussian. 
 
 He stared at me in amazement at first and asked 
 me if it were practicable. 
 
 " To throw one's self on a jailer, gag him and disarm 
 him," I replied, " is the a b c of art. Have you 
 never read Latude, or Thirty-five Years of Captivity ? " 
 
 No." 
 
 There was nothing literary about him. But he 
 assented very quickly. " If there are blows to strike, 
 I am in it, I '11 strike ! I took Malakoff ; that should 
 be more difficult than to take a prefecture ! " It was 
 not quite the same thing. After the Crimean I 
 
 1 That is to say, prisoners who are set to watch their fellow- 
 prisoners, and, by winning their confidence, to extract infor- 
 mation from them.
 
 THE EMPEROR WAS OURS! 159 
 
 sounded the poacher. He confessed to me under 
 his breath that he did really bring down the Uhlan, 
 because the cavalier had hugged his niece too tight. 
 We talked about these matters in low tones, some- 
 times in a sort of half- Parisian, half-military slang, so 
 that the sentinel, if he were listening, could not under- 
 stand. And little by little, one by one, I enlisted 
 recruits. I told them the plan I had formed ; I held 
 up the hope of victory before their eyes. I dazzled 
 them with visions of their future glory. I said to 
 them : 
 
 "Will you?" 
 
 And all answered : 
 
 " We will." 
 
 Thereupon I pledged them to secrecy, and told 
 them to wait until the time came. They would be 
 notified. 
 
 "Be always ready ! Ad augusta per angusta ! " 
 
 They were not familiar with Hugo, but they shud- 
 dered instinctively, which proves that the drama is 
 true to nature. 
 
 I said to each neophyte : 
 
 " Mouth closed, heart mute, tongue prudent, hate 
 concealed," and I went on to the next. Not one 
 refusal. My idea made an indelible impression. 
 Eyes blazed, fingers moved nervously, as if they were 
 already pressing the trigger of a musket. 
 
 They all said to me :
 
 160 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 " Whenever you choose ! " 
 
 I replied : 
 
 " Confidence. Patience. Silence and mystery." 
 
 And I waited. I had said to Martineau the 
 poacher, and to the old Zouave : 
 
 " You must leap upon the first sentinel, gag him, 
 choke him, strangle him. That 's your business," 
 
 They had answered : 
 
 " It shall be done, and done in good shape. At 
 your orders." 
 
 One morning in January, my jailer, who spoke 
 French, said to me with a sneer : 
 " Well, it 's done. We have no King of Prussia now !" 
 
 That gave me a start. Had fate anticipated me? 
 Was the conqueror dead? 
 
 "No," the man went on, "we have a German 
 Emperor ! His Majesty was proclaimed yesterday in 
 the great Galerie des Glaces. Ha ! ha ! how your 
 Louis XIV. must have laughed ! " 
 
 I cannot say whether Louis XIV. laughed very 
 heartily, but I myself was blind with anger. I remem- 
 bered the fourth act of Hernani, Charles the Fifth's 
 monologue, and it seemed to me that the guns of 
 Mont-Vale"rien protested against the proclamation of 
 the Kaiser. However, it made no change in my 
 plan. None. Instead of carrying off a king, I would 
 carry off an emperor, that was all ! 
 
 The Emperor was ours \ He was the same old
 
 THE EMPEROR WAS OURS ! l6l 
 
 William. But that last insult suggested to me to 
 hasten the catastrophe. Were we all notified? All. 
 Were we all ready? All. Solemnly, in mysterious 
 silence, everything had been decided upon, and 
 repeated from ear to ear, putting out our hands 
 without a word, we had sworn inwardly to make the 
 attempt at the risk of losing what ? a thing of small 
 consequence, our skins ; and I said to myself : ' 
 
 " Now, Brichanteau, to work ! " 
 
 What was I waiting for? I have told you. A 
 moonless night. Darkness. I must have darkness. 
 I said to myself, " To-morrow ! " To morrow ! And 
 once more I imagined the admirable scene : the gag- 
 ging of the sentries, the soldiers of the post bound 
 hand and foot, strangled, the open door, the street, 
 the prefecture. I should have done it, we should 
 have done it. Determined men all. Heroes, jaguars. 
 I had fixed the date, January igth. 
 
 But the Governor of Paris was not notified. He 
 attempted a last sortie; Buzenval. We heard the 
 cannonading in the depths of our prison, and our 
 hearts skipped about like little goats ! The Ger- 
 man Emperor was present, of course, away off, we 
 had no idea where. Perhaps he would not return to 
 the prefecture that night, but would sleep in some 
 cottage near the field of battle, unless he should be 
 delicious hypothesis driven from Versailles by 
 our victorious troops. At all events we had to wait, 
 ii
 
 1 62 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 and to wait again the next day. What had been the 
 result of the battle ? Had the day been glorious or 
 disastrous to us ? Our plan hung upon that interro- 
 gation-point. 
 
 Oh ! but we did not wait long before finding out 
 that it was another defeat ! 
 
 "An unsuccessful sortie," said ray jailer, gayly. 
 " Parisians shut up like rats. Rats ! They can eat 
 one another." 
 
 He was in high spirits, the imbecile ! 
 
 Thereupon I said to myself, 
 
 " Ah ! destiny has spoken. Now let us act ! " 
 
 And I prepared to act. I was simply meditating 
 whether, instead of making our way to the prefecture . 
 by the Avenue de Paris, we should not do better to 
 enter by the door leading to the offices, on Rue 
 Saint-Pierre, that being much nearer : a hundred 
 and seventeen paces, instead of two hundred and 
 sixty-four. Bah ! we should see ! That would 
 depend on the soldier who happened to be on 
 guard there. But the devil took a hand in the 
 affair. My friend Martineau the poacher, the man 
 whom I had selected, with the Zouave, to leap upon 
 the sentinel during our evening promenade, the 
 poacher, a redoubtable, daring fellow, was taken to 
 the infirmary. Oh ! he would have left his bed, 
 ready to go on, even though he was sick. But the 
 jailer told me that the surgeon feared an attack of
 
 THE EMPEROR WAS OURS ! 163 
 
 fever, and proposed to keep the man in that devilish 
 infirmary to avoid contagion. Should we attempt the 
 blow without that gallant fellow's sturdy arm? I 
 had confidence in him, absolute confidence. He 
 was game to the end. For the first bold stroke I 
 needed Martineau ! So I said to myself : " Let us 
 have all the aces in the game. Let us wait till to- 
 morrow." 
 
 And the others repeated beneath their breath, 
 
 " When you say the word ! " 
 
 I had my troupe well in hand. The play was 
 ready, we could go on. 
 
 Ah ! I shall never forgive myself for having waited ! 
 Ah ! that rascal of a Martineau ! Monsieur Scribe is 
 quite right : small causes, the gfass of water ! Always 
 small causes, scraps of paper, grains of sand ! Small 
 causes produce great effects ! 
 
 If Martineau does n't get better, so much the 
 worse for him ; if Martineau does n't come back, we 
 will act without him ! I will give his role to some- 
 body else and up goes the curtain ! 
 
 We should be thirty-six fighting men, thirty-six 
 heroes, instead of thirty- seven ! 
 
 But, alas ! what a crushing of our hopes ! The 
 parleying, the shameful parleying between Paris and 
 the German army had begun ; Monsieur Jules Favre 
 made his appearance on the bridge at Sevres; the 
 flags of truce came face to face. They parleyed and
 
 1 64 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 parleyed, and when Martineau, coming from the in- 
 firmary, resolute and bubbling over with enthusiasm, 
 said to me : 
 
 " Well, great chief, here I am ! Is it to be to- 
 night?" 
 
 I replied with a hopeless gesture and pointed to 
 the insulting smile of the sentinels. The capitulation 
 had been agreed upon, the execrable, barbarous, 
 heart-rending capitulation; and the news, being 
 already known among my men, had quickly melted 
 their resolution. The idea of peace was pleasing to 
 them. The psychological moment had passed. They 
 no longer had faith, they no longer had audacity. 
 They thought only of returning to their homes. They 
 fancied themselves already free. The country (pays) 
 of which I spoke to them, was now nothing more 
 than their little province (pays), their bit of land. 
 They said to me : " It 's all over, they '11 soon turn 
 us loose. What 's the use of breaking our own 
 heads now? Too late!" Ah! woe is me! They 
 were right. Too late ! It was too late ! We should 
 have kidnapped the Emperor on the igth of Jan- 
 uary, and then, instead of the fruitless sortie of 
 Buzenval, who knows whose memory the country 
 would have enshrined in its calendar? 
 
 Who knows ? I know, yes, I ! I had foreseen 
 everything. Ah ! how scornfully would I have cast 
 in that old man's face the lines of the poet :
 
 THE EMPEROR WAS OURS! 165 
 
 " Songes-tu que je te tiens encore ? 
 Ne me rappelle pas, nouveau Cdsar remain, 
 Que je t'ai Ik, che'tif et petit, dans ma main, 
 Et que, si je serrais cette main trop loyale, 
 J'dcraserais dans 1'ceuf ton aigle impe'riale ! " J 
 
 It was all over. I had missed my great day. I 
 have missed many others. I have gone over to 
 the believers in immortality ! 
 
 But, at all events, I shall die with that fair dream. 
 And, when the pessimism that afflicts the latest gen- 
 erations threatens to invade my essentially senti- 
 mental and, I do not hesitate to say, spiritual and 
 optimistic nature, I remember my thirty-six comrades 
 in the prison at Versailles, the debris of defeat, 
 marauders or adventurers, all of whom shared my 
 generous dream, my chimera if you will, all of whom 
 would have given their lives to accomplish it, all of 
 whom were ready to undertake that magnificent game 
 of stake-all, and not one of whom, not a single one, 
 would have been tempted to barter for a little gold, 
 to betray, in exchange for his liberty, the project of a 
 madman whose madness at all events took the form 
 of patriotism. 
 
 Ah ! how far away it seems ! How sad it was ! 
 
 1 Dost thou consider that I hold thee still ? 
 Remind me not, thou newest Roman emperor, 
 That in my hand I hold thee, a weak puny thing, 
 And that, should I but clench too close this loyal hand, 
 I 'd crush thy proud imperial eagle in the egg !
 
 1 66 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 How glorious it might have been ! I ought to 
 say that the German authorities did not even wait 
 for the conclusion of peace before setting me at 
 liberty. 
 
 " You can go back now to your Normandie," said 
 the little red hussar, who was on hand to give me my 
 freedom, and who knew they all knew them 
 Fre'de'ric Be~rat's novels, which we have forgotten. 
 
 I began to laugh, a stupid laugh. 
 
 " Ah ! dame, to see one's province again is always 
 pleasant, bedame t yes ! " 
 
 And I took my passport for Saint-Pierre-du-Vau- 
 vray. But I resorted to strategy to return to Paris, as 
 I had done to leave the city, and I found myself once 
 more, sad and lonely, in my lodgings on Rue de 
 Bondy. 
 
 " Hallo ! " said my concierge, staring hard at me, 
 " we thought you were dead. Have you come back 
 for the elections?" 
 
 The elections? Goto! 
 
 I returned for art's sake. I opened Corneille, my 
 old Corneille. That comforted me. 
 
 Since then I have never been able to hear an actor 
 imitate the Norman dialect on the stage without a 
 vague desire to weep. And for what do I weep? 
 You can guess. The irreparable. A vanished dream ! 
 If I were not telling a true story, your patriotism 
 might be stung, wounded. One does not joke about
 
 THE EMPEROR WAS OURS ! 167 
 
 defeat. But, whether it was the dream of a sick man 
 or a fool, this that I have told you of was very near 
 accomplishment. Ah ! that ipth of January, that 
 1 9th of January ! Except for General Trochu's sortie, 
 the Emperor was ours !
 
 VI. 
 
 BRICHANTEAU'S PAST. 
 
 IN very truth, monsieur, you may well say to yourself 
 that he who tells you these things is only a braggart, 
 a Gascon, a babbler of nonsense. Perhaps, as men of 
 business say, you would like some references. Before 
 being the garrulous old fellow I am and faithful as 
 truth itself I dreamed like other men of apotheosis 
 and constellations. I was young once. And it 's not 
 everybody who has been young, no ! If I were a 
 woman I would not tell my age. But it is such a long 
 time, such a long time that I have been wandering 
 about, through highways and byways, seeking my daily 
 bread after seeking glory, yes, it is so long, so long 
 that you might expect me to be as old as the towers 
 of Notre-Dame. I am no longer in my first youth, 
 parbleu, but after all I am not yet sixty-five. My arm 
 is still vigorous. Ask the prowling villain who tried to 
 knock down the good old man on Boulevard de la 
 Villette the other evening. And I have seen many 
 things ! I have seen many things ! What a fund of 
 reminiscences in this head of mine ! When I think 
 that Monsieur Beauvallet was once jealous of me, and
 
 BRICHANTEAU'S PAST. 169 
 
 that Rachel refused to take me on her American tour 
 because she was afraid I should create too much of 
 an impression beside her ! Do you think I am boast- 
 ing? I have passed the age of illusions; to-day, as 
 yesterday, as always, I tell you the true truth ! 
 
 Monsieur Beauvallet? My teacher at the Conser- 
 vatory in Monsieur Auber's day. I entered the Con- 
 servatory, in the old house on Faubourg Poissoniere, 
 in 1848, with the Revolution. I was eighteen years 
 old. And what dreams I nourished under my brow ! 
 When I was a little fellow, at Versailles, I am of 
 Versailles, as you know, I recited poetry under the 
 trees on Boulevard de la Reine. I had heard Ligier 
 at the Versailles theatre, Ligier in Les Enfants 
 d'Edouard, and I could imagine nothing, nothing, 
 you understand, nothing above the actor who sways 
 great crowds and tosses the words of poets to them. 
 My father, who was employed at the mayoralty, 
 wanted to make me a quill-driver like himself, a 
 creature bending over papers with an official heading, 
 and passing his days copying letters written on regular 
 forms, which were countersigned by the mayor or his 
 deputy. Poor father ! No, I would never consent to 
 waste and yawn away my days in an office ; I thirsted 
 for air and space and adventures. I should have 
 been a sailor if I had not been an actor. 
 
 An actor ! When I spoke of going on the stage 
 and becoming an actor, my mother, who was very
 
 1 70 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 pious, crossed herself, and my father wondered what 
 horrible Bohemian he had hatched, he who knew 
 nothing of life but his government documents, his 
 well-cut goose-quills and his round porcelain ink- 
 stand, always filled with the same ink, his blood, 
 poor drudge. 
 
 " Can you dream of such a thing? An actor ! " he 
 exclaimed. " A sluggard's trade ! a starveling's ! 
 Are you in love with poverty, S bastien ? " 
 
 I let him talk. I learned poetry by heart. I told 
 mamma about the lives of the famous actors, Baron, 
 Lekain, Talma, Talma, the Emperor's friend, the 
 pensioner of the King of Holland ! A king of the 
 world was Talma ! 
 
 " Oh ! parbleu" said my father, " if you should be 
 a Talma ! " 
 
 " Why not ? " I rejoined. 
 
 But mamma at once interposed : 
 
 " Even if he should be a Talma, actors are ex- 
 communicated ! " 
 
 Luckily my father was a free-thinker. He read 
 Voltaire. He had in his library Pigault-Lebrun's 
 Citateur. He did not detest comedy, and it was he 
 who first took me to the theatre. The poor man 
 realized that the narrow life of a clerk in the mayor's 
 office of a provincial city is not the summum bonorum. 
 He said often to himself and he repeated to others 
 his " Parbleu! if he should be a Talma ! " And
 
 BRICHANTEAU'S PAST. 171 
 
 little by little, for when all was said he was master 
 of the house, he forced mamma to accept the idea, 
 although she heaved many a quiet sigh. 
 
 " After all," she said, " if that disaster should come 
 to pass, that he should be a Talma, I should simply 
 have to pray a little more for him ! " 
 
 We lived in the old Saint-Louis Quarter, and 
 mamma was always at church. She put her whole 
 heart into the house-keeping, however, and the good 
 people, with their only son, adored each other and 
 were happy. When I played at Nantes the Vicaire 
 de Wakefield, a part created by Tisserant at the 
 Ode"on, I remembered their chimney-corner and I 
 made myself up with my father's face. 
 
 " If he should be a Talma ! " And why should he 
 not be a Talma ? I had the figure> I have it still, 
 the voice ; that also I still have, a superb voice, too 
 beautiful in fact, you will see why; I was dark, 
 slender, muscles well developed, with curly hair and 
 very soft eyes. Very soft, but very expressive too ! I 
 could render incarnate, at will, Corneille's heroes and 
 Victor Hugo's, especially the latter. I have retained, 
 thank God, an old-fashioned tendency to romanticism, 
 and I still love the plume ; yes, I detest turnips in 
 sculpture, rondouillard in painting, and bourgeoisism 
 in literature. That is where I stand. 
 
 At fourteen I could say the whole of Ruy Bias and 
 the whole of Hernani without a stutter ; but I bur-
 
 1 72 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 rowed a little in the classic too, because one must know 
 something of the classic to pass the examination at 
 the Conservatory. That is still the case. 
 
 I shall never forget the day in October when I 
 appeared before that terrible jury, as agitated as at 
 the time of my first communion. I can see it all 
 now. I can see the little room, painted in the 
 Pompeian style, in sea-green tints, surrounded by 
 pink and blue, and the little stage, raised a few steps, 
 which overlooked the horseshoe table at which my 
 judges sat. Oh ! that long green cloth with round, 
 white, porcelain inkstands like the government ink- 
 stand in which my father dipped his clerkly pen ! 
 the paper scattered over the table and the gray or 
 bald heads bending over the papers and memoranda, 
 or looking again some with the assistance of an 
 opera glass at the candidate for admission upon 
 whom they were to pass judgment ! ten or twelve 
 men, constituting the Committee of Instruction, all 
 old, the professors on the right and left, Monsieur 
 Auber, the president, short and pale and active, in 
 the centre; and beside him the government com- 
 missioner, Monsieur Edouard Monnais, Monsieur 
 Bazenerye, commissioner at the Thatre-Fran9ais, 
 Monsieur Alexandre Mauzin, commissioner at the 
 Od6on, and Messieurs Scribe, De Planard, Delavigne 
 and Perrot ; and, beside them, the men whom I had 
 applauded at the Com^die, standing in line hi the
 
 BRICHANTEAU'S PAST. 173 
 
 dark galleries of the Palais- Royal : Monsieur Samson, 
 Monsieur Provost, Monsieur Beauvallet ! All of them 
 looking at me, listening to me, taking notes ! Those 
 everlasting notes ! 
 
 I have seen that little room many times since then ; 
 but on that day I saw at first only a great void, a 
 great hole below me, and over yonder, on the other 
 side of a grand piano which separated me from them 
 and which was used for musical examinations, all 
 those gentlemen, that artistic tribunal, my judges. 
 
 Ah ! when the usher called me and tossed my 
 name to that jury, a mist passed before my eyes. I 
 was talking quietly with some young men and young 
 women who were awaiting their turn in a sort of 
 reception-room. 
 
 " Monsieur Brichanteau ! " said the usher. 
 
 A door opened. I rushed upon the stage and 
 attacked the great scene of Orestes' madness. 
 Strangely enough, I was agitated just before, when 
 awaiting the word ; I was perfectly cool when I 
 touched my foot to the boards, my first boards. I 
 am a man of battle, the actor, the man of action. 
 The audience, instead of confusing me, excites me. 
 Either one is a born actor or one is not. I smelt 
 powder. For the first time I was able to make 
 myself heard. They heard me, I promise you. 
 
 My voice filled that room of washed-out tints like 
 a peal of thunder. I saw Monsieur Auber moving
 
 1 74 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 about in his arm-chair, and Monsieur Samson, who 
 had rather a sharp voice, put his hands to his ears. 
 There is in that examination- room, on the first floor, 
 a box, a very small narrow box, which looks very 
 dark up there ; it has a brick-colored rail. It is the 
 box in which Napoleon I. used formerly to listen to 
 the trials. On the day in question the box seemed 
 to be full, entirely filled by a single spectator, a fat 
 lady who was Mademoiselle Georges in person, Made- 
 moiselle Georges Weymer, associate member of the 
 Committee of Instruction on dramatic studies. I 
 did not then know whom I had for an auditor ; but 
 I could see that heavy mass of flesh, probably deeply 
 moved, sway back and forth in that dark hole. 
 
 I have often acted Orestes, I have often given 
 expression to his madness, but never, no never, with 
 so much ardor and volume of voice as on that day. 
 I shook, I panted. With my extended right hand I 
 described crawling motions, to represent snakelike 
 undulations : 
 
 " Pour qui sont ces serpents qui sifflent sur nos tetes ? " 1 
 
 And with my tongue pressed against my teeth 
 sss / I hissed away as if the reptiles had been 
 there, sinister and threatening, over the heads of 
 Monsieur Auber and Monsieur Scribe. 
 
 Suddenly the president struck a blow on the table 
 
 1 For whom are these serpents that hiss above our heads ?
 
 BRICHANTEAU'S PAST. 175 
 
 with a small ivory hammer like an auctioneer 
 knocking down an article and Monsieur Auber said 
 to me, very courteously and graciously : 
 
 " Thank you, monsieur." 
 
 I saluted the Committee, I saluted the usher who 
 had opened the door, I forgot to salute Mademoiselle 
 Georges in her box, and I left the room, accompanied 
 by a sound of pens scratching over paper my judges 
 were taking their notes and a sort of flattering 
 murmur. I descended a flight of stairs and found 
 myself in the courtyard of the Conservatory, where 
 all the young people who, like myself, had presented 
 themselves for examination, were huddled together, 
 feverish and impatient. 
 
 Ah ! all those youthful faces beneath that dull gray 
 sky! Youths, young girls ! Mothers of future actresses, 
 with the shawls of Gavarni's mammas draped over 
 their plump or bony shoulders ! The Conservatory 
 to-day gives one no idea of what that little world, full 
 of faith, was in the days of my youth ! The candi- 
 dates of to-day look like princesses, compared with 
 the poor girls of those prehistoric times, who dreamed 
 of becoming Rachels, as I myself expected to become 
 a Bocage or a Fre"dric, and who had escaped from 
 porter's lodges or come from the heights of Belleville 
 or Montmartre, Corneille in hand ! Ah ! the little 
 four-sou dresses, the muslin sewn by mamma, the 
 little flat collars, well or poorly ironed, the straw hats
 
 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 that cost nothing at all, and the breakfast brought 
 in the mother's market-basket ! To-day they wear 
 black silk dresses for the examination, and compete 
 in satin petticoats. Sometimes they drive in coupes 
 to attend a professor's lectures. All the young women 
 who present themselves with their certificates of capa- 
 bility and go to the Conservatory when they leave the 
 Hotel de Ville dream of becoming actresses as they 
 would become teachers. The stage is as good a 
 market as any for the daughters of impoverished 
 merchants, ruined brokers, or retired colonels ! The 
 stage is a profession. People calculate the share that 
 a societaire puts in his pocket, and go to their rehears- 
 als as others go to their offices. Men say to them- 
 selves that a first prize entitles one to exemption from 
 military service, that one can earn as much by playing 
 Moliere as by being a floor-walker at the Magasin du 
 Louvre, and one decides to go to the Conservatory 
 as to the Ecole Centrale. Poor fools that we were, 
 we deserved a better fate with our craving for the 
 laurel wreath and hard work ! Not one of those 
 girls was thinking, I will wager, of the little house they 
 all want to-day. The altar of Art, yes, as much as 
 you please ! That is what they saw in their dreams ! 
 I am told that it 's the fashion to make fun of the 
 altar of Art a little nowadays ! 
 
 And that whole crowd of competitors surrounded 
 me, questioned me :
 
 BRICHANTEAU'S PAST. 1 77 
 
 "Is it very terrible? Were you afraid? How 
 are they? Are they very ugly? Do you have to 
 speak very loud? " 
 
 1 answered : 
 
 " Speak as loud as possible, I fairly thundered ! 
 literally thundered ! " 
 
 They gazed at me in admiration even then. A 
 man who had passed his examination, even if he 
 should not be admitted, and who had thundered 
 before the Committee ! I already felt that I was 
 somebody. I walked back and forth among the 
 groups. All those anxious, curious youthful glances 
 fixed upon me gave me a feeling of superiority ! I 
 sowed advice right and left. 
 
 " Ah ! how lucky you are to have passed, mon- 
 sieur," said a girl to me, in a trembling voice. " It 
 seems to me as if I shall never have courage ! " 
 
 I looked at her. She was a little blonde, a fragile 
 creature, timid enough in appearance, and so poor ! 
 She pulled over her shoulders a wretched black 
 woollen shawl, and under her straw hat, which was 
 also black and somewhat worn, she made me think 
 of one of those pretty shivering English girls who 
 sell frozen flowers about the doors of theatres in 
 London, their teeth chattering with the cold, on win- 
 ter evenings, as I had seen them in pictures. 
 
 " What, you won't have courage ? Why, you must 
 have courage, mademoiselle ! Look at me ; I had ! " 
 12
 
 1 78 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 She said to me, shaking her head, something like 
 little Jeanne Horly at a later day, at Perpignan, 
 you know, " Oh ! you ! " 
 
 And I felt in that Oh ! you I her instinctive admir- 
 ation I can think of no other word, and it did not 
 make me vain her admiration for the air of self- 
 assurance that my square shoulders and my deep 
 voice gave me. I had that gift, and she felt its spell. 
 But strength is not everything in art ; there is charm 
 also. And she had charm, the poor girl, who, when 
 she answered, Oh ! you ! seemed to imply : " You 
 and I are two very different people. You were born 
 to fight your way, while I " 
 
 "My dear child," I replied cordially, "nature does 
 not cast all its creations in the same mould. It has 
 several styles, has nature. You have your qualities, 
 I have mine. Have courage ! " 
 
 Then I asked her what she intended to recite to 
 the committee. 
 
 "Aricie," she said. 
 
 " Aricie ? splendid ! You are graceful and refined, 
 your voice is sweet, very sweet. Give them Aricie ! 
 And when you recite it, go as near as possible to the 
 edge of the stage. I kept at a distance from it. 
 That was quite right for me ; I took my spring and I 
 thundered. You, on the other hand, must speak 
 your piece very near and sing it softly ! I am a peal 
 of thunder, you are a lyre ! "
 
 BRICHANTEAU'S PAST. 179 
 
 She listened to me with very intelligent eyes ; deep, 
 blue eyes they were, and it seemed to me as if I 
 were already an old master instructing a pupil in his 
 art. An audience of five minutes had given me for 
 life a self-possession that has never failed me since ! 
 And furthermore, I had a very pleasant sensation as 
 I walked about the courtyard of the Conservatory 
 with that child, who, by instinct, had come to me as 
 to the tamer of wild beasts, as to the master. Mag- 
 netism ! 
 
 Through the soiled windows of the class-rooms 
 looking on the courtyard, came the plaintive notes of 
 violins, muffled, but pleasing to the ear, played by 
 competitors in music, and the soft accompaniment 
 seemed made to add an indefinable tenderness to 
 that interview between two young people who were 
 strangers to each other, opening their hearts for the 
 first time. 
 
 One is naturally trustful at that age, however. She 
 was sixteen. She was the daughter of a stage-car- 
 penter at the Ambigu, who had died at the hospital 
 of injuries received by falling from a mast during a 
 performance of La Closerie des Genets. She had 
 always lived about theatres, and, as she had no trade 
 in prospect, her grandmother she had no mother 
 determined to send her to the Conservatory. That 
 pleased her, too. She had faith like myself, and she 
 said to herself that nothing on this earth can be com-
 
 180 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 pared to that dream-life. But the thing that fright- 
 ened her was her timidity, the slight volume of her 
 voice, a good voice, however, of caressing quality, 
 an elegiac voice. 
 
 " If you are admitted," I said, " I will teach you to 
 use your voice ! " 
 
 " Ah ! " she replied, still with the inflection of the 
 Oh ! You ! of a moment before, " that will be easy 
 for you ! " 
 
 We conversed thus, drawn together by a common 
 excitement. Intimacy comes quickly in hours of 
 danger. In ten minutes I knew her name, and she 
 knew mine. Hers was Jenny, Jenny Valadon. 
 
 " Valadon ! You must take some other name," I 
 told her. " Valadon ! I don't know why, but that 
 seems to me a singer's name ! " 
 
 " Oh ! " said she, " if it were only a matter of find- 
 ing a name under which to make my dbut ! But 
 first of all I must make my d6but. Voila ! " 
 
 Little Jenny interested me. She trembled like a 
 leaf at the idea of appearing before the Committee ; 
 In vain I told her that Monsieur Auber would not eat 
 her; she trembled and so did I, by the way. At the 
 thought that in a short time those men sitting up 
 there around the green cloth were going to vote on 
 my fate, my legs shook and there was a buzzing in my 
 ears. Admitted ! To be admitted ! Alas ! not to 
 be ! I repeated to myself Hamlet's soliloquy, adapted
 
 BRICHANTEAU'S PAST. l8l 
 
 to the situation, and I paced the courtyard of the 
 Conservatory, saying to myself : 
 
 "If I count the pavements and end on an even 
 number, I shall be admitted ! One, two, three, 
 four!" 
 
 And when at the end of the courtyard the number 
 turned out to be odd, I exclaimed : " I must have 
 made a mistake ; that does n't count ! " And I began 
 again: " One, two, three, four, five, six!" I was 
 killing time ! 
 
 The day came to an end at last, and the hour 
 arrived when, the jury having consulted their notes, 
 their famous notes, and having voted up yonder on the 
 admission of the candidates, we were all standing under 
 the arch of the porte cochere, crowded together like 
 sheep in the fold, with a tight feeling at the throat, 
 awaiting the exit of the members of the Committee, 
 eager to know which of us had been chosen ! And in 
 the gloom of the falling night, under the gas-jet that 
 shone upon all those tense young faces, now become 
 pale as death, it was a devilish touching sight, that 
 coming down of the jury, whom all those feverish, 
 haggard eyes eagerly questioned. For nearly an hour 
 we stood there, our eyes riveted on the staircase where 
 the Committee would appear. We waited, saying noth- 
 ing, or speaking low, very low. One could hear the 
 beating of those poor hearts of twenty years, of sixteen 
 years, if one listened intently ! As soon as a shadow
 
 1 82 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 appeared on the stairs from which the sentence was to 
 be pronounced, a great cry, a clamor, an agonized Ah / 
 escaped from every breast. We pushed and tried 
 to rush toward the staircase. But the ushers were 
 there and the concierge. They forced back the 
 pupils, their parents, friends, mothers, the whole 
 waiting crowd, like a troop of convicts. 
 
 At last a member of the Committee appeared. 
 He descended slowly, a little disgusted at having to 
 undergo the questioning of that mob of candidates ; 
 then he seemed to make up his mind to throw him- 
 self into the midst of the palpitating, feverish throng. 
 After him came another, two others. And we in- 
 stinctively held our peace ; we stood aside before that 
 juryman whose legs we saw first, then his trunk, then 
 his head, and who came down the last steps as if he 
 carried the lives of that little world in his hand. And 
 indeed he did ! But, as soon as the first of the jurors 
 had plunged, as if drawn by suction, into the centre 
 of that crowd, heads, clenched fingers, eyes, lips were 
 stretched out to him, stopped him, jostled him, clung 
 to him, and cut off his retreat. 
 
 "Am I admitted, Godard, Louis Godard?" 
 
 "Is Palmarin admitted?" 
 
 " My son, my son, Jean Bougeard, is he admitted ? " 
 
 " And Martineau? " 
 
 "And Galabert?" 
 
 " Bonneval, monsieur, Bonneval ? "
 
 BRICHANTEAU'S PAST. 183 
 
 " Suberville, Amedee Suberville? " 
 
 The other struggled as best he could, pushed away 
 the little bands that clutched his clothing, the mothers 
 who pulled him by the skirts of his coat, and at last 
 reached the gate into the faubourg, answering : 
 
 " I don't know. I don't remember. I think so. 
 I'm afraid not. The list will be sent you ! " And he 
 escaped as he could. You would have said he was a 
 victim abandoned to the Bacchantes. Pretty Bac- 
 chantes, sometimes ! But he was not the one to be 
 pitied, no ; but all the poor wretches in that crowd 
 who were waiting, hoping, with tears in their eyes, 
 nerves all unstrung and the blood boiling in their 
 brains. Ah ! the shrieking mothers, the snarling of 
 the rejected, the threats, the appeals for justice, the 
 protests ! " It 's infamous ! It 's a degradation ! 
 Men who know nothing about their business ! Refuse 
 my son ! Refuse my daughter ! " All this howling 
 confusion at nightfall of an October day. I have 
 seen that sight many times since. That evening I 
 did not notice it. I was absorbed by my own anxiety, 
 my to be or not to be. 
 
 " Empereur ! Empereur ! Etre empereur ! O rage ! 
 Ne pas 1'etre ! " * 
 
 And it was Monsieur Scribe Monsieur Scribe, 
 whom I admired that day for the first and only time, 
 
 1 The Emperor! the Emperor! Oh! to be emperor! O 
 God ! to fail ! (Hernani,
 
 1 84 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 and whom I embraced in my excitement it was 
 Monsieur Scribe who relieved me from my agony. 
 
 To my eager question : 
 
 " Brichanteau, monsieur, Brichanteau ? " 
 
 He answered as he passed, very hurriedly : 
 
 " Yes, yes, Brichanteau, to be sure. Admitted ! " 
 
 And he escaped to his carriage. 
 
 Good Monsieur Scribe ! I have forgiven him much 
 in memory of that to be sure, which he said in a 
 hurried but amiable tone. 
 
 Admitted ! I was admitted ! I had but one idea 
 now, to fly, to rush to the railway station, take the 
 train and land at Versailles, between my father and 
 mother, crying : 
 
 " Your son is a pupil at the National Conservatory 
 of Music and Declamation ! " 
 
 But I dared not go. Suppose Monsieur Scribe had 
 made a mistake ? There was a Princeteau among the 
 aspirants, Princeteau, who ended by being a mes- 
 senger at the Melun railway station, after dreaming 
 of playing Delaunay's parts at the Ode'on. Suppose 
 Monsieur Scribe had confounded Princeteau with 
 Brichanteau? That was not probable. In spite of 
 everything, I must acknowledge that Monsieur Scribe 
 had a keen scent, I am just even to him, he had 
 a keen scent. He could not confound Princeteau 
 with Brichanteau. And yet, suppose he had done 
 so?
 
 BRICHANTEAU'S PAST. 185 
 
 And I remained in the anxious crowd of competi- 
 tors, male and female, of excited relations and exas- 
 perated mothers, until I was absolutely certain, until 
 I received official confirmation of my success. 
 
 Now, while I was waiting there, a little more at 
 ease than before, thanks to Monsieur Scribe, my fate 
 was being discussed upstairs between the professors 
 whose duty it was to select from among the pupils 
 admitted those who seemed to them best adapted for 
 their respective classes. 
 
 Yes, when the voting was at an end, the session 
 concluded, the members of the Committee gone, the 
 professors remained together and divided up the can- 
 didates admitted by the jury according to the special 
 qualities which they thought that they divined, which 
 they felt in them. The professors of comedy claimed 
 those of the pupils who seemed adapted to comedy ; 
 the professors of tragedy took charge of the future 
 tragedians. They made a friendly division of the 
 spoils. 
 
 And, as I have since learned, and this little inci- 
 dent has had a decisive, I venture to say, injurious 
 influence, upon my whole career, lo, and behold, 
 when rny name was mentioned, Monsieur Samson 
 exclaimed in his shrill little voice, sharp as an 
 acid : 
 
 " Ah ! that fellow is destined for tragedy, beyond 
 any question ! Monsieur Beauvallet's class ! "
 
 1 86 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 Whereupon Monsieur Beauvallet's deep voice, like 
 a peal of thunder, rejoined : 
 
 "Why so, if you please?" 
 
 " Why, because he has a voice like a howitzer ! " 
 replied Monsieur Samson. 
 
 " Is tragedy an artillerist's trade, pray? " retorted 
 Monsieur Beauvallet. 
 
 " No, but " said Monsieur Samson. 
 
 And a dispute ensued between the two associates 
 as to the respective merits of the artists who were 
 especially adapted for comedy and for tragedy, and 
 Monsieur Provost has told me since that his two 
 colleagues indulged in a little dialogue bristling with 
 epigrams. After which Monsieur Beauvallet con- 
 sented to take me in his class, but without enthu- 
 siasm, and like a man who has something on his 
 mind. What was it? Monsieur Samson's jocose 
 remarks? The howitzer? No. What he had on 
 his mind was rather the quality of my voice. That 
 voice, that terrible voice was destined to make an 
 implacable enemy of my professor. As he had an 
 admirable voice, an incomparable voice so he said 
 
 he felt a little annoyed to hear that youthful voice 
 
 mine roaring like the thunder and drowning 
 his ! Yes, that was it ; Monsieur Beauvallet was 
 jealous of me. The professor felt that he was sur- 
 passed, dethroned, by this new-comer, his pupil. 
 That jealousy, so frequently found even among the
 
 BRICHANTEAU'S PAST. 1 87 
 
 greatest artists, was to follow me throughout my 
 career, and when any one mentioned me to him, even 
 in the very last days of his life, what do you suppose 
 Monsieur Beauvallet would do? He would begin to 
 laugh and say : 
 
 11 Brichanteau ! Ah ! yes, Brichanteau ! The man 
 who boasted of extinguishing my thunder ! " 
 
 Now, extinguish was just the word. I extinguished 
 him. When he told me how to emit a sound, I would 
 emit it when my turn came, but with greater volume ! 
 Beauvallet in the third power ! Did he shout ? I 
 shouted. Did he make his voice vibrate? So did 
 I. These exercises in vibration repeating bra, 
 bre, era, ere, dra, dre, brabre, branbre, bribre 
 were so many duels between Monsieur Beauvallet and 
 myself. 
 
 " Monsieur Brichanteau, pray repeat : Gros doreur, 
 quand redoreras-tu mes trentes-trois raviers si rares f 
 Je redorerai vos trente-trois raviers si rares quand 
 faurai redore les trente-trois raviers si rares du 
 restaurant Remain ! " 
 
 And I would repeat it without taking breath, rol- 
 ling my r's : " Gros doreur quand redoreras-tu mes 
 trente-trois raviers si rares ? " 
 
 Those r's were like the roar of an express train, 
 like the rumbling of a tempest in my mouth, and you 
 would have said a heavy dray was passing at a gallop 
 under the Conservatory windows on a cast-iron pave-
 
 1 88 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 ment. I extinguished Monsieur Beauvallet, I tell 
 you ; I extinguished him ! 
 
 I remember one day when the fancy took him, 
 before the whole class, to recite with me the great 
 scene from Polyeucte, between Polyeucte and Narque. 
 He took the part of Narque, I of Polyeucte. Poly^ 
 eucte was one of Monsieur Beauvallet's triumphs. I 
 must say that he was very strong in it. But that day, 
 you see, perhaps because he remembered Monsieur 
 Samson's remark about my voice being like a howitzer, 
 he was evidently determined to show my comrades 
 that his voice was superior to mine in volume, and he 
 began to bawl excuse the word to bawl, why, in 
 a way to deafen me. 
 
 " Aha ! " thought I, " you mean to bawl loud 
 enough to confuse me ? Very good, I '11 bawl as loud 
 as you ; I '11 bawl louder than you ! " 
 
 And the louder Monsieur Beauvallet bawled, the 
 louder I, Brichanteau, bawled. One bawl answered 
 another. It was a bawling contest. The whole class 
 seemed frightened, and some of the pupils stopped 
 their ears. I did not say my lines ; no, I repeat, I 
 bawled them : 
 
 " Allons, mon cher Ndarque, aliens, aux yeux des hommes, 
 Braver Pidolatrie et montrer que nous sommes ! " * 
 
 Ah ! yes, we showed them who we were ! 
 
 .* Come, dear Nearchus, come and let us defy idolatry be- 
 fore the eyes of men, and show them who we are 1
 
 BRICHANTEAU'S PAST. 189 
 
 Ne"arque bawled, Polyeucte bawled, and Polyeucte 
 bawled louder than N barque. It was a lesson in 
 bawling, and I learned my lesson so well that finally, 
 with a last effort, I silenced him. And I finished the 
 scene amid the instinctive, involuntary applause of 
 my comrades, cheers, too, which Monsieur Beau- 
 vallet never forgave me. 
 
 And so, when any one asked him for his opinion of 
 me, he would say : 
 
 "That fellow has nothing but voice ! " 
 
 He heard my voice, he could not see my heart. 
 Voice I certainly had, but faith, ambition, devotion 
 to art, those too I had. My poor parents now shared 
 my hopes ; even my mother told me that she would 
 do dress-making if necessary to help me to finish my 
 studies at the Conservatory. My father thought of 
 nothing but the prize for tragedy that I might win. 
 And we would say to each other sometimes, with a 
 sigh : " Ah ! if we had an engagement at the Come"- 
 die-Francaise ! " Poor father and mother, they did 
 not live to see all my mortifications. Mamma died 
 that same year, and before my last year at the Con- 
 servatory father followed her, and I was alone, an 
 orphan ; very poor. 
 
 And on the day when I confidently expected to 
 carry off my prize and obtained only an accessit 1 on 
 
 1 An accessit is a distinction accorded to those who come 
 nearest to carrying off the prize : " honorable mention."
 
 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 equal terms with three rivals I said to myself that 
 perhaps my old people were happier where they were, 
 not witnessing the downfall of my hopes. What a 
 day ! I thought of throwing myself into the river 
 when I left the Conservatory. The second prize, 
 there was no first, went to Le"vi, L vi Sully, who 
 afterwards acted on the boulevard. The first prize for 
 women to Mademoiselle P6riga also on the boule- 
 vard. I was not jealous of their success, but I was in 
 despair at my own failure. I said to myself by way 
 of consolation : " It 's not your fault, Brichanteau, 
 it 's Monsieur Beauvallet's jealousy that is persecuting 
 you. He must have said, in the notes he submitted 
 to the jury oh ! those notes ! that you had 
 nothing but voice ! It is he, your professor and your 
 rival, who has condemned you ! 
 
 I was desperate all the same, and I could not re- 
 frain from going straight to Monsieur Auber, when I 
 met him two days later in the courtyard, and saying 
 to him ah ! yes, bawling at him : 
 
 " Monsieur Auber, it is an injustice. My dear 
 master, it is an iniquitous shame ! " 
 
 I can see Monsieur Auber now, small and smiling, 
 with an overcoat of the color of cafe au lait. 
 
 His only reply was to ask me : 
 
 " How old are you ? " 
 
 " Twenty-one." 
 
 " Oh ! well, you will see many others ! "
 
 BRICHANTEAU'S PAST. 1 91 
 
 He was right ; I have seen many others. Life is 
 paved with injustice. But I had enough of it at the 
 Conservatory. I had too much indeed. I swore 
 that I would never again set foot in that hole, and, in 
 truth, I never did go back there. I was wrong. If 
 I had remained I should have taken the first prize 
 the next year from Van Oven, Emile Van Oven, 
 whom neither you nor I know, and yet he was once 
 the laureate in tragedy, like so many others ! Van 
 Oven ! he made no more of a success than Brichan- 
 teau ! I yielded to a natural but imprudent fit of 
 passion, and instead of returning to Monsieur Beau- 
 vallet's class, I took the chances of the roads and of 
 engagements in the open-air of Art ! 
 
 I acted at the Gaiete", then at the Cirque, where 
 they were giving military plays, I have taken the 
 part of young officers who shouted : " Au drapeau! En 
 avant! " amid showers of bullets, and my voice, which 
 extinguished Monsieur Beauvallet's, soared above the 
 roar of musketry as the eagle above the battalions. 
 Those were the prosperous days of theatres, and I 
 remember with emotion the poor Boulevard du 
 Temple, demolished so many years ago. What a 
 charming corner of gay, good-humored, unceremo- 
 nious Paris ! Those who never saw it can form no 
 idea of what it was. From the The'atre-Historique to 
 the Petit-Lazari, imagine a succession of theatres 
 where all sorts of things were played, dramas, vaude-
 
 192 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 villes, operettas, pantomimes ! There were the 
 Gaiete, the Cirque, the Folies, the Dlassements, and 
 all of them had their patrons. People stood in line 
 between the barriers to purchase tickets. They jos- 
 tled one another at the wickets, they went from 
 Fre'd^ric to Deburau, they wept over Le Vieux 
 Caporal, they cried at Pierrot en Egypte, they be- 
 sieged the orange-girls and the dealers in cocoa, and 
 when a theatre made a hit, it diverted its overflow 
 into the others. Not another city in the world had 
 a corner like that, a constant fete, something amusing 
 and unique ! A kermesse with the added charm of 
 Paris ! The city has torn down, torn down ! The 
 rats have fled from the poor old theatres, but with 
 them have gone the kindly audiences, who were 
 pleased with everything, who swallowed two five-act 
 dramas in a single evening, Latude from half-past six 
 to nine, and Le Chien de Montargis from nine till 
 midnight. 
 
 Ah ! I regret my old Boulevard du Temple ! I 
 heard my first bravos there ! I acted there with 
 Frd6ric Lemaitre ! And when I had finished, 
 Jenny would come and wait for me on Rue des Fos- 
 se's, behind the theatre, Jenny Valadon, my little 
 comrade at the Conservatory, my pupil, and we 
 would return to Rue de Malte, where we had built 
 our nest, away up under the roofs. For that which 
 was to happen had happened. I had fallen in love
 
 BRICHANTEAU'S PAST. 193 
 
 with Jenny, and she had given herself to me, poor 
 girl, as she had given herself to art, without counting 
 the cost. 
 
 My whole yputh was Jenny ! A good girl ! A 
 charming girl ! Yes, as I had told her the first day, 
 if I had the strength, she had the charm. She had 
 clung to me at once as to a lover and a master, as a 
 virgin vine clings to an oak. I advised her. We 
 loved each other dearly, but I think that we loved 
 art, the stage, even more dearly. Shall I tell you? 
 We loved each other in it. Up there in our attic we 
 sometimes passed whole nights on the little balcony, 
 repeating verses, with Paris at our feet. That may 
 perhaps seem childish. At twenty years a man has 
 other things to do. But we loved each other dearly 
 all the same, and, old man that I am, I never see 
 certain nooks in the forest of Meudon, certain paths 
 at Viroflay or Sevres, a certain wine-shop or towing- 
 path on lie Saint-Denis without saying to myself, " I 
 have been there with Jenny ! " 
 
 She shared all my hopes. Like myself she de- 
 tested the commonplace, trivial art, insipid vaude- 
 ville. We had said to each other that we might both 
 become stars, bound together by our joint successes, 
 like Frederic Lemaitre and Clarisse Miroy. And 
 thereupon, as I was stifling in Paris, I had taken a 
 flight into the provinces with Jenny. There at least 
 I could give free play to my talent, unfold my wings. 
 13
 
 194 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 I played the leading roles. But what a life ! Do 
 you know, I found my first contract the other day, 
 and I asked myself, as I read it over, if it were pos- 
 sible to mock so at poor artists and to bind them 
 hand and foot in such stipulations. You would not 
 believe it. There are clauses that I know by heart. 
 Listen to this : 
 
 " The undersigned. Messieurs Poirier-Thiviard et Cie, 
 managers of the Thdatre du Tournai, of the first part" 
 
 I take Tournai as I might take Laon, Dijon, Per- 
 pignan, or Auxerre 
 
 " and Monsieur Stbastien Brichanteau, of the second part, 
 do covenant and agree as follows : 
 
 " M. Brichanteau agrees, by these presents, to under- 
 take at the pleasure of the governing board, the sub- 
 scribers and the manager, and at such theatres as may 
 seem good to the latter, whether at Tournai or elsewhere, 
 and even in foreign countries, the grand premier r61es, 
 and, if need be, the r61e of general utility man ; and 
 generally speaking, all the annexed roles, either in chief or 
 in common with others, at the sole option of the manager. 
 
 "ART. i. The contracting artist binds himself to 
 act in all the performances in which he is announced to 
 act, either in the advertisements or on the bulletin, as 
 well as to attend all rehearsals at the hours indicated on 
 the daily bulletin, even when such rehearsals are to be 
 held after the play. In the event that the artist, by his 
 tardiness, shall cause the rehearsal to be delayed, the 
 manager is authorized to deduct from his stipend, by way 
 of fine, a sum fixed by the regulations, already existing 
 or to be made"
 
 BRICHANTEAU'S PAST. 195 
 
 Or to be made ! Precisely. I bound myself be- 
 forehand to accept even the unknown. 
 
 " ART. 3. The artist binds himself to play all the 
 rdles that his capacity and his physique allow him to 
 play, abandoning to the management, absolutely without 
 reservation and waiving all right to any discrission, the 
 distribution of parts in all plays, old as well as new, in 
 such manner as the said management shall deem fit, with- 
 out regard to the names or regular line of parts of artists 
 who have created rSles, whether in Paris or elsewhere. 
 The said artist also binds himself to play during the 
 present year, if the management calls upon him so to do, 
 at least ten complimentary rdles. 
 
 " ART. 5. The artist will furnish all costumes, foot- 
 wear, headgear, wigs, and accessories of the clothing 
 required by his r61es including those outside of his regu- 
 lar line. 
 
 " ART. 7. Whenever the stage-setting of an opera, 
 drama, vaudeville, or spectacular play requires the pres- 
 ence of the artist, although he has no rdle therein, he 
 shall be bound to appear, to learn and sing the choruses. 
 He agrees to act whenever he is called upon to do so, 
 and even without warning in case of a change of bill, 
 any rQle that he has already acted, and will therefore be 
 expected to be present at the theatre during the first piece 
 on every day that a performance is given." 
 
 "Yes, I have sung choruses ! I have represented 
 represented ! wedding guests in Labiche's come- 
 dies ! I have taken part in airs de sortie .' I have sung 
 in chorus with the Huguenot nobles in Le Pre aux 
 Ckrcs I Oh ! Corneille, Racine, Hugo ! Ah ! Mon- 
 sieur Auber's remark : " You will see many others ! "
 
 196 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 But article 7 is nothing beside article 8. 
 
 "ART. 8. In case performances shall be suspended, 
 as a result or by reason of some unavoidable occurrence, 
 prohibition, public calamity, revolution, religious festi- 
 vals yes, religious festivals ! epidemics, freshets, 
 fire, cold weather which freezes the reservoirs of the 
 theatre, or for any other cause that shall bring about 
 a proved deficit in the receipts, the management may 
 constitute the company a partnership, retaining, how- 
 ever, all its rights and privileges as against its members. 
 A committee of three members selected from the company 
 shall be charged with the duty of superintending the re- 
 ceipts and expenses, and all the general expenses being 
 paid, the surplus shall be devoted to the payment of the 
 associates pro rata, according to their salaries, choristers, 
 musicians, and employe's excepted; the classes herein ex- 
 cepted shall receive their salaries in full, the management 
 reserving for its own share only the sum due the most 
 highly paid artist." 
 
 And article 9 ! Listen, monsieur ! 
 
 " ART. 9. In case of illness, whatever its length, 
 though it be for but a single day, the salary shall cease 
 until such time as the artist shall resume his duties. The 
 salary of every lady married or unmarried in a state 
 of pregnancy shall be suspended for six months, or even 
 longer if the person's appearance is offensive to the spec- 
 tators. The management shall have the right to provide 
 a substitute for an artist whose health shall be deemed 
 too feeble to allow him to continue to fill his engagement, 
 and whose indisposition recurs so frequently as to inter- 
 fere with the repertory. The artist will be expected 
 nevertheless to continue his services until his successor 
 is engaged."
 
 BRICHANTEAU'S PAST. 197 
 
 And there you are ! Do not be ill, or you are lost ! 
 Pray to the good Lord that there be no religious 
 festivals, or you will receive less pay than the musi- 
 cians and the sweepers ! And at your first appear- 
 ances try to please the subscribers, who vote upon 
 your fate in the greenroom, the audience, the muni- 
 cipal authorities and the management, Monsieur and 
 Madame le Maire and their deputies, or you will be 
 sent away, with your hopes dashed to the ground, and 
 your salary for your first month's trial as your only 
 solace ! 
 
 And, if you join your company on a stated day, re- 
 payment of the expense of travelling, third class, on 
 the railroad, with the right to have your luggage up to 
 two hundred kilogrammes transported by the regular 
 carrier. What a Potosi ! That is the reality that 
 succeeds so many dreams ! Go thy way, then, 
 strolling player, tossed about, in very truth, like a 
 coasting vessel ! 1 Go, good man, and console thyself 
 with Art, immortal Art ! That is what I did. Laugh 
 at me if you will ! when the living and the quarters 
 were poor, we imagined that the thin soup was am- 
 brosia, and we deemed ourselves fortunate. We lived 
 on bravos. That is not fattening. Try it. But it 
 makes the heart glad. 
 
 I would not exchange my memories of destitution 
 
 1 Cabotin, strolling player; navire de cabotage, coasting- 
 vessel.
 
 198 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 and glory for those of a president of the Council. I 
 have been more than a minister in my day ; I have 
 been a king. I have been everything. In the even- 
 ing, sitting by my stove, amid the smoke from my 
 pipe, I see, I live again, those bygone days, those 
 evenings, those triumphs. All my blood boils. 
 
 No, you could never imagine the profound enjoy- 
 ment of the actor who carries an audience off its feet, 
 who stirs a multitude to frenzy ! Oh ! those glorious 
 evenings of Lazare le Pdtre and Gaspardo le Pecheur, 
 from Tournai to Bayonne ! Ah ! Gaspardo ! When I 
 said to Sforze : " If thou owest thy life to the father, pay 
 thy debt to the child, and if, within the week, thou seest 
 me not at Milan, thou wilt take pity on the child of 
 the condemned man and wilt give him thy name and 
 a share of thy bread! " 
 
 And when I entered, accompanied by Pietro, the 
 faithful Pietro, and followed by a sentinel with whom 
 I was struggling, throwing my sword at Visconti's feet 
 and giving myself up to save my son : " Here is my 
 sword, still stained with blood and rust, and now may 
 justice be done to all!" 
 
 It is the fashion to-day to laugh at the old reper- 
 tory, the classics, melodrama. Our actors, who are 
 incapable of playing those roles, roar with laughter 
 when they read them. Poor fools ! Lazare le Pdtre ! 
 Why, it is a whole world in itself. Pere Bouchardy ? 
 Pray bring him to life, my masters ! The distribution
 
 BRICHANTEAU'S PAST. 199 
 
 of parts alone would tell you that it is not mere brum- 
 magem art, oh ! no, indeed : 
 
 " Cosmo de M6dicis, under the name of L'- 
 tranger ; 
 
 "Raphael Salviati, under the name of Lazare le 
 Patre; 
 
 " Juliano Salviati, under the name of Sylvio le Mois- 
 sonneur ; 
 
 " Judael de Medicis, under the name of Rodolphe" 
 
 Those were dramas indeed ! 
 
 It is in that play that Medicis says to Rodolphe, 
 who offers him a safe-conduct : 
 
 "A safe- conduct I Doubtless Vw a snare/" 
 
 And then there was Christophe le Suedois ! 
 
 With what noble pride did I, in that rough but 
 vigorous drama, draw myself up to my full height 
 under the insults of my father, Andre the woodcutter, 
 or rather Captain Wolgann, for the peasant Andr6 
 was in reality Wolgann the soldier, yes, how I sub- 
 mitted to the painful test when he reproached me 
 with being only a mandolin player, whereas I was in 
 reality a seeker climbing the mountain, Mont Geta, 
 to find the remedy for the plague born of the tor- 
 rents that form the lakes that are called lakes of 
 death, the plague that was desolating Sweden. The 
 situation is clear, is it not? 
 
 " What sayst thou ? " my father asked me. " What 
 are thy resources ? A mandolin. Ay, that 's the
 
 20O BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 key with which the beggar opens the door of the rich 
 man at whose hands he seeks alms. That my son 
 should have a mandolin ! Knowest thou, Christophe, 
 what name men give to that when one is of thy age 
 and should have a brave heart? They call it the 
 coward's means of livelihood ! " 
 
 And he dashed the mandolin on the ground and 
 broke it ; and I suffered, seeing him suffer ! 
 
 
 
 And Longue-Epee le Normand I That was one of 
 my triumphs ! You should have seen how I treated 
 the sebastocrator Andronic Comnene, and how I said 
 to old Michel, who was dismayed to find in me the 
 child he thought he had thrown into the river : 
 " And now, by the light of the stars look at my face ! " 
 I brought the whole house to its feet when I spoke 
 of Agnes de Montfort : " Yes, I will take her far 
 from this accursed court, where poniards are poisoned 
 and men and women live in secret understanding. I 
 will destroy the memory in her mind, I will forget 
 earth and heaven to see but her, to adore but her. 
 So let us while away the hours. Let us wait ! " 
 
 The her was Jenny. She played Agnes de Mont- 
 fort. She gave me my cues in the provinces. We 
 were announced as Monsieur Brichanteau and 
 Mademoiselle Viola. That was the name I had given 
 her, Viola, violet. That name fitted her character. 
 And, as I have told you, she was my pupil. But look 
 you: the fatality that had decreed that Monsieur
 
 BRICHANTEAU'S PAST. 2OI 
 
 Beauvallet should be jealous of my voice, and should 
 reply, every time that I presented myself as a candi- 
 date at the The"atre-Francais, " Ah ! yes, Brichan- 
 teau, the man of thunder ! The thunder is too late ! " 
 that fatality, which had assailed me in my ambition, 
 was about to assail me in my love. 
 
 I had so much voice, so much voice, and such a 
 fine, powerful voice, that Jenny, when she acted with 
 me, wore herself out, poor girl, in her scenes with me. 
 She was like a linnet singing amid the roaring of the 
 thunder. Do you understand ? She lost her breath, 
 she exhausted her lungs, she made herself hoarse. 
 She was an Aricie, an Iphignie, but not an Agnes de 
 Montfort or a Dona Sol. She might have succeeded 
 in Hamlet. Ophelie, you know, is a mere figure, a 
 shadow. No need of voice. But I exhausted her 
 strength. Yes, I crushed her, poor child, without 
 meaning to, under my howitzer, Monsieur Beauvallet's 
 howitzer, and so completely, alas ! that poor Viola 
 was threatened with the loss of her voice ! 
 
 At Dijon, one day, at Dijon, we were going to play 
 Hernani. In the fifth act Jenny was usually so 
 flushed with her efforts to pitch her voice like mine, 
 that the audience roared with laughter when she 
 
 cried : 
 
 " I am pale, am I not, for a fiancee ? " 
 
 Pale, poor child, pale ! A veritable tomato. I 
 advised her to go and see a doctor. The doctor told
 
 202 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 her bluntly : " Madame, you are in a fair way to ruin 
 your voice. You demand of it more than it can 
 give ! " Very good ! True, no doubt. But in that 
 case what was to be done ? The doctor used no cir- 
 cumlocution : leave the stage. 
 
 That was easy to say. But how was she to live ? 
 And then, Jenny loved the stage, she adored it ! 
 Leave the stage ! it would be as well to light a 
 brazier full of charcoal and have done with it. My 
 poor Jenny might still continue to travel around the 
 country with me, but only on condition that she 
 should act no more with me, because I sapped her 
 strength, exhausted her. I swear to you that when it 
 was made clear to me that it was my voice, Monsieur 
 Beauvallet's bane, that was wearing away my poor 
 Jenny's lungs and literally killing her, I was tempted 
 to accuse nature ; I was on the point of cursing my 
 thunder. 
 
 To abandon the stage or abandon me, that was the 
 alternative presented to Jenny. She adored me, she 
 adored the boards, and when she had to choose 
 between the two she wept. 
 
 " It is a question of life or death," the doctor had 
 said. " If you continue to perform those gymnastics, 
 you will be spitting blood within three months. And 
 then ! " 
 
 There was one way of arranging matters ; that was 
 to continue to follow the same road, but not to act to-
 
 BRICHANTEAU'S PAST. 203 
 
 gether any more. But that demanded a sacrifice of 
 artistic self-esteem even more than of love, which 
 would have cost Jenny too dear. 
 
 " To be near you and hear you acting with another 
 no," she said, " I could not do it. I should pre- 
 fer to be far away, not to see it ! " 
 
 She had said : " I should prefer to be far away," as 
 she might have said anything else, and yet in those 
 words she had pronounced the veritable doom of our 
 love. My voice was killing her. As she could not 
 renounce the stage, it was necessary that she should 
 act with somebody else. We must ah ! yes, that 
 was the fatal word we must part. Because of my 
 voice ? Yes, because of my voice. I did not choose 
 to be the poor child's executioner. 
 
 To exhaust her lungs ! To see her spit blood ! 
 Accursed voice ! No, no, that should never be. I 
 too preferred to be far away ; but it was like this : I 
 risked wounding the poor girl to the heart by pro- 
 posing to her to " go each his own way," I with my 
 voice, she with hers. We who had so cheerfully 
 endured hardship together in all weathers since the 
 days in the attic on Rue de Malte ! Why was my 
 voice not a medium, pleasant voice which would not 
 make my master jealous and my mistress phthisicky? 
 Yes ! why? I should be at the Come' die- Francaise 
 to-day, and I should not have to submit to heart- 
 breaking, cruel engagements like those of which I
 
 204 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 recited the articles to you. When I think that my 
 comrades of the Com6die-Frangaise complain of 
 their lot! 
 
 However, it was necessary to decide upon some- 
 thing. I told Jenny that I could not steal her future 
 from her, shatter her voice, and tear out her lungs. 
 I uttered the fatal word separation, but I added 
 hastily : 
 
 " Although I say separation, Jenny, there will be no 
 separation. We shall meet again some day. Hearts 
 meet." 
 
 Where? I have no idea, but the words came to 
 my lips quite naturally. I had said them in some 
 drama ; they applied admirably to the drama of my ' 
 life. 
 
 And then I talked to her of the success she would 
 have in gentler roles, affectionate roles. In trying to 
 help her I injured her. I crushed her femininity. 
 I extinguished her charm. 
 
 "You see, Viola, I am the thunderbolt that has 
 fallen on my violet. Do you understand?" 
 
 " Yes," she said, wiping her eyes, " yes, I under- 
 stand. Certainly, I understand, but it 's hard." 
 
 "And sad!" 
 
 " Very sad. Do you remember our first meeting 
 at the Conservatory?" 
 
 " Do I remember it ? You were so pretty ! " 
 
 " And you so kind ! Who would have said it would
 
 BRICHANTEAU'S PAST. 205 
 
 end like this, S6bastien? Indeed, who would have 
 said it would end at all?" 
 
 " Rodrigue, who would have thought itl " I cried. 
 " Chimene, -who would have said it?" 
 
 With that, taking her in my arms, hugging her, 
 kissing her forehead, I plunged instinctively into the 
 admirable scene from Le Cid. We wept ; she gave 
 me my cues. Never upon any stage have I played 
 Rodrigue so finely as I did that day in our little room 
 at Dijon. I lost my head, I sobbed, I cried. I used 
 the word just now, and I venture to repeat it I 
 bawled, I bawled with grief. And poor Jenny, hardly 
 able to follow, spoke louder and louder, tried to 
 shout, tried to reach my terrible diapason. 
 
 "Adieu, sors, et surtout garde bien qu'on te voie ! 
 
 Laisse-moi soupirer, 
 Je cherche le silence et la nuit pour pleurer." 
 
 I did not listen to her, being carried away by my 
 inspiration and my grief. Suddenly she stopped ; I 
 felt her double up in my arms, suddenly attacked by a 
 paroxysm of coughing that prevented her from con- 
 tinuing Chimene. 
 
 " My Jenny ! My little Jenny ! " 
 
 Her eyes were on fire, there was a bright red spot 
 on her cheekbones, and she put her handkerchief to 
 her lips. 
 
 The doctor was right. That duo in Le Cid was 
 our last, and Jenny and myself thenceforth followed
 
 206 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 our own roads as chance willed. I cursed my voice, 
 my thunderous voice, my roaring howitzer ! We 
 promised to meet again; yes, every year on the 
 same day, the day of our separation, to meet in front 
 of the Conservatory, Faubourg Poissoniere, and to 
 dine tete-a-tete at the wine-shop, even if we had not 
 a maravedi, even if she should become a duchess or 
 fall in with a prince. 
 
 We met four times four years in succession. That 
 was little enough, doubtless, and yet it was a good 
 deal for human love. Jenny's voice was improving. 
 Jenny, like myself, was touring the provinces, but she 
 was acting in comedy, she had abandoned melodrama. 
 " You have abused your voice," they told her ; " keep 
 what remains of it." Even in art we were separated. 
 She said to me sadly : 
 
 " I regret Hugo ; but one must live ! " 
 But was she really living? Like myself, doubtless, 
 by hook or crook in the open air. Once she told 
 me this that I am going to tell you is the truth 
 that, being without a theatrical engagement, she had 
 accepted an offer to appear at a cafe" -concert as an 
 elocutionist. She recited poetry, some of Coppe*e's, 
 and monologues. Very good. But the manager 
 compelled his artists to take up a collection among 
 his customers, and instructed the pretty girls to be 
 amiable to the male clients as they passed the hat. 
 That pretty little business is actually carried on. A
 
 BRICHANTEAU'S PAST. 2O/ 
 
 syndicate was formed among the actors to regulate it. 
 They began well, but then the syndicate, instead of 
 giving its attention to that, began to dabble in poli- 
 tics. There were probably some comrades who wanted 
 to be municipal councillors or deputies. And then 
 what ! the abuse continued ! 
 
 Jenny fled from that den of iniquity as from a den 
 of wild beasts, and found an opening at a theatre in 
 Lyons. Oh ! the illusions of the Conservatory ! The 
 time passed. The years fairly flew. They do go so 
 quickly. We no longer met on the appointed day. 
 At one time I was in America, at another time she 
 was in Roumania. We wrote at first, then, as the 
 years passed, we ceased even to write. Spiders spin 
 their webs over all dreams. I knew, however, that 
 Viola was still acting. 
 
 As I grew old I said to myself : 
 
 "She probably has taken the duenna roles by 
 this time." 
 
 My accursed voice ! Had it not been for that 
 blaring trumpet the doors on Rue de Richelieu would 
 not have been closed to me, and, having become a 
 person of influence, I might have been able to get my 
 poor Jenny admitted ! Who knows? Perhaps she 
 and I would have been socittaires I 
 
 The other day I was looking over a theatrical news- 
 paper and reading the column entitled Europe Artiste. 
 Engagements, Personnel of companies, Positions
 
 208 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 wanted. I looked at everything : " A young artist 
 of twenty-four, prize-winner at the Conservatory, 
 having acted in comedy and melodrama, desires an 
 engagement to play third rdles." I am not invent- 
 ing. " Wanted, a clerk or partner, with a small 
 capital, very small will do, in an honorable and lu- 
 crative theatrical business." Ah ! dreams, dreams, 
 dreams ! 
 
 And suddenly my eye fell on these lines, which 
 stirred me from head to foot and went as it were to 
 the very bottom of my heart : 
 
 " Female theatrical costumes for sale, ordinary sizes, 
 for jeune premiere rdles. Theatrical pamphlets in good 
 condition. Jewels and wreaths. Successor to Mile. 
 Viola." 
 
 On the instant I saw, as in a flash of lightning, my 
 whole past : the Conservatory, Monsieur Auber, Mon- 
 sieur Beauvallet, my judges taking notes, Jenny, Aricie, 
 our young comrades, the provinces, the hard years 
 and the last duo, the scene from Le Cid at Dijon ; 
 Chimene, who would have said it? And the tears 
 gushed from my eyes as I exclaimed to myself, throw- 
 ing down the paper, 
 
 "Tonnerre /" 
 
 I said it so loud I was on Montholon Square 
 that people turned to look at me and began to laugh. 
 My voice, my blessed voice ! Always that. It caused 
 the bystanders to laugh when I was thinking of Jenny
 
 BRICHANTEAU'S PAST. 209 
 
 and shedding those tears to her memory like tears 
 from a holy-water sprinkler. 
 
 Too much voice, that is my fate, and not enough 
 luck. But I do not complain. I still have Art. And 
 I have lived !
 
 VII. 
 
 FOR NAPOLfiON. 
 
 AMONG my friends is old Dauberval, who has retired 
 without succeeding in making his bow at the Comdie- 
 Francaise. His dream, the dream of all of us, the 
 Come'die-Francaise. He has had success on all 
 sides, has Dauberval, and notorious success. He has 
 been the darling of the women on the boulevards and at 
 specialty theatres. He has fought for them, they have 
 fought for him. In his old age he bought a little 
 house on the banks of the Oise at Isle-Adam, and he 
 lives there quietly, with his wife and niece, an old 
 maid, tending his garden in summer, and in winter 
 sitting in the chimney-corner, chewing the cud of his 
 reminiscences. He is a fine fellow. He would be 
 perfectly happy, were it not for that secret wound in 
 his heart ; the Comedie, the Comedie-Fransaise would 
 have none of him. 
 
 Oh ! when that subject is broached, old Dauberval 
 is savage ! All his stored up rancor escapes like the 
 steam of a locomotive. He is no longer young, but 
 he becomes young once more. He works himself 
 into a fever, he fulminates, he foams at the mouth.
 
 FOR NAPOLEON. 211 
 
 " Look out, Dauberval," I say to him, I knew him 
 when he was jeune premier at Havre, in the very 
 springtime of his youth. " In the first place you '11 
 make yourself sick. In the second place, you make 
 too much of it. There are so many others, so many 
 others who deserved to enter Moliere's home and 
 whom they would have none of! " 
 
 And I give him the names. I know very well that 
 I do not convince him. The others are not he. And 
 I myself, to whom Monsieur Beauvallet's jealousy closed 
 Rue de Richelieu but I beg your pardon, I am re- 
 peating myself I myself, whom I do not mention, am 
 not Dauberval ! He suffers keenly, does Dauberval, 
 and I go quite often to Isle-Adam to see him and con- 
 sole him. He comes to meet me at the railway sta- 
 tion ; we cross the bridge and walk slowly to his house, 
 talking as we go, skirting the shore ; and Madame 
 Dauberval, who always has a good cook, awaits us with 
 delicious dishes well served. I find at Dauberval's 
 much to remind me of my past : old posters, old 
 photographs of actors, lithographs of actresses, once 
 so pretty, now decrepit or sleeping somewhere or 
 other, at Montmartre or in the provinces Jenny ! 
 As Dauberval has been less of a wanderer than I, he 
 keeps those relics, withered wreaths, faded ribbons, 
 things which I have too often scattered along my path, 
 like my illusions. However, I have kept some illu- 
 sions and some wreaths, thank God ! as you know.
 
 212 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 When we are at table, Dauberval and I open 
 the flood-gates of our memories. 
 
 "Do you remember playing Les Burgraves at 
 Nantes, Brichanteau, without costumes?" 
 
 " And Les Mousquetaires with the doublets used in 
 Les Huguenots ?" 
 
 " Do you remember pretty Celine Barbeau of 
 Sotteville-les-Rouen? " 
 
 " Do I remember her ! What 's become of her? " 
 
 "And Eugenie Mercier? " 
 
 " And Laurence Herblay? " 
 
 "And Jeanne Horly?" 
 
 "And?" 
 
 Thereupon good Madame Dauberval interrupts' 
 us: 
 
 " Messieurs, ' messieurs, be careful. You forget 
 Louisette." 
 
 True enough, we do forget Louisette ; Louisette is 
 DaubervaPs niece. She is nearly fifty years old. 
 She is thin, pimply, and has quite a mustache. But 
 she is a " maiden." Her ears must be respected, her 
 poor hanging ears that have never, never heard, per- 
 haps, a declaration of love. She has led a pious life 
 in that household of actors. She has grown to 
 womanhood and grown old mumbling prayers at the 
 fireside where her uncle studied his roles. When 
 old Dauberval, in the old days, created a new part 
 and she saw that he was nervous and restless, in a
 
 FOR NAPOLEON. 213 
 
 funk, as we say, Mademoiselle Louisette would say 
 nothing, but she would quietly go and burn a taper 
 
 
 
 in secret at her parish church, Sainte- Elisabeth du 
 Temple, to the end that Uncle Dauberval might make 
 a hit. 
 
 She addressed prayers like this to the Virgin : 
 
 " O Marie, overflowing with mercy, grant that my 
 dear uncle may appear irresistible in Lovelace ! " 
 
 And the Virgin doubtless granted Mademoiselle 
 Louisette's prayer, for Dauberval was irresistible. 
 
 He was, in my opinion, the model lover. Delaunay 
 had more style, Dauberval had as much warmth. 
 Ah ! a charming man ! And a good friend ! When 
 I think that it was for Napoleon yes, for Napoleon 
 that I fell out with him ! 
 
 It was last autumn. I had never passed a more 
 tranquil day, a more interesting evening at Isle- 
 Adam. Before dinner, as we were walking on the 
 banks of the Oise, Dauberval, to whom I was saying 
 that he could still play \hejeune premier roles when- 
 ever he chose, although he was past sixty-five, Dau- 
 berval confided to me that he kept in a corner of his 
 house a consecrated spot, a temple, I might better 
 say, where he sometimes secluded himself; a small 
 room under the roof, which he had furnished exactly 
 like his dressing-room at the Gymnase, the same 
 furniture, the same shelf laden with the same jars of 
 grease, the same jars of rouge, the same pencils, the
 
 21.4 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 same mirror in which he used to make up his face in 
 the old days, the same flowered creton on the 
 walls, the same dressing-gown, the stool on which 
 he sat, the couch on which he reclined, his dressing- 
 room, in a word, his dressing-room in the good old 
 bygone days ! He had it there in his house, and in 
 a closet hidden by a curtain Dauberval still preserved 
 a portion of his wardrobe : marquis's coats, mousque- 
 taires 1 cloaks, the dandy's open-work stockings, the 
 tight-fitting trousers of the lady-killers of the Resto- 
 ration, the wardrobe of the young man that was ! 
 Cherished poetic relics, having the savor of the after- 
 math of plucked laurels. 
 
 " Why, Dauberval, what a splendid idea ! " 
 " Hush ! " he said mysteriously, chasing with the 
 end of his cane the dead leaves that were whirling 
 about our feet. " I do not admit it to any one, to any- 
 one. They would never allow me to rest in peace at 
 Isle-Adam if it were known. The mayor, the author- 
 ities, the president of the Fanfare would ask me to 
 act for the benefit of a multitude of petty good works 
 that they invent. I could n't do it. But what I can 
 do, you know, and what I do, when I want to give a 
 little pleasure to my wife and my niece, is to say to 
 them : ' Close the doors ! I am not at home to any 
 one. This evening I am going to give you a surprise. 
 This evening you shall go to the play ! ' And what 
 is said is said. I go up to that dressing-room, where
 
 FOR NAPOLEON. 215 
 
 I recover all my youth and my speech ; I dress myself 
 and make myself up. The wrinkles disappear, oh ! 
 there 's nothing easier ! the eyes brighten. I put 
 on a coat a la fran(aise, and presto ! I see myself 
 once more in Philiberte or Clarissa Harlowe or Manon 
 Lescaut, like Dejazet I have acted eighteenth cen- 
 tury plays a great deal, and I come down, strutting, 
 self-satisfied, and applauded, my old Brichanteau ; for 
 my wife and Louisette make my entree for me as 
 at the theatre. I enter by a little door, right, in a 
 jog piece, and I act ! Yes, I act ! And, if I do say 
 it, I act better than I ever used to act ! I have my 
 heart of twenty years, my voice of twenty years, 
 my calves of twenty years ! Look you, Brichanteau, 
 this evening, yes, this evening, my good Brichan- 
 teau, I am going to let you see it, and you shall 
 tell me, you shall tell me frankly, if, among their 
 societaires, there are three who could keep the pace 
 with me ! " 
 
 " Ah ! what an excellent idea ! " 
 
 I was not sorry to see Dauberval act again myself. 
 I have always been one of those who defended him 
 when he was attacked. Some said he was affected, 
 airy, an old-fashioned fool. Not at all, he was refined 
 and impassioned ; he may have had a little purr in 
 his breathing, and with the purr a weakness in his 
 legs ; his calves shook yes, one might say that his 
 calves, like Montescure's cornet-a-piston, made eyes
 
 2l6 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 at one but a declaration of love from his lips was a 
 genuine declaration of love all the same. 
 
 " Ah ! an excellent idea, an excellent idea ! " 
 
 In my delight, I said that again and again. 
 
 We dined in high spirits. Dauberval had a little 
 Vouvray wine, dry and sparkling, that put us on our 
 mettle. What stories of the good old days we told 
 that evening ! It was all right, Mademoiselle Loui- 
 sette did not take fright. And the good people of 
 Isle-Adam who passed along the river-bank could 
 hear nothing through the closed shutters. 
 
 Suddenly, at dessert, Dauberval rose. 
 
 " My children," he said, rubbing his hands, " I am 
 going to give you a surprise!" 
 
 It was his usual remark. Madame Dauberval 
 uttered a cry of joy. From the tone of her husband's 
 voice she had readily guessed what he was going to say. 
 
 "A play?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, my dear love, a play. I am going to act 
 I dine with my mother /" 
 
 " All alone ? " I inquired. 
 
 "All alone. On these occasions I summarize the 
 different roles that take part in the scenes with me, 
 and I play my part from one end to the other. And 
 I will tell you one thing, my dear Brichanteau, from 
 experience, that that does n't injure the play. Some- 
 times it improves it. The fewer parts there are, the 
 better it's understood. Is n't that so, Cdcile?"
 
 FOR NAPOLEON. 
 
 " Certainly," Madame Dauberval replied. 
 
 Mademoiselle Louisette said nothing. She was 
 delighted, however, no less than her aunt, to see her 
 uncle act once more. But the next day she would go 
 to Abbe" Polard and confess, accusing herself of hav- 
 ing taken pleasure in a play ; and Abb Polard, smil- 
 ing, would give her absolution as usual, and beg her 
 to take a portion of it to her uncle. 
 
 / dine with my mother ! I was very glad to hear 
 / dine with my mother again. I had never acted 
 in it, that sort of play not being adapted to my tem- 
 perament. But just as Duberval rose to go up to his 
 dressing-room, I timidly offered to take the other 
 parts. But I instantly saw that I afforded him no 
 pleasure, none. 
 
 " Other parts ! What other parts? " he exclaimed. 
 
 " Why, are there not three parts in / dine with my 
 mother?" 
 
 " Yes, there are three," replied Dauberval : " the 
 painter Henri Didier, the chevalier, and the Prince 
 d'Hennin, I am speaking of male parts, two 
 female parts, Sophie Arnould and a soubrette. But, 
 as I said to you just now, what 's the use of giving 
 the others? I am going to play the Prince d'Hen- 
 nin for you. Indeed the Prince d'Hennin is the 
 whole play ! " 
 
 And Dauberval left us there, myself looking at 
 Mademoiselle Louisette at the other end of the room,
 
 2l8 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 where she seemed to be mumbling a prayer, and 
 Madame Dauberval, whose eyes blazed with happi- 
 ness ! These surprises renewed her youth, and when 
 Dauberval appeared, costumed as in the old days, in 
 some role in which she had heard him applauded, the 
 good woman was at least twenty years younger her- 
 self. A little of her youth nay, rather her whole 
 youth remained, like a lasting perfume, in her hus- 
 band's wardrobe. 
 
 Dauberval was not long in dressing ; I must do him 
 that justice. He came down very soon, in full cos- 
 tume, painted, with his wig powdered in front, a 
 sword at his side, a sky-blue velvet coat, slightly 
 worn at the seams, but still elegant, with a vague 
 odor of camphor. He entered the room, put 
 out his leg to show his calf in its gold-spangled 
 silk stockings, twirled about on his red heels, and 
 said : 
 
 "Behold the Prince d'Hennin ! " 
 
 And I give you my word that, from top to toe, 
 smeared as he was and at such close quarters, Dauber- 
 val was in truth the Prince d'Hennin, or any other 
 prince of the eighteenth century, wearing his wig 
 plastered to his forehead and his sword en verrouil. 
 He was Richelieu, Conti, Letorieres, any fashionable 
 dandy you can name; and Madame Dauberval, in 
 an ecstasy, clasped her hands for joy, while Made- 
 moiselle Louisette gazed at the white and red paint
 
 FOR NAPOLEON. 219 
 
 that her transfigured uncle had laid upon his cheek- 
 bones. 
 
 " The Prince d'Hennin ! " continued Dauberval. 
 " He is bringing a New Year's gift to Sophie Arnould ! 
 You know where we are, my children? We are 
 here " 
 
 Thereupon he described, with a vigor peculiar to 
 himself, how he had given the actress his English 
 horses, all the horses in his stable ; and he acted in 
 the most bewitching way I say bewitching, for he 
 bewitched me the scene in which the Prince 
 d'Hennin refuses to dine with Sophie Arnould be- 
 cause he is to dine with his mother : " If you knew 
 the Princesse d'Hennin, you would know that she is 
 not the sort of person to whom one sends a message 
 like that. Imagine a tall woman with thin lips, a 
 stern brow, a cold glance, always buried in an arm- 
 chair of old oak. Everything about her changes ; she 
 alone has not changed. She has preserved the man- 
 ners, the customs, even the costume of the last cen- 
 tury. In her eyes my brother and I have never 
 grown to manhood; we are still the two children 
 whom a tutor took to her twice in the year, on her 
 birthday and on the first of January. Those are the 
 only days on which she kissed us. T was a solemn 
 kiss, slowly bestowed upon our foreheads, the same 
 kiss that she will give us a few moments hence ; then 
 a family dinner, in great ceremony, a silent, solemn
 
 220 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 festival, at which my mother alone sometimes breaks 
 the silence to tell us of the usages and customs of a 
 great reign, and how our father powerfully aided 
 Monsieur de Villars to whip the Imperialists " 
 
 Then, after delivering his speech with an art ah ! 
 such an art ! an art that no one can boast to-day, I 
 promise you, admirable, refined and light of touch, 
 and with superior diction and melancholy and charm, 
 Dauberval began to sing, and I do not detest the 
 plays in which the sentimental couplet helps to give 
 force to the prose, he began to sing, to the air of 
 Mademoiselle Garcin : 
 
 " Ah ! tout cela n'est pas tres gai, sans doute ; 
 Mais songez-y, voilk bientot trente ans 
 Qu'au rendez-vous je vais, coute que coute, 
 C'est un devoir consacre" par le temps. 
 Puis, les baisers de ma mere sont rares ; 
 Lorsque celui d'aujourd'hui m'est certain, 
 II faut agir comme avec les avares, 
 II ne faut pas remettre au lendemain ! " 
 
 You should have heard him ! In his mouth that 
 couplet became as touching as Donizetti. I say 
 Do-ni-zet-ti I am of the time of La Favorita. 
 Madame DaubervaPs eyes were filled with tears. 
 Mademoiselle Louisette probably thought that the 
 lines resembled a psalm, and as for myself, faith, the 
 corner of my eye was not very dry. And I was still 
 more deeply touched when, suddenly, toward the end 
 of the scene, Dauberval said to me, holding out the
 
 FOR NAPOLEON. 221 
 
 book, which he had in the pocket of his sky-blue 
 coat : 
 
 " I was mistaken, after all. You were right. There 's 
 too much dialogue now ! Give me the cue, old fellow. 
 Do Sophie Arnould ! " 
 
 And I did Sophie Arnould, a genuine artist should 
 be able to act any part ; but I remained seated, for 
 I wished still to watch that devil of a Dauberval, so 
 young and active and ardent and magnetic, and I 
 contented myself with giving him his cue, crouch- 
 ing in my chair like a prompter. Only I modu- 
 lated my voice impossible not to modulate one's 
 voice. 
 
 "Come, Maurice, you will stay, will you not?" 
 
 " I am much grieved, but in truth I cannot." 
 
 " Ah ! and I was fool enough to believe in your 
 love ! " 
 
 " How now ! I do not love you because I cannot 
 dine with you to-day? But I will dine here to- 
 morrow, every day, as often as you wish." 
 
 " I do not ask you." 
 
 " I do not love you ? I who have fought ten times 
 for you ! Stay, I fight once more to-morrow with 
 Monsieur de Fontanges, who avers that day before 
 yesterday you sang A natural instead of B flat. If 
 I did not love you, I should have agreed with Mon- 
 sieur de Fontanges; for you did really emit a 
 doubtful note. I do not say that it was not a B flat,
 
 222 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 but between ourselves there was a little touch of A 
 natural /" 
 
 " Very good ! Take the side of my enemies ! 
 Criticise me ! Hiss me ! " 
 
 " No, no ! when I am to fight a duel on that 
 account ! Well, well, it was undeniably a B flat, and 
 I will kill Monsieur de Fontanges ! I hope that I 
 am obliging Three o'clock ! the devil ! " 
 
 "You are going, then? " 
 
 " To be sure ! " 
 
 "And I wish you to remain ; it is my will ! " 
 
 " The king says, ' It is our will.' But stay, I 
 have a way of arranging the whole matter. You are 
 to dine alone let me finish and I will return and 
 sup with you." 
 
 No, I have never seen Dauberval so charming and 
 so perfect as in that dining-room, under the shade of 
 the hanging lamp, within two steps of the table, still 
 laden with dessert, which we had pushed into the 
 corner to make room for the stage. I said to myself 
 that it was a pity that such a man should have retired, 
 and that if all the jeunes premiers of the present day 
 should join forces and form a syndicate, they could 
 not exhibit as much fire as that sexagenarian put into 
 his scene with Sophie Arnould, never ! " Sophie, 
 life has its duties, apparently trivial, but in reality 
 genuine and sacred; you have not understood me. 
 Whatever you may say, I love you and you know it
 
 FOR NAPOLEON. 223 
 
 well ! " Ah ! what a voice, my friends, what a voice ! 
 A seductive voice. Such a quality of tone ! The 
 voice counts for something on the stage. Sometimes 
 it is everything. For my part, I have told you that I 
 had too much. Fools have succeeded, have made a 
 name for themselves, because they had fine voices, 
 just as Hyacinthe did, my old forgotten Hyacinthe, 
 because he had a nose. 
 
 But Dauberval had not the voice alone, he had the 
 heart. How do you say that in Latin? I have been 
 told again and again, and had it all explained to me. 
 Pectus, yes, pectus est. Voila t Oh ! that evening ! 
 I longed to embrace Dauberval, and, if the truth were 
 told, I did not resist the longing. I threw my arms 
 about him : " Admirable ! bravo ! sublime ! " And 
 Madame Dauberval also embraced him, and Mademoi- 
 selle Louisette, and the cook, Melanie, who had come 
 to listen after regaling us with a certain souffle, oh ! 
 a souffle worthy of the master and mistress. 
 
 Dauberval was deeply touched. He wept. We 
 mingled our tears. Once more, it was a lovely 
 evening, an evening of pure art. Why need it have 
 been disturbed by useless disputes upon politics? 
 How it happened, you will see in a moment. 
 
 Dauberval was naturally a little excited after play- 
 ing his Prince d'Hennin. 
 
 "You are wet through, my love," said Madame 
 Dauberval, wiping his forehead with a towel.
 
 224 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 She rubbed off some of the paint in the process, and 
 Dauberval was not pleased. He wanted to keep his 
 Prince d'Hennin costume and face. 
 
 "Do, at least, take something hot, Amde. A 
 glass of grog, won't you have some grog? " 
 
 " Yes, I will have a glass of grog. And Brichanteau 
 will have one too. Eh, Brichanteau? " 
 
 " Whatever you choose." 
 
 I am a very sober man, Dauberval is the same ; and 
 yet, I cannot say why, perhaps because the private 
 performance of / dine with my mother had excited our 
 nerves, we laced our grog a little, talking all the 
 while, he still in the Prince d'Hennin's blue coat, I in 
 ordinary unpicturesque civilian's dress. And lo, in 
 the midst of our cordial chat, I may fairly call it 
 cordial, extremely cordial, and, I will add, on my 
 part admiring, a subject of discussion suddenly and 
 unexpectedly made its appearance and exploded like 
 a bomb. 
 
 "Come, Brichanteau," said Dauberval, "do me 
 justice. Is n't it true that you can't find an artist at 
 the Comedie-Fran9aise so well-fitted as I to play the 
 aristocrat?" 
 
 "Yes, Dauberval, it is true." 
 
 "Haven't I the tradition, their famous tradi- 
 tion?" 
 
 "You have the tradition, Dauberval. You have 
 the tradition from beginning to end."
 
 FOR NAPOLEON. 22$ 
 
 " Is n't it true that Firmin did not play the mar- 
 quises any better than I play the marquises? " 
 
 " I should have to see Firmin again. But he did 
 not play Richelieu any better than you have just 
 played the Prince d'Hennin ! " 
 
 " Then tell me why they would never admit me at 
 the Com^die. A little more cognac. It 's not bad." 
 
 " Thanks, it is very good." 
 
 "Tell me why they thrust me aside, when they 
 engaged Messieurs So-and-so and Such-an-one, mere 
 novices ! " 
 
 " Jealousy ! Pure jealousy ! " 
 
 " Is that really your opinion ? When I think that 
 Mthivet Me" thivet hardly fit for general utility 
 man Mthivet is an associate." 
 
 " Who do you say? " 
 
 " When neither I, nor you, not even you, Brichan- 
 teau, you see I don't forget you," I was not greatly 
 nattered by the tone in which he did me the honor 
 of coupling my name with his, " neither I nor you 
 have even made our dbut on Rue de Richelieu." 
 
 " Oh ! as for me, it 's an old story. It was Beau- 
 vallet my voice." 
 
 " There is always a Beauvallet, an obstacle or reason 
 of some sort. If it is n't absurd ! If it is n't shame- 
 ful ! Do you want me to tell you something, Bri- 
 chanteau? It is Napoleon's fault !" 
 
 "What do you say?"
 
 226 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 " Napoleon's Napoleon I. that imbecile of a 
 Napoleon ! " 
 
 I looked at Dauberval. He seemed to be in a 
 furious rage. He had suddenly assumed a wild ex- 
 pression, like Hamlet when he sees the ghost on the 
 terrace at Elsinore, garden side. He was looking in 
 front of him at something or somebody I did not see, 
 and that some one, that something, was a ghost, the 
 ghost of Napoleon. 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! " said I, shaking my head, " Napoleon 
 an imbecile " 
 
 He interrupted me abruptly. 
 
 " A pure imbecile ! A layman who dared under- 
 take to make rules for art, to codify the House of 
 Moliere ! A tyrant, who wanted no actors but cour- 
 tiers, who understood nothing about the stage, noth- 
 ing, nothing, nothing. No more about the stage than 
 about anything else, by the way ! Oh ! that man ! " 
 
 And Dauberval made a terrible gesture. He was 
 no longer the Prince d'Hennin, he was Marat. And 
 thereupon I attempted to defend Napoldon against 
 that unjustifiable attack. I say unjustifiable, but I am 
 not a Bonapartist. I simply am grateful, as an artist, 
 to that great man. 
 
 Napoleon ! I have acted him with pleasure. It 
 is a role that I love. It is hardly in my usual line. 
 Napoleon, by reason of his corpulence, would seem to 
 fall rather among the financiers. But, by reason of
 
 FOR NAPOLEON. 22? 
 
 his great name, we may fairly say that he is a leading 
 role, a great leading role. And then he is a remark- 
 able figure. When a man takes the part he cannot 
 pass unnoticed in a play, it is impossible. Moreover, 
 I had the good fortune to know Gobert, who had 
 known Constant, the Emperor's valet de chambre, and 
 I have the traditions of both. When Gobert acted 
 Napoleon, he was so like him that the old veterans 
 used to fault in the orchestra. When I am shaved, I 
 too resemble the Emperor. I have a medallion with 
 his head in profile. Monsieur Ingres asked me once 
 to pose for Caesar. 
 
 Napoleon ! He was a part of my repertory. Ah ! 
 I have played Napoleon in the provinces, here, there, 
 and everywhere ! And when I was not playing Na- 
 poteon, I played pieces in which he was talked about. 
 Those pieces would fill a whole library ! One of 
 them I was especially fond of, a drama in one act : 
 L'Empereur et le Soldat, or Le 5 Mai, 1821. I played 
 Rmond, a former grenadier of the Garde Imperiale. 
 Although very young, but well made up, I had the 
 manner of a Charlet when I acted the part of that old 
 soldier, who has become insane, and who, from a small 
 provincial town, writes a letter to the Emperor, a 
 prisoner at St. Helena, writes him that he is going to 
 rescue him, that two hundred thousand men are ready, 
 that the powder will soon speak, that they will have 
 their revenge for Waterloo ! Ah ! I used to bring
 
 228 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 down the house, when, donning my grenadier's cape, 
 I spoke, from afar, to the Emperor : " My Emperor ! 
 Have pity on your old grenadier, and answer him ! 
 Come back ! " And, at the end, when the last par- 
 oxysm of delirium seizes Re"mond, you should have 
 heard me then ! I would draw myself up, go through 
 the motion of taking my musket, of putting on my 
 haversack ; I would twirl my mustaches, and take my 
 place in the line, for the last review was to be held ! 
 And with these lines, sung to the air of Les Trots 
 Couleurs, I would make the whole hall weep what 
 do I say ? I would weep myself ! 
 
 " II va venir, rangeons-nous en silence, 
 Au rendez-vous qu'il nous retrouve tous ; 
 II veut, enfin, combler notre espe'rance; 
 Ainsi que moi, de bonheur, tremblez, vous ! 
 Nous la verrons, notre idole si chere : 
 Ah ! comme moi, vous pleurez tous de" ja 
 II va venir, lui, soldats, notre pere ! 
 Napoldon ! 1'Empereur ! levoila!" 
 
 Then I would go through the motion of presenting 
 arms, and, under an hallucination which I do not 
 hesitate to describe as extraordinary, I would cry, as 
 if Napoleon were standing before me : " Ah ! how 
 he has changed ! How pale he is ! He wears a 
 laurel wreath ! His generals surround him : Kle"ber, 
 Desaix, Montebello ! Silence, comrades, and listen. 
 He is calling the roll of all his gallant troops," and 
 I would listen intently. " La Tour d'Auvergne."
 
 FOR NAPOLEON. 22Q 
 
 At that I would cry : " Dead on the field of honor I 
 He looks at me ! he knows me ! " 
 
 A moment of silence ; I would start, as if Napo- 
 leon's eagle eye had really rested upon me, and I 
 would say, "Present, Sire!" and I would fall dead, 
 stone dead ! And then what recalls ! Ah ! that 
 play. L'Empereur et le Soldat, is not as fine as Le 
 Cid, but I have been as successful in it as in any play 
 in my repertory ! 
 
 And Napoleon a Tile d'Elbe / and La Republique, 
 f Empire, et les Cent Jours / And all the plays in 
 which they used to throw palms to me and offer me 
 wreaths ! I, a romanticist and Chauvinist, loved 
 them well. And so, when I heard Dauberval attack 
 the great man whom I had so often made incarnate, 
 the hero to whom I owed a banquet given by the 
 students at Toulouse after a performance of LtErn- 
 pereur et le Soldat on the stage of the Capitole theatre, 
 I could not refrain from giving voice to my thoughts, 
 and from time to time I checked my confrere to say : 
 
 " Excuse me, Amede, excuse me, you are unjust ! " 
 
 But that only spurred him on. 
 
 "Unjust, you say? Unjust? Unjust to an animal 
 who prevented me from being a societaire ? Yes, 
 Brichanteau, it is all due to that Corsican ! All ! 
 
 " What ! " he continued, " did we submit to the 
 decree of a tyrant, we the free servants of an art 
 superior to all other arts? Of all the institutions of
 
 230 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 the Empire, nothing remains, and we are ground 
 down by the caprice of a man who, instead of busying 
 himself with extinguishing the flames of burning Mos- 
 cow, made us subject to chefs des emplois /" 1 
 
 I still tried to stop him. Impossible. He was 
 fairly started. 
 
 "Be just, Dauberval; the Code Napoleon still 
 exists ! " 
 
 " The Code ! Very well, I grant you the Code. 
 But the Code applies to all Frenchmen, while the 
 Moscow decree applies only to us, to us poor actors. 
 The Moscow decree creates a privilege to the profit 
 of some, and a tyranny to the loss of others ! " 
 
 " But, my dear fellow, it was revoked in great part 
 by the decree of 1850. People are always talking 
 about the Moscow decree. It no longer exists. The 
 decree of 1850 is the law to-day." 
 
 " I pass by the decree of 1850," retorted Dauber- 
 val ; " my grudge is against the Moscow decree only, 
 but in that, by heaven, I bury my teeth and my nails ! 
 Fancy my gentleman, from the heart of Russia, im- 
 posing an aristocracy of socittaires upon us ! There 
 was only one decree that Napoleon should have 
 signed, if he was determined to promulgate a decree 
 from Moscow at all hazards, and that decree would 
 have been a very simple matter ! " 
 
 1 That is to say, the leading actors in each line of parts, 
 jeune premier, ingtnue, etc.
 
 FOR NAPOLEON. 231 
 
 " Let 's hear your decree ! " 
 
 " Oh ! simple as good-day : Every French actor 
 has the right to make his debut at the Come'die- 
 Fran$aise / " 
 
 " The devil ! well, how about authors ? Would 
 not authors also have some rights ? " 
 
 " Authors are less interesting than actors ; but, if 
 you insist upon it, Napole'on might have added 
 an Article 2 : " Art. 2 : Every French citizen has 
 the right to have his plays acted at the Comedie- 
 Fran$aise ! " 
 
 " But, Dauberval, consider how many actors there 
 are in France ! And how many French citizens ! " 
 
 " That 's not my business, that 's a matter of 
 arithmetic, of statistics. I say that right is right, and 
 that I was just as much entitled to make my dbut on 
 Rue de Richelieu, as many others." 
 
 " Most assuredly." 
 
 " More entitled than others ! " 
 
 " Certainly. And yet, my friend, without defend- 
 ing the Comdie-Francaise, where I too was entitled 
 to a place, I think, let me tell you that if everybody 
 was admitted there, if everybody's plays were acted 
 there " 
 
 Dauberval interrupted me, would not allow me to 
 state any more objections, and, waving his hands, 
 from which hung the lace wristbands of the Prince 
 d'Hennin's costume, he exclaimed :
 
 232 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 " I don't attack the Come'die-Francaise, I attack 
 the man, the ill-omened man, who organized it badly. 
 Tell me ! after how many revolutions it would be 
 easy to calculate the number do we still submit to 
 the yoke of one of Caesar's whims ? A madman 
 for you know that Napoleon was mad. Read what 
 scientific men say." 
 
 " Oh ! scientific men ! " 
 
 " He was mad, and, what is more serious, he is 
 overrated." 
 
 "Overrated?" 
 
 " Overrated." 
 
 I considered him decidedly unjust, absurd even ; 
 but tell me how I was to prove it to him? He was 
 started, a horse escaped from his stall, a bull in 
 the public square and rushing on a gray frock-coat as 
 if it were a red shawl. 
 
 " Remember that your Napoleon had n't even 
 physical courage ! " 
 
 " Oh ! what humbug ! " 
 
 " It is n't humbug, it 's a fact, physiologically a fact ! 
 
 " Let us see, let us see," continued Dauberval, 
 who was growing excited ; " you can't make me be- 
 lieve that he did his duty at Waterloo ! Cambronne, 
 yes, Cambronne did his duty. Ney did his duty. 
 Lobau, the man of show, did his duty. But he ? He ? 
 Napole" on ? He turned on his heel while they were 
 still fighting!"
 
 FOR NAPOLEON. 233 
 
 " Perhaps you mean to tell me that he was afraid ? 
 In the first place, the bravest men may be afraid. 
 BouSfe", who was a very great artist, died of stage- 
 fright the night of a first performance. I myself, who 
 am afraid of nothing, I myself remember having had 
 abominable stage-frights ! Why, one evening when 
 we were giving Henri III. I was to play Saint 
 Me"grin I actually wondered whether I could walk 
 on to the stage ! " 
 
 "A man may have stage-fright before, but he 
 should n't have it after or during ! Stage-fright be- 
 fore the curtain rises, yes; but when one is before 
 the footlights, no ! On the eve of Waterloo he might 
 be forgiven for being painfully agitated ; but on the 
 day of the battle, while the grenadiers of the Guard 
 were being slaughtered Can you imagine ourselves 
 leaving the stage and allowing the other actors to be 
 hissed? No, you can't imagine such a thing, Brichan- 
 teau, can you?" 
 
 I love my calling and I admire my profession. I 
 do more, I honor it ; I may say that I honor it in a 
 double sense, by my respect for it and by my dig- 
 nified life. But even so, when it came to comparing 
 an actor on the boards to the Emperor on the battle- 
 field, proud as I am of being an actor, I called that 
 an outrage. 
 
 And I told Dauberval so ; I told him bluntly : 
 
 " I call that an outrage ! "
 
 234 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 I was wrong, I saw instantly that I was wrong. 
 " Ah ! " cried Dauberval, "you think that an artist 
 who causes the hearts of his contemporaries to beat 
 with all the noble passions is inferior to a man whose 
 whole genius consists in causing people's heads to be 
 broken? Very well, you are complimentary to your 
 confreres ! " 
 
 " My confreres ! my confreres ! My confreres 
 would n't have won the battle of Austerlitz ! " I 
 replied. 
 
 " Nobody knows," rejoined Dauberval. 
 " Do you think that Talma, at Austerlitz " 
 " Talma would have sat his horse quite as well, and 
 Rapp, with the scar on his forehead, could have come 
 to him quite as well to say that the Russian guard 
 was wiped out. Oh ! I know that story, you see, I 
 know it very well ! " 
 
 " Can you imagine Talma on horseback ? " 
 " Yes, I can imagine Talma on horseback." 
 "And winning the battle of Austerlitz? " 
 " And winning the battle of Austerlitz ! " 
 " And what would you do with Napoleon mean- 
 while ? " 
 
 " What would I do with him ? Why, I would do 
 nothing with him," replied Dauberval. " I don't 
 bother my head about him, as the battle would be 
 won without him ! " 
 "By Talma?"
 
 FOR NAPOLEON. 235 
 
 "By Talma, or by somebody else. For it was 
 Rapp who won it, or Soult, or somebody, but not 
 he!" 
 
 " Splendid ! And Napoleon's plans, what would 
 you do with them, eh ? For, after all, Napoleon was 
 a great fellow for making plans. He knew the value 
 of a good stage-setting /" 
 
 " Oh ! well, with all his good stage-settings, if he 
 had gone on the stage, he would have made a failure 
 of it ; for think what he liked ! great God ! what 
 he liked! Old tragedies! stuff!" 
 
 " Dauberval, I say again you are unjust ; he took 
 what was given him. It was not his fault that Victor 
 Hugo came later." 
 
 " Victor Hugo ? He would have had him shot at 
 Moscow when he signed the famous decree ! Victor 
 Hugo ? Why, if he had n't had him shot as a simple 
 clown, he would n't have understood a word of him ! " 
 
 " You know nothing about it ! " 
 
 " I know that in literature he had the ideas of a 
 notary, and that in the strategic art his superiority is 
 contested. Yes, it is. Have you read Charras? " 
 
 " Colonel Charras ? A colonel who undertakes to 
 tell an emperor his duty?" 
 
 "The vilest newspaper critic tells us actors our 
 duty ! But, leaving Victor Hugo out of the ques- 
 tion, to return to Talma, to Talma, I am not talk- 
 ing strategy now, I believe, did Napoleon dare to
 
 236 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 decorate Talma? Did he dare? Come, be frank, 
 did he dare?" 
 
 " No, I am bound to admit that he did not dare. 
 It was an instance of weakness. But at that 
 time " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know prejudice ! But, if he had 
 been the great man with whom our ears are filled, 
 would n't he have made short work of the prejudice ? 
 Would n't he have trodden the prejudice under foot? 
 I 'm no drinker of blood, but Robespierre had 
 stamped out many other prejudices." 
 
 " But Robespierre did not decorate Talma ! " 
 
 "No, but who knows? he would have done it, 
 perhaps, if he had lived. Why not? Louis XIV. 
 would have done it." 
 
 Louis XIV. ? " 
 
 " To be sure, he did n't decorate Moliere, because 
 the Legion of Honor was not founded, but he in- 
 vited him to breakfast. Did Napoleon ever invite 
 Talma to breakfast?" 
 
 " Probably. Certainly. Talma invited him, by 
 the way, when he was only an artillery officer ! And 
 then Talma, great man that he was, was not 
 Moliere ! " 
 
 " He was Moliere's equal, in his line. There are 
 two men in Moliere, the author of comedies and the 
 actor. As an actor Talma was probably superior to 
 him. However, let me tell you one thing." At
 
 FOR NAPOLEON. 237 
 
 that point I thought that Dauberval was going mad. 
 " You tire me with your Napoleon ! You stand up 
 for Napoleon, you believe in the legend ! You 
 bear him no malice for having thrown that decree of 
 his at our heads ! You are nothing but a Bona- 
 partist ! " 
 
 " Dauberval ! " 
 
 " A courtier I don't know why you 're not at the 
 Comedie-Francaise as well as Giraudet. You deserve 
 it!" 
 
 Marat, I tell you he was a perfect Marat. He 
 glared at me with wild eyes. He was no longer 
 Letorieres nor Richelieu, nor the Prince d'Hennin, 
 he was simply possessed with a devil. And Madame 
 Dauberval, who had been listening in silence for 
 some time, had risen and was trying to calm him, 
 while Mademoiselle Louisette, in a corner, was re- 
 peating prayers more rapidly, more hurriedly than 
 usual. 
 
 " Amede, my dear Amedee ! " 
 
 " Let me alone," he replied. " When a man at 
 my age can act a part in his regular line as I have 
 acted for you, and when he is slighted by the fault of 
 an emperor, all those who stand up for that man are 
 false friends ! false friends ! I repeat it ! " 
 
 Thereupon I rose with dignity and said : 
 
 "Dauberval, those are words that remorse will 
 shout into your ears more than once in your dreams,
 
 238 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 I verily believe. As for me, I go, and I tell you 
 frankly it is no false exit." 
 
 In vain did Madame Dauberval beg me to remain. 
 
 " False friend, madame, false friend ! " I replied. 
 
 And as I walked toward the door, the two women 
 tried to stop me, saying to Dauberval : 
 
 " Say a word to him, a single word, and he will 
 remain ! " 
 
 And it was true ; I would have remained. 
 
 But what do you suppose were the words Dauberval 
 said, the words that came to his lips ? 
 
 " Very good ; let Brichanteau agree that Napoleon 
 was an idiot ! " 
 
 I am not a Bonapartist, as I have said before.' 
 But my heart remembers. So many recalls in that 
 role ! I, who had played Rmond in L'Empereur et 
 le Soldat, say that Napoleon was an idiot ! Wipe 
 out my past at a single stroke ! And in obedience 
 to whom ? To a superannuated, yes, superannuated 
 comrade, over-excited, perhaps, by fire-water. 
 
 " Dauberval," I cried, and I can still hear my 
 voice ringing through the little house at Isle-Adam, 
 and making the crockery dance upon the shelves, 
 " you demand a dastardly thing of me ! Adieu ! " 
 
 I had waved my hand in farewell, and yet I did 
 not exactly want to go ; but I had started. At one 
 bound I crossed the threshold and found myself on 
 the quay, the quay of the Oise, alone !
 
 FOR NAPOLEON. 239 
 
 I waited a moment in the darkness for them to 
 call me back. After all, perhaps Dauberval was not 
 responsible. A little alcohol at his age ! I watched 
 the water flowing by, the hurrying clouds, the tow- 
 horses drawing a barge whose lantern shone in my 
 eyes. No one called me back. I have learned since 
 that the two women were busy bathing Dauberval's 
 temples. 
 
 They were afraid of inflammation. I should have 
 returned if I had known. But I walked mechanically 
 toward the station, the team arrived, and I took my 
 seat. When I reached Paris I thought of sending a 
 despatch, then I said to myself, "Wait." And I 
 waited. Dauberval made no sign of life. I was 
 wounded, I became obstinate. We have never seen 
 each other since. Never ! never ! 
 
 And Napoleon, up yonder, should be content. 
 Yes, yonder at the Invalides. For his sake I have 
 lost a friend, an old friend. For his sake, for refus- 
 ing to assert that he was a fool, when it is my pro- 
 found conviction that he was not a fool. Imbecile ! 
 If the Empire should be restored he would not deco- 
 rate me for that. However, I would never ask him 
 for anything ; of that he may be sure. 
 
 Ah ! that evening ! that evening ! I think of it 
 with regret. It is one of the sad dates of my life. 
 To fall out with a friend because of Napoleon ! To 
 lose an old comrade because of that devilish
 
 240 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 Moscow decree ! It is heart-rending. I cannot get 
 over it. And when I think of Dauberval it is as of a 
 lost mistress. We shall meet again, perhaps. We 
 will not talk about the Emperor. I will allow Dau- 
 berval to express his opinions, however paradoxical 
 they may be. I will not answer, I will abstain from 
 talking. Poor Dauberval ! Present or absent, I can 
 say of him that he has filled and always will fill a 
 large space in my heart !
 
 VIII. 
 
 THE CASTING. 
 
 You understand, monsieur, I do not forget my oath, 
 the oath I took before Montescure's plaster statue. 
 
 Indeed, the day that I assisted at the casting of 
 my image was one of the most exciting in my whole 
 life. You remember, of course, my statue, the one 
 Montescure carved, with me for his model, the Roman 
 Passing under the Yoke. Poor fellow ! 
 
 The Municipal Council of his native town, urged 
 on by Cazenave the deputy mayor, whom I had 
 primed for the attack you remember Cazenave ; 
 you saw me talking with him in front of Montescure's 
 last work, his legacy, the Municipal Council had 
 resolved to purchase the work, to have it cast in 
 bronze, and to erect it on the public square of 
 Garigat-sur-Garonne. I would have liked not to 
 mention the name of the town. To name it is to 
 give a clue to its chief magistrate, yes, the mayor, 
 whose only idea in purchasing the statue was to bring 
 a minister down for the dedication and make him 
 produce a cross of the Legion from his pocket. It 
 is quite a modern proceeding, a trick. It almost 
 16
 
 242 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 always succeeds. For my own part, I utilized in the 
 interests of justice and the reparation due to Montes- 
 cure this fever for honors that caused the pulse of the 
 mayor of Garigat-sur-Garonne to beat fast. And I 
 ought to say that Cazenave, the deputy, seconded me 
 with a devotion and self-abnegation worthy of a poet. 
 I have told you that Cazenave writes verses. He is a 
 Felibre} Of the ill-fated Montescure, pupil of the 
 Ecole at Toulouse, and of the Roman Passing under 
 the Yoke, the mayor, M. (I was about to give you 
 his name, but he deserves only anonymity) thought 
 no more than a fish thinks of an apple, as Hugo says. 
 He had coolly let him starve while he lived ; but, 
 when he was dead, he remembered that he was 
 born at Garigat-sur-Garonne, within two steps of Tou- 
 louse, and he said to himself that a dedication would 
 show off the town and its chief magistrate. Hence 
 the purchase of the Roman Passing under the Yoke, 
 and the casting of the statue. And yet, I repeat, I 
 had to work like a veritable devil, and Monsieur 
 Cazenave to assist me with truly Felibrean ardor. I 
 spurred him and spurred him on. I wrote him the 
 equivalent of two octavo volumes in eloquent letters ! 
 But I had sworn ! You remember I had said to 
 
 1 Properly speaking, a poet in the langue (foe, of the school 
 of Roumanille and Mistral. In general, any man who contri- 
 butes by his works, in verse or in prose, to the success of the 
 Proven9al renaissance. LITTR.
 
 THE CASTING. 243 
 
 the plaster statue No. 3773 in the catalogue 
 " Montescure, you shall be avenged ! " 
 
 When I learned one morning that the work of 
 Claude-Andr Montescure, my portrait, for it was 
 practically a portrait of me, Brichanteau, a full-length 
 portrait of me, was to be erected on a public square 
 of France, I confess that I could not restrain an invol- 
 untary thrill of pride. I, in my lifetime, reproduced 
 in a statue ! It was a beautiful dream. It does not 
 happen to everybody. Wellington was the only man 
 who could, upon looking out of his window, contem- 
 plate himself beneath the helmet of Achilles. I, if 
 my heart bade me do it, could go when I chose to 
 Garigat-sur- Garonne and gaze at my image in bronze 
 face to face. It is a flattering thing, you will admit. 
 It is much more flattering than a photograph. 
 
 But, in my soul and conscience, I did not think of 
 myself and of that apotheosis in the bright sunlight of 
 Gascogne. No. I thought only of Montescure, I 
 was concerned only for the memory of the poor con- 
 sumptive musician of the Theatre de Montmartre, the 
 author of a face worthy of a sculptor of the Renais- 
 sance. You know me now, you know if I conceal 
 the depths of my soul. I am a limpid creature, and 
 I am proud of it. 
 
 I was therefore legitimately interested in finding 
 out where and when the statue would be cast. I was 
 well acquainted with a foreman in the establishment
 
 244 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 of Thibaut, one Laurengot. The Roman was to be 
 cast in his foundry and he promised to give me the 
 word. I could not sleep. The casting ! To see a 
 casting close at hand ! Parbleu, I had seen one ! 
 Indeed I had played the act of the casting in Ben- 
 venuto Cellini with Meringue. I carried him the cup 
 that he needed to complete tits Jupiter, because the 
 metal ran short it had been stolen by Pagolo, as 
 you know, little Pagolo, a young whelp. And I had 
 myself played Benvenuto at Perpignan, and it was 
 one of my triumphs, in spite of Baculard ! Ah ! 
 when I cried : " My life for a hundred pounds of 
 pewter ! Where can we find metal ? Wood is 
 procured from beams and furniture. But copper ? " 
 I promise you the audience shuddered. They shud- 
 dered like a single person. But I had never seen a 
 casting off the stage. It is always a mistake not to 
 make a study of things after nature. Now, after I 
 have seen metal in a state of fusion, I could speak 
 Benvenuto's lines with unexpected effect, with a more 
 human, more profound sorrow. " Ah / if blood could 
 but be hardened into bronze!" How I could say 
 that to-day ! 
 
 A casting ! why, it is a whole drama in itself ! My 
 friend had notified me ; I was to be at the Thibaut 
 foundry, near the Arc de Triomphe, at eight o'clock 
 in the morning. I was on hand. I pass through a 
 long courtyard crowded with moulds, busts, and bas-
 
 THE CASTING. 245 
 
 reliefs ; an employe" asks me what I require ; I give 
 my name, mentioning Lauren9Ot, the foreman, and, 
 through a vast shed used as a storehouse, where I 
 can catch glimpses of incomplete things, legs of 
 generals, giants' arms holding torches, trunks of 
 angels with their wings, heads of bewigged magis- 
 trates, a pot-pourri of persons and divinities, debris 
 of illustrious characters, plaster casts of old statues 
 already dedicated or fragments of statues to be dedi- 
 cated, odds and ends of monuments and great men 
 I reach the foundry where the operation of casting 
 is to take place. 
 
 There were some curious spectators there, as for a 
 dress rehearsal, invited by the founder, or delegated 
 by the mayor of Garigat-sur-Garonne, I cannot say 
 which. 
 
 But I felt that no one of them experienced the 
 same emotion as myself: in the first place, because I 
 was thinking of poor Montescure when he sent his 
 Roman to the Salon, and secondly because I said to 
 myself that it was I, Se'bastien Brichanteau, whom 
 they were about to cast ! I saw that one of those 
 present made a movement and gazed fixedly at me. 
 And I divined his thought. 
 
 " There is a man who strangely resembles Claude- 
 Andre' Montescure's Roman warrior ! " he was 
 thinking. 
 
 And I longed to go to him and say :
 
 246 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 " It is not surprising ; that warrior is myself? " 
 
 Perhaps you have never seen a casting, monsieur? 
 The copper and zinc are melted in a sort of oven, 
 that has been kept white hot for many hours, and like 
 a stream of lava they pierce the bed of sand on which 
 they rest at first, then trickle, in liquid form, through 
 a sort of trench into a vat or receptacle which a crane 
 worked by machinery picks up and empties, as if it 
 were a pail, into the hollow mould prepared near by, 
 on another bed of sand. You cannot see the mould, 
 for it is buried, as it were, under a covering of bricks 
 and earth. The statue is born and takes shape in a 
 sort of tomb. 
 
 An old workman, familiar with the operation, 
 dipped the end of an iron bar in the oven where 
 the metals were melting. His hand and forearm 
 were protected by an enormously thick glove, burns 
 being very easily obtained in such work, as you can 
 imagine, and very dangerous. And we all waited, 
 with our eyes fixed on the trench through which the 
 liquid was soon to escape in a state of fusion. 
 
 Whatever one may be doing, his actions resemble 
 what we see on the stage. Say what you please, life 
 is unwritten drama. I watched the trench as I have 
 watched the curtain before it rose. Was the metal 
 melting? Was it coming, or would it miss its entree, 
 I mean its exit ! Come, clear the stage ! And no one 
 spoke ; everybody was anxious. At last a few drops
 
 THE CASTING. 247 
 
 of metal appeared, making rifts in the bed of sand, 
 incandescent lumps, so to speak, and suddenly 
 there were no more drops, but a luminous jet, all 
 white, with red or green or yellow vapors, coppery 
 vapors, an enormous jet that leaps into the vat 
 amid clouds of many-colored smoke ; a fantastic illu- 
 mination, with a great spattering of tiny drops of 
 yellow or purple fire. I had always regretted that I 
 had never been present at an eruption of Vesuvius. 
 But there it was before me I have seen a volcanic 
 eruption ! That stream of molten metal was a crater 
 in petto, a flood of burning lava. 
 
 And I said to myself : 
 
 " That metal, Brichanteau, is your image still in 
 liquid form ! That bronze in fusion is your statue ! 
 That blazing stream is perhaps your forehead ; those 
 bursts of flame are from your eyes ! " 
 
 A peculiar sensation. The stream cast fantastic 
 reflections on the ceiling of the foundry, on the 
 enormous machines, on the beams. A most ex- 
 cellent light for the Brocken scene if I ever should 
 play Faust. And the massive heads of the workmen, 
 the bare-armed founders, very calm in that severe 
 labor, flushed or turned sallow, but remained always 
 impassive in the gleam of those vapors of hell. 
 
 Then the receptacle of the metal was lifted bodily 
 at the end of an enormous iron hook by a revolving 
 crane which, when it reached a point just above
 
 248 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 where the mould was waiting, emptied all that lava 
 automatically through a tunnel, with a smooth, 
 regular flow, into the hollow space formed by the 
 earthen mould of the statue; and the liquid metal 
 was moulded by the walls of that hollow, the gaping 
 hole began to assume human shape ; my image was 
 born amid billows of green and red vapor, amid the 
 streams of metal that leaped and bounded and 
 rolled with every movement of the immense bucket 
 that rapidly poured forth the burning liquid. 
 
 And at each bucketful that the crane lifted into 
 the air, swinging the incandescent metal through 
 the foundry, to empty it into the tunnel, I said to 
 myself : 
 
 " If there only is enough of the metal ! The 
 statue is a large one ! It is an enormous statue ! 
 Will the metal give out, as in Benvenuto ? Suppose 
 the metal should give out ! " 
 
 And strangely enough, my whole part came back to 
 me, although I had not opened the book for years, 
 my whole part, as if I had read it over that very 
 morning. 
 
 " Ah ! man Dieu ! my brain is whirling, my knees 
 give way, my eyes are blurred. Can it be that what I 
 so dreaded is to happen ? Can it be that my strength 
 will come to an end before my work? No, no, I 
 command thee to resist, thou iron body ! Wilt thou 
 not obey, inert matter?"
 
 THE CASTING. 249 
 
 I was no longer in the fotmdry, I was on the stage. 
 Once more Benvenuto became flesh in my person. 
 I was not present as an anxious spectator at a toil- 
 some task, but at a drama in which I was playing the 
 leading role. I would have burned the beams of the 
 studio or thrown my cane into the furnace so that 
 the metal should not fail. It did not fail. Indeed 
 there was a little too much, which was allowed to 
 cool in the moulds. My friend the foreman said : 
 
 " Excellent. That will do for the Brazilian general ! " 
 
 A Brazilian general to whom honors were rendered 
 for overthrowing the government he had founded. 
 An equestrian statue, that, as it should be. When a 
 man has overturned his own government ! 
 
 In fact, nothing was lacking. There is no lack of 
 metal or of statues to-day. 
 
 " Well, there 's your effigy completed, Brichanteau," 
 said the foreman, in an undertone, nudging me with 
 his elbow. 
 
 I was cast like Cellini's Jupiter. 
 
 It was a unique spectacle to me. I imagined my- 
 self taking shape under that covering of brick and 
 stone; I said to myself that I should soon appear 
 from my grave beneath that masonry, when the 
 metal should have cooled, in all the pride of the 
 pose Montescure had given me. And it seemed to 
 me that that fiery metal was blood, the lava of my 
 veins, all that I have given to art, all that art has
 
 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 taken from me, all that art has not given back to 
 me ! 
 
 But after all, what does it matter? I have had my 
 hours, as I have often told you, and the casting of the 
 Roman Passing under the Yoke is one of those hours, 
 monsieur, one of the most memorable of all. I have 
 been well loved in my life, often deceived, I might 
 almost say always deceived, but well loved. Ap- 
 plauded I have been, as well. Much applauded. 
 Frantically, sometimes. But neither love nor cheers 
 have ever given me the delicious sensation that I 
 experienced when I saw myself, first, in the form of 
 lava, and secondly in the form of a statue. 
 
 " Yes, a few days later, when the metal had cooled, 
 they broke the shell of masonry in which it was en- 
 closed. Laurencot had invited me again to see that 
 process. I may say that, after experiencing, as I 
 looked at the mound where my image was buried, a 
 sensation analogous to that of Charles V. attending his 
 own burial, I felt a satisfaction that the omnipotent 
 rival of Hernani never had, could never have had. 
 Think of this, imagine this : more blessed than my 
 most illustrious contemporaries, I have seen myself 
 emerge from the earth in the form of a statue. 
 
 I leaned over the trench in which lay Montescure's 
 Roman, and, gazing at that pure brow, those con- 
 tracted eyebrows, I said to myself ay, better than 
 that, I cried aloud, before Thibaut's whole force :
 
 THE CASTING. 251 
 
 " It is I ! " 
 
 And it was I, in truth ! And everybody recognized 
 it and recognized me, everybody, from Monsieur 
 Thibaut himself to Laurencot, his foreman. It was 
 a protest against the injustice of Art, represented by a 
 vanquished sculptor with the features of one protesting 
 against the bitterness of defeat. It was myself, with 
 all my untamed ardor and all the obstinacy of my 
 courage. 
 
 I leaned over that great brazen image, lying there 
 in the open trench, as I had seen, after the Commune, 
 the French Caesar lying on the pile of debris in Place 
 Vendome ; but my image was intact, and I said 
 to myself, by way of consolation for my disappoint- 
 ments : 
 
 " Wipe your eyes, Brichanteau ! Or if ever you 
 weep with rage, be proud, Brichanteau, my friend, for 
 you have there glory that Musset does not know, and 
 never will know perhaps. Soldier of art, you will 
 stand in the public square, with the features of a 
 soldier of the fatherland." 
 
 Ah! what joy was mine that day! joy mingled 
 with sadness, for I thought, I thought all the time 
 of poor Montescure, and my eyes were dimmed 
 with tears, not of anger but of pity. Oh ! you could 
 have seen them ; they were there, I promise you, they 
 were there. But enough ! " 
 
 I had at that time an illusion that I should witness,
 
 252 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 soon after the casting, the dedication of the monu- 
 ment at Garigat-sur-Garonne. I really believed in 
 the dedication. But politics must meddle in every- 
 thing and crush the noblest artistic manifestations. 
 
 The mayor of Garigat-sur-Garonne, being suspected 
 of some knavery or other, was deposed by the Minister 
 of the Interior, and the Municipal Council protested 
 against all the plans of the unfaithful magistrate, all 
 his plans, even, so ran the resolution, against the 
 best. 
 
 And the best of all his plans was assuredly the 
 erection of Montescure's statue on the square of his 
 native place. It would have been superb. Monsieur 
 Falguiere had been asked to come down and preside 
 at the ceremony in costume, and the prefect had 
 promised to be present with a general of division. I 
 had obtained a piece of poetry from one of the editors 
 of the D/peche de Toulouse, and he had written it in 
 the expectation of receiving therefor the ribbon of 
 an officer of the Academy. Furthermore, Cazenave, 
 Cazenave the deputy, had composed expressly for 
 the occasion a little play for two persons, La Muse 
 et le Sculpteur, to be performed in one of the halls at 
 the mayoralty. 
 
 And I, who was ambitious of no preferment, pro- 
 posed to recite something before my own image at 
 the public festivities in the open air, and I had even 
 made some notes for a lecture which I would have
 
 THE CASTING. 253 
 
 been glad to deliver at the theatre of Garigat-sur- 
 Garonne, or at any wine- shop in town if there were no 
 theatre there : 
 
 " One of the Vanquished of Art, study by one who 
 protests against the injustice of the stage. Sculpture 
 and the Theatre. The Marble and the Boards" 
 
 And I would have told my contemporaries some 
 truths on that day, I believe ! 
 
 Some one might have asked me by what right I 
 assumed to speak. 
 
 "What ! by what right?" I would have answered. 
 " Look at Montescure's Roman. That Roman is 
 myself!" 
 
 And in front, in profile, in general effect, it is I. 
 I symbolize all griefs, all protests, all vengeance. 
 
 The hatred of the Municipal Council for the mayor 
 has thus far prevented any ceremony. Moreover, one 
 of those wretched so-called primordial questions sud- 
 denly arose, vulgar but decisive. Montescure's native 
 town has no money. It has no money to defray the 
 final expenses, to pay the cost of the base as estimated 
 by the architect. It was a paltry sum, but the ques- 
 tion of the statue having become a political question, 
 everything was suspended. If the treasury had been 
 full to overflowing, they would not have voted the 
 money, in order to administer a final cuff to the dis- 
 credited mayor? The poor devil who dreamed of 
 the red ribbon ! So the pedestal is in place at Gari-
 
 254 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 gat-sur-Garonne, but there is no Roman on the ped- 
 estal. Evil fortune pursues Montescure even beyond 
 the tomb, and my image does not stand, as it deserves, 
 in the bright sunlight. 
 
 Ah ! politics ! Politics and money, disgusting, 
 inevitable money ! 
 
 And the statue remains at Garigat-sur- Garonne, in 
 a shed, as Lord Byron's long remained and, it may be, 
 still remains in the London Custom- House, as Mon- 
 sieur Thiers' has unhappily been relegated to a corner 
 of the Museum at Marseille. 
 
 And I await the reparation due to the hapless 
 Montescure ; I await the day when my image, veiled 
 at first, shall finally appear beneath the Southern sky, 
 to the notes of the Marseillaise. But I have an idea. 
 I mean to organize, I am now organizing, a gala per- 
 formance at the Theatre des Batignolles, for the 
 benefit of Montescure's statue. It is decided. My 
 programme is made out. All the great names appear. 
 I will beg, I will scheme, I will ascend the carpeted 
 stairs of my comrades who have succeeded ! I will 
 enact for another the exhausting role of beneficiary ! 
 I will hold out, for others, this loyal hand that has 
 never asked aught from anybody ! I will be the 
 Beggar for the Vanquished, it would be a fine 
 title, as I have been the Children's Doctor and 
 the Poor Mean's Lawyer! 
 
 And when I have supplied the municipality of Gar-
 
 THE CASTING. 255 
 
 igat-sur-Garonne with the funds of which it stands in 
 need, I may rest content with my work and say to 
 the spectre of the Montmartre musician : 
 
 " Are you satisfied, Montescure ! Has not Bri- 
 chanteau the actor kept his oath? " 
 
 On that day, which will surely dawn at last, for I 
 have sworn it, I will forget all the mortifications of my 
 life. I shall be repaid. And I trust that I shall be 
 allowed to add one last paragraph to my lecture : 
 
 " The Bronze and the Drama. Study of the life and 
 works of Claude-Andr Montescure, sculptor, and of 
 Sbastien Brichanteau, his model."
 
 IX. 
 
 THE LATE PANAZOL. 
 
 POOR Panazol is dead ! We attended his body, the 
 other morning, to the cemetery at Montmartre, where 
 he had purchased a lot long ago and erected a little 
 monument to suit his own taste, a cheerful monu- 
 ment, the estimates for which he examined himself and 
 superintended its erection, going to the marble yard 
 exactly as he went to rehearsals. Panazol, who had 
 always been neat and elegant in his attire, was deter- 
 mined that that last garment of stone should be in 
 consonance with his life. 
 
 A man of great talents was Panazol ! For my part, 
 I was very fond of him. A little old-fashioned, with 
 a tremolo in his voice and his hand invariably thrust 
 into his hair when he made a declaration of love ; but 
 a genuine jeune premier, who knew how to kiss a 
 woman's hand as nobody else did, and to kneel with- 
 out making himself ridiculous. Ah ! I have depicted 
 passions, but Panazol could give me points ! Rivals 
 on the stage, rivals in society, but always friends, 
 good friends.
 
 THE LATE PANAZOL. 257 
 
 And he is dead. He had left the stage in the full 
 vigor of his powers. The devil of a fellow he 
 might have run a long career, but he did not want to 
 grow old. To change his line would have seemed a 
 dishonorable thing to him. He was used to being 
 loved, he wanted to be loved always. On the day 
 when he discovered that he had too many gray hairs 
 and a tooth that was decaying, he gave his farewell 
 performance, made his bow to the public, wept a little 
 and retired to Asnieres, to a small house, but dainty 
 like himself, and there he lived, saying to himself : 
 
 " There are no jeunes premiers left ! " 
 
 His monument at Montmartre interested him infi- 
 nitely. He busied himself with having carved upon 
 it a list of his best roles, in two columns divided by an 
 extinct torch, torch of glory, or torch of love, I 
 know not which ; Panazol is no longer here to tell us. 
 He died last week, in his little house at Asnieres, and 
 it is wrong to say that one's comrades of the stage 
 are ungrateful ; we were there, a considerable num- 
 ber of us, before the doorway draped in black, and 
 we almost all accompanied him from Asnieres to 
 Montmartre. 
 
 To tell the truth, it was a very mild day ; winter 
 seemed to have declared a truce. We found old 
 friends there, old, very old comrades, men and women, 
 old women with white hair, who had formerly been 
 pretty brunettes or lovely blondes. We said to one
 
 258 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 another : " Ah ! Angele, or Irene, or Martinard, or 
 Durandel ! Dear Chevrier ! Dear Duverdy ! " For 
 they were all, I tell you, almost all, the late Panazol's 
 comrades ! Panazol had never been jealous or stern 
 or ill-natured. We remembered him pleasantly and 
 we brought him flowers. 
 
 Ah ! he had a fine funeral ! with some unforeseen 
 episodes, I ought to say. The family it consisted 
 of one nephew only had placed at our disposal two 
 funeral omnibuses, to take us from Asnieres to Mont- 
 martre. A very modern invention that. And very 
 convenient when you are with people you know well. 
 If it 's a long ride you can talk. Luckily, we were all 
 well acquainted. Yes, there was Duverdy, former 
 third role at the Gaiete', Martinard, who played comic 
 parts, Topinet, excellent in the role of a doting old 
 man, and women, young women and women past 
 their prime, the latter because they had known 
 Panazol loved him, perhaps ; who knows ? the 
 younger ones because they were inquisitive and 
 hoped that some reporter would put their names in 
 his paper. 
 
 Behold us en route, in our omnibus, elbow to elbow, 
 knee to knee, slightly crowded. 
 
 "Full!" said Duverdy. 
 
 " No transfers ! " rejoined Topinet. 
 
 We were not very lively at first. Through the 
 windows of the omnibus and over the black cruppers
 
 THE LATE PANAZOL. 259 
 
 of the horses we could see the funeral car advancing 
 slowly, slowly, covered with wreaths that were tossed 
 up and down by the jolting over the pavements. As 
 we crossed the bridge we looked at the Seine rolling 
 by, its gray stream made muddy by the rain. 
 
 Some one observed : 
 
 " This would n't be a very good day for rowing ! " 
 
 Whereupon one of the women replied : 
 
 " Oh ! hardly anybody rows nowadays ! They 
 ride the bicyclette ! " 
 
 "Very bad exercise for women," said Chevrier. 
 " They will find it out later." 
 
 "And for men too, young men especially," added 
 Martinard. " It makes them hunchbacked ! " 
 
 I said nothing myself, although I am generally 
 ready to talk ; I was listening. I was lost in thought. 
 I listened and thought of Panazol. I saw him again, 
 young, brilliant, impassioned, his eyes flashing fire, 
 playing Mont^clain in La Closerie des Genets at 
 Versailles, and giving me my cue in Hernani at 
 Montpellier. I, Hernani ; he, Don Carlos ! A fine 
 evening ! And now poor Panazol, so applauded by 
 the public, adored by women, was jolting slowly along 
 in his last oaken bed toward the little stone house, 
 whose plan, shape, and foundation he had discussed 
 with the architect. 
 
 And I found that no one said much about him in 
 that funeral omnibus, which, having passed the forti-
 
 260 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 fications, was now following the long, broad, desolate 
 streets of the suburbs. No, they did not say much 
 about him, not enough indeed. 
 
 " Poor Panazol ! " I suddenly exclaimed, pointing 
 to some men who removed their hats as the cortege 
 passed. " It 's the last time any one will salute 
 him ! " 
 
 " Oh ! yes," said Martinard with a laugh, " those 
 salutes gave me a deuce of a lesson in modesty the 
 other day, on my word ! Fancy that, as I was going 
 down Avenue de POp6ra, toward the Palais-Royal, 
 my former temple, I met a gentleman who took off 
 his hat. Good. ' There 's some one who knows 
 me,' I said to myself. I returned his salutation and 
 kept on my way. Two steps beyond, another gen- 
 tleman, another salute. I took off my hat politely. 
 A third gentleman coming toward me, a third salute. 
 ' Well, well,' I said to myself, ' this is fame, pure 
 fame ! ' And I thought : ' After all, Martinard, the 
 public has n't forgotten you, although the photographs 
 of younger men have taken the place of yours in the 
 stationers' shop-windows ! ' And I was proud, yes, 
 on my word, proud as you please. Suddenly I passed 
 a lady, who, as she approached me, made the sign of 
 the cross. A flash of light. I turned. Do you 
 know what I was doing, my children ? I was walk- 
 ing a few steps in front of a hearse, covered with 
 flowers like this one, which was going down Avenue
 
 THE LATE PANAZOL. 26 1 
 
 de POp6ra on its way to Montparnasse. The saluta- 
 tions were addressed to the dead. My fame was 
 simply courtesy to the defunct. And so, as I said 
 before, the incident reinforced my modesty ! " 
 
 "That's a very good story," observed Topinet. 
 " Old Martinard ! He 's always on his mettle ! He 's 
 the man to tell a story oh ! he is ! " 
 
 And the women began to laugh. 
 
 Reminiscences of the stage. Evocation of years 
 gone by. And the "Do you remember? Did you 
 see me?" or " Did you see him?" 
 
 We raked up anecdotes about Panazol, his begin- 
 nings, his youth. Duverdy recalled the years of 
 hardship endured by our Panazol, who was to be so 
 applauded later ! 
 
 " When I think that I played in La Tour de Nesle 
 with him ! " 
 
 " La Tour de Nesle ? " 
 
 " La Tour de Nesle. And Panazol played Gaultier 
 d'Aulnay ! " 
 
 " Panazol, the king of fashion, in tights ! in peaked 
 shoes ! I would have liked to see him ! " 
 
 That tights came in so drolly, uttered like a sigh by 
 Irene Gauthier, once so pretty ah ! yes, the hussy ! 
 that the whole omnibus laughed. To think of the 
 poor dead man, who was being jolted along through 
 the streets, to think of him in Middle-Age doublet 
 and tights, half pink and half purple !
 
 262 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 And Duverdy, who was very glad of an opportunity 
 to put himself forward, the holder of a diploma in 
 belles lettres was Duverdy, who had dropped his prey 
 for its shadow, and was now a disgruntled strolling 
 player, Duverdy went on to tell his story of La 
 Tour de Nesle. It was an amusing story, by the 
 way. 
 
 " That performance of La Tour de Nesle at Lille was 
 one of our pleasant memories, Panazol's and mine ! 
 Pleasant because I made it pleasant, for the even- 
 ing began coldly, very coldly. In the first place 
 there was snow in the air, and snow, oh ! snow is the 
 death of the theatre, it 's a pneumatic machine for 
 the box-office and gives a whole audience the rheu- 
 matism. We were playing La Tour de Nesle 
 January 3Oth. I have a memory like a pedometer. 
 I had consented to play Orsini ; my line at that 
 time was Buridan, but I let Dalvimar take it, as he 
 had asked it of me as a favor. The daughter of a 
 bailiff on Rue Esquermoise, who was in love with 
 him, was determined to marry him in spite of her 
 family, and she took her parents to the theatre to 
 prove to them that Dalvimar had a future before 
 him." 
 
 The whole audience was already much amused by 
 the story. 
 
 " That 's very good ! The examination for mar- 
 riage ! "
 
 THE LATE PANAZOL. 263 
 
 " Was Dalvimar engaged by the bailiff ? " 
 
 " He was that. And after marrying him his wife 
 ran away with a tenor from the Grand Theatre ! " 
 
 " Never trust a female bailiff! " 
 
 And while the passers-by saluted Panazol's funeral- 
 car, Duverdy continued his story, declaimed it, put it 
 on the stage and mouthed a little in my style, when I 
 am in a talkative mood. 
 
 " So I was playing Orsini. I played it well. But 
 that audience of pasteboard, that audience of stone 
 seemed frozen stiff. It didn't budge an inch. In 
 vain did I roll my eyes and my r's, it ' made no more 
 sound than a piece of wood.' Said poor Panazol : 
 ' Suppose we hand them some warming-pans ? ' Not 
 a single hit. The second tableau, in the tower, came 
 to an end without a shudder. And yet it was in that 
 tableau that I said, with a telling accent I am 
 proud of it : 'A glorious night for a debauch in the 
 tower ! The sky is dark, the rain is falling, the city 
 is asleep ! The river rises as if to go to meet the 
 bodies of the dead ! 'T is glorious weather to love ! 
 Without, the pealing of the thunder ! Within, the 
 clinking of glasses, and kisses and words of love ! 
 A strange concert, wherein God and Satan each have 
 their part ! ' Those phrases have resonance and 
 grandeur in your ears. But basta ! the good 
 people of Lille heard nothing. They did not see the 
 grandeur. They did not feel. I was furious, oh !
 
 264 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 furious ! Panazol tried to calm me, in the wings. 
 Useless ! I fumed and fumed. But suddenly an 
 idea passed through my mind : ' These people must 
 be interested ! The Paris of Louis le Hutin and 
 Enguerrand de Marigny does n't appeal to them ; 
 very good, then we '11 talk to them about Lille, the 
 blackguards ! You will see, my good Flemish audi- 
 ence, you will see ! ' I waited till the fourth act, 
 Orsini's tavern, the same stage-setting as in the first 
 act ; and at the rising of the curtain, when Orsini is 
 alone and cries : ' Go to, meseems that there is 
 naught to do this evening at the Tour de Nesle ; 't is 
 better so, for all this blood that has been shed must 
 surely fall on some one, and woe to him whom God 
 shall choose to undergo this expiation ! ' I did not 
 hesitate, I improvised a speech, a speech of my own ; 
 I stitched it to the text of Dumas Pere and Gail- 
 lardet, and I went on : ' Yes, woe to him who shall 
 be chosen for this expiation, for the hour of justice 
 draws nigh, and when the Austrian bullets rained 
 upon the suburbs of Lille, when in a memorable siege 
 the gunners of Lille in 1792 heroically withstood the 
 foreigner, well might they think that God would no 
 more punish the invader than he has hitherto pun- 
 ished Marguerite de Bourgogne ; but the haughty 
 Austrian archduchess who hoped to reduce Lille to 
 ashes was foiled, in history and before posterity, and 
 I, Orsini, the humble inn-keeper of Porte Saint-
 
 THE LATE PANAZOL. 265 
 
 Honore", declare that Lille, the heroic city of Lille, 
 has deserved well of the country ! ' Ah ! my chil- 
 dren, then you should have seen the effect ! The 
 audience rose as if aroused, inflamed, by an electric 
 spark. Cheers, stamping, and shouts of : ' Encore / 
 Encore! Vive le siege de Lille / Bravo, Orsini /' I 
 tried to speak. Impossible. They cried again and 
 again : ' Encore ! encore I ' Faith, I did n't stand on 
 ceremony. I repeated my words. I spoke again of 
 the gunners of Lille, of the shells, of 92, and the 
 same deafening clamor arose when I had finished. 
 At that moment my comrade .Lardenoy, Marie Lar- 
 denoy, who played Marguerite, knocked again and 
 again at the door. It was time for her entree. I 
 said : ' Who goes there ? ' ' Open / ' * The queen, 
 alone at this hour ? ' And the queen entered. She 
 began to speak the words of the play. She was 
 awaiting Buridan. She dismissed Orsini. ' Leave 
 me alone. 1 And I replied : ' If the Queen has need 
 of me her servant will be at hand!' 1 ' 'Tzs well. 
 But let the servant remember that he must hear 
 naught!' That was her rejoinder. To which I had 
 to reply, 'He will be deaf as he will be dumb? and 
 then exit. But I thought it very tame to make my 
 exit after that sentence, and I added, again amid the 
 acclamations of the whole theatre : ' He will be deaf 
 as he will be dumb, except when the memory of the 
 siege of Lille shall make his heart beat high with
 
 266 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 pride ! ' Thereupon, my children, this thing hap- 
 pened for the only time perhaps in the history of 
 the stage Orsini, a subordinate third role, imme- 
 diately took first place in the minds of the audience, 
 and the whole applauding, stamping hall shouted for 
 Orsini/ Orsini f during the great scenes between 
 Marguerite and Buridan. 
 
 " ' 'T is not the gypsy,' said Marguerite, recoiling, 
 ' No, 't is the captain ! ' Buridan replied. But the 
 audience yelled : ' No gypsy ! No captain ! Orsini ! 
 Orsini ! Orsini ! Or-si-ni ! ' They must have Orsini, 
 they demanded Orsini. Orsini every moment ! 
 Orsini forever ! Observe that Orsini doesn't appear 
 again except to say, * Yes, madamej and escort Mar- 
 guerite to the dungeon in the Grand-Chatelet where 
 Buridan is confined in chains, in the fourth to 
 receive an order, and in the fifth to commit a final 
 crime. But on that occasion he had to appear in 
 every tableau, almost in every scene, and to inject, 
 even in the Louvre, some reminder of the siege of 
 Lille. Thus, at the review of the troops by Louis X., 
 when the officer of the guards cried : ' Make way for 
 the king ! Make way for the queen ! Make way for 
 the prime minister ! ' Orsini added : ' Make way 
 for the memory of our dear city of Lille that faced 
 shot and shell so bravely ! ' Ah ! my children, that 
 was a unique evening, a memorable evening ! I wish 
 you may have many such ! Our poor Panazol con-
 
 THE LATE PANAZOL. 267 
 
 stantly spoke of it whenever I saw him. I have 
 always had the knack of melting a frozen audience ! 
 But it takes presence of mind, you see ! " 
 
 " And erudition ! " said I, mechanically, thinking 
 of Compiegne and the famous performance of 
 Louis XL 
 
 " And impudence," said Martinard. 
 
 " And there you are," concluded Topinet. 
 
 The audience at the Lille theatre was not the only 
 thing that Duverdy had melted, for the whole funeral 
 omnibus went through the same process. We had 
 now reached the chapter of old memories. They 
 rose like coveys of partridges. Martinard described 
 his provincial tours, Topinet gave imitations of his 
 colleagues in days gone by. He had known Grassot, 
 who amused a whole generation by shaking his right 
 hand like a man with the palsy, and saying : " Gnouf! 
 gnoufj" Topinet repeated, " Gnouf / gnouf! " like 
 Grassot. And everybody laughed. Each one told his 
 own experiences. As we were disputing about an old 
 couplet that Arnal sang in Riche d* Amour, Irene 
 Gauthier, who had once had a sweet voice, began to 
 sing it. And Durandet, waxing eloquent over the 
 couplets de facture, which, he said, ought not to be 
 neglected as they were, quoted a multitude of them, 
 sentimental couplets, amusing couplets and did 
 it so well that the whole omnibus applauded, and 
 from time to time rang with shouts of laughter.
 
 268 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 "Do you remember his phrasing in Le Piano de 
 Berthe ? " 
 
 And some one would repeat the lines. 
 " And this one, do you know it ? " 
 Thereupon Durandet would sing another : 
 
 " Mes bons amis, 
 Mes chers amis, 
 Vive la vie, 
 Et la folie ! " 
 
 to the air of fen guette un petit de mon age, or Le 
 Carillon de Dunkerque. 
 
 Then they started a chorus. Panazol was forgot- 
 ten ! It was like a picnic in the country. If it had 
 been summer, we should have halted for refreshment 
 at some wine-shop. We were very lively. 
 
 " Listen to this," said Topinet, singing to the tune 
 of Voila le vrai troupier fran$ais : 
 
 " Voila, voila, voila, voila, 
 Voila 1'enterrement parfait ! " 
 
 As we approached our journey's end, however, we 
 laughed less. We arrived at the Montmartre ceme- 
 tery. Very gravely now, walking slowly, with our 
 sorrowful expressions, we followed with measured step 
 the funeral car to the bit of earth where we were 
 about to part from our friend forever. We walked 
 among the graves, not losing sight of the bearers, to 
 the spot where the monument stands, erected in his 
 lifetime by good Panazol. A stone, laid beside the
 
 THE LATE PANAZOL. 269 
 
 yawning trench, and a marble shaft, neatly fluted, with 
 the two columns of roles separated by the famous 
 extinct torch, and above, among the carved laurel- 
 wreaths, this name, this simple name, cut hi letters of 
 gold, with an alpha and an omega above (two Greek 
 letters, as perhaps you know) , the name so often 
 printed upon the posters of the Morris pillars : 
 PANAZOL. 
 
 He is there ! 
 
 The cortege halts. We stand about in a circle, 
 jostling one another to obtain places near the orators 
 who are to speak. I glance at the orators. They 
 are Valbousquet the jeune premier comique of the 
 Folies-Dramatiques who is to speak in the name of 
 the younger generation and salute the veteran of the 
 theatrical battles of the old days, and Maurevel, who 
 is to speak first in the name of the Association of 
 Dramatic Artists. A well-read man, Maurevel, man 
 of letters in his leisure hours, and he has published a 
 volume of reminiscences, During the Entr'Acte: 
 Opinions and Studies. I commend it to you. 
 
 I watch them, I study them. When one is no 
 longer on the stage, one takes his turn at being a 
 spectator. 
 
 Maurevel has a solemn air, and little Valbousquet is 
 very pale, as pale as his white cravat. It is the first 
 time he has ever buried any one ; he is agitated. 
 Maurevel, an old stager, has more self-possession.
 
 2/O BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 He has followed so many funeral processions ! And 
 then he knows how to talk. He has lectured at the 
 Batignolles Athenaeum on the art of diction and the 
 thoughts of poets, and is the author of divers reports 
 to the Association of Artists. 
 
 The priest repeats the prayers and blesses the 
 grave. The orators step forward. Panazol, stretched 
 out on his bier, is about to witness the apotheosis of 
 his life of toil. I must say that we were all moved. 
 Yes, all. As much so as little Valbousquet. Even 
 those who had laughed the loudest just before in the 
 omnibus, even they felt a tightness about the heart. 
 As I saw Maurevel advance, erect and dignified, with 
 his paper in his hand and his arm extended, a huge 
 arm, trimmed with astrakhan like the collar of his 
 top-coat, I said to myself : 
 
 " Dear Panazol, listen and be content ! It is your 
 last/' 1 
 
 And now Maurevel begins. Never in my life shall 
 I forget what he said. He has a fine resonant voice, 
 less startling than mine ; it would not have made 
 Monsieur Beauvallet jealous, but it 's a fine voice. 
 " Messieurs," he said, and that Messieurs filled the 
 cemetery, imposed silence, 
 
 " Messieurs, the man we mourn, our talented, most 
 rarely talented comrade, whom we attend to his last 
 abode, was, in the fullest meaning of the term, an 
 artist, a creator, an actor. He was not content to be
 
 THE LATE PANAZOL. 
 
 an ornament to his profession, he honored it. If 
 Panazol has died with his head crowned with green 
 laurel but without the red ribbon in his buttonhole, it 
 is because he was an artist and not an office-holder, 
 and because he never solicited that arbitrary symbol 
 of transitory worth, which has descended, borne upon 
 the wings of favor, upon too many breasts whose just 
 claim to it may be contested." 
 
 The phrase created an impression. It is generally 
 cold in the cemetery, but there are mute thrills that 
 are worth as much as flattering murmurs. 
 
 "It is, then, messieurs, an actor, and nothing 
 but an actor, a comrade, and nothing but a comrade, 
 whom we escort to-day on his journey to that field of 
 rest to which we all must go. Having been a witness 
 of the life and triumphs of our illustrious comrade, it 
 falls to my lot to render impartial homage to Panazol, 
 to his merits, to his worth, in the face of all men. 
 Rejected at all the examinations of the Conservatory, 
 Jean- Jacques- Edgar Panazol was, we may say, the 
 son of his own labor and his talent. He made him- 
 self, he created himself. 
 
 " I knew him in his youth, and I shared my roles 
 with him, I can fairly say, without jealousy, without 
 vanity, without objection. He was then in that 
 period of hesitation which all of us or almost 
 all have passed through, and in which we study 
 ourselves, our qualities and our defects, with close
 
 2/2 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 attention. These defects were numerous in Panazol. 
 A pronunciation often defective, a gait which I will 
 describe as incorrect, a timidity which bordered on 
 awkwardness, gave as yet no promise of the actor 
 that Panazol eventually became. You will forgive 
 me, my dear comrade, you will pardon my loyal 
 frankness, nay, rather you would have urged it upon 
 me, you would have demanded it of me yourself. In 
 these days I shall not astonish you, I shall astonish 
 nobody by saying it may well be admitted after so 
 many glorious triumphs that you were, except on 
 rare occasions, notoriously bad ! " 
 
 Stupefaction among the audience. We looked at 
 one another, somewhat terrified. 
 
 But Maurevel, brushing aside all our amazement 
 and raising his great arm with its circle of astrakhan, 
 continued : 
 
 " If I make that statement, my old friend, it is 
 that I may with the more force proclaim the victo- 
 ries you won after that period of hesitation and ill- 
 fortune. What charming evenings we owe to you ! 
 What emotions ! What noble memories ! 
 
 " Beyond question, messieurs, Panazol often made 
 the mistake of attempting certain roles for which he 
 was not fitted. We remember the ill-success, exag- 
 gerated and unjust be it said, that he met with in 
 D'Artagnan. But what a characteristic stamp of his 
 individuality he imprinted upon the role of the pa-
 
 THE LATE PANAZOL. 2/3 
 
 triot suspected of treason in Le Bourgeois de Gand! 
 He made the mistake being physically adapted for 
 jetme premier roles in genre comedies, light, artificial 
 comedies of attempting one fine day, through 
 caprice, to attack the classical repertory. There his 
 absolute lack of all preliminary study was too pain- 
 fully apparent. But, in compensation, what exquisite 
 gifts, what original ideas he developed when he gave 
 the rein to his own instincts and his inventions, which 
 I would describe as showing genius, yes, messieurs, 
 as showing genius, had they not been so fitful and 
 irregular ! 
 
 " Moreover, what exquisite taste he had for cos- 
 tuming his roles ! What a cunning cut to his coats ! 
 And how truly it has been said, perhaps in malice, 
 that he owed the best part of his talents to his tailor ! 
 As if it were a simple matter, messieurs, to invite a 
 tailor to share our applause ! 
 
 "All these souvenirs of triumphs, all these names 
 of victories, Jean-Jacques Panazol determined to 
 place in yonder marble list that shines resplendent on 
 his tomb. Mingling with these phantoms of glory, 
 the torch and the smoke of love, he thought best, 
 with touching solicitude for his own renown, to carve 
 in stone the list of his successes. Perhaps there are 
 roles that posterity would efface from yonder shaft. 
 Yes, beyond doubt. But it is not for us to touch 
 them. Time alone can erase the inscriptions written 
 18
 
 2/4 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 by men. When we have to deal with a friend, his 
 glory and his vanity, we ought above all things to 
 respect them. 
 
 " And for that reason," concluded Maurevel, " with- 
 out carrying further the study of an honored career, I 
 will content myself with offering him we have lost 
 the affectionate and profoundly sincere remembrance 
 and the tears of those who survive him. Adieu, Pan- 
 azol ! Au revoir, thou who wast, ere the inevitable 
 wrinkles came, the model of jeunes premiers ! To 
 our speedy meeting, my old friend ! " 
 
 Thereupon Maurevel wiped away with the back of 
 his sleeve a tear that lost itself in the astrakhan cuff, 
 and, rolling up the sheets he had read, resumed his 
 place among the spectators who were grouped about 
 the trench, seeking approbation that did not come. 
 
 " Why, that 's no funeral oration, it 's a harsh criti- 
 cism," said Duverdy. 
 
 "He put some vinegar in his holy water," sug- 
 gested Irene Gauthier. 
 
 For my part I was stupefied. Poor Panazol ! So 
 this is your apotheosis ! Your mausoleum heard 
 some severe words ! I looked at the dead man's 
 nephew, a great red-faced, sheepish fellow from the 
 provinces. He thanked Maurevel. He thought that 
 Maurevel had spoken finely of his uncle. He had 
 not understood. Ah ! these heirs ! 
 
 His old friends and I exchanged heartbroken
 
 THE LATE PANAZOL. 2/5 
 
 glances. But it was much worse when little Val- 
 bousquet came forward toward the tomb, to speak. 
 
 He was even paler than before, was little Valbous- 
 quet, frightfully excited, and we could see nothing 
 but his long, pointed, red nose in his pale, oval 
 face, which protruded from a white silk handker- 
 chief like Pierrot's from his colkrette. He walked 
 forward with a hum ! hum I to make sure of his 
 voice, and, fumbling in the pocket of his over- 
 coat, he produced a roll of paper which he unfolded 
 mechanically, his lip slightly raised by a nervous 
 contraction. 
 
 As he unfolded the paper the poor fellow trembled 
 like a leaf. 
 
 " He won't be able to read," said some one behind 
 me, " he surely won't." 
 
 Valbousquet did not even look at his paper ; he 
 rolled his great eyes about, as a debutant, choked 
 with agonized dread, looks about the hall that is 
 waiting to devour him. Indeed he was a little too 
 slow about beginning to speak, and the spectators 
 were beginning to stamp their feet on the damp 
 ground. But suddenly Valbousquet resolved to say 
 something, and, casting his eyes upon his open 
 paper, 
 
 " Who am I ? " he cried. " Who am I ? Do you 
 not see me ? I am the Dictionary even so ! The 
 Dictionary of the Academy I "
 
 2/6 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 What? What was that he was saying? Val- 
 bousquet had no sooner uttered those words than 
 we gazed at one another with a stupefied air. 
 
 The Dictionary ! Had Valbousquet gone mad ? 
 The Dictionary of the Academy ? Apropos of Pan- 
 azol, our comrade Panazol ? We knew not what to 
 think. A shell, yes, a shell falling among us, would 
 not have stupefied us more. 
 
 And Valbousquet went on : 
 
 " Ah ! it is not often that any one reads me 
 through ! But the truth must be told ; when I am fin- 
 ished they begin me over again. I am the Perpetual 
 Dictionary, the Everlasting Dictionary, the Diction ' ' 
 
 But suddenly Valbousquet stopped, struck his fore- 
 head violently, beat himself with fierce fingers, until 
 he caused a broad red spot to appear, and cried 
 aloud in apologetic tones : 
 
 " Forgive me ! Oh ! I pray you, forgive me ! I 
 made a mistake ! ah ! I was insane ! Pardon 
 me ! I ask your pardon, mesdames and messieurs ! 
 It is my role, not my discourse, my role ! " 
 
 Valbousquet had made a mistake in the pocket. 
 He had unfolded, instead of the farewell to Panazol 
 he had prepared, one of the roles he was rehearsing 
 at the Folies-Dramatiques, in which he played the 
 Dictionary of the Academy, the Microbe, and the 
 Phonograph. And now it was useless for him to 
 speak of the talent and virtues of Panazol, the
 
 THE LATE PANAZOL. 277 
 
 example set by Panazol, for nobody listened to him. 
 He was run out, ended as an orator, was Valbousquet. 
 He was destined thenceforth to be called nothing 
 but the Little Dictionary. 
 
 Duverdy, standing behind me, said : 
 
 "That mistake was amusing all the same; very 
 droll, excellent stage business ! " 
 
 " And not so spiteful as Maurevel's little paper," 
 replied Irene Gauthier. " What a walking gallows 
 that Maurevel is ! " 
 
 And that is the way we buried Panazol, poor Pana- 
 zol, a good friend, one of the glories of our profession ! 
 
 While Valbousquet was talking I had heard laugh- 
 ter here and there stifled through respect for the 
 cemetery. But it would have taken very little more 
 for us to fill with bursts of joyous laughter, with vol- 
 leys of gayety, that little corner of Montmartre, 
 as we had filled the funeral omnibus. A most amus- 
 ing funeral ! In vain did Valbousquet lower his voice 
 and say with pathetic quavers, "Adieu, dear and 
 venerated master ! " Nobody listened to him, and 
 nobody saw him except with the features of the 
 character he was to assume : " Who am I ? I am 
 the Dictionary ! " 
 
 We sprinkled holy water in the open grave and 
 defiled before the nephew, who did not know a single 
 one of us and eyed us with the sullen suspicion with 
 which honest bourgeois regard theatrical folk.
 
 2/8 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 We went to look at the tombs in the vicinity : 
 Regnier's, Samson's, Lockroy's, Laferriere's there 
 are many of the men of a bygone age who lie sleep- 
 ing there under the gray stones. We cannot visit 
 them often, but when an opportunity offers we make 
 the most of it. 
 
 As we went away I offered my arm to Irene 
 Gauthier, who walked with difficulty because of her 
 rheumatism. 
 
 "When I am gone," she said, "I want none of 
 these floods of eloquence ! If you survive me, my 
 old Brichanteau, just bring me a two-sou bunch of 
 violets ! That is worth more than all such stuff as 
 this ! Poor Panazol ! " 
 
 He had loved her, I think. Perhaps she had loved 
 him. 
 
 At the cemetery gate she said to me, 
 
 "I leave you here. It is time for rehearsal. I 
 too, am in the play at the Folies, like that idiot of 
 a. Valbousquet ! " 
 
 I looked at the old woman, fat, wrinkled, bloated, 
 palsied, with gray hair tinged with yellow. 
 
 " Yes," she said to me, reading my thoughts, " I 
 am in the play. But I don't act; I am trier-on. 
 One must live as one can, and I am a costumer ! 
 What would you have me do, my poor old friend ? 
 that 's better than being a box-opener or a rag- 
 picker ! "
 
 THE LATE PANAZOL. 279 
 
 She returned to the funeral omnibus, giving the 
 driver the address of the Folies-Dramatigues. The 
 omnibus was at the service of the guests for the 
 whole day ; Panazol's nephew had paid in advance. 
 
 Poor Panazol ! I agree with Irene Gauthier ; when 
 I am buried let there be no discourse pronounced 
 over my grave, or else let my friends be content to 
 read what I have composed myself making no mis- 
 take as to the paper ! That is the surest way ! 
 
 But stay; Panazol still had one last posthumous 
 mortification to undergo. As I was about leaving the 
 gate of the dead men's field, another funeral proces- 
 sion arrived, some sort of a hearse, with the usual 
 flowers and regulation hangings, and when he caught 
 sight of it, the keeper of the cemetery gave a signal 
 on a whistle l that he put to his lips. 
 
 The strident sound, tearing the air, went to my 
 heart. And instinctively, monsieur, turning toward 
 the paths we had just left, and trying to descry, 
 through the trees and tombs, the distant and invisi- 
 ble spot, where our departed comrade lay, my in- 
 dignation found vent in these words, which were the 
 best of funeral orations, the protest of an old friend's 
 heart : 
 
 " My poor Panazol ! This is the first time you 
 were ever hissed." l 
 
 1 Sifflet, a hiss or a whistle, derived from siffler, which 
 means to hiss or to whistle.
 
 28O BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 But how true is the thought of Shakespeare, to 
 which I gave expression in my deepest voice, as 
 Gonzague in Hamlet: 
 
 " Oh ! la re"alitd trahit toujours le reve, 
 Et, contraire a nos vceux, notre destin s'acheve 
 En ce monde changeant, ou, sans exag^rer, 
 Les larmes savent rire et les rires pleurer ! " 
 
 Which means in simple prose, that the vaudeville 
 is very near the melodrama in our wandering fools' 
 existence, and that the operetta elbows tragedy at 
 every step. Voila.
 
 X. 
 
 SHOOTING STARS. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE ? I told no falsehood when I said to 
 Lady Maud on the terrace of the Chateau at Pau 
 that it was the dream of my life to act Shakespeare. 
 It is, by the way, a pleasure that I have enjoyed 
 between two melodramas of Pix6re"court, Bouchardy, 
 or D'Ennery. But, romanticist that I am, I must not 
 be unjust to Moliere ! I am a Molierist too, mon- 
 sieur ! Moliere and Shakespeare, they are the two poles 
 of our art, Moliere more clear, Shakespeare more 
 full of life. I should not hesitate to say that the great 
 Will and the great Poquelin are the grandfathers of 
 the stage : between them stand Racine and Corneille, 
 of whom I would say, like that critic whose name I 
 forget : Racine more feminine, Corneille more Roman ; 
 Corneille is papa, and Racine mamma. Is that clear ? 
 There was a time, I must admit, when I sacrificed 
 Shakespeare to Moliere. I had a sharp attack of 
 Molierism. It was when, feeling the ground slip from 
 beneath my feet in my own country, I thought of 
 seeking the bread of glory in foreign lands. Duncan 
 the American had said to me : " In the North the 
 French melo does n't succeed. You can play your
 
 282 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 repertory in Brazil, Peru, or the Argentine. The 
 North likes to laugh. Do you act Moliere ? " 
 
 What a question ! I would act anything. Regu- 
 lar lines of parts are chains imposed on individual 
 temperaments by mediocrities. Act Moliere ? As if I 
 had not rehearsed and acted him at the Conservatory, 
 in the days of Monsieur Beauvallet ! I had even 
 passed in Alceste at the semi-annual examinations. 
 
 One can enunciate and thunder as well in the 
 monologue of UAvare as in the strophes of Le Cid. 
 Act Moliere? Monsieur Beauvallet, who wanted no 
 doubt to get rid of me by shunting me off in comedy, 
 thought that I acted him well. " You can't imagine," 
 he would often say to me in his loud voice, " how 
 comic you are ! You are unconsciously a born 
 comique, Brichanteau ! " I said to myself: "He is 
 jealous. He 's afraid of you ! " Perhaps I was mis- 
 taken. I often wonder if my professor was not right. 
 
 However, I answered Monsieur Duncan that Moliere 
 was in my line. He wanted an amusing repertory. 
 He should have an amusing repertory. 
 
 " Oh ! as amusing as possible," said my Yankee. 
 
 " But you don't expect me to sing chansonnettes, I 
 trust?" 
 
 " Ha ! ha 1 " said he, " that would n't be so bad ! " 
 
 I did not sing chansonnettes, but I plunged into 
 Moliere. In the first place, I tried CEcole des 
 Femmes at Chartres. A brilliant success. I gave
 
 SHOOTING STARS. 283 
 
 them an Arnolphe as dashing as a Don Diego. 
 Genius, by the way, is a unit. Alceste is an Othello 
 whom Arsinoe' drives to jealousy as lago drives the 
 Moor. Those Titans of one race know everything. 
 Did not an old master-at-arms once tell me that the 
 best of lessons in fencing was that that the master of 
 the sword gives Monsieur Jourdain in Le Bourgeois 
 Gentilhomme ? And it is true. Where have I read 
 that Shakespeare studied madness as thoroughly as 
 Monsieur Charcot himself? And that must be true. 
 Again, consider the advice given to actors by Moliere 
 in D Impromptu de Versailles, and by Shakespeare in 
 Hamlet. What a pity that both of them were not 
 professors at the Conservatory ! They would have 
 overturned the old method of teaching. My 
 Arnolphe then was Shakespearean. But I retained 
 the Gallic flavor of Moliere. I was terrific when I 
 tore my hair out before Agnes, but I provoked a 
 laugh. And great Moliere took such a strong hold 
 on me that I became, for a time, unjust to Shake- 
 speare. I saw nothing but Moliere. I was blindly 
 devoted to Poquelin. I said to two young actresses, 
 whom I saw the puppies around me paying court to : 
 
 " Have but one love, my children. Love Moliere ! 
 He does not deceive ! " 
 
 At all events, I owed it to him that I was engaged 
 by Monsieur Duncan, and that I had an opportunity 
 to make my first tour, a pleasure that I had been
 
 284 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 unable to enjoy when Rachel refused to take me in 
 her troupe. 
 
 Tours ! \v=>,parbleu, I have made tours, like every- 
 body else. The tour, why, the tour is the proof of 
 popularity. When your country has conferred glory 
 upon you, you ask for your exeat and go abroad to 
 receive the plebiscite of foreign lands. You think, 
 perhaps, that the foreigner does n't know anything ? 
 He is often shrewder than we, and I have had suc- 
 cesses in South America I will go no farther that 
 the dandies of the boulevard could not understand. 
 No. I have stirred the Latin soul of Mexico and the 
 Saxon soul of New York. Indeed those were my 
 best days. 
 
 How many times I said to myself : 
 
 " To think that in France I have not always been 
 understood ! " 
 
 Why, I have been hissed at Mont de Marsan in 
 Marino Faliero. And that same Marino Faliero was 
 one of my triumphs in Valparaiso. I was recalled 
 eighteen times during the evening. Eighteen times. 
 And the audience went fairly wild in the fifth, when 
 I cried, after reading my sentence by Leoni, the 
 patrician, one of the Ten : 
 
 " Bords sacrds, ciel natal, palais que j'dlevai, 
 Flots rougis de mon sang, ou mon bras a sauve" 
 Ces fiers patriciens qui, sans moi, dans les chaines, 
 Rameraient aujourd'hui sur les flottes de Genes, 
 De ma voix qui s'e*teint recueillez les accents ! "
 
 SHOOTING STARS. 285 
 
 I must say that I had a way of my own of depicting 
 the patricians rowing, like felons, on the Genoese 
 galleys ! I bent, I labored, I went through the 
 motions, my pantomime was equal to my diction. 
 And one must use pantomime in foreign lands. 
 
 Ah ! the good old days ! 
 
 What a joy to travel! 'Tis so tempting to seek 
 change of air, to shake off the heavy chain of one's 
 habits and prejudices ! If I were young I would 
 board a steamer once more and recommence my 
 tours. 
 
 And then, I am neither superstitious nor a fool, I 
 beg you to believe, and yet I cannot fail to observe, 
 to note a strange and significant fact, which applies to 
 myself alone. Whenever I have gone to sea, either 
 on my way to America or returning to France, every 
 time, you understand, if there had been bad weather 
 recently, a high sea or a storm the day before, the 
 waves fell when I went on board the steamer. By 
 chance, I admit, but a strange chance, you will agree. 
 And the fact was so often noticed by others that 
 passengers would ask at the offices of the Compagnie 
 Transatlantique to be booked by the same ship with 
 me ; yes, I do not exaggerate, and on one occasion, 
 as the French ambassador was engaging his passage 
 on La Champagne, the clerk said to him : " Ah ! 
 your Excellency is in luck; you will have a fine 
 passage, Brichanteau will be on board ! "
 
 286 ERICH ANTEAU. 
 
 And then there is another advantage about these 
 tours, you see. One forgets his gutter on Rue du 
 Bac, one enlarges his horizon. You think with full 
 lungs. It is the true life. 
 
 Travelling ! Why, it 's travelling that teaches one to 
 know men and things. It is that that shapes, and I 
 may say, tempers an intellect. I have learned more 
 in a two years' tour than in twenty years in Paris. 
 I am not speaking of the scenery and properties, 
 which are a little odd. They break tubes of red paint 
 to imitate blood in duels, and I have seen in the 
 kermesse in Faust, a bear take part, a genuine bear, 
 a muzzled bear that would have given Monsieur 
 Gounod nervous prostration. Nor do I refer to 
 geography, which one can learn at home ; I refer to 
 politics, philosophy, and, in a word, humanity. 
 
 For example, I was a stanch republican when I 
 started. I am equally so now, but, mon Dieu ! I 
 have made comparisons. I don't feel the same 
 detestation of kings, now that I have seen them close 
 at hand. There are some of them who are very good 
 men. No, I am not exaggerating. I have met more 
 than one. I have had an opportunity to judge of 
 their erudition, and I have been surprised more than 
 once. In general they are well acquainted with our 
 literature. You feel that they are well educated. 
 Several indeed consulted me as to works of their 
 own. I gave them my opinion with the frankness of
 
 SHOOTING STARS. 287 
 
 Alceste speaking to Oronte. Oh ! I am no courtier, 
 or, if I am, I am a courtier of Art. 
 
 In Ruthenia, for instance, to go no farther, in 
 Ruthenia, the king who had had an opportunity to 
 hear me and estimate my powers in the repertory 
 I was then in my second stage, the Molieresque stage 
 the king was kind enough to invite me to breakfast. 
 He wanted to see me at close quarters. I was not sorry 
 to study him in my turn. I accepted the invitation. 
 
 I must say that he received me with extraordinary 
 affability. If I had not passed through so many 
 salons, under the guidance of a chamberlain, after 
 entering a palace guarded by sentinels, I could not 
 have believed that I was in the abode of a sovereign 
 and before a king. We had a delightful breakfast, at 
 which we talked of everything, Paris, the stage, our 
 painters and our poets. I should have liked to turn 
 the conversation upon political subjects, being desir- 
 ous to know a king's opinion upon all the dark 
 European problems; but at every allusion that I 
 made my host changed the subject, and I fancied 
 that I disturbed him, annoyed him. He plainly 
 eluded me; he eluded me, affecting to speak of 
 literary subjects only. 
 
 So literature it had to be ! At one point the king 
 said to me : 
 
 " Monsieur Brichanteau, I must ask your advice ! " 
 
 I ventured one last hint :
 
 288 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 " Concerning the Russo-Turkish war? " 
 There was then a war between the Sublime Porte 
 and Holy Russia. 
 
 " No ; concerning a translation I have begun, a 
 translation of Shakespeare ! " 
 
 I looked at him a moment before replying. He 
 spoke of that Englishman to me, a Frenchman ! To 
 me who, after acting in so many melodramas here, 
 there, and everywhere, had just plunged anew 
 having been engaged with that understanding into 
 French art par excellence, the classic comedy, the 
 pure laughter of Moliere ! " Must I tell him my 
 whole opinion?" I said to myself mentally. And 
 mentally I answered : "Why not?" And I told him 
 my opinion ; I expressed it with a genuine republican 
 frankness that might perhaps have offended our 
 republicans. 
 
 "Sire," I cried, "you are translating Shakespeare? 
 you are doing wrong ! " 
 
 " Oh ! Monsieur Brichanteau, allow me " 
 " Do you know what Shakespeare was ? Do you 
 know, Sire?" 
 
 " Why, I think I do, Monsieur Brichanteau ! " 
 " Mon Dieu I Sire, having always been and being 
 still a warm admirer of great Will, I will not go so 
 far as to repeat Voltaire's remark. No, Shakespeare 
 was not a drunken savage, but let us admit, between 
 ourselves, that he was a dreamy, flighty, capricious
 
 SHOOTING STARS. 289 
 
 genius. That is the word, capricious. He must have 
 constant changes of scene, tableaux without end, 
 ghosts, apparitions, a most extraordinary stage-set- 
 ting ; I know his repertory well, I have acted in it. 
 Without costumes and without the footlights, what 
 becomes of that art ? Whereas Moliere ! Ah ! 
 Moliere ! Talk about Moliere ! Moliere depicts all 
 humanity, all, you understand, in a sick-room. He 
 has no need of witches, ghosts, tempests ; no, an old 
 easy-chair, Argan sitting in it, men and women stand- 
 ing about, and the whole great tragedy of life is acted 
 beneath his merriment. That is a discovery of my 
 own. One needs no doublets or swords to interpret 
 the divine Moliere. A smock-frock and a striped 
 cap, and that 's all. At this moment, Sire, I would 
 give all Shakespeare's dramas, you understand, all 
 and God knows they are sublime ! yes, sublime ! 
 I would give them all in a lump for Gros-Re'ne''s 
 tirade or Harpagon's monologue ! Those are my 
 sentiments : Molierism /" 
 
 The king had listened to me, deep in thought. He 
 was, like myself, shaken in his worship of Shakespeare, 
 I saw that clearly. And it was vain for him to ven- 
 ture a remonstrance : 
 
 " But Don Juan, Monsieur Brichanteau ? " 
 
 "What Don Juan?" 
 
 " Moliere's Don Juan. There are many ghosts in 
 Don Juan. The statue of the Commander ! " 
 19
 
 2QO BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 " True, Sire ; but when he wrote Don Juan, 
 Moliere was no longer a French genius, he became 
 almost a Castilian genius, like Hugo. And his mar- 
 ble Commander is of pasteboard ! That is not what 
 makes him great. In the scene of the pauper, for 
 instance ; if I were not in your Majesty's presence I 
 should say that the scene of the pauper is downright 
 socialism. And socialism, Sire " 
 
 But I felt that I was going too far and I stopped. 
 
 That time the king did not reply. He sat for a 
 moment in meditation. I see him now and I shall 
 always see him, manuscript in hand, the manuscript 
 of his translation of Shakespeare. He had opened 
 the sheets ; he rolled them up again, and what do' 
 you suppose he said to me, yes, he, the king, the 
 King of Ruthenia, - the king to whom I had al- 
 most spoken in the tone of Saint- Vallier addressing 
 the king at Marignan? 
 
 He said to me : 
 
 " You are right, Monsieur Brichanteau. I abandon 
 to-day the translation of Shakespeare, and to-morrow, 
 to-morrow, Monsieur Brichanteau, I begin the trans- 
 lation of Moliere ! " 
 
 That incident gave me some new ideas concerning 
 kings, and, between ourselves, you cannot imagine a 
 Republican Minister of Public Instruction, after con- 
 sulting me during an audience concerning one of his 
 literary projects, saying to me : " Monsieur Brichan-
 
 SHOOTING STARS. 2QI 
 
 teau, I abandon this scheme of mine, and I shall 
 follow your advice ! " No, I deplore it for our 
 country's sake ; but what a king of so venerable and 
 noble a family as Braganza did, listen to me, a 
 tribune in our country would probably refuse to do ! 
 and I should not believe it possible, you see, no, I 
 should not believe it, if I had not travelled ! 
 
 Unluckily for me, as I was engaged to play the 
 repertory, the repertory made no money, and I found 
 myself compelled to appear once more in the dramas 
 of my youth, without the proper costumes. Those were 
 melancholy experiences ! I have played Triboulet in 
 the cloak of Mascarille. But what did it matter? 
 The South Americans asked nothing better, and 
 besides, the soul was still there ; the soul transformed 
 everything ! The soul laughed at costumes ! I 
 might have played Triboulet in a black coat and I 
 should still have been the Triboulet of the poet to the 
 entrails, to the very marrow. 
 
 So I was ripe for America, and I went there, the 
 first time, as I have told you, with the American 
 Duncan a great success ; the last time with Mar- 
 chandier. As ill-luck would have it, during that last 
 tour I have always been unlucky in the midst 
 of my triumphs across the Atlantic, the yellow fever 
 attacked me. Yes, in a terrible form. And right in 
 the theatre. On the stage. An almost fatal attack 
 of the black vomit. It was at Havana. I fell like a
 
 292 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 log to the floor, the audience took fright, the house 
 was quickly emptied. I did not die, but the Mar- 
 chandier company, to which I belonged, being 
 obliged to continue its tour, Marchandier left me at 
 the hotel, with my bill all settled, my salary paid, and 
 the price of my passage home agreed upon with the 
 captain of a vessel about to sail for France. 
 
 Ah ! the destruction of all my dreams ! I was 
 already beginning to say to myself : " I please the 
 Americans. Clearly I have made a favorable impres- 
 sion. This year my earnings will not be heavy, be- 
 cause, after being exploited by Duncan, I am placed in 
 a subordinate position by Marchandier ; but I am sow- 
 ing the seed ! I am sowing for the future ! In two 
 or three years I shall return here on my own account, 
 I shall return well-known, classified, endorsed. I 
 shall have my own troupe. The advertisements will 
 read : The Brichanteau Troupe Sebastien Brichan- 
 teau of all the theatres of Paris and the departments. 
 And I shall make my fortune ! " 
 
 And there I was. The yellow fever cut away all 
 my hopes from under my feet. In a day, in an hour, 
 it changed the triumphant artist to a valetudinarian. 
 My colleagues continued the tour, the hunt for dollars 
 I should say that Marchandier failed before the 
 tour ended. And I was left behind in a room at a 
 hotel, like a package left at the railway station. To- 
 day these memories of travel seem charming to me.
 
 SHOOTING STARS. 293 
 
 It is the effect of perspective. But at the time I was 
 not in high spirits. Peste / no ! Peste ! that was 
 the whole trouble. 1 I was in despair, I was wild. 
 
 What could I do? Overtake the troupe? Mar- 
 chandier had gone, the devil knows where. Act on 
 my own account? But how? I was all alone. 
 Recite monologues, then, or humorous pieces ? Sing 
 chansonnettes, as Duncan wanted me to do? 
 Could I so debase myself, I, Brichanteau, who had 
 left Hugo only to go to Moliere, and abandoned 
 Moliere only to return to Hugo could I stoop to 
 farce at caft-concerts ? Never ! You understand, 
 never ! 
 
 No, as fate had pronounced against me, I would 
 sail for home. I would return to France ; I would 
 await a better opportunity to resume my travels, to 
 talk literature and aesthetics with kings, and to carry 
 off the dollars of the Americans. The opportunity 
 would surely come, parbleu ! 
 
 Opportunity? Ventre-Saint-Gris, as I used to 
 say in Le Btarnais, it is a true saying that opportunity 
 is bald ! It no longer offered me a single one of its 
 hairs. Not one. Completely bald, my poor Brichan- 
 teau ! That infernal black vomit had shattered me, 
 sapped my strength, and I returned to my country, 
 like a sheep to the fold, to recover my health. 
 
 1 Peste! a common exclamation, the original meaning 
 being a plague or pest.
 
 294 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 I needed to do it, and then, and then the truth 
 must be told I was growing old. Even the oak 
 grows old. I felt, or thought I felt, that I was still as 
 strong, as ardent, as vigorous as ever, measuring my 
 muscles by my soul. But the mirror told me the 
 truth when I consulted it, seeking and finding in my 
 hair, once as thick and dense as the grass in the 
 field, bald spaces made by thought, the ebullition of 
 the brain, or by advancing years. I had wrinkles. 
 Yes, I admit it, I had wrinkles. My teeth lost their 
 accustomed enamel, and the teeth are the diamonds 
 of virile artists. 
 
 Thereupon I said to myself, shaking my head : 
 
 " Brichanteau, my boy, the autumn is coming, the 
 leaves are falling ; you must be thinking about chang- 
 ing your line, Brichanteau! " 
 
 Change my line ? Ah, yes ! Change to the noble 
 fathers. Become the bass after being the tenor ! 
 Become Ruy Gomez after being Hernani ! There is 
 no use rebelling or sulking against nature. So the 
 world goes. 
 
 "Very well," I answered myself, "it's agreed, 
 Brichanteau, you will change your line ! " 
 
 But in order to change one's line, one must have a 
 line, even if one has them all, and, in order to play 
 Ruy Gomez or the other graybeards, one must have 
 a stage to play them on. And there I was. I had no 
 stage. I had nothing. I was a wanderer, an outcast,
 
 SHOOTING STARS. 295 
 
 a back number, an old-fashioned boulevard actor. I 
 was in another boat, as they say, and my own boat 
 was a dilapidated, decayed craft that took in water at 
 every seam. I was of another epoch, a mummy ; 
 a cross between a romanticist and classicist, not realis- 
 tic or Ibsenian for a sou, rococo, an old clock, as used 
 up as Malek-Adel ! The operetta had swept over my 
 art, scoffed at my idols, demolished my gods. How 
 play Marino Faliero after Le Pont dcs Soupirs ? Le 
 Pont des Soupirs is more amusing ! Nothing could 
 be more amusing. Monsieur Ludovic Halevy is so 
 witty! "Release the doges!" Alas! the doges 
 were more than released, they were strangled, cast 
 into the Orfano Canal, done, done, done ! 
 
 And with them my repertory, Don Sebastien de 
 Portugal, Guillaume Collman, Perrinet Leclerc, all, 
 all ! I could hardly play my old trash in the suburbs 
 on Sundays ! I have consented to play general utility 
 parts at Montparnasse. I have appeared at the 
 Bouffes du Nord. I, who once gave advice to sov- 
 ereigns, have descended one by one the rungs of a 
 ladder held by bad luck. And the years passed, the 
 hard, melancholy years, the years when the rheuma- 
 tism sprouts and the teeth fall out, but hunger grows 
 no less. . 
 
 I mean the hunger for the ideal as well, the appe- 
 tite for applause, for triumph ! I reminded myself of 
 a waif among the novices, those who think they know
 
 296 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 everything when they leave the Conservatory, the 
 actor-bankers who play little Spanish farces in private 
 houses, the comic actors who entertain wedding 
 parties, the realists who deem themselves artists be- 
 cause they act with their every-day gestures, you 
 should ennoble, dress up your gestures, messeigneurs ! 
 or those who say : " Art ? Where does it live ? 
 The cafi-concert is the road to success ! " and who 
 go to the cafe"-concert. And I cannot say that I 
 suffered from all that. No, I stood erect in my 
 pride. 
 
 " Brichanteau, you are not like other men ! You 
 have faith, Brichanteau ! You have never paltered ! 
 You are steadfast ! Even when you play subordinate 
 parts, you play them in genuine theatres and in 
 works of art. You will die with the drama, Brichan- 
 teau ! Brichanteau, proud in defeat, you have and 
 that is something, you know you have, and you will 
 keep immaculate, your own esteem ! " 
 
 But one 's own esteem does not prevent one's 
 growing old. 
 
 Thereupon, feeling that I was losing my footing 
 and that the years were accumulating, and as I had 
 not even taken the precaution, in my dislike for all 
 sorts of syndicates and my exclusive humor, to be- 
 come a member of the Society of Dramatic Artists 
 I should have a pension to-day, fool that I am ! I 
 was anxious about my old age, and being unable to
 
 SHOOTING STARS. 297 
 
 obtain justice from managers who do not know me 
 and keep me waiting in their antechambers, I 
 accepted the place that was mentioned to me one 
 day by a fanatical bicyclist who lived on the same 
 landing with me. 
 
 A place? What place? I dare not tell you. 
 Must I confess it, monsieur? I am a starter in 
 bicycle races. I am the man who gives the signal for 
 starting; sometimes by firing a pistol bang! at 
 other times by shouting : " Go ! " in that grand voice 
 that Monsieur Beauvallet envied and that has not 
 lost its magnificence. " Go ! " You hear that note. 
 " Go ! " Yes, the voice still has its trumpet tone. 
 
 And think of this : I, the slave of the idea, assist 
 in the degradation of art by means of the bicycle. 
 For the bicycle means death to the stage. A man 
 returns from riding, thoroughly exhausted. Is he go- 
 ing to dress to go and listen to Corneille? People 
 pass their days on the iron machine and have no 
 time to read. Or else they read tourists' newspapers. 
 Equality of the sexes. Men and women ride together. 
 To be sure, it makes muscles. But, vive Dieu ! we too 
 have muscles, and, what is more, brains, enthusiasm, 
 ideas ! 
 
 And shall I tell you something more? Music also, 
 combined with cycling, will destroy literature. One 
 feels in music, one does not think. Richard Wagner, 
 a colossus by the way ; the bells in Parsifal have
 
 298 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 made me weep like many another Wagner has de- 
 throned Hugo; Wagner is the vague and nebulous 
 Shakespeare of the snobs who have not read Shake- 
 speare, and who think that everything dates from the 
 giant of Bayreuth. That German has conquered 
 Gaul by the slow but sure process of infiltration. No 
 more French music, but Wagnerian music. No more 
 cafes where people meet and chat, no more beer- 
 shops where we can smoke at our ease. Green 
 liqueurs and Germanism. Adieu to the vintage and 
 the blood of France ! I repeat myself, I know, and I 
 do not pride myself on being a connoisseur in music, 
 but I place literature above everything, and the stage, 
 the king of all forms of literature, is action, is life. To 
 the Scandinavian mythology, the Brocken and the 
 Venusberg, I prefer the pure wine of old Pierre of 
 Rouen, the Gascon vintage of Dumas Pere, or Bal- 
 zac's Touranian hogshead. Shall I tell you? The 
 very thing that seems to me to prove the inferiority 
 of Germany is its superiority in music. Monsieur 
 Hugo, yes, Victor Hugo said that to us one day, when 
 we handed him a subscription list for a cannon to be 
 presented to the artillery of the National Guard. 
 When I thought it over, that seemed to me not so 
 bad! 
 
 And I take part in these festivities of the deca- 
 dence. Concerts and velodromes. What do I say? 
 that I take part in these degrading functions ? I
 
 SHOOTING STARS. 299 
 
 do worse than that : as I have told you, I manage 
 them. A starter, I ! Starter of velodromes. That 
 is what I have come to. Sometimes I close my eyes 
 when I say, " Go ! " and it seems to me that I am 
 giving the signal, not for a race but for a duel, an 
 epic duel, as in Le Bossu or La Dame de Monsoreau. 
 " Go ! " And I listen for the thrilling clash of 
 swords and the resounding roar of applause. Or 
 again, when the signal is a pistol shot, I fancy that I 
 am Andres once more and am acting in the Pirates 
 de la Savane or in Le Gaucho, as at Perpignan ! I 
 breathe again the powder of the old days. Of the 
 old days ! 
 
 In the old days I held the record, as they say, for 
 hopes. In my dreams I was, at one and the same 
 time, Bocage, Ligier, Talma, Talma II., as Mon- 
 sieur Ingres used to say ! I was everything. I slept 
 upon mattresses of laurel-leaves, like the generals 
 who sleep on the flags they have conquered. I 
 was renowned, I was beloved ! If the magistrates of 
 the cities in which I acted had brought me the keys 
 upon a velvet cushion it would have seemed no more 
 than natural to me. In the old days ! It is amaz- 
 ing how many illusions a word, a single word can 
 destroy ! 
 
 Life has made very merry with me, and I some- 
 times ask myself, I, an old strolling player turned 
 starter for the benefit of cyclewomen, if I am not a
 
 300 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 helpless, empty failure. But no, I feel within me all 
 the fire of youth. I have the same faith, the same 
 ardor, the same talent as in the old days. Is it my 
 fault if no use is made of me? Is it my fault? On 
 that theory Belisarius was a failure because he held out 
 his cap, and Lamartine because he was poor. And 
 then, who is not a failure, in this age of lofty ambi- 
 tions ? Our poor France herself missed fire when she 
 wrestled chivalrously with the German engineers ! 
 
 I often think of that. I live over the past. I 
 regret nothing ; I am making an inglorious end, but 
 I have lived well. No concession. I may be a 
 starter as I am, it is as good a trade as some 
 others, but I would not consent for an empire to 
 appear at a caf-concert. Ah ! pardon me, I have 
 done it. Yes, in Faubourg Saint-Martin. But I 
 recited nothing there but Saint- Vallier's tirade and 
 some lines of Corneille. Indeed they hissed me 
 there, or rather they hissed Corneille, not me. They 
 found it tiresome. " Give us a chansonnette ! " they 
 cried. Ask me for a chansonnette! me, as the 
 Yankee impresario once did ! I resigned ! And 
 the night I resigned I had no idea where I should 
 sleep the next night. 
 
 But one does not palter with art ; one may be a 
 starter, a laboring man, whatever one chooses and 
 whatever one can, but not a side-show for low-class 
 clowns ! Ah ! not that ! No, no, no !
 
 SHOOTING STARS. 3<DI 
 
 And then, when I think of it, what does glory 
 depend upon ? Upon trifles, monsieur, chance first, 
 and hazard next. Stay, listen to this tale, it is cruel, 
 but amusing. I knew a man, a fellow-actor, who 
 had the most beautiful voice in the world, such a 
 voice for opera as mine for the drama, a voice, 
 you understand, to surpass all other singers, even 
 the best endowed and the most famous, and to 
 eclipse the memory of the Duprez and Rogers and 
 Capouls. A Toulousan, my friend, from the neigh- 
 borhood of Toulouse, like Montescure, and a tenor. 
 A fine fellow. And what is more, by no means ugly. 
 A little thick- set, a little short and with a large neck, 
 but in the matter of physical qualities people make 
 allowances for singers which they deny to us who in- 
 terpret the poets. An ugly man may sing Le Cid if 
 he has a fine voice, but you could never act it if 
 nature had not endowed you with a physique fitted 
 to the character. Thence, in my opinion and even 
 though I were a goldsmith, like Monsieur Josse, the 
 superiority of the tragedian to the singer. Let us go 
 on. That is a question of aesthetics. 
 
 My friend Cadenet, then, had all the good quali- 
 ties. An incomparable voice ! He could put any 
 one, I tell you, no matter who, in his pocket. Know- 
 ing nothing of music, by the way, singing by in- 
 stinct like the cricket, but necessarily better than 
 the cricket.
 
 302 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 We used to say to him : 
 
 " Cadenet, you have eight hundred thousand francs 
 in your windpipe ; learn to sing ! " 
 
 " But how am I to learn? " 
 
 " Find a teacher. But don't trust him. If he is 
 jealous of your voice, you are lost ! " 
 
 And I remembered my professor at the Conser- 
 vatory, those terrible lessons, in which I could feel 
 my master's rivalry stealthily at work. Enough of 
 myself from this time on ! And then I am telling 
 Cadenet's story, not my own. 
 
 Poor Cadenet, who was clerk to a dry-goods dealer 
 on Rue du Mail, went to Monsieur Roger, who lis- 
 tened to him, and lo ! when he heard that admirable 
 voice, pure as rock crystal, Monsieur Roger ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 " As I cannot act any more, I want to provide my 
 own successor on the stage ! Will you take lessons 
 of me?" 
 
 Would he ! He was too happy, was Cadenet ! 
 Study with Monsieur Roger ! The great artist ! The 
 creator of the Prophete ! Cadenet had not a sou, but 
 Monsieur Roger asked nothing for his lessons. The 
 pleasure of bringing forth a singer, the joy of teaching 
 him. Glory ! 
 
 Behold Cadenet, therefore, practising scales with 
 Monsieur Roger. He learned to sing ; but the poor 
 fellow had one cursed defect, a vice, ah ! a fatal vice !
 
 SHOOTING STARS. 303 
 
 He had no memory at all ! Not the least trace of 
 memory, I tell you. He sang, oh, yes ! but as for 
 committing a role to memory, or even scenes or lines, 
 impossible ! A strange thing, memory. I have studied, 
 learned and digested something like eight hundred 
 parts in my life, including pannes? and I should only 
 have to run them over once before going to bed, then 
 sleep on them, and I could play them to-morrow 
 morning. That is a gift. Memory is the actor's best 
 friend. 
 
 Cadenet had none of it, and he recoiled from 
 learning an opera like a cat from swallowing the 
 sea. 
 
 " But Cadenet," Monsieur Roger would say to him, 
 "you must learn a role finally, as you want to 
 make your de'but." 
 
 " True, Monsieur Roger. All right, I will learn ! 
 But Dieu de Dieu, how hard it is ! " 
 
 "Oh, well !" rejoined the professor, "life isn't to 
 be spent eating cake. We must work ! " 
 
 " I will work, Monsieur Roger ! " 
 
 Monsieur Roger did not ask him to learn many 
 operas, however. Only two, Robert le Diable and 
 Les Huguenots. In truth, to learn Robert and Raoul, 
 two fine roles, was not so hard as to carry Malakoff. 
 So poor Cadenet dug away at them, twisted and 
 turned them in his head, chewed them over and over, 
 1 Unimportant parts of only a few lines.
 
 304 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 ruminated over them, took them to walk with him, 
 and read himself to sleep with them. 
 
 "Well, Cadenet, is it all right? " Monsieur Roger 
 asked. 
 
 " It 's all right, Monsieur Roger, it 's all right ; I 
 know three acts of Robert already ! " 
 
 He took time for it, did Cadenet, but at last he 
 succeeded in conquering his unruly memory and in 
 learning those two operas ; and Monsieur Roger was 
 able to procure him an engagement at Havre. 
 
 From Havre to Rouen is not far; from Rouen 
 to Paris is only a step. If Cadenet succeeded at 
 Havre, he might very well, some fine day, take the 
 train for Paris. His marvellous voice made it 
 possible ! 
 
 In a word, he started for Havre as for the port 
 that opens into the vast sea, immortality. I was on 
 a tour through Casimir Delavigne's country, when I 
 read in the Journal du Havre an announcement of 
 Cadenet's forthcoming de"but. Dear Cadenet ! I 
 was playing Ruy Bias not Ruy Bias exactly, but 
 the alguazil, you know, who arrests Don Ce"sar. One 
 must live, and then the scene is of the utmost impor- 
 tance. There is true drama, a great situation. If 
 the part is not in the hands of some one reliable, the 
 act is endangered. I always, I am proud to say, res- 
 cued it from danger and strengthened it ! 
 
 On the day before that of Cadenet's de"but, I went
 
 SHOOTING STARS. 305 
 
 to the Grand Theatre, after the rehearsal, to see him. 
 He was beaming. They had just finished Les Hugue- 
 nots and the rehearsal had gone off admirably. 
 
 The manager was enchanted, the stage-manager 
 was rubbing his hands ; they were going to have a 
 fine dbut ! 
 
 " If only my devilish memory does n't go back on 
 me ! " said Cadenet to me. 
 
 " You know your part ? " 
 
 " I know two of them, all that Monsieur Roger 
 required of me. Not one more. But I know two 
 perfectly, Robert and Raoul ! " 
 
 " Very good ; if you appear only in Robertle Diable 
 and Les Huguenots, those are enough. Afterward 
 you will have plenty of time to learn other operas. 
 The memory improves mechanically ; I '11 tell you one 
 method." 
 
 But he was not listening to me. He was mumbling 
 confused words : " The ramparts of Amboise. Yes, 
 thou hast said if; yes, thou hast said it, thou dost 
 love me/" He was going over his role. He was right. 
 
 " You will be here to-morrow to support me? " he 
 said, going through the motion of the claqueur clap- 
 ping his hands. 
 
 " Will I be here ! During the first two acts. 
 
 After that I shall have to go and dress for my alguazil, 
 
 and then I will return for the last act, for the recall : 
 
 Cadenet / Cadenet! You will hear me shout Cadenet, 
 
 20
 
 306 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 I promise you, my boy ! You know my note ! The 
 howitzer ! The thunder ! " 
 
 He was delighted. 
 
 Throughout the following day he walked in front of 
 the Grand Theatre, proudly reading these words on 
 the placard : For the debut of Monsieur Cadenet, first 
 tenor, LES HUGUENOTS, book by Monsieur Scribe, music 
 by Meyerbeer. And he drew his short figure up to its 
 full height in front of his printed name, as if his brow 
 would reach the stars. 
 
 When evening came I was at the entrance to the 
 orchestra chairs, near the door, in order to be able to 
 leave more quickly, and I heard the habitues of the 
 theatre, the subscribers, asking who this Cadenet was, 
 whom the management introduced to the Havre public 
 for the first time. They had arranged a little biog- 
 raphy. Cadenet was a youth of good family, nephew 
 of a high official, who had an irresistible vocation for 
 the stage. It was said that Monsieur Ambroise 
 Thomas, having heard him at a concert, had torn his 
 hair in despair that so fine a subject had escaped the 
 Conservatory. In short, the ground was well pre- 
 pared. A good prospectus, cleverly done. 
 
 The curtain rose. I was as excited as if it had 
 been a performance given by myself. We artists are 
 made that way : either we hate each other mortally, 
 and it is war to the knife between us, or we under- 
 stand better than any one the anguish of our
 
 SHOOTING STARS. 307 
 
 comrades, and when their hearts are beating like an 
 alarm-bell ours beats in unison. Their emotion is 
 ours. Their stage-fright that word so often heard 
 in the wings is our stage-fright. 
 
 To tell the truth, I was convinced that Cadenet was 
 going to win the game hands down. A superb voice, 
 young, not worn. A fine part, for one can never tell 
 what a fine part will make of a man ! He had only 
 to show himself. 
 
 " I will make his entree for him," I said to myself. 
 "I will be his benefactor" the name given to the 
 leader of the claque. " Let us prepare our clappers ! " 
 
 The curtain rose. You know Les Huguenots. 
 The stage represents a hall in the chateau of the 
 Comte de Nevers, a Catholic nobleman, also a fine 
 part. In the background, windows, a garden, a lawn. 
 Doors at right and left. Young noblemen playing at 
 foot-ball, dice, and bilboquet. And Nevers sings : 
 
 " Des beaux jours de la jeunesse, 
 Dans la plus riante ivresse, 
 Hatons-nous, le temps nous presse, 
 Hatons-nous, batons-nous, hatons-nous de jouir!" 1 
 
 Hatons-noiis three times over. They make haste 
 by wasting time. Then the chorus takes it up. 
 
 1 In the mad laughing passion 
 Of youth's fairest days, 
 Hasten we, for time presses, 
 Haste we, haste we, haste we to enjoy!
 
 308 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 " Hatons-nous, le temps nous presse, 
 Hatons-nous, hatons-nous, hatons-nous de jouir!" 
 
 Three times more. In a drama that would be per- 
 fectly ridiculous. In an opera you repeat things 
 three times. In Shakespeare too, by the way ! 
 
 I spare you the chorus : 
 
 " Aux jeux, a la folie 
 Consacrons notre vie, 
 Et qu'ici tout s'oublie, 
 Excepte* le plaisir ! " * 
 
 You see, I know the piece. I know it. I have a 
 memory. I should say, by way of explanation, that I 
 have sung in the chorus at Lons-le-Saunier and Albi. 
 My engagement forced me to it. Impossible to 
 refuse. One has to undergo those humiliations. 
 
 Well, when the chorus is finished Raoul enters. 
 Raoul de Nangis, a Protestant gentleman, makes his 
 appearance after the concerted piece and the allegretto 
 moderate. His coming is announced by the dialogue 
 between Tavannes, a Catholic gentleman, and Nevers : 
 
 " De ces lieux enchanteurs, chatelain respectable, 
 Pourquoi done, cher Nevers, ne pas nous mettre a 
 
 table?" 2 
 And Nevers : 
 
 1 To mirth and to folly 
 Devote we our lives, 
 And let all be forgotten 
 Save pleasure alone ! 
 
 2 Dear Nevers, worthy chatelain of this enchanting spot, 
 I prithee why do we not dine ?
 
 SHOOTING STARS. 309 
 
 " ' Nous attendons encore un convive ! ' 
 
 1 Et lequel ? ' 
 
 ' Un jeune gentilhomme, un nouveau camarade, 
 Qui, dans les lansquenets vient d'acque*rir un grade 
 Par le credit de 1'Amiral ! 
 
 ' Oh ! ciel, c'est done un huguenot ? '" 1 
 
 Amid their diversions the young nobles do not for- 
 get their hatred ! The Huguenot is the enemy ! De 
 Retz cries : / propose to amuse myself with him / 
 Nevers replies : And /, to convert him I 
 
 " Au culte des vrais dieux, 1'amour et le plaisir ! " 2 
 
 Very frivolous those young Catholic nobles are. 
 At that juncture Raoul makes his entree. Accom- 
 paniment quasi-allegretto. He appears, he comes 
 forward, he looks at the young lords one after another, 
 smiles and begins : 
 
 " Sous ce beau ciel de la Touraine, 
 Parmi ce que la cour offre de plus brillant, 
 Pour moi, simple soldat que Ton connait a peine, 
 
 Ah ! quel honneur d'etre admis ! " * 
 
 1 We wait another guest ! 
 
 And who ? 
 
 A young gentleman, a new companion, 
 
 Who has obtained a commission in the archers 
 
 Through the Admiral's influence ! 
 
 Oh, heaven ! 
 Can it be that he *s a Huguenot ? 
 
 a To the worship of the true gods, love and pleasure 1 
 
 8 Beneath this fair Touranian sky, 
 Amid all those who shine most brilliantly at court, 
 For me, a simple soldier who is hardly known, 
 How great an honor 't is to be received !
 
 310 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 And Coss, a Catholic gentleman, replies : Sur mon 
 honneur, tres bien / l while Tavannes rejoins with 
 scorn : 
 " Oui, 1'air gauche et gene" d'un noble de province ! " a 
 
 Observe that I had, in a previous conversation, 
 advised Cadenet to make the most of his entree, on 
 the stage one must make the most of everything, and 
 to address his words less to the young Catholic noble- 
 men than to the Havre audience, when he said, 
 modestly, with his right hand on his doublet, heart 
 side, like a debutant : 
 
 " Pour moi, simple soldat, que 1'on connait a peine, 
 " Ah ! quel honneur d'etre admis ! " 
 
 " Look at the audience, look at the ladies," I had 
 said to him. " Appear smiling and deeply moved at 
 the same time, anxious yet confident ; that will make 
 a good impression ! " 
 
 So Cadenet entered, among the young Catholic 
 gentlemen. Not badly costumed. Rather too large 
 a plume in his hat, and a sort of Tyrolean hunter's 
 bearing, but with his legs tightly encased in his trou- 
 sers and slashed boots. Really not bad. Quite 
 picturesque. He came forward. He smiled. He 
 bowed. He looked at Cosse", Nevers, De Retz, 
 
 1 Well said, upon my honor 1 
 
 2 Ay, the awkward and embarrassed air of a provincial 
 noble !
 
 SHOOTING STARS. 311 
 
 Tavannes, he looked at the audience, and suddenly 
 he began in his beautiful voice : 
 
 " Oui, voilk mes seuls amours, 
 
 Le vin, le jeu, les belles, 
 Voila, voila mes seuls amours ! " 1 
 
 And he sang with such good heart, with such faith ! 
 " Le vin, le jeu, les belles! " 
 
 Stupefaction. The poor devil was losing his mind. 
 He forgot Raoul, he forgot Les Huguenots, he was 
 singing Robert le Diable. Of the two he plunged 
 into the one that came naturally to his memory, his 
 poor, feeble, hesitating memory. There was such 
 amazement on the stage and in the theatre that at 
 first no one, yes, no one seemed to notice the appal- 
 ling error. Even I myself was mute, turned to stone. 
 Among the artists Berrouillet alone, who was playing 
 Nevers, had the presence of mind to whisper to 
 Cadenet : 
 
 " Why, that 's Robert that you 're singing ! You 
 are singing Robert. Raoul, not Robert, is what you 
 are playing to-night ! Raoul ! Raoul ! Raoul ! " 
 
 Cadenet did not hear, did not understand. He 
 continued to sing : 
 
 " Le vin, le jeu, les belles, 
 Voila mes seuls amours ! " 
 
 1 Yes, these are my only loves, 
 Wine, play, and fair women, 
 These, these are my only loves 1
 
 312 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 But, after all, in a party of young Catholic noble- 
 men, who had sung a moment before, 
 
 " Hatons-nous, le temps presse, 
 Hatons-nous de jouir," 
 
 praise of wine, gaming, and fair ones was quite in 
 keeping ! And the other singers and the orchestra 
 had concluded to go on with Les Huguenots, thinking 
 that the debutant would instantly discover his mis- 
 take. And Berrouillet, raising his voice, began 'to 
 sing in the role of Nevers : 
 
 " Que Bacchus me guide, 
 Que lui seul preside 
 A ce gai repas ! " 1 
 
 when suddenly ah! that was the climax! poor 
 Cadenet, exerting all the power of his lungs, replied 
 angrily with an awe-inspiring : 
 
 " C'en est trop ! Qu'on arrete un vassal insolent ! " * 
 
 He went on with Robert, he answered Nevers by 
 ordering Raimbaud's arrest. The young Catholic 
 nobles recoiled in terror or roared with laughter. 
 The audience cried : 
 
 "Yes! yes! it is too much!" (e'en est tropf) 
 
 1 May Bacchus be my guide, 
 May none but he preside 
 At this joyous repast ! 
 2 'T is too much ! Arrest the insolent vassal I
 
 SHOOTING STARS. 313 
 
 " He is making sport of us ! Out with him ! Down 
 with the debutant ! Give us our money ! " 
 
 And Cadenet, carried away by the inspiration of 
 the moment, stalked up to Nevers and roared, still 
 singing Robert le Diable : 
 
 " Une heure je t'accorde ! 
 Fais ta priere et puis Qu'on le pende a 1 'instant ! " 1 
 
 After that it was impossible to continue. A fright- 
 ful tempest was let loose in the hall. 
 
 " Curtain ! curtain ! Call the troops ! Police ! " 
 Some armed themselves with small benches and 
 threatened to throw them at Cadenet's head ; they 
 were already pounding on the seats as if they would 
 shatter them. The police were sent for; some of- 
 ficers appeared. The voice of the stage-manager 
 was heard, shouting : " Curtain ! " 
 
 And Cadenet saw the canvas descending between 
 him and the exasperated audience, an ominous 
 though fragile barrier between himself and glory. 
 They led him off the stage. He insisted upon con- 
 tinuing. His powerful voice could be heard, ex- 
 claiming : 
 
 " I have begun my part and I mean to finish it ! " 
 " But we are playing Les Huguenots, and you are 
 singing Robert le Diable I " 
 
 1 One hour I grant thee ! 
 Say thy prayers, and then Let him be hanged at once 1
 
 314 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 " That makes no difference ! I have begun, and I 
 am going to finish ! " 
 
 He had to be dragged into the wings. With torn 
 doublet and battered hat, waving the plume which 
 had fallen and which he had picked up, he struggled 
 ' like a genuine Huguenot in the Massacre of Saint 
 Bartholomew. Soon he began to tear his hair, to 
 beat his breast, and to shrink back against the wall, 
 poor fellow, in his desperation, realizing his mis- 
 adventure at last but too late ! 
 
 In vain did the stage-manager beg the indulgence 
 of the public and try to explain the deplorable mis- 
 understanding; the public would accept no excuses. 
 
 " No more Cadenet ! No more Cadenet ! Put 
 him out ! Give us back our money ! " 
 
 The management offered to substitute for Cadenet, 
 Fourgousse, also a Toulousan and very popular. And 
 Fourgousse, who was found among the audience, soon 
 appeared in Raoul's costume amid tempests of ap- 
 plause. This time Raoul said, as he should, to the 
 Catholic nobles : 
 
 "Sous ce beau ciel de Touraine, 
 Parmi ce que la cour off re de plus brillant " 
 
 He made a tremendous success. And I returned 
 with Cadenet to his room at Hotel Frascati, while he 
 shook his head and said again and again in a heart- 
 broken tone : 
 
 " What a memory ! What an atrocious memory !
 
 SHOOTING STARS 315 
 
 No, I shall never have courage to go on the stage 
 again ! Never ! Never ! " 
 
 In the distance the sea roared, as agitated as the 
 auditorium of the Grand Theatre a few moments 
 before. 
 
 If the Transatlantigue had n't sailed, I would take 
 my passage for America," said Cadenet between two 
 tears ; " I would accept any engagement, no matter 
 where. Across the water I might make a mistake in 
 my part without harm ; they don't know French 
 there." 
 
 " Don't you trust them ! " I said. " They follow 
 operas with the libretto. Indeed, they say that the 
 libretto is what interests them most ! " 
 
 Suddenly Cadenet wiped away his tears and raised 
 his head. 
 
 " Brichanteau," he said, " are you very sure of this 
 Fourgousse ? " 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " He came to listen to me at rehearsals, he watched 
 me with a curl of the lip ! Oh ! such a curl ! Is n't 
 he capable of having organized a cabal against me? " 
 
 I looked at Cadenet without answering. A cabal ! 
 He thought it was a cabal now! 
 
 "But, my poor old fellow, as it was yourself 
 who " 
 
 " Yes, yes," said he. " Precisely. I was afraid I 
 had fallen into a trap ! "
 
 3l6 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 If you should happen to meet Cadenet, he will 
 tell you how the jealousy of Fourgousse of Toulouse 
 prevented him from succeeding at Havre. And you 
 will meet him. He 's a policeman. He has become 
 a guardian of the peace. It is his business now to 
 put people out when the audience threatens to smash 
 the benches. From time to time, when he is on duty 
 at the Ope"ra, he sighs as he hears, through an open 
 door, the applause bestowed on some tenor. He 
 thinks that Fourgousse is a great villain ; then, draw- 
 ing himself up in his uniform, he consoles himself, 
 so he has told me, with this reflection : 
 
 " After all, I did better than that fellow ! I gave 
 an idea of two of Meyerbeer's operas at once, on 
 the same evening, and if they had let me go on, I 
 should have come out all right ! Memory ! What 
 is memory? In art, there is nothing else! " He has 
 heard me say that. 
 
 And he smites himself violently on the spot where 
 his heart beats beneath the material of his policeman's 
 tunic, his heart, which, like mine, is an artistic 
 heart. 
 
 Now, monsieur, what did Cadenet lack! Luck ! It 
 has failed me too. I am a starter, as he is a guardian 
 of the peace. And I often say to him : 
 
 " Who knows ? Perhaps we were born to galvan- 
 ize, you music, I the drama ! " 
 
 Ah ! the failures of life ! But basta ! It makes
 
 SHOOTING STARS. 317 
 
 payments on account to its creditors none the less, 
 and I should be deuced happy, old and worn-out 
 as I am, to begin once more to receive the dividends 
 of the old days, the petty joys, the cordial cheers, 
 and the cherished loves ! 
 
 I ask your pardon. I am late. And it is time for 
 the rehearsal. Quarter-past two. The rehearsal? 
 Ah ! what irony ! The rehearsal ? We don't rehearse 
 Hugo, nor even Bouchardy, but Sunday's race. To 
 your post, starter! "To your post! " Au revoir, 
 monsieur !
 
 XI. 
 
 THE LAST MEETING. 
 
 S&BASTIEN BRICHANTEAU seemed profoundly depressed 
 when I met him for the last time. 
 
 He was walking along by the shops on Boulevard 
 de Clichy, without looking at them, a superb figure, 
 despite his threadbare clothes, among the common- 
 place passers-by. His long hair, beneath his roman- 
 tic broad-brimmed hat, seemed to me to have grown 
 white. His tall, thin figure was still erect, but his 
 shoulder-blades were outlined more sharply under the 
 shiny cloth. In the beautiful sunlight of that spring 
 day he was leaning on an umbrella, which he used as 
 a cane, or rather, with such knightly grace he handled 
 it, as a rapier or a long sword. He wore gloves that 
 day, gloves that were too long for him, with gaping 
 holes at the ends of the fingers, sooty black gloves 
 of undressed kid; and his too full gray trousers 
 described spiral or corkscrew curves around his 
 calves. 
 
 And with it all there was a look of weary melan- 
 choly in his dull eyes, and the white snow of years 
 had fallen on his mustache, still turned up at the
 
 THE LAST MEETING. 319 
 
 ends. He moved his fine soldierly head from time to 
 time, and his lips, curling slightly, mumbled inau- 
 dible words, between flesh and skin, as they say. 
 
 It was in front of the little Theatre des Batignolles, 
 where the title of a farce then in vogue was displayed 
 upon new posters; and when Brichanteau brushed 
 against the steps and looked up at the names of the 
 actors in large letters, I noticed that the shaking of 
 his head became more accentuated, saddened, while 
 his words came louder, like a protest in an -under- 
 tone which asked nothing better than to become 
 thunderous. 
 
 "Ah! Monsieur Brichanteau," I said to him, "I 
 am very happy to meet you ! You know that I 
 admire in you the excellent man that you will always 
 be, and the conscientious artist that you still are. 
 What has happened to you? You seem depressed ! " 
 
 " Ah ! monsieur, if I am depressed, I have good 
 reason to be ! The statue ! You remember, Montes- 
 cure's statue, that I hoped to dedicate last autumn 
 at Garigat-sur-Garonne ? Well, the statue is at a stand- 
 still ! Hove to ! And no dedication possible as yet ! 
 And my famous gala performance, the performance I 
 spoke to you about, was a dead failure ! Have you a 
 moment? I will tell you about it as we walk, or on 
 a bench in Pare Monceau." 
 
 And amid the din of omnibuses and cabs, varied by 
 the bell of the trams and the signals of bicyclists,
 
 32O BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 dilating upon his eternal dreams in the deafening, 
 aggressive uproar, in the stifling dust of the multitude, 
 a walking image of the hunter of chimeras, Sebastien 
 Brichanteau told me the story of his last failure, 
 dwelling sadly upon the post-scriptum of fame, the 
 last note of hand drawn by him upon destiny and 
 returned to him by destiny, not accepted. 
 
 "Ah ! " he said, " I have had enough of the stage ! 
 It is decidedly better to be a starter. I have just 
 made my last trial : I organized a benefit perform- 
 ance, and after superhuman efforts, the rock of ill- 
 fortune fell upon my shoulders, like Sisyphus's rock, 
 and it is a miracle that my loins were not crushed ! 
 
 " For whose benefit was this performance ? Ah ! 
 monsieur, you would guess, if I had not told you ! I 
 say again, I was determined to keep my oath, the 
 oath taken at the Salon in front of Montescure's 
 statue, No. 3773, you know. I have moved heaven 
 and earth for the Roman Passing under the Yoke, and 
 I have been the more active, zealous, full of fire, be- 
 cause, to the sentiment of justice and reparation due 
 the consumptive sculptor by which I was influenced, 
 was added I tell you this in confidence another 
 motive, more private, more sorrowful perhaps : the 
 desire to assist a woman whom I have loved dearly, 
 oh ! very dearly. I have had many an adventure 
 with women ! I do not refer to my roles. In forty- 
 five years of acting I have seduced some six hundred
 
 THE LAST MEETING. 321 
 
 young girls on the stage, rescued seven or eight 
 hundred persecuted orphans, married thousands of 
 Jeunes premieres, and even ravished persons of quality. 
 But all that was between the footlights and the back 
 curtain, and only counts for the brain. I am speak- 
 ing of real life. 
 
 "You will do me this justice, monsieur, that in 
 these sincere, and as they say to-day, ingenuous 
 confessions, I have violated no amorous confidences. 
 Pure discretion. I might fill volumes with tales of 
 intrigues often paid for with tears. I have been 
 neither a Lovelace I have played the part at 
 Beziers, by the way nor a Casanova. But I have 
 had my passions. I have discreetly dissected some 
 of them for you. I have kept silence upon others. 
 
 " To think that I have been poisoned by a woman ! 
 Yes, I, Brichanteau, inoculated as in the Dolorida 
 of the poet. Madame Patricio, my manager I 
 have always been on the best of terms, as you have 
 noticed perhaps, with my managers ; it was a sort 
 of fatality, or rather it was a vocation, it was a gift 
 Madame Patricio, feeling that she was dying, 
 she was consumptive like the Dame aux Camelias, 
 poor woman, and with it all, a little off her balance, a 
 little mad, hysterical, so Monsieur Charcot said, 
 Madame Patricio summoned me one evening to her 
 death-bed and said to me : 
 
 " ' Forgive me, my beloved ! I adored you, I am 
 21
 
 322 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 jealous, and as I do not choose that you shall love 
 another after loving me, forgive me, I beg you ! I 
 have poisoned you ! ' 
 
 " ' Poisoned me ? ' 
 
 " ' Yes, I poured part of the laudanum that was 
 ordered for me into your grog just now ! And you 
 drank it ! ' 
 
 " I had drunk, it was true, as in Lucrece Borgia. 
 
 " Great God ! You can imagine the shock. 
 Poisoned ! Poisoned for love ! It was something to 
 boast of, it was romantic ; but it was a deuced bore, 
 there is no other word for it, it was a bore. I did 
 not reproach Suzanne Madame Patricio's name 
 was Suzanne too harshly, but I hurried off to the 
 druggist's. On the way it seemed to me that I could 
 see the flames in the darkness of which Victor Hugo 
 speaks in Hernani, and I even made a note of my 
 sensations in order to act the scene in the fifth with 
 more force, if occasion offered. A vulgar emetic con- 
 cluded the adventure, and Madame Patricio died, 
 having failed to drag me with her to the grave. 
 
 " I swore on the impulse of the moment that I 
 would remain faithful to her, although I was rather 
 disgusted with her for her selfish passion. But now 
 that the emetic had done its work, I retained only a 
 grandiose and almost affectionate memory, yes, an 
 affectionate, grateful, and flattered memory of that 
 novel and original situation. You, see, monsieur, I
 
 THE LAST MEETING. 323 
 
 am entitled to say that I have been loved ! I have 
 come near to being killed ! I have been poisoned by 
 a woman ! 
 
 " And when I had to attend the poor creature to 
 her last abiding-place, I was within an ace of having 
 printed in gold letters on the ribbons of the funeral 
 wreath : To my dear manager from her grateful vic- 
 tim I I abandoned the idea, for it would not have 
 been understood. 
 
 " And Virginie Gerard, the one for whom I organ- 
 ized the benefit, in part, she also was my manager, 
 she also loved me, poor woman without laudanum, 
 I must do her that justice ; and now the unfortunate 
 creature, after playing Dejazet in the provinces, is 
 playing Ophelia naturally at Villejuif Asylum. I have 
 just come from the asylum, and that is why you do 
 not find me very cheerful. 
 
 "Just imagine that I had been told that an old 
 comrade of mine, Canterive, was an inmate there, 
 properly taken care of, but lonesome and grieving, no 
 doubt ; and remembering bygone years, I had asked 
 permission to go and see him, to grasp his hand and 
 carry him some tobacco. Another no-luck man, 
 Canterive ! He used to play La Citerne d'Albi 
 in swaggering fashion. He was better than many 
 others. And now at Villejuif, poor fellow ! Alas, 
 poor Yorick! 
 
 " So I started for Villejuif, and I shall never forget
 
 324 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 that visit. Ah ! if I had to act Hamlet, to depict a 
 madman, I would have taken notes from life how 
 do you say ? in anima vili that day ! 
 
 "As I waited for the tram on Place du Chate- 
 let, near the two theatres where I have sometimes 
 acted in subordinate parts, under a pseudonym, I 
 have even taken part in a Japanese sanwurdi in an 
 International Morning at the Theatre Lyrique, then 
 the Theatre des Nations, I said to myself that life is 
 full of irony. I had seen Canterive on the municipal 
 stage of the Chatelet, and I was going to visit him at 
 a departmental asylum, his Hotel des Invalides ! 
 
 "And from the roof of the tram I contemplated 
 those broad arteries that have long since served to 
 relieve the congestion of the populous quarters of the 
 old days, of my youth : the Avenue des Gobelins, La 
 Bievre, that natural Venice, the Theatre des Gobelins, 
 where I saw Bocage in his old age, the Avenue 
 d' Italic, the Bra Chapel and the naked fortifications, 
 the huge buildings of Bicetre, where so many poor 
 old men drag out their last days, Villejuif, where I 
 mounted guard in 1870, and the plateau, swept by 
 the winds of winter, from which we watched Chevilly 
 and L'Hay in the distance, swarming with Prussians ! 
 
 "And then, at the end of a long road, a great new 
 building, with red roofs, surrounded by an iron fence 
 and with arcades like some Italian convents, having 
 the aspect of a town hall rather than a retreat for
 
 THE LAST MEETING. 325 
 
 lunatics. It was the Asylum. I asked for the doctor, 
 a very pleasant man, who invited me into his office 
 and bade a keeper go and fetch Canterive. I had 
 not long to wait. Canterive must have been wander- 
 ing about in the vicinity. He came in, fat as a 
 monk, dressed in the regular costume of the asylum, 
 brown jacket and trousers, and holding his cap in his 
 hand. 
 
 " ' Canterive,' said the excellent doctor, ' here 's 
 a friend of yours who wants to see you ! ' 
 
 " The poor devil turned his eyes upon me, great 
 round eyes, with a very vague expression, hesitated 
 a moment before recognizing me, then, stammering, 
 stuttering, as if his tongue were almost paralyzed, he 
 said : 
 
 " ' Bri Bri ch chan Brich Brichanteau ! ' 
 " He held out a trembling hand. It would be more 
 accurate to say that I grasped his hand. Paralysis 
 had already laid hold of him, and I gazed sadly at 
 the ruin. Such a handsome fellow ! strong as an 
 ox ! who had fought the bull at Nimes, and taken 
 a fall with professional wrestlers in the arenas of the 
 Midi, to amuse himself. Bloated now and palsied 
 and worn-out; but very happy. 
 
 " ' Do you need anything, Canterive ? ' 
 " ' No-nothing I am ve-very comfortable here 
 very com-fort-able. Good f-f-food! Ve-ve-very 
 And at reg-reg-reg '
 
 326 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 " At regular hours ! Yes, and when he had 
 nearly starved so many times ! 
 
 " ' And where do you think you are ? ' the doctor 
 interrupted him. 'Do you know, Canterive, that 
 you are in a mad- house?' 
 
 " My old comrade shrugged his shoulders, assumed 
 an expression of crushing scorn, like a man turning 
 up his nose at a wretched joke, and exclaimed : 
 
 "'No no-no, B-b-best hotel in Pa-a-aris. 
 Good, very g-g-good hotel. Very ve-ry. Many, 
 ma-a-a-any g-g-guests ! ' 
 
 " Then he relapsed into a sort of unctuous beati- 
 tude. I talked to him, I questioned him. He did 
 not answer. His happy smile was permanent. With 
 his saucer-like eyes he welcomed vague visions. The 
 poor fellow, who had been knocked about as few 
 others have been, in rags and poverty, had fallen at 
 last upon perfect happiness and tranquillity where ? 
 In a lunatic asylum. 
 
 " ' Oh ! you need not disturb yourself about him,' 
 said the doctor. ' He will end his days in peace and 
 more happily than we.' 
 
 " I must say that Canterive manifested little grief 
 when I took leave of him. Indeed he seemed to be 
 in haste to go and sit, all by himself, on a bench in 
 the sunlight. I took his hand once more and said 
 ' Au revoir ; ' he stammered an ' A-a-dieu ! ' and left 
 the room.
 
 THE LAST MEETING. 327 
 
 " ' And that, it may be, is happiness ! ' I thought. 
 
 " The doctor was kind enough to ask me to inspect 
 the establishment, and I felt the impression grow 
 stronger within me that madmen are more interest- 
 ing than fools, and not much more insane than men 
 of intellect. I saw them there in all forms, and, as 
 we were going out, I was struck by the pensive feat- 
 ures of a young man with a military head, who was 
 walking along the gallery with his head bent over an 
 octavo volume. 
 
 " We spoke to him. 
 
 " He was reading, he said, what was to him a most 
 interesting, fascinating book, a New Theory of the 
 perpendicular system of triple isotherms and its appli- 
 cation to curvilinear co-ordinates. 
 
 " I made him repeat the title, which I engraved 
 upon my memory it is still superb and I glanced 
 at the doctor, saying in an undertone, ' The per- 
 pendicular system of triple isotherms, poor fool ! ' 
 
 " But the doctor corrected my error. 
 
 "'No, no. The book is a real one; the book 
 exists, and is a fine book. The author is a Vicomte 
 de Salvert, doctor of science and professor in the 
 Free Faculty of Sciences at Lille. You will find it 
 at Gauthier-Villars ! ' 
 
 " Curvilinear co-ordinates ! The perpendicular 
 system ! I was losing my balance. And I made haste 
 to turn my back on a place where mathematicians
 
 328 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 seemed insane, and where madmen like Canterive 
 seemed so perfectly happy. I took leave of the 
 doctor and set out to return to my tramway. 
 
 "Suddenly, as I drew near the gateway, I saw 
 alighting from a cab, assisted by two attendants, 
 one male and the other female, a little old, old 
 woman, all wrinkled and broken, nodding her head 
 and looking about her with the interest of an aston- 
 ished girl ; and, despite her age, despite the wrinkles 
 and gray hair, and the idiotic smile on that poor 
 shrunken face, I uttered an exclamation, recognizing 
 instantly a flower of my past, and I said in a tone 
 that came from my heart : 
 " ' Virginie ! ' 
 " She turned toward me. 
 
 " Virginie ! The Dejazet of Saint-fitienne, Lyon, 
 Dijon, Strasbourg, the rival of Scriwaneck, the pretty 
 girl, graceful as a Saxony statuette, who played 
 Richelieu, Gentil-Bernard and Letorieres as well, 
 yes, really almost as well as the Parisian Dejazet 
 herself! Virginie Gerard, my manager in the old 
 days, so refined, so devoted, so gay, so wild, so 
 kind-hearted, such a genuine grisette ! Virginie in 
 that place ! Virginie, alighting from a cab to enter 
 a lunatic asylum, the peaceful good hotel, where fam- 
 ished Canterive at least found bread for his old age ! 
 "That gave me a shock, a violent shock to my 
 whole system. The thing that made an even deeper
 
 THE LAST MEETING. 329 
 
 impression upon me was that Virginie, unlike Can- 
 terive, did not recognize me. No, not in the least. 
 Her name, pronounced by a voice that has not yet 
 lost its music, had made her turn her head mechani- 
 cally in my direction. But there was no meaning in 
 the look. No trace of life. The eyes did not see, 
 no mark was made upon the brain. The laughter, 
 revealing decayed yellow teeth oh ! the little rice 
 grains of pretty white teeth she used to have ! the 
 laughter was mute ; and bright and mischievous as it 
 had once been, it was now idiotic. 
 
 " I tried to say : 
 
 " ' It is I I, Brichanteau Se"bastien. At Lyon, 
 you know Lyon the Celestins? 
 
 " She did not listen to me, she did not hear me, 
 and she sang, a sexagenarian Ophelia, in a thin, worn 
 voice, snatches of the refrains of days gone by : 
 
 " ' Combien je regrette 
 Mon bras si dodu, 
 Ma jambe bien faite 
 Et le temps perdu ! ' 
 
 " La Douairiere de Brionne ! Yes, her great suc- 
 cess at the Ce'lestins at Lyon ! I was playing Lazare 
 le Pdtre at the Grand Theatre, of which Monsieur 
 Gerard, her husband, also had control ; and we resorted 
 to amusing ruses she, Comedy, I, Melodrama to 
 arrange meetings which our mutual passion rendered 
 more ardent, perhaps, but assuredly less guilty !
 
 330 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 " Moreover, that husband of hers, a violent, drunken 
 brute and gambler, deserved a fate a hundred-fold 
 worse than was in store for him ! By his crazy spec- 
 ulations he ruined poor Virginie she loved that ill- 
 fated name, which De'jazet also bore. It was Gerard 
 who hurled his devoted companion devoted in a 
 commercial sense into destitution, and forced her 
 down the first rung of the ladder that leads to mad- 
 ness. Peace to his ashes ! He killed himself or was 
 killed at Montevideo, in a gambling hell ! It was an 
 end worthy of his life. 
 
 " Ah ! Virginie ! What memories her face evoked ! 
 She was so pretty, was Virginie ! And so amusing ! 
 Dark, vivacious as a bird, bright as a Parisian, and pas- 
 sionate as an Andalusian. My dear manager ! She 
 generously added a perquisite of inestimable value to 
 my salary, love ! I ought to say that all that I earned 
 went to her in the way of bouquets, bracelets, souvenirs. 
 I would have liked to be Monte-Cristo, in order to 
 subsidize both her theatres at once and cover her with 
 gold. But she despised the clink of coin as I did 
 myself! She would gladly have left that fool of a 
 Gerard, to live with me in a sixth-floor room, drink- 
 ing cider and nibbling chestnuts ! Mimi Pinson ! I 
 called her Mimi Pinson. 
 
 " ' What would you have ? I am playing Fr^tillon,' 
 she said to me. 'I must wear petticoats suited to 
 the character ! '
 
 THE LAST MEETING. 331 
 
 " Moreover, at that moment the Ce"lestins and the 
 Grand Theatre were both making a pile of money as 
 big as themselves and, except for her husband, Mimi 
 Pinson would have made her fortune. What extraor- 
 dinary situations occur in real life ! I had known her 
 so charming, and I found her such a wreck! Old 
 and shrunken, a shrunken old woman ! An old 
 woman without memory, without expression, almost 
 without life ! An old, worn-out woman who sang in 
 a faltering way a couplet that had remained in a fold 
 of her brain, like a rag forgotten in the corner of an 
 empty room : 
 
 " * Combien je regrette 
 Mon bras si dodu, 
 
 " I listened, I had a feeling of tightness in 
 my throat and my chest, like symptoms of angina 
 pectoris. 
 
 " My poor Virginie ! My little Virginie ! Frtil- 
 lon ! My whole past ! Those dingy white hairs I 
 remembered how it amused her in the old days when 
 I brushed them flat with the hot iron as I was putting 
 on her curl-papers ! So dark and fine and soft Vir- 
 ginie's hair used to be ! I ought to have kept a few 
 locks of it in an envelope, in my drawer. And now 
 ah ! now ! Behold your youth, poor man ! 
 Brichanteau, behold your love! 
 
 *' I shuddered ; but I shook off my emotion, and I 
 followed Virginie Gerard as far as the door of the
 
 332 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 chief physician of the female quarter, who was wait- 
 ing to question her and study her. 
 
 " But they stopped me on the threshold. 
 
 " ' You can't go in,' they said. ' This is a patient 
 sent to us from Saint-Anne's, and she is to be 
 isolated.' 
 
 " Very good, I would come again. Yes, certainly, 
 I would come again ; I would make inquiries, I would 
 not forget Virginie, I would see her again. They 
 would certainly let me see her. 
 
 " Thereupon I made inquiries as to what had hap- 
 pened to her. She had fallen, step by step, into most 
 horrible destitution. Formerly she had really per- 
 formed prodigies of valor in order to support the 
 various managerial undertakings, the insane enter- 
 prises of her husband. She had played Dejazet's 
 roles on the prairies, singing and dancing for cow- 
 boys, who applauded by firing revolvers. She her- 
 self, with a revolver in her belt, yes, the dainty 
 grisette with tiny hands, sometimes slept in the 
 open air, and picked up dollars in barns. Then old 
 age had come and evil days and poverty. One day 
 they found upon a quay at Nantes a poor wandering 
 creature, who said that she was a dramatic artist, 
 ex-manager of several subsidized provincial theatres, 
 and who had upon her her whole fortune a ten- 
 sous piece that was no longer current, and a dilapi- 
 dated volume of Beranger's Chansons. Ah ! Frtil-
 
 THE LAST MEETING. 333 
 
 Ion ! the girl who frisks about (frttitte); Frtiillon sans 
 cotillon ! It was Virginie ! 
 
 " Theatrical triumphs and earthly loves have their 
 to-morrows. They sent Madame Gerard home to 
 Paris. But in Paris the gulf was wider, that is all. 
 If one is proud, one can die of hunger in greater 
 obscurity in Paris that is the only advantage. No 
 one here troubled himself about Virginie, and I did 
 not even know that she was here, or that she was still 
 in the world. The poor old girl went about begging 
 and soliciting. A supernumerary here, sweeper there. 
 Requesting the favor of being allowed to let little 
 benches in a wine-shop as earnestly as she would have 
 begged to become a doge's wife. And repulsed 
 everywhere ! The poor breed fast, those places are 
 scarce and always taken, the young are active, the old 
 are too numerous and life is hard. When I see so 
 many pretty girls jostling one another to get on to the 
 stage, I would like to take them to the asylum down 
 yonder, where the Dejazet of the Ce'lestins, my poor 
 mad manager, hums snatches of chansons in her 
 trembling voice ! 
 
 " Oh ! monsieur, if I were to live a hundred years 
 which I am quite capable of doing, but have no 
 desire to do I should never forget my visits to 
 Virginie at that asylum, where I once saw her, after 
 a paroxysm of madness, locked in a padded cell, like 
 the wildest patients, poor women, old and young,
 
 334 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 whom I could see through the glass scratched by their 
 nails, lying on the straw that they befoul, yelling, 
 sometimes stark naked, tearing their clothes, pressing 
 their distorted faces with hair on end against the 
 glass, as terrible to see as La Sachette at the opening 
 of her Rat Hole in Notre-Dame de Paris, and, poor 
 miserable wretches, calling amid their shrieks for a 
 lost child, a wasted fortune, or a faithless lover, ma- 
 ternity, love, dreams, everything that deceives, every- 
 thing that lies, everything that kills ! Pah ! There 
 is melodrama for you \ 
 
 " Virginie is not always wild in her retreat. Indeed 
 her paroxysms are of rare occurrence. But as for 
 ever recognizing me, a Dieu vat, as the sailors say \ 
 Her memory has gone to pieces. N, i, ni, fini. 
 It was for her sake, therefore, that I organized my 
 benefit. For her, and for Montescure's Remain. A 
 twofold object, a twofold spur, a twofold duty. 
 
 " A woman who had loved me so dearly ! Who 
 had never deceived me ! Who said to me as they 
 all said, but with an accent that the others had not : 
 
 " 'I swear to you by my father's head that I have 
 never loved but one being in this world ! You ! ' 
 
 " That is worth a little self-sacrifice, is it not ? 
 
 " To horse, then, to horse, messieurs, for the bene- 
 fit performance ! 
 
 "At first I ran against many obstacles. Benefit 
 performances are too common ! Statues are being
 
 THE LAST MEETING. 335 
 
 erected on all sides. It 's a fashion, a career, a career 
 in marble pardon the pun, I detest that sort of 
 wit. 1 
 
 " When a man wishes to enhance his own merit or 
 to put himself forward, he climbs upon the pedestal 
 of a more or less illustrious contemporary. A Com- 
 mittee is appointed, drums are beat for subscriptions, 
 a matinee is given at the Trocade>o, and the person 
 in question becomes a public character, purchasing 
 his glory with the money and talents of other people. 
 That such was not my case, I am sure I need not 
 remind you? I may admit in a whisper that there 
 was some little gratification of self-esteem in the pros- 
 pect of seeing myself as a Roman under the Southern 
 heavens, but it was so trivial a matter in comparison 
 with the joy of performing this duty : the rehabilita- 
 tion of Montescure, the vanquished sculptor, to say 
 nothing of the mad woman's comfort. For Frtillon's 
 old age, if you please ! 
 
 " I had relied largely for the success of my under- 
 taking on a certain journalist who has made his way 
 to prosperity, and whom I once knew on Rue Cardi- 
 net, up under the roofs, when he was a poor little 
 reporter, stamping his feet to keep warm in winter, 
 and wandering around the streets at all seasons. I 
 
 1 The pun consists in this : that the same word carriire 
 means both career and quarry ; une carrtire de marbre there- 
 fore might mean a career in marble or a marble quarry.
 
 336 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 asked him for a bit of an article, a trumpet blast, in 
 the papers that he writes for. 
 
 " ' Ah I my dear Brichanteau,' he said, ' if we had 
 to print a puff for every statue that 's proposed, our 
 columns would n't hold enough, even with the sup- 
 plements, and the subscribers would never renew their 
 subscriptions ! We should be nothing but writers of 
 prefaces for Pantheons. All these statues will end by 
 ruining the public. They are breeding too fast. For 
 my own part, I have already subscribed to eleven 
 statues this year, and it 's only May. It 's the same 
 thing with benefits ! Every day we are asked to puff 
 some fresh one, and I see all the fair actresses I used 
 to applaud in the old days, arise with sad faces and 
 outstretched hand from the ashes of my past. They 
 are wrinkled, faded, miserably poor, and they beg me 
 for a few lines by way of alms, they whom I used 
 to gaze upon with the eyes of an enthralled student, 
 laden with admiration and longing, across the foot- 
 lights ! And from pure selfishness I give them the 
 articles they want ; by commemorating their charms 
 retrospectively, it seems to me that I am commemo- 
 rating myself. Their old age reminds me of my 
 youth, and I am singing of my youth as I weep for 
 them. But as to your poor devil of a Montescure, 
 your consumptive little cornet- a- piston, your statue 
 of the Roman under the Yoke and your lines for 
 the occasion by the poet Cazenave, deputy-mayor of
 
 THE LAST MEETING. 337 
 
 Garigat-sur-Garonne, how do you suppose those things 
 will interest our readers ? What do you suppose Pari- 
 sians care for them? ' 
 
 " He was right, from his point of view. The van- 
 quished are always wrong. But in my soul and con- 
 science I was doing my duty, and his objections did 
 not shake my determined zeal. 
 
 " 'Very well,' I said to him, 'keep your sympathies 
 for your old flames, and I will ask you to do nothing 
 more than announce Montescure's and Virginie's 
 benefit. I will undertake the whole thing, I will 
 prepare and organize the whole thing, and I will 
 obtain all I want ! And you need say nothing more 
 than that it 's a matter of assisting a mad woman.' 
 
 " He began to laugh. 
 
 " ' That would be no exception ; they all say it ! ' 
 
 " But all of them have not loved me as Virginie 
 did. 
 
 " Ah ! what a burden I had taken upon my 
 shoulders ! What a heavy cart to draw ! A benefit, 
 monsieur, a benefit, it is perfect hell. The bene- 
 ficiary becomes the tiresome solicitor of everybody 
 who has a name or rank or fortune. As a young 
 man I had always refused to peddle tickets to my 
 own benefits in the provinces. My comrades went 
 and cooled their heels in the antechambers of the 
 prefect, the mayor, the general of division, and the 
 influential ladies of the town. Not I. I advertised
 
 338 ERICH ANTEAU. 
 
 my benefit, I put my name in huge letters, and I 
 waited for the sale of seats, very dignified. To tell 
 the truth, I found collaborators among everlasting 
 womankind. Yes, I must confess that most of the 
 time my various managers, friends in spirit or in 
 flesh, undertook themselves to correct what little 
 lack of tact there was in my attitude by going in 
 person to solicit the favor of the authorities for me, 
 and placing boxes and stalls here and there. I was 
 very grateful to them. 
 
 " But there was nothing in their soliciting to wound 
 my somewhat sensitive character. Very well; that 
 which my various and, in different degrees, equally 
 amiable managers, had been to poor timid me, I 
 became to one of them, a madwoman. A kind deed 
 done bears fruit one day or another. 
 
 " I too carried tickets through the city. I too 
 caused urgent circulars to be lithographed, in which 
 I put forth the best efforts of my heart style is the 
 mirror of the man. 
 
 " MONSIEUR, 
 
 " He who signs these lines is an artist fighting one last 
 fight for a fellow-artist. 
 
 " When he says a fellow-artist, he should say two fel- 
 low-artists : a dead living woman, a forgotten dead man. 
 
 " To lighten the madness that has the former in its 
 grasp, the undersigned asks you for money. For the 
 renown that has shunned the second, he demands the 
 light.
 
 THE LAST MEETING. 339 
 
 " Light, health, everything is bought and sold. A 
 benefit performance, the programme of which, comprising 
 the greatest names of the stage, will be published later, 
 will give life to her who suffers, will give comfort to the 
 memory of him who has gone. 
 " Allow me to hope, 
 
 "M 
 
 " (Monsieur or Madame), 
 
 that you will kindly lend your aid to this twofold mani- 
 festation of art and benevolence, and that you will honor 
 with your subscription and your presence the performance 
 to be given at the Theatre du Chatelet, the 
 " With my respectfully fraternal salutations, 
 
 " SEBASTIEN BRICHANTEAU. 
 "Actor in various theatres of France. 
 
 " The Chatelet being a theatre under municipal 
 management, Monsieur Cazenave had obtained the 
 use of the hall, thanks to certain municipal coun- 
 cillors who were friends of his, and whose hearts I 
 had won by telling them of my adventure of 1871, my 
 plan of saving France by kidnapping William. You 
 remember? Having the theatre, it only remained 
 for me to secure the artists. I set about the task. 
 
 "Have you ever seen the play Le Beneficiaire, 
 monsieur? No? Then read it. The comedy is 
 exaggerated, if you choose ! but so true ! Eter- 
 nally true. It created a furore when Potier brought 
 it out at the Varie'te's, in April, 1825, and played it 
 three weeks later at Saint-Cloud, before Charles X. 
 and the court. The old prompter, L'Essouffle, dis-
 
 340 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 plays more diplomacy therein, in the interest of his 
 benefit, than Monsieur Talleyrand displayed at the 
 Congress of I don't know where, and more 
 energy than Pere P^lissier before Sebastopol. He 
 runs after Monsieur de la Tirade, tragic actor, he 
 implores Monsieur du Bemol, * a famous singer, I 
 smile at the artlessness of the names selected to 
 amuse our fathers, he flatters Mademoiselle Z- 
 phirine, a dancer of repute ; the tenor has a cold, 
 the dancer is tired, the tragedian is packing his 
 trunks for Lille, Strasbourg, or Marseille. But that 
 makes no difference ; the beneficiary organizes his 
 benefit and all goes well, until the time for raising 
 the curtain arrives, when, patatras I everybody is 
 missing, noble father, princess, moralizer, tenor, and 
 Monsieur L'Essouffl is compelled to act all alone 
 at his benefit. 
 
 " It may be, monsieur, that the vaudeville also is 
 true to nature, as the drama is. I have had some 
 experience of it myself. Indeed, the vaudeville may 
 become tragic, and I have acted in MM. Theaulon 
 and Etienne's comedies with cruel alternations of 
 illusions and despair. 
 
 " I had said to myself : 
 
 " ' The benefit will be given for the benefit of a dead 
 friend and a living sweetheart ! It must be really 
 extraordinary, this extraordinary performance. It 
 1 Monsieur Flat.
 
 THE LAST MEETING. 341 
 
 must mark an epoch ! It will be my supreme in- 
 carnation, and, after making one last appearance 
 before the public I, the forgotten, mingling once 
 more with the illustrious I will disappear, and with 
 the satisfaction of duty well done will envelop myself 
 in that last memory as the sun envelops himself in 
 a cloak of purple. Very simple. Very dignified.' 
 
 "Thereupon I began that painful journey up the 
 staircases of successful comrades. I have good feet 
 and a good eye, luckily, and I need no elevator to 
 go upstairs. And then, to tell the truth, I was well 
 received almost everywhere. Art expands the heart, 
 and my colleagues are good fellows. If you should 
 add together all that actors contribute, in a year, of 
 their strength, their lung power, their nerves, their 
 saliva, their feverish earnestness and their time to the 
 poor, you would realize that they are great purveyors 
 of benevolence. They are always being asked and 
 they always give, and give all they can. I begged, 
 therefore, like the others. 
 
 " I played Le Beneficiaire, I tell you, I became 
 Monsieur L'Essoufl for the benefit of somebody else. 
 I described as vividly as possible Virginie's terrible, 
 heart-breaking, desperate condition, and the patriotic 
 purpose of this double-barrelled performance : on the 
 one hand, to provide snuff and other small comforts, 
 a last caress, for a fallen artist ; on the other hand, to 
 procure the last bank-notes necessary to complete a
 
 342 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 statue which would do honor at once to the memory 
 of a deceased sculptor connected with the stage 
 through the orchestra and to the devotion of a 
 French town to the idea of patriotic protest. In a 
 word, my circular, my little lithographed circular, but 
 expanded and explained. 
 
 " I delivered, redelivered, repeated, began anew 
 that sort of lecture, as forcibly as I could, with an 
 eloquence drawn from my profound conviction, and 
 constantly renewed, and I must say that I seemed to 
 myself to be convincing in my arguments. I picked 
 up accessions to my list as with my hand. I met 
 with some refusals, to be sure, especially on the part 
 of singers, who very often began by saying to me : 
 ' If it 's to be at the Trocadero, you know, don't count 
 on me ! ' But let us be just ; singers have to be 
 careful of their voices, and their managers are afraid 
 of hoarseness and angina pectoris. 
 
 " One of them said to me : 
 
 " ' I don't sing anywhere but in churches now ! 
 That 's one way of making up for my past ! ' 
 
 " He had no reason to make up for that glorious 
 past. But, after all, every one is free to have such 
 scruples of conscience as he chooses. 
 
 " The dancers were more obliging. I had preju- 
 dices against dancers ; I have none now. They are 
 not simply acrobats, as I used to imagine. They are 
 poets with their great toes. They are silent dreams.
 
 THE LAST MEETING. 343 
 
 And I am bound to say that their hearts are as big 
 as their calves. Not one of them said no to me. 
 
 " ' For a comrade who has gone mad ? As often 
 as you please ! ' 
 
 " ' For the statue of your consumptive sculptor ? 
 I will do whatever you want me to ! ' 
 
 " Good girls ! So self-sacrificing ! And I am 
 speaking of the most famous of them, of those whose 
 photographs you see at the stationers' and their por- 
 traits at the Salon. Generally they have known bad 
 days, they don't come out of Jupiter's loins, and 
 poverty, which terrifies them, makes them compas- 
 sionate. And then, how they dance ! They dance 
 gayly, not for the opera-glasses of the rich, but for 
 the empty purses of the poor ! They touched my 
 heart, those dancers, touched my heart and charmed 
 me. Ah ! if I had been twenty years old. 
 
 " These visits, by the way, these stair-climbings, 
 these calls upon comrades who have names, have 
 taught me a good bit about the artists of my 
 time. Psychological and practical studies. Adieu 
 to Bohemia, monsieur. We are no longer living in 
 the days of the honest players of Boulevard du 
 Temple, who set up an establishment in common, 
 took pot -luck together, formed a club of bachelors, 
 shared the management of the community, one of 
 them, for example, being assigned to the kitchen; 
 the object being to live economically, to make the
 
 344 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 two ends meet, as they say. The actors of to-day, 
 bless my soul ! some of them are good business 
 men and know how to count like treasury inspectors. 
 
 "They have galleries of pictures, collections of 
 snuff-boxes. Daltimare Daltimare has in his 
 rooms canvases by the old masters, which Ameri- 
 cans flock there to admire like works in a museum, 
 and even beg to be allowed to purchase them at 
 insane prices ; in the first place because the pictures 
 are choice, and secondly because they belong to the 
 Daltimare collection. A good fellow, Daltimare, 
 however, and he put me at my ease at once by 
 promising me his name, his assistance, his influ- 
 ence for my famous performance. 
 
 " ' Certainly,' he said frankly, ' the least that the 
 great can do is to help out the small ! ' 
 
 " But with that he gave vent to some most amazing 
 theories on art : 
 
 " ' People reproach us for touring, they accuse us 
 of preferring American dollars or the piastres of the 
 hidalgo to Parisian applause. They who tell us 
 that are very kind ! Don't they sell their crops for 
 all they can get for them ? Don't the journalists ask 
 the highest possible price for their articles? My 
 problem of existence is very simple. America? 
 Tableaux ! Paris ? No tableaux ! That is not hard 
 to understand ! I am most heartily at your service and 
 that of your poor prole" gs, Monsieur Brichanteau ! "
 
 THE LAST MEETING. 345 
 
 "But as I went down the stone staircases, over 
 rugs that felt soft to my feet, of those kings of Paris, 
 deserving of their kingship, I admit, for I have 
 no base envy, I remembered the great, sublime 
 madmen of my day, the wild-eyed romanticists, the 
 courageous victims of bitter hardships. I forgot 
 myself, I swear to you ; I thought only of others, of 
 those whom I have known, loved, admired, and with 
 a little luck ah ! Luck, the knave ! might perhaps 
 have equalled ! I thought of Beauvallet's absurd 
 salary from Pere Seveste for acting in tragedy at 
 Belleville, and of his selling his daubs for he was a 
 painter to buy crusts, as he said. 1 Monsieur Beau- 
 vallet had told us about his early experiences, and I 
 forgive him now for all his persecution of me, because 
 he was an artist ! He it was who played Orosmane in 
 nankeen trousers in the snow in December ! He it 
 was who, in Othello, made his exit playing at leap- 
 frog with lago, and said to the audience, ' By order 
 of the Council of Ten ! ' He it was who let loose in 
 the hall a bag full of June bugs he had collected in the 
 Bois de Boulogne, and enlivened the tragedy of Les 
 Templiers by the buzzing of their wings. ' June bugs,' 
 said Beauvallet, ' have a taste for tragedy, a detail 
 never discovered by Monsieur de Buffon.' And such 
 
 1 Another untranslatable play upon words, crotite (crust) 
 being used in painting with the meaning of wretched picture 
 or daub.
 
 346 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 epic buffoonery helped to pass the days of fasting. 
 They laughed uproariously and had no need to 
 button their waistcoats tight ! Gayety is health. 
 
 "And Me"lingue, the son of a customs officer, grand- 
 son of a volunteer of the Republic, wandering about 
 the country, acting in barns, going from village to 
 village with his friend Tisserant, the future manager 
 of the Odon, in the cold and snow, like a portable 
 flue of art, earning his bread as he could, the grand, 
 high-spirited artist ! Me'lingue arriving at Lille, a 
 walled town, after the hour for closing the gates, and 
 passing the night in an abandoned sentry-box, rub- 
 bing the legs of his companion, which the north wind' 
 had congealed. Meringue selling a pan of Middle 
 Age short-clothes to pay for the cup of coffee that 
 Tisserant and he drank the next morning to warm 
 themselves. Melingue beating the drum at Armen- 
 tieres to announce the performance in the evening. 
 Melingue on his way to Paris, catching frogs and 
 having them cooked by kind-hearted peasants, to 
 whom he recited verses ! Melingue, as stout-hearted 
 against hunger as D'Artagnan against bullets, and win- 
 ning renown, foot by foot, hardship by hardship, in 
 an assault upon destiny, like a Mousquetaire of our 
 art. 
 
 And Bocage, escaped from his notary's office, weary 
 of the trade of under-clerk, passing his nights rehears- 
 ing his roles, keeping his neighbors awake and seeing
 
 THE LAST MEETING. 347 
 
 success approach in the shape of a concierge, who 
 informs Hamlet, Othello, Le Cid, Horace, that he 
 must let the tenants sleep. Bocage, who will play 
 Buridan and scheme to be a supernumerary at Bobino ! 
 All those great names, all those great shades my 
 youth and its gods came back to me while I 
 made my way to the apartments of my young com- 
 rades of to-day, with their white salons like the 
 boudoirs at Trianon, and their walls and mantel- 
 shelves covered with water-colors and Japanese 
 knick-knacks. 
 
 " Ah ! for some it is a prosperous trade, this hard 
 labor of the actor, who churns up his brains studying 
 and investigating, who develops his memory abnor- 
 mally, passes his nights learning learning, yes, 
 swallowing roles that he must soon forget. Observe, 
 I say again, that I have not a shade of envy. Not a 
 shade. I am not happy, no, but I know those 
 and they are many who are more unhappy than I ! 
 But it seems to me that life has lacked the little grain 
 of pepper for this new generation ! They have arrived 
 too quickly, by way of roads without ruts. They have 
 been spoiled too much. Oh ! hardship, hardship, that 
 hast caused so much gnawing and pain in my stomach, 
 thou art perhaps the best condiment for an artistic 
 life. When one has had nothing to eat but thee day 
 after day, the smallest morsel of bread and butter has 
 an ambrosial sweetness.
 
 348 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 " I fell in with more than one who said to me, as he 
 promised his assistance : 
 
 " ' It will be a most excellent opportunity to play a 
 new piece of mine ! ' 
 
 " * Of yours, my dear master? ' 
 
 " But after all, why not ? They who know how to 
 interpret should know how to create. 
 
 " Others seized the opportunity to say to me : 
 
 " ' I am at your service on condition that I may 
 act in this or that great role which my idiot of a 
 manager refuses to give me, on the pretext that he 
 carft imagine me acting it? 
 
 " The women said Celimene ; the men, Ruy Bias 
 or Alceste. Montdidier insisted upon Rysoor, in 
 Patrie I A masterpiece, I tell you ! 
 
 " People are surprised because we are determined, 
 at any price, to play certain roles that fascinate us, 
 Celimene or Silvia, when one is a woman and a great 
 flirt ; Alceste or Hernani, when one is a man and 
 plays leading roles. But it is perfectly natural ! 
 When one has been CeUimene or the Misanthrope, 
 though for a single evening only, one continues to be 
 Celimene or the Misanthrope all one's life. Nothing, 
 nothing in the world, can interfere with your having 
 Played that part. No matter how great a failure you 
 may have made, you touched the stars, you won the 
 cup one evening. Napoleon, yes, Napoleon, even 
 when he was a prisoner on the rock of St. Helena,
 
 THE LAST MEETING. 349 
 
 had won the battle of Friedland none the less. 
 Neither Hudson Lowe nor anybody else could take 
 that away from him. Ce"limene, Hernani, those are 
 our Friedlands. And more, the victories of art are 
 more noble in this, that they cost no one any blood. 
 Is not that your opinion? 
 
 " However, to return to our motitons, I had suc- 
 ceeded in arranging a programme, a beautiful pro- 
 gramme. The Theatre du Chatelet had not often 
 had such a performance as that. Dances, songs, a 
 comedy, monologues, an act from Les Burgraves 
 done by myself, Dorfeuil, and Richardet, Ope'ra, 
 Ope"ra-Comique, Come" die- Francaise, Varie'te's, the 
 whole alphabet. I had kept watch over the printers 
 to the best of my ability, knowing the sensitiveness, 
 the natural sensitiveness of artists. They are some- 
 times blamed for their self-esteem. The fact is that 
 the slightest injustice may cause them to lose, in a 
 single evening, all the ground they have gained in 
 long years. 
 
 " I was very sure, then, that I had made no mistakes 
 in the classification of my collaborators. The Ope'ra 
 and the Comique in the order of their dates, the 
 number of years since their foundation, and their 
 artists in order of seniority. Very simple. But the 
 others ! There was the rub. Three hours after the 
 first placard was posted on the Morris pillars, I re- 
 ceived remonstrances little blue slips, telegrams :
 
 350 ERICH ANTEAU. 
 
 " ' I am not accustomed to follow Mademoiselle Stella 
 of the Bouffes. I beg you to be kind enough to strike 
 
 off my name. 
 
 " ' EMMA ROGER, 
 
 of the Folies-Dramatiques.' 
 
 ' "'MONSIEUR BRICHANTEAU, I believed that dra- 
 matic artists were more important in your eyes than sing- 
 ers. It seems not, judging from your posters. Let your 
 tenors play melodrama too. I will not take part with you 
 in Les Burgraves. 
 
 11 ' DORFEUIL.' 
 
 "Les Burgraves! I had advertised it to come 
 after Ambroise Thomas's Mignon, because I was to 
 play in it ; I had done it from modesty. Dorfeuil, 
 did not understand me. Adieu to Les Burgraves ! 
 I had no time to find another Job. Into the water 
 with my Burgraves. 
 
 " I answered blue slip for blue slip, letter for letter. 
 I tried to prevent defections, to stop the fugitives. 
 But the telegrams succeeded one another with painful 
 regularity. The tenor had a bad cold. I had to 
 strike out Mignon. My elocutionist excused himself. 
 He was forced to go into the provinces to perform 
 for the benefit of a work of charity. The Pavane, the 
 Pavane, which was a drawing card, went to pieces 
 like Les Burgraves. The singer had a cold, the 
 danseuse a sprain. An epidemic, monsieur, a ver- 
 itable epidemic, demolished, decimated, wrought 
 havoc in my programme.
 
 THE LAST MEETING. 351 
 
 " Thereupon I made up another, I drew up another 
 advertisement. Every morning I had a different 
 programme. And the printer said to me : ' Why, 
 with all these changes, you "11 ruin yourself in bills for 
 printing ! ' These everlasting modifications, by the 
 way, proved fatal to the sale of seats. At first there 
 was a cloud of buyers at the box-office. The clerk 
 there felt very confident. The ticket-speculators, 
 those harbingers of success, hovered about the Chate- 
 let. But, as the little blue slips compelled me to 
 change my announcement, those same harbingers 
 flapped their wings and flew away, the sale of seats 
 stopped, and the clerk became sceptical. 
 
 " What was I to do ? Postpone the performance ? 
 Wait till the sprain was cured for the Pavane, and 
 the inflammation of the throat for Mignon ? ' Post- 
 poned on account of illness? Very good. But when 
 should I succeed again in bringing together the few 
 obliging souls who had remained true to me ? Would 
 my municipal councillor obtain the Chatelet again? 
 The season was advancing, too; I could hear the 
 stamping and neighing of the approaching Grand 
 Prix. After that great day Paris is empty. And 
 Cazenave wrote me that if the people of Garigat-sur- 
 Garonne did not scrape together the balance ne- 
 cessary for the dedication of the Roman, they would 
 postpone that ceremony until the Greek Kalends. 
 And, lastly, Virginie Gerard needed the comforts which
 
 352 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 my devotion owed to her sufferings. Furthermore, I 
 had said that the performance should be given on the 
 date fixed ! I must, I was fully determined that 
 I would, keep my word. Brichanteau has always 
 done it. 
 
 "And the appointed date arrived, monsieur, May 
 3 1 st ! I shall never forget that day ! The news- 
 papers had announced the performance kindly enough, 
 I am bound to say, and my former friend the reporter, 
 become a young master, even found a way to use 
 words with reference to me which touched and sad- 
 dened me : ' An old but eminent actor an un- 
 wearied champion of the national drama an, 
 unappreciated hero ' I pass it by and others less 
 kindly. The posters were enormous, very conspicu- 
 ous, well adapted for success ; and despite the volun- 
 tary or what shall I say ? sanitary desertions, I 
 had names, I still had enough names to ensure good 
 receipts. 
 
 " But, monsieur, everything conspired against me, 
 everything ! elements and men. 
 
 " I had counted upon rain. The sun rose, an im- 
 placable sun, the consecrated sun of which Phedre 
 speaks, devouring and magnificent. The thermome- 
 ter climbed that day to dog-day heights. One felt 
 more like taking a bath than going to- the theatre. 
 The sidewalks blazed like sullied mirrors. And still 
 the little blue slips, the telegrams, rained down in the
 
 THE LAST MEETING. 353 
 
 manager's room at the Chatelet or in my humble 
 dwelling at Batignolles. That was the only rain that 
 fell. But it was drenching. 
 
 " The names scuttled away like rabbits. I had 
 twelve on the evening of the agth, I had but seven on 
 the 3oth. On the 3ist, in the morning, but three 
 remained. I sadly looked over my programme, so 
 laboriously constructed. Nine, I lacked nine names ! 
 The number of the Muses ! 
 
 " And I did not despair even then. 
 
 " ' They are failing you, Brichanteau. They are false 
 to the promise given to Montescure's shade and Vir- 
 ginie's phantom. But you are here, at your post, 
 faithful to duty ! Multiply yourself, Brichanteau, and 
 show the public that one man of strong will and of 
 resource is, in himself alone, as good as a multitude, 
 especially when the multitude is absent ! ' 
 
 " If the public remained faithful to me, the rest was 
 of small account. ' /, said /, and that is enough ! ' 
 I would recite poetry. I would play detached scenes, 
 I would, in case of need, go through with the scene 
 from Le Vieux Caporal, as pantomime is coming into 
 fashion again. I knew the realistic scenes of my old 
 comrade, Henri Monnier. I would repeat them, and 
 the audience should see that the famous rosscrie, 
 which is thought to be a new invention, does not date 
 from to-day. We could be rosses too, at need, but 
 we were rosses from our hearts ! In short, I was 
 23
 
 354 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 resolved to do everything, act Master Jacques and 
 Proteus at once, for Montescure and Virginie ! 
 
 "And the public would think well of me for it. 
 Only, the public did not come. No, the public did 
 not come. Oh ! not at all ! The vast auditorium 
 of the Chatelet, when I looked in, wore the aspect of 
 a great empty ship. A few boxes occupied, specta- 
 tors scattered among the stalls, a few seats taken in 
 the balcony, the galleries deserted. The pit alone 
 was full ; but who occupied it ? The claque. They 
 brought me the first bulletin of receipts : 
 
 " Two thousand seven hundred and eighty francs ! 
 
 " In view of the general expenses, the carriages 
 sent, and bouquets purchased in advance for the few 
 actresses it was necessary to do things decently, 
 was it not ? 2,780 francs was nothing at all. It was 
 disastrous ! Indeed I began to wonder if I should 
 not be out of pocket when everything was settled. 
 And the contents of my pocket were not heavy enough 
 to drag me to the bottom in case of shipwreck. 
 
 "2,780! 
 
 " Poor Virginie ! Poor Montescure ! 
 
 " But no matter ! I must show a brave face to for- 
 tune and act for the good people who had had confi- 
 dence in Se'bastien Brichanteau and responded to his 
 appeal. Rare, but choice, were those noble hearts, 
 those intelligent connoisseurs, persistent and loyal. 
 They had brought their money not in streams, no
 
 THE LAST MEETING. 355 
 
 but what matter ! I owed them something for 
 their money ! And as each fresh blue slip brought 
 me some fresh excuse, I valiantly announced the fact, 
 and offered, modestly but resolutely, to fill the gap. 
 
 " ' Instead of the Corsetier, the recitation announced 
 on the programme, will you kindly listen, messieurs 
 and mesdames, to La Greve des Forgerons, soliloquy 
 by Francois Coppe" e, recited by your humble servant ? 
 An admirable production, by the way.' 
 
 " At the first announcement nothing was said. In- 
 deed there was some applause. At the second there 
 was a little murmuring. At the third they lost their 
 temper. But at the fourth, they concluded to laugh 
 it off, and even overwhelmed me with applause when, 
 taking the bull by the horns at last, I declared that, 
 in order not to impose upon the good-will of the 
 audience, I was ready to make good all the defections, 
 replace all the absentees, en bloc. 
 
 " ' So that, messieurs, what the performance loses 
 in variety, it will gain in unity 1 ' 
 
 " I had presence of mind to add : 
 
 "'Would that it were the same in politics, for 
 the pacification of parties ! ' 
 
 " That did the business. One conquers an audi- 
 ence with random shafts. I had mine in my hand. 
 All the names might slink away. The performance 
 was assured. When they saw me return to the 
 stage they did not even take the trouble to look
 
 356 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 for the defaulter's name on the programme. After 
 that there was a tacit compact between the audience 
 and myself. I was the great Substitute, as I had 
 been the great Gonfalonier in Les Horreurs de Flo- 
 rence, an unpublished drama which I created at 
 Valparaiso. 
 
 " And if I did not grow hoarse during that after- 
 noon of May 3ist, it was because my thunder is not 
 yet extinct. I recited there at the Chatelet the 
 equivalent of fourteen acts in lines of twelve feet. 
 Satires, sonnets, elegies, fragments of dramas, I re- 
 cited everything. All that my memory has retained 
 of noble thoughts I tossed to that crowd. When I 
 say crowd, I mean the chosen few who brought me 
 2,780 francs ! I delivered my stock. I was tired, 
 but not exhausted. I played, I went and came, I 
 paced the huge stage, I shrieked, I murmured, I 
 wept! The. 2,780 francs were not stolen, on my 
 soul ! 
 
 " Alas ! what was the use of all that courage ? 
 When the performance was over and my account 
 settled with the cashier, I was behind-hand. I was 
 well aware that the authors whose works I had drawn 
 upon would waive their claims for the benefit of the 
 poor. The public official who was in attendance 
 would also make a reduction in his percentage. But 
 in spite of everything I had my finger upon a 
 ghastly deficit. Or, even if I succeeded in rescu-
 
 THE LAST MEETING. 357 
 
 ing a few hundreds of francs after all my cabs and 
 bouquets were paid for, it would be the utmost I 
 could expect, and Montescure's pedestal would not 
 profit to the extent of a bit of stone, nor Virginie's 
 nostrils, once so pink, to the extent of a dozen pinches 
 of snuff ! 
 
 "I was sitting in the manager's office, with my 
 eyes on those devilish figures, twisting them this way 
 and that, those figures that jest no more than love, 
 and are even less elastic oh ! that Art should be 
 forced to square accounts with Money ! when a 
 succession of light taps on the door made me ask : 
 
 "'Who's there?' 
 
 " ' Come in,' added the manager. 
 
 " And I saw in the doorway a little old man, thin 
 and wrinkled, but neat and fashionably dressed, who 
 walked toward me with outstretched hand, saying : 
 
 " * Bravo ! Ah ! my old Brichanteau, what a 
 voice ! What faith ! what heart ! We are the only 
 ones, you see ; we were cut from the heart of the 
 oak ! Don't you know me ? ' 
 
 " I searched my memory. It was very vague, but 
 it did seem to me that I recognized the face of an 
 acquaintance in those shrunken features. 
 
 " * Lanteclave ! How now, is this the way you 
 forget old friends?' 
 
 " He had no sooner told me his name than a 
 whole chapter in my past life rushed into my mind
 
 358 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 and I threw myself upon his neck. Lanteclave ! To 
 be sure ! An old colleague at the Celestins ! A 
 comrade of the glorious evenings at Lyon ! 
 
 " ' I thought you were dead, my poor old friend,' 
 I said. 
 
 " ' Do people die ? ' he rejoined with a laugh. 
 ' Yes, I have heard so. Don't believe a word of it. 
 It 's all pessimistic nonsense ! ' 
 
 " He was always a jovial fellow. He was a member 
 of the Caveau. Thin, wizened, dried-up, the little 
 slip from a Bordelais vine still retained some sap in 
 his veins. 
 
 " He had been present at the performance. He 
 had paid for his seat. He had applauded me over 
 and over again and recalled me. Oh ! a kindly 
 audience and a kindly comrade was Lanteclave ! 
 
 " ' But,' he said, ' the thing that disturbs me is 
 that you had only half a house, poor fellow.' 
 
 " I shook my head : 
 
 " ' If I only had had half a house ! ' 
 
 " And I handed him the box-office report. 
 
 " ' I have got to put my hand in my pocket, old 
 man, and my pocket has a hole in it ! ' 
 
 " ' Ah ! indeed ? ' said the little man. ' Ah ! poor 
 Brichanteau ! And poor Virginie ! ' 
 
 " ' Yes, yes,' I replied, ' you may well pity her, for, 
 as for me, a maravedi more or less But, by the 
 way, Lanteclave, about Virginie ? '
 
 THE LAST MEETING. 359 
 
 " ' Well ! about Virginie ? ' 
 " ' She was your manager, was n't she ? ' 
 " There was a sparkle in Lanteclave's eye when he 
 smiled. 
 
 " * Yes,' he said, ' she was my manager. That fool 
 of a husband of hers! Do you remember the 
 Ce'lestins ? Ah ! well, if the poor woman is in need 
 of anything and you have n't made any money, 
 Brichanteau, permit me to contribute for her the 
 allowance to which I am entitled by article 34 of 
 the statutes of the Association of Artists ! a fine 
 association; a fine man, Baron Taylor. You can 
 belong to the Association after one year's exercise 
 of the profession ; you pay an assessment of a franc 
 a month, and you are entitled entitled, you under- 
 stand to a regular allowance, one year after your 
 admission, in addition to the retiring pension of five 
 hundred francs ! When you can't pay your board, 
 they hand it to you by way of allowance, and all is 
 said ! Potosi, eh ? ' 
 
 " < No,' I muttered, ' not Potosi, not the Trans- 
 vaal, but bread in one's old age ! I ought to have 
 joined the Association ! Stubborn men make a great 
 mistake ! ' 
 
 "'Well,' continued Lanteclave, 'the allowance 
 to which I am entitled fifty francs and my 
 pension for this year, I will contribute to the re- 
 ceipts of your performance ! I contribute them
 
 360 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 to your Montescure and ' the same gleam of light 
 brightened his small gray eyes ' to Virginie our 
 Virginie.' 
 
 " He had beyond question used the word our with a 
 motive, as we say on the stage. 
 
 " Our Virginie ? Why our Virginie ? I dreaded 
 it was foolish enough at my age ! I dreaded to 
 question him. But he did not give me time to frame 
 a question. 
 
 " ' Can I tell you the whole truth, Brichanteau ? ' 
 
 " ' Certainly.' 
 
 " ' You won't be angry ? ' 
 
 " ' Why should I be angry ? ' 
 
 " ' At all events the matter is outlawed ' 
 
 " ' Go on, pray go on ! ' 
 
 " Lanteclave irritated me. 
 
 " ' Well, you remember, at Lyon ' 
 
 " ' Do I remember ! ' 
 
 "'The C'elestins?' 
 
 " ( Yes.' 
 
 " ' Gentil-Bernardl ' 
 
 " ' Yes, yes, yes ! ' 
 
 "'Do you remember that sometimes, when you 
 were waiting for the mistress over Perrache way, she 
 told you that she had a tooth to be looked after, and 
 that she had been detained at her dentist's ? ' 
 
 " ' Do I remember ! ' 
 
 " ' Look you, Brichanteau, she no more had a
 
 THE LAST MEETING. 361 
 
 tooth to be attended to than you had. The dentist, 
 my dear boy, the dentist ' 
 
 " Still the little sparkle in his eye. 
 
 " ' The dentist was you ! ' I cried. 
 
 " He had the good taste, while making his con- 
 fession, to assure me that Virginie passed her ses- 
 sions with him protesting that she adored me, and that 
 she did not know why she deceived me. Perhaps 
 it was simply because Lanteclave sang Be'ranger's 
 chansons extremely well ! 
 
 " I did not lose my temper, monsieur. It would 
 have been a mockery to unsheath the rapier for 
 posthumous treachery and to play Don Gormas for a 
 faithless sweetheart, who was confined at Villejuif, 
 poor creature ! No matter. It seemed to me a 
 bitter thing to have climbed so many staircases and 
 played Le Beneficiaire without profit, to arrive at that 
 result, to discover that that vanished dream, yes, 
 that last little rosy dream, was a soap-bubble, which 
 burst like the others. 
 
 " Virginie ! Fretillon, the . Fr^tillon who swore to 
 me that she had never loved but one being in the 
 world, myself, and swore it on her father's head ! 
 Her father's head must have had a sorry time of it ! 
 
 " However, as it is said that every one must have 
 been deceived at some time, I preferred to have 
 been deceived by Lanteclave than by any other. 
 He was clean at least, well-dressed, close-mouthed,
 
 362 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 was the little Southerner, now so thin and insignificant. 
 Her dentist ! I tell you, when I think of that ! 
 
 Her dentist ! 
 
 ' Combien je regrette 
 Son bras si dodu, 
 Sa jambe bien faite 
 Et le temps perdu ! ' 
 
 " That is my latest adventure, monsieur, and I stop 
 at that. I shall never be seen upon the boards again. 
 Room for the young men ! Virginie will have her 
 snuff and chocolate tablets; but deuce take me if 
 Garigat-sur- Garonne ever sees my effigy, my statue. 
 The man who cast it has not been paid. So I await 
 orders, tossed among the debris, relegated to ob- 
 scurity, forgotten ! And the new municipal authori- 
 ties think that to revive warlike ideas is to aim a blow 
 at the fraternal idea of the federation of nations ! 
 
 " Very good, pack your trunks, Brichanteau ! If 
 you close the books with unsatisfactory receipts, at all 
 events you will not end with an unworthy action ! " 
 
 And when I told him he was, in very truth, an 
 unselfish heart and a fine fellow, passing from 
 Montescure's pillow to Virginie Gerard's cell, 
 Se"bastien Brichanteau rose from the bench on which 
 we were sitting and drew himself up. 
 
 "It is certain," he said, "that the police might 
 make a descent upon my conscience as a man and an 
 artist and find nothing suspicious there; I do not
 
 THE LAST MEETING. 363 
 
 fear the perquisitions of hired bravos. But don't 
 you think of such a thing as giving me a prize, or 
 even a certificate of virtue. The devil ! That 
 would be simply ridiculous. There was an actor 
 named Moessard, who had some talent. He made 
 the mistake of committing some noble action or 
 other outside of the theatre. The Academy awarded 
 him a prize for virtue, and, patatras, the poor fellow 
 was known by no other name than the Virtuous 
 Moessard in the papers, and never got over it. Im- 
 agine the Virtuous Moessard playing the role of a 
 seducer or traitor ! Not too much praise, monsieur. 
 For Montescure on his deathbed, as for poor mad 
 Virginie, I did what any man of heart would have 
 done. Self-sacrifice is my strong point. 
 
 " And now, addio I The blue visions have vanished. 
 The stage gave me illusions in my youth ; in my old 
 age the velodrome will give me bread ! " 
 
 He walked away in the direction of Avenue Velas- 
 quez, and the setting sun cast the exaggerated shadow 
 of the old actor on the gravel of the path. I looked 
 around me at the cheerful prospect in that little 
 retreat, Pare Monceau, full of the cries of children, 
 the songs of birds, and abounding in bright colors and 
 animation. The golden rays of the setting sun fell in 
 patches on the white paths, in streaks through the 
 green foliage of the trees, in broad sheets upon the
 
 364 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 velvety lawns, dotted here and there with buttercups 
 and white marguerites. 
 
 And Brichanteau paused from time to time, to in- 
 dulge in yet another picturesque reflection. 
 
 Pointing to the Snake-charmer on his pedestal, 
 with the serpent twined about his flute and the rich 
 bronze, gleaming like copper in the hot sun, 
 
 " Snake-charmer, man-charmer, beware the venom 
 of reptiles ! " he said, shaking his head. 
 
 Farther on, stretching out his hand toward some 
 old men with white mustaches sitting on the brown 
 wooden benches, old men with red boutonnieres 
 and gray hair, retired officers, who were talking over 
 their battles, drawing plans of chimerical strategic 
 movements in the dust, with the ends of their worn- 
 out canes, he said : 
 
 " They too are vanquished heroes ! " 
 
 An old painter with a broad-brimmed felt hat, bent 
 double on a folding stool, was copying in water-color 
 a cluster of red roses, in a thicket of flowers, and in- 
 quisitive urchins were watching him paint, the bright 
 hues of the flowers rolling down the paper like open, 
 bleeding wounds. 
 
 "And he," said Brichanteau, "he too thinks per- 
 haps that he will unhang the stars ! " 
 
 He added, trying to laugh : 
 
 " Failures of the army, failures in painting, failures 
 of the stage ! An army corps could be organized
 
 THE LAST MEETING. 365 
 
 with the vanquished ones of life who have not 
 deserved their defeat ! " 
 
 But his tone was more bitter than usual, in the 
 brilliancy and glitter of that beautiful June sun; he 
 became melancholy amid the signs of renewed youth 
 in that lovely park where the children ran hither and 
 thither, living flowers, straw hats and navy blue 
 collars, red dresses or muslin skirts, where the 
 white hawthorn, the azaleas, the tulips, displayed their 
 lovely coloring against a background of verdure. 
 
 The old actor's eyes, scorched by so many foot- 
 lights, seemed to be storing up all the light, all the 
 joyous gayety of the little creatures laughing with life 
 among the fresh spring flowers, storing it up before 
 returning to the half light of the gloomy lodging at 
 Batignolles. 
 
 Before taking leave of me he said, with a caressing 
 glance around the park: 
 
 " Fine scenery, monsieur, for a Louis XV. drama ! 
 I have played the Regent before curtains that were 
 not to be compared to yonder trees ! For I too have 
 been an aristocrat, monsieur ! Ah, yes ! the Regent, 
 in Bouilhet's Mademoiselle Aiss'e ! Louis Bouilhet, the 
 last of the romanticists ! The last ! With me ! " 
 
 A sad smile, a grasp of the hand, a last gesture. 
 And as if through a real door on the stage 
 Brichanteau left the park by the gate on Avenue 
 Velasquez.
 
 366 BRICHANTEAU. 
 
 I looked after him. Very erect, walking slowly, 
 with his head high, he passed along Boulevard des 
 Batignolles, shaking his head, stopping at times to 
 gaze, with his haughty air of disdain, at the stream 
 of cabs, trams, and bicycles that deafened him with- 
 out stifling his thought; then I saw him, in the 
 distance, turning toward his home, a living shade 
 swallowed up in the crowd, devoured by fate, and 
 lost in the indistinct clamor and fierce press of 
 mighty Paris. 
 
 But stay ! Would he not find, at his lodgings, in 
 one of his drawers, a lock of hair, a forgotten photo- 
 graph and upon the white wood shelves of his poor 
 book-case, beneath the old faded wreaths, an old, 
 soiled volume of Hugo, or even an unbound pam- 
 phlet of Bouchardy's? 
 
 His whole youth ! Love and glory, his dreams ! 
 
 And with those phantoms, it may be who can 
 say? that Sebastien Brichanteau, French actor, of 
 all the theatres in France, was happy ! 
 
 THE END.
 
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