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t/.^57LiH-^7^ 







ROBERT 
GOULD 




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MEN AND WOMEN 

OF THE 

EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 



By ARSENE HOUSSAYE. 



With keintlfally engniTed portraits of Lovto XV. and MAdAme de Pompadour. 



DtTFRBSNT. 

FONTENBLLB. 

MARIVAUX 

PIRON. 

THE ABBE PRBV08T. 

GENTIL-BERNARD. 

PLORIAN. 

BOUFFLBRS. 

DIDEROT. 

GRBTRY. 

BIVEROL. 



COlfTJENTS: 

LOUIS XV. 
GRBUZB. 
BOUCHER. 
tHB VANLOOB. 
LANTARA. 
WATTBAU. 
LA MOTTB. 
DEHLB. 

ABBE TRUBLBT. 
BUFFON. 
DORAT. 

THREE PAGES IN THE LIFE OF DANCOURT. 

A PROMENADE IN THE PALAIS-ROYAL 

LB CHEVALIER DE LA CLOS. 



CARDINAL DB BBRNIS. 

CREBILLOM THE GAY. 

MARIE ANTOINETTE. 

MADAME DE POMPADOUR. 

VADE. 

MLLE. CAMARGO. 

MLLE. CLAIRON. 

MME. DE LA POPELINIBRE. 

SOPHIE ARNOULD. 

CREBILLON THE TRAGIC. 

MLLE. GUIMARD. 



"A Berles of wonderfally attractive papers— neither history, biography, 
criticism, nor romance, bat compounded of all four : always lively and graceful, 
and often sparkling with 65pm, that subtle essence which may be so much 
better lUostrated than defined. M. Houssaye's aim In these sketches^for evi- 
dently he had an aim beyond the one he alleges of pastime for his leisure hours- 
seems to have been to discourse of persons rather celebrated than known, whose 
names and works are familiar to all, but with whose characters and histories few 
are much aGquainiea.^*^Blaclcwooa. 



" This Is a most welcome book, full of information and amusement, in the 
form of memoirs, comments, and anecdotes. It bas the style of light literature, 
with the usefulness of the gravest. It should be in every library, and the hands 
of every reader."— Boston CommonweaUh. 



"A more fascinating book than this rarely Issues from the teeming press. 
Fascinating in its subject ; fascinating in its style ; fascinating in its power to 
lead the reader into casUe-building of the most gorgeous and bewitching descrip- 
tion."— Cowrter cmd Enquirer. 

"A Book op Books.— Two deliclously spicy volumes, and are a perfect ixmne- 
ixmcne for an epicure in reading."— i/ome Journal. 



Two volumes, printed on the finest, paper^ and beautifully bound, 

uniform with this volume, l^riee, $4.00. 
Sent by mall, post-paid, on receipt of price, 

^^y% G. W. DILLINGHAM, Publisher, NEW YORK, 

^t9C SUOOBSSOB TO G. W. CARLBTON & CO. 



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PHILOSOPHERS 



AND 



ACTRESSES 



BY 

ARSENE HOUSSAYE 

AUTHOR OP '*MSN AND WOMEN OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY," BIC. 



PART I. 



NEW YORK: 

G. W. Dillingham, Publisher^ 

Successor to G. W. Carleton & Co. 

LONDON : S. LOW, SON & CO, 
MDCCCLXXXVL 



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HARVARD COLLEaC LlMAlY 

GIFT OF 

ROBERT GOULD SHAW 



Copyright, 1886, by 
G. W. DILLINGHAM. 



TROW'8 ^ 

fRIHTIHO AND BOOKBINOINQ COUmNlb \ 

NEW YORK. ' / 



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PREFACE. 



Philosophers and Actresses — all men are philosophers, 
all women are actresses : Socrates who studies with Aspa- 
sia — Aspasia who niles the world under the name of Per- 
icles ; Abelard who gives lessons to Heloise — Heloise 
wlio says to him in a low tone, Ignoramus ! — Voltaire 
who teaches the art of acting to mademoiselle de Livry, 
who soon returns his lessons. Every man who is not 
coupled with a woman, is not a man. A poet has said : 
" God commences the artist, and woman perfects him ;** 
and that poet was right. Eve is the true book in which 
Adam studied. God has given philosophy to man, but he 
has taught woman the art of acting. At a certain diapason, 
among all the men and women who have taken a bite of 
the bitter fruit of knowledge, among the privileged of wit 
and beauty — artists, thinkers, women of fashion, courtiers 
— for there is always a court — the greater part are phil- 
osophers, the greater part aro actresses. It is only at the 
Sorbonne and at the theatre, that they are seldom met. 

Dear reader, this book is the carnival of my soul — and 
of yours, if you will read it ; and the nanies of folly and 



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6 PREFACE. 

wisdom, mourning and joy, that pass and repass in disorder 
in these pages, as in the mazes of a giddy waltz, are the 
masks and disguises of my fancy. Sometimes even, as it 
confounds masks and disguises you will see it pass through 
the narrative or the poem, with one foot in the austere san- 
dal of the philosopher, the other in the embroidered slipper 
of the actress. But beneath the gloomy drapery and the 
open boddice, you will perceive that the same heart is 
beating. These capricious masquerades are transparent 
metempsychoses animated by a single soul, which seeks for 
and pursues itself amid the smiling or melancholy phan- 
toms of the past. 

The air of this melancholy rondo, which throws Gaus- 
sm into the arms of Plato, is as whimsical as the song. 
The lyre alternates with the tambourine, the mournful 
music with the gay roulade, the laugh with the sob. Yet 
these two tones at last meet and unite in the cry of regret, of 
passion or enthusiasm, as the two voices in Mozart's duels, 
one in mockery, the other in tears, mount together the end- 
less scale of the gamut, and, at the last note, unite, em- 
brace, fly away and vanish in the heaven of the ideal. 

What is the use of this book ? It is the work of leisure 
hours — the best hours ; let it be to you, dear reader, the 
book of your leisure hours. 

What does this prove ? Nothing, except that in these 
(lays, when we live so fast, without thought of the passing 
breeze, the bright sky, or the invisible world that sings of 
ihe infinite, we should gild — though it were only by 
Ruolz's process — the ladder of the passirns, that ascends 
from man to God. 



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The Housis of Scabbon paok 9 

VOLTAIRB 29 

VOLTAIBE AND MlLE. DE LiYBT 109 

The Republic of Plato 134 

Mademoiselle Gaussin 176 

Jacques Callot 192 

Raoul and Gabeielle 252 

The Hundeed and One Pictuee8 of Taedif, the 

Fbiendof Gillot 276 

Mademoiselle DE Mabiyauz 292 

LaToub 307 

The Whibis of THE Marchioness 333 

A. Romance on the Banks of the Lignon 365 



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PHILOSOPHERS AND ACTRESSES. 



THE HOUSE OF SOAKROK 

The age of Lonis XIV. is, to this day, the most 
glorious page in the history of France. Voltaire 
would say so now, as he said it a hundred yeai-s 
ago ; for a great age is not made up only of great 
deeds and heroic conquests ; a great age is one that 
produces at the same time, great captains and great 
philosophere, great poets and great artists. We will 
always speak of the age of Pericles, of Augustus, 
of Leo X., and of Louis XIV. But we shall never 
speak of the age of Napoleon, for under Napoleon 
there was but one man worthy of bronze or of 
granite, worthy of that proud and haughty muse who 
is called History. That man was Napoleon. I pre- 
fer the court of Louis XIV. to the sun of Austerlitz 
At the court of Louis XIV. I salute, an all-glorious 
and entire Olympus: Turenne and Cond6, Male- 
branche and Pascal, Corneille and Moliere, Poussin 
and Lesueur, Mansard and Perrault. I have not 
1* 



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10 THE HOUSE OF 8CARE0N. 

named all tbe gods ; for example Pnget, La Fontaine, 
and Lully. And tbe demigods of that golden age 
of genius? They are not counted. 

Every lover of art always selects some bright 
period of the past where to retire, within a gallery of 
portraits that be loves. Tbe dead are not those who 
have ceased to live. Who can doubt tbe immortality 
of tbe soul, when we oui-selves feel within us, as it 
were, tbe living spirit of those great men who have 
rendered the past illustrious? who would dare to say 
that Moliere is dead ? I have met him twenty times 
in tbe passage of the Theatre-Fran9ais. And La 
Fontaine, who has not seen him amid the dew and 
the thyme, studying the comedy of human life in the 
country, or taking the longest route to tbe academy? 

There are even some figures, some of women, who 
have only transmitted tbe remembrance of their 
beauty, and who are tbe adoration of future ages. 
Who has not been in love, more or less, with tbe 
Fomarina, with Violante, with madame de la Val- 
liere, or with the marchioness de Pompadour? Does 
she whom you pursue at tbe ball, or at church only, 
live in reality any more than these radiant visions? 

It is not thus that madame de Maintenon appears 
to us ; many fine intellects have been repelled by her 
box- wood rosaries. We hardly know how to define 
her. Is she tbe heroine of a romance ? Is she a Saint 
Theresa? Is she one of the favorites in tbe seraglio 
of Versailles? Is she a queen of France and of 



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AGBIPPA D'AUBIGNE. 11 

Navarre? She had some partisans; her enemies 
have never been counted. I acknowledge, that, on 
beholding her portrait engraved by Merciiri, I am 
a partisan; but this portrait after Petitot, is it a 
portrait from life, natural and true ? It is a proud and 
charming beauty, full yet delicate. Since the Psyche 
of Praxiteles, there has never been so fine a head ; 
Saint Theresa had not so luscious a neck, so sumptu- 
ous a bust. But the voluptuousness of the neck and 
bust is subdued by the expression of pride in the 
face ; the heart is in subjection to the head. Such 
as she is, every one must love her, were he even 
Louis XIV., the king who thought himself a god. 

Ton are not acquainted, I imagine, with Agrippa 
d' Aubign^, the grandfather of madamede Maintenon, 
whose adventurous life makes up a curious chapter: 
" In those days, the mind was early trained to labor, 
as the body to the exercises of war. At the age of 
six, he could read in four languages ; at seven and a 
half, he translated the Criton of Plato; at ten 
years, his father, an old huguenot soldier, remarked 
to him, as they were entering Amboise, at the sight 
of the heads of the conspirators still exposed on the 
battlements of the city: 'The headsmen, they have 
decapitated France !' And placing his hand upon 
the head of his son : ' My son, you must not spare 
your head, when I am gone, in avenging those glo- 
rious leadere ; if you spare yourself, you shall have 
my curse.' " Behold, in w^hat a sturdy school those 



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12 THE HOUSE OF SCAERON. 

meu studied who paved the way to the age of Louia 
XIV. We recur to the Memoirs of D^Avhigne^ 
pre-eminently a man of spirit, who spoke his mind 
in all freedom. On his return from a dangerous 
mission the king of Navarre gave him his portrait. 
This was all a king of Navarre was able to give. 
D'Aubign6 wrote beneath this portrait : — 

*' This prince is of so strange a kind, 
What made him so, I can not tell; 
That he, a picture, can only find. 
Those to reward who served hira well." 

He who wrote as follows to Henry IV., was called 
the man of rude integrity : " Sire, your memory will 
reproach you with the twelve years of my service, 
and the twelve wounds of my body ; it will remind 
you of your prison, and of the hand which broke 
your chains, which has remained pure while serving 
you, and is empty of your favors, free from cormp- 
tion by your enemy as well as by yourself." Such 
were then the servitors of royalty. It was then that 
men believed in God, and in their souls. At the 
hour of death, D'Aubign6, being urged to take some 
nourishment, said to his wife: "My dear, let me 
depart in peace; I am going to eat the bread of 
heaven." As was his life, so was his death. 

We breathe in the seventeenth century an inde- 
scribable something that invigorates the heart. We 
miglit readily believe ourselves to be in a forest of 
vigorous and venerable oaks, beneath an azure sky. 



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THE MEMOIRS OF AGBIPPA. 13 

The national forest is, at the present day, nearly 
fallen ; there are some few stunted trees scattered at 
wide intervals among some mstling copsewood, 
nnder a stormy sky. In the seventeenth centuiy 
men were more deeply rooted in their virtues or in 
their vices — a more generous sap circulated . For ex- 
ample, find me, at the present day, a rude integrity^ 
such as that of Agrippa d'Aubign6, or a bold, head- 
strong vice, like that of his son. Constant d'Aubign6, 
the father of madame de Maintenon. This Constant 
d'Aubigne was a rogue, marvellously- well practised in 
all the seven capital sins ! Moliere and Kembrandt 
alone would have dared to have handled such an 
exaggerated personage ; read this fragment from the 
Memoirs of Agrippa : " Since God does not attach 
his grace to flesh and blood, my son Constant does 
not resemble his father, although I have brought him 
up with as much expense as if he had been a prince. 
This wretch, having at fii-st given himself up to ga- 
ming and to drunkenness, ended by ruining himself 
completely among prostitutes in the low Dutch tav- 
erns. He married afterward a miserable woman, 
whom he finally killed. Wishing to remove him 
from the court where he continued his debauchery, 
I obtained for him the command of a regiment; but 
nothing could restrain his irregular, libertine, and 
audacious passions ; he returned to court where he 
lost at play twenty times more than he was worth." 
He staked his honor at play, but he staked a phan 



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14 THE HOUSE OF 8CARRON. 

torn. There was but one thing left, his religion; 
he sold it. Without house or home, law or gospel, 
he returned to his father to rob him of his two 
governorships of Maillezais and Doignon. Agrippa, 
incapable of believing in such perversity, gave 
him the command of Maillezais, believing that he 
had to do with a rogue, but with at least a protes- 
tant, as he supposed, for his son had abjured his 
religion secretly in order not to awaken suspicion, 
and that he might play the tmitor more at his ease. 
Maillezais soon became, under the command of Con- 
stant d'Aubigne, "a public gaming place, thronged 
with prostitutes, and a shop of counterfeitei'S and 
])as8er9 of false coin." He sold his God, he sold 
his father, he sold in turn all that he could find to 
sell. Agrippa disinherited and gave him his curse. 
What did it matter! there still remained something to 
sell — France. He formed a secret alliance with the 
English government; but this new treason caused 
him to be thrown into prison. Hence, Franjoise 
d'Aubign6, the marchioness of Maintenon, was born 
in the prison of Niort, 1635. Constant d'Aubign6 
always succeeded in reaching a plank of safety in 
his shipwrecks. Tlius, for example: mademoiselle 
de Cardillac, the daughter of Pierre de Cardillac, 
and of Louise de Montalembert, was captivated with 
him, and married him for his chivalric exterior. If 
he was guilty of every crime, he was still brave and 
gallant. He wasted the fortune of his second wife, 



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PRISON OCCUPATION. 15 

loved her passionately, abused her as if she had been 
a courtesan, but did not kill her, as he did his first. 
Mademoiselle de Cardillac survived, but under what 
circumstances? in prison or in exile; and thus, as 
monsieur de Noailles remarks, " she possessed that 
seriousness that misfortune bestows. Her example 
was the best lesson in virtue." Madame de Villette, 
sister to Constant d'Aubign6, more touched at his 
misery than revolted with his crimes, went to the 
prison of Niort for his three children, whom she 
took with her to her chateau of Mar9ay. The little 
Fran9oi8e had the same nurse as her own daughter. 
Poor Madame d'Aubign6 believed herself cursed of 
God and man, since even in the prison where she 
prayed and mended her husband's stockings. Con- 
stant d'Aubign^ was coining counterfeit money. She 
wrote to madame de Villette with a deep feeling of 
wretchedness and abasement: "I fear much that 
ray miserable little one gives you a great deal of 
trouble ; may God give her grace to prove her grat- 
itude." Strange contrast between the cradle and the 
tomb; she, who was bom in prison and lived on 
charity, was to die the wife of Louis XIV. If that 
had been told to the mother — the i>oor mother who 
had not even a drop of milk for her offspring ! 

Fran^oise d'Aubign6 never forgot the ti'uly ma- 
ternal care of her aunt; she said at a later day, 
when they wished to make her abjure Calvinism, 
"1 will believe all you wish, providerl I am not 



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16 THE HOUSE OF 8CARRON. 

obliged to believe that my aniit Villette will be 
damned." 

Another word about her father. He was released 
and went with the mother and her children to Mar- 
tinique. This man, who had so many times sported 
with fortune, regained it once more; but he had, 
hardly become rich again, when he gambled and 
lost all. He only left his wife the bed on which he 
died. It was necessary for her to return to France, 
and by the grace of God, she did so. The ship of 
the family was at least lightened by being relieved 
of this wretch. Constant d'Aubign6, whom the severe 
lessons of adversity could not convert to the good. 

Romance had already interleaved its improbable 
pages with the life of Fran<joise d'Aubign6. At 
Martinique she, like Alexander, came near being 
devoured by a serpent; during the voyage she was 
on the point of being thrown into the sea on the sup- 
position that she was dead ; when her mother gave 
her the farewell kiss, she stretched out her anns and 
opened her eyes. This is not all : the vessel in 
which she sailed was attacked by pirates. I say 
nothing about the fortune-tellei's who foretold her 
royalty. Who has not his royalty here below, though 
it may be only for a single hour? The sybils are 
always right. 

On her return to France, Mademoiselle Fran^oise 
d'Aubigne, was again received by madame de Vil- 
lette, who had remained in the protestant faith, as 



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iLPPEENTICED QUEBN. lY 

mnch from respect for her father as for Calvin. 
Franqoise followed the religion of her aunt. 

At this epoch, when the republic of heaven was 
the only political topic, people busied themselves a 
great deal about conversion. Madame de Neuillant, 
a relative of madame d'Aubign6, received an order 
from the court to withdraw Fran^oise from the moth- 
erly care of madame de Vallette. Fran9oise wept 
profusely ; the chateau of Mar9ay was, in a manner, 
her native land. She finally departed after madame 
de Neuillant ; but, in leaving, she did not leave her 
faith behind. She attached herself to it obstinately. 
Caresses were at first employed, then humiliations. 
She was confounded with the servants. She became 
a Cinderella, a margot. She was condemned to take 
care of the chickens. Has she not said, somewhere : 
" I ruled in the poultry-yard ; it was there that my 
reign commenced." She who was elevated even to 
a throne, might be seen, in those days, every morn- 
ing, " with a shade over her face to save her com- 
plexion, a straw hat upon her head, a switch in her 
hand, and a little basket on her arm. She used to be 
sent to guard the turkeys, with the order not to touch 
the basket until she had learned by heart fi- e vei-ses 
of Pibrac." What then was there in the basket? 
Some black bread and cherries. She only ate the 
cherries, and thought herself quits in learning one 
verse. 

Madame de Neuillant was too fierce a catholic to 



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18 THE HOUSE OF 8CAER0N. 

stop there. She placed Franjoise by force in a con- 
vent of the Ursalines at Niort, whence mademoiselle 
d'Aubigne was soon discharged, madame de NeniL 
lant refusing to pay the board of a liuguenot. She 
returned to her mother, who had not yet dried her 
eyes. "When I returned to my mother, who was a 
very good catholic, she took me to mass and tried 
to force me to kneel before the altar; but I immedi- 
ately turned my back upon it ; as often as she placed 
ine there, I did the same, fully persuaded that it was 
idolatry to worship Jesus Christ in the host." Ma- 
dame d'Aubigne took her rebellious child to the 
Ursalines in Paris, where "most of the nuns got 
up a scene at the sight of me: one ran away 
frightened, one made faces at me, and another prom- 
ised me an Affnusy At the Ui^salines in Paris, 
they had the good sense not to treat mademoiselle 
with any constraint; as soon as she was at liberty, 
she beheld the light and abjured. Mademoiselle 
d'Aubigne left the convent to enter the world through 
the gate opened by Scarron. 

Scarron who was one of the people, who suffered 
and laughed, a witty, but burlesque cripple — who 
married Frangoise d'Aubign^, who married Louis 
XIV. — has humorously protested against the visible 
greatness of the world, by its invisible greatness — 
against birth by intellect — against the pretentious and 
affected hotel, by the humble abode enlightened with 
*^he freedom of thought. Voiture at the hotel Kam- 



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FBANJOISE d'aUBIONE. 19 

bouillet enveloped liimself in the swaddling-clothes 
of tradition ; Scarron at liis humble fireside, seated 
between Marion de Lorine and Ninon, laughed some- 
what at the folks of the court who came " to listen." 
" I, also, have a marquisate," he used to say to the 
great lords, "the marquisate of Quinet." (Quinet 
was the name of his bookseller.) 

The literary people who were grouped about Scar- 
ron, were M6nage, Pelisson, Scudeiy, Benserade, 
Sarrazin — his neighbor — Marigny, Legrais, Saint- 
Amand. Many of these poets were neither sufficiently 
famous, nor sufficiently well dressed to present them- 
selves at the hotel Rambouillet. Such were about 
all the ca/naille that visited the house of the cripple; 
but, at the same time, there were to be seen at his 
fireside, or at his table, mar^chal d'Albret, the duke 
de Vivonne, the marquis de S6vigne, the count de 
Grammont, Coligny, Mortemart, Beautru, La Sabliere, 
and twenty other men of the best company. Tlie 
women, of coui-se, did not attempt to dispute the 
place with Ninon or Marion. The exquisitely refined 
who wished to travel on the Carte du Tendre^ went 
to the hotel Rambouillet. 

In this house of the cripple, where folks laughed 
and supped heartily, one evening a young girl of fif- 
teen made her appearance. " She was already beau- 
tiful, but timid, and she began to weep as she entered, 
being embarrassed in consequence of the shortness of 
her dress." She had just arrived from the provinces 



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20 THE HOUSE OF 80ABBON. 

where she had not followed the fashions of the court. 
Her mother accompanied her. The young girl only 
spoke with her beautiful eyes ; every one felt that 
eloquence of the heart. Scarron was affected to 
tears. Madame and mademoiselle d'Aubign6 had 
been announced ; Scarron, as usual, was very witty. 
The young girl was more struck with that original 
mind, which dared to rise above prejudice, than with 
all the fine airs of the gentlemen who showed oflF that 
evening for her especial benefit. It might be seen, 
from the beginning that, with her, the head tri- 
umphed over the heart. 

Madame d'Aubign6 returned to Poitou with her 
daughter. She died there soon after. Franjoise 
d'Aubigne found herself all alone, her aunt Villette 
being also dead. She was obliged to go to live again 
with her aunt de Neuillant ; " madame de Neuillant, 
who, although her relative, left her through avarice 
quite destitute," says Tallemant des R6aux. De- 
cidedly the preface to the life of Franjoise d'Au- 
bigne was not inviting. 

She had left at Paris, besides Scarron, a sympathi- 
zing soul in mademoiselle de Saint Hermant. She 
wrote to her from Niort : " I am neither satisfied with 
my language nor with my thoughts; without your 
pen, I can not say the half of what I have to say ; I 
promise you the other half when I shall have as 
much wit as Monsieur Scarron," Franjoise d'Au- 
bign6 had mistaken the door on her arrival at Parig; 



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A SCHOOL FOR WIT. 21 

it was the hotel Kambonillct that she should have 
entered. 

Searron saw this letter, he answered it : " Made- 
moiselle, I was far from suspecting that the young 
girl that I beheld in my house six montlis ago, with 
a dress that was too short, and who wept, I hardly 
know why, was as clever as she had the appear- 
ance of being; and I can not imagine the reason 
you should have taken as much care to conceal your 
wit, as the rest took to show theirs." This was 
the iirst letter of a gallant character that Fran$oise 
d'Aubignfi received. It is clear that she commenced 
with Searron as she ended with Louis XIV. 

She fell in with some others by the way ; for ex- 
ample, at the veiy beginning, the chevalier de Mer6, 
who pretended to bestow cleverness upon women. 
Madame de Leediguieres, it is well known, re- 
marked to him, " I wish to be witty." — " Well ! ma- 
dame, jou shall be," he answered. But he gave 
neither wit nor love. Frangoise d'Aubign^ al- 
lowed him to believe that she listened to his les- 
sons, and that she studied "his wretched style," as 
madame de S6vign6 called it; but her real master 
was Plutarch. 

She returned to Paris with madame de Neuillant, 
who, both proud and jealous of her beauty, intro- 
duced her a little into society. She became almost 
celebrated ; her romantic life was talked about ; she 
was called the young Indian ; it was a subject of spec- 



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22 THE HOUSE OF 8CABR0N. 

nlation as to what sad or glorious future this young 
orphan would reach, she who was so beautiful to 
look upon, and so beautiful to listen to, for she spoke 
like a delightful book. She feared a convent as she 
did the tomb ; she loved God, but in the bright aspect 
of life; besides, she did not wish to remain an old 
maid. She knew, however, that a woman without a 
dower could only marry a man of intellect, retired 
from the world, or a soldier bom to rove about the 
world. She had already roved enough. When 
Scarron, who loved her like a daughter, like a sister, 
like an ideal mistress, offered her his roof as a last 
resort, she was not offended, and said to herself, 
doubtless, that the man*iage that should unite her 
and Scarron, would be one of mind. The marriage 
took place in the spring of 1652. " When the con- 
tract was being drawn up, ScaiTon declared that he 
acknowledged, as the property of the bride, an in- 
come of four lonis, two large, rebellious eyes, a very 
beautiful bust, a beautiful pair of hands, and a great 
deal of intellect." The notary asked him, what set- 
tlement he made upon her. " Immortality," he re- 
plied; "the names of the wives of kings die witli 
them, but that of the wife of Scarron will live for 
ever." 

Mademoiselle de Pons lent the bride her dress for 
the wedding. She was grave and dignified, and in 
one day changed the whole character of the house 
of her husband. "I will not abuse her much, but I 



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AN INTELLECTUAL MABBIAGB. 23 

will teach her a great deal," Scarron had said, but 
he was mistaken. To that house, frequented by a 
society somewhat perverted, she brought virtue — 
but the virtue of seventeen, and that smiled grace- 
fully. She shared in all the conversations and 
all the suppers of the house ; but, as the historian 
relates, "she imposed respect without hindering 
pleasure;" and, according to madame de Caylus, 
" she passed her Lent in eating a herring at the end 
of the table, because she knew that a couree of con- 
duct less exact and austere, at her age, would lead 
to youthful license beyond control." 

On the day after her wedding she commenced the 
career of a femme sa/va/nte^ but it was with a grace 
and reserve worthy of all praise. She was, at the 
same time, the scholar, the critic, and the secretary, 
of Scarron ; but she was, at the same time, his most 
devoted wife. When he suffered, she was by his 
side as when he gave utterance to the outpourings 
of his intellect. She studied Spanish, Italian, and 
even Latin; but she also studied life. By degrees 
the rule of ScaiTon in his house was eclipsed by the 
brilliancy of hers. They no longer went to see him, 
but her. "She had," says monsieur de Noailles. 
"acquired an inexhaustible charm in conversation; 
every one knows the story of the servant, who, one 
day at the table, whispered in her ear, 'Madame, 
nnother story still, for there is no roast to-day.' " 

Scarron was no richer for his marriage. It often 



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24 THE HOUSE OF 8CABB0N. 

happened that there was no roast. He did not 
the less desire to live like a lord. He assumed, 
even like Scudery, the air of a patron of the arts. 
A letter of Ponssin informs ns, that during the teni- 
l^est of the Fronde, this great artist painted two pic- 
tures ordered by Scarron — 2^ Fete de Bacchus^ and a 
Fete de V Amour, Mignard was a friend of the family. 
Scarron ordered some pictures of him also. He 
painted the first and the last portrait of madame de 
Maintenon, in 1659 and 1694. It is, unfortunately, 
only the last of these two portraits that we are ac- 
quainted with. "We only know her as an old wo- 
man," says monsieur de Noailles ; " we always pic- 
ture her to ourselves, in her robe oi feuillemorte and 
sombre head-dress, looking severe and religious; 
ruling the court that had become serious like her- 
self." Mignard painted her as a Saint Frangoise, 
noble and dignified, but sombre and sorrowful, with- 
out a ray of her youth to lighten up the melancholy 
face. It is like the Voltaire of the paintere and the 
sculptors, who is a queer old ma/n^ hurthened with 
eighty winters. Those whose brows have been 
touched by glory appear only crowned with laurel 
and cypress. The ideal characters only, or those 
that death has hai-vested in their bloom, appear 
before us crowned with roses and violets. 

There is still another portrait of Madame Scarron 
by Madame Scudery, which appears as one of the 
characters in Clelie^ under the name of Lyriane; 



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A DOUBTFUL POrNl'. 25 

" Nothing can be compared to her without injustice. 
Slie was tall and of a beautiful figure, but lier size 
was not of the kind that repels. She did not aifect 
the beautiful, but was infinitely so. Her mind was 
formed expressly for her beauty." 

Madame Scarron always lived at home; in the 
beginning, as Scarron wrote to monsieur de Villette, 
'^ she is very unhappy at not having sufficient means, 
and an equipage in order to go wherever she might 
wish." Afterward Scarron hiniself kept her by the 
side of his bed. She was confirmed more and more 
in her virtue, well undei-standing that had been her 
sole happiness, as it would be her only refuge. Did 
Villarceaux love her without giving her any anxiety 
about her principles? It has been attempted to 
throw a doubt about that virtue almost peculiar in 
her circle ; but she has in her favor that wicked 
tongue of Tallemant, who* says, " Madame Scarron 
is well received everywhere, but so far, it is believed, 
that she has escaped the gulf." 

I am inclined to think that, between Scari'on and 
Louis XIV., there was some connecting link, Yillar 
ceaux, for instance. Ninon, questioned about this 
savage virtue, replied: "I know nothing; I have 
seen nothing; but I often lent my yellow^ chamber 
to her and to Yillarceaux." Well, Villarceaux was 
a dangerous person to have so close by, he who suc- 
ceeded in keeping Ninon in the country for three 
entire yeai-s — for three entire years ! 

Vol. L — 2 



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26 THR HOUSE OF SCARRON. 

Aggravatin.q; circnmstaiice ! Madame Scarron was 
a great deal with Ninon. I am well aware it was 
more the society of the mind tlian tlie person that 
she freqnented — as with her hnsband ; but the 
mind has also its days of culpable curiosity ; the 
mind likes to test the heart, and it likes to test it 
by experience. Madame Scarron, seeing Ninon, 
songht and cherished in the heau monde^ after an ex- 
perience of more than twenty years of amorous foll}^, 
had before her eyes a fatal example, all the more 
fatal, since Ninon, a charming book, always wide 
open, had not dedicated a single page to repentance. 

However, that may be ; let ns continue. Let us 
admit, since she has said so at a later period to her 
brother, that she has never been married. Let us 
uelieve her when she writes : " My heart is free, 
wisties always to be so, and always will be." 

I should prefer that Saint Fi-angoise d'Aubigne 
had been belated some summer's evening, were it 
only for a half hour, in the forest of the blooming 
mysterious passions, like Saint Augustine and Saint 
Tneresa ; she who has never been married^ is not a 
savante^ is not a woman. Saint Theresa said of the 
devil, " That miserable one, he does not know love." 
I am quite ready to pity madame de Maintenon, if 
she never loved. 

Scarron died a stoic, after some noisy success. 
He was buried under the epitaph he wrote him- 
self, and there was no further question about 



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PALMY DAYS OF LOUIS XIV. 27 

him.* " Upon his toinb," says eloquently the duke 
de Noailles, " there reigned a long silence. No one 
ventured to recall his name in the presence of that 
destiny which elevated madame de Maintenon so 
high." The solemn hour of the reign of Louis XIV. 
had tolled, all the greatness of France had ah'eady 
ascended the throne. Louis XIY., who believed 
that all the passions of France beat in his heart, was 
soon to say : " / am the staU^'^ for lie saw every- 
where about him coumge and genius. It was during 
his palmy days that he conducted, at full speed, made- 
moiselle de Montpensier to the Luxembourg, passing 
the guard and remarking to mademoiselle : " How 
happy I should be if the robbei-s should attack us." 
The widow of ScaiTon did not belong to those palmy 
days. When she reached Louis XIV., the hoi^ses of 
the king no longer took their bits in their teeth. Let 
lis not follow her further. To some she appeal's to 
mount, mount, mount always; to us, to descend from 
the height of her beauty and her intellect. More- 
over, all the world knows the history of madams do 
Maintenon, old and a devotee, for it is the history of 
France. In her youth she had lightened with a smile 
thegrief of Scarron ; when old, she covered the royal 
dignity with a severe mask. 

* Here is this touching epitaph worthy of the antique : — 
"Passer-by I let your step be light, 
Or else, ye may disturb my rest^ 
For this is the only night 

That sleep, poor Scarron e*er has blest* 



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28 THE HOUSE OF SCARRON. 

Louis XI Y. tlioiiglit to perpetuate his youth like 
all those who have been young in earnest. In liim 
there were always two beings: the demigod de- 
scended from Olympus, and the gentleman eager for 
adventure. 

In thepc later times, Louis XIV. has been too se- 
verely judged as a dancer of ballets. Alexander, 
during a festival, had touched the lute with the grace 
of Orpheus; "Are you not ashamed to play so well ?'' 
said Philip to him. This excellent remark of Philip 
does not blot out a single ray of the gloiy of Alex- 
ander. In the same way the historian may get as 
angry as he pleases about the dancing of Louis XIV., 
he can never blot out a single one of his con- 
quests. Besides we are not altogether of the opinion 
of Antisthenes, who remarked, after having listened 
to a fine player on the flute : " Ismenius is a young 
man of no worth, except that he may be an excellent 
flute-player." Let us be less Spartan-like, as we re- 
member those gods of Olympus who did not disdain 
the joyous festivals of the intellect. 



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VOLTAIRE. 



To write the history of tlie life and works of Vo) 
taire, is almost the same thing as writing the history 
of the 18th century, in truth, for Voltaire appeared 
far back in the regency, and only disappeared at the 
first rumoi*s of the revolution, and do we not see his 
influence even in the reign of Bonaparte? And, 
during the seventy yeai*s which he held the pen, do 
we not see him in every horizon? You meet him at 
every step in the history of this stmnge century, at 
the theatre, at the academy, in exile, lodged with the 
king of Prussia ; at Vei-sailles, where he is merely a 
courtier of madame de Pompadour; at Femey, where 
he is the king of the intellectual world. Where he 
is not, his spirit is ever present. Ask of Freron, of 
Desfontaines, of all his victims, of all his critics. 
Ask of the Encyclopsedia which forged on its anvil 
the thoughts of Voltaire, ask of the journals of the 
time, do they not give more news about Femey than 
about tlie court of France ? If any one here below 



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30 VOLTAIKE. 

ever made himself a kiDgdora by his intellect, it was 
Voltaire. 

This man, who filled his age with his ideas, his 
temerity; this poet, who had too much wit; this 
.violent philosopher, who sowed good and evil by the 
handful, has been judged in turn by enemies and by 
enthusiasts. Even at the present day, a thousand con- 
fusing voices stil) sing his praises or proclaim his 
erroi-s. To the one, he is a worthy brother of La Fon- 
taine and Kacine ; to the other, the gloomy precur- 
sor of Marat and Baboeuf. Both deceive themselves ; 
Voltaire did not succeed La Fontaine and Racine, 
did not suckle Marat and Baboeuf; he represented 
by dint of reason and raillery the spirit of his age. 
It would be vain to seek in his works for the effemi- 
nate grace of Racine, and the Gallic naivete of La 
Fontaine ; as vainly would one seek there for the 
germ of the ideas represented after his death by that 
fool who called himself Baboeuf, or that greater fool 
who called himself Marat. It is well to follow the 
track of a wit, lut to go beyond the visible trace 
is to go at hazard, to wander away, to lose one's 
self. 

In every age some man has appeared who rises 
above all others, and who speaks more loudly than 
those who are speaking; who spreads the light of 
intellect over the chaos of the idetis of his times; col- 
lecting the various sounds made about him, he sub- 
dues them by his voice, he reproduces them by his 



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A GODFATHER. 31 

eloquence, be is tbe most listened to. In the 18tli 
century, this man was Voltaire, for the ideas of Vol- 
taire were in germ in the minds of all thinkera. 
Look at Bayle, at Fenelon himself. Genius, most 
commonly, is merely a well-arranged echo. 

Before we speak of the character and the works 
of the man, let us look at tbe hazards and destinies 
of his life. Let us follow Voltaire step by step in 
the various paths which he took from taste or by 
force ; let us see whether he was merely a plaything 
of destiny, or whether he walked unfettered. But 
who shall ever unveil this mystery of human life, 
who shall dare to say with assumnce, I go whither I 
will? 

FKAN901S Marie Arouet dk Voltaire was born 
February 20th, 1694, at Chatenay, near Paris. His 
father, Frangois Arouet, had been a notary at the 
Chatelet; his mother. Marguerite d'Aumart, was 
descended from a noble family of Poitou. He came 
into the world feeble, like Fontenelle, who lived a 
hundred years. He was privately christened, it was 
not till November that he could be baptized ; he had 
for godfather an abbe, without abbey and without 
faith, the abbe de Chateauneuf, a friend of his 
mother and a lover of Ninon de I'Enclos ; thus it has 
been said that wit and irreligion took possession of 
him from the cradle. The abbe, regarding his title 
of godfather seriously, wished to direct the youthful 
intelligence of his godson; he taught him to read; 



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32 VOLTAIRE. 

Ninon asked him one day about the cLild. "My 
dear," he answered, "niy godson had a double bap- 
tism, but tliere is not any apparent effect therefrom, ho 
is scarcely three years old and he knows all the Moi- 
sade by heart." Thus Voltaire, thanks to the man 
who had answered for his faith before the church, 
learned to read in this impious poem attributed to J. 
B. Rousseau. Ninon wished tliat the child of si:ch 
promise should be presented to her. She kissed his 
blonde locks with her faded and profaned lips ; she 
predicted to him that he would have the intellect of an 
angel. This was not the only prediction which the 
infant inspired. A few years afterward, at the college 
of Jesuits, Father Jay, struck with the boldness of 
his ideas, told him that he would be the standard 
(others have said the Coryphaeus) of deism in France. 
Ninon did not lose sight of this infant, who was des- 
tined to hold the intellectual sceptre for as long a 
period as she had held the sceptre of gallantry. At 
her death, she left him two hundred pistoles for the 
purchase of books. 

While with the Jesuits, Voltaire had not time to 
become a poet, wit had come too soon to shed its 
brilliant rays; poetry, which demands somewhat of 
shade and silence for its development, was not yet 
to expand for him. But was Voltaire ever a poet? 
Did he ever cultivate that flower of revery which the 
heart watere with a tear? Did he ever raise him- 
self high enough to steal from celestial shore?' that 



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SOCIETY OF THE XVniTH CENTURY. 83 

rose of love whose perfume the poets scatter here 
below ? 

The court had become superannuated and super- 
stitious, like the king. Madame de Maintenon 
wished to enchain France with her boxwood rosa- 
ries; all the courtiers, all the dignitaries, all the 
titled slaves, covered their faces with devotional 
masks. The eighteenth century rose from this; 
princes, nobility, priests, and poets, protested, by ele- 
gant orgies, against the pretentious austerity of the 
court. As they were delicate debauchees, gayly 
irreligious, graceful blasphemers, witty disorgani- 
zes; as they had at their head men like the 
prince de Conti, the due de Vendome, the grand 
prior, the due de Sully, the marquis de la Fare, the 
abbe de Chaulieu, it was a mark of ton to be admit- 
ted into their circle. The abbe de Chateauneuf, who 
wanted to do his duty by his godson, did not fail to 
bring him there on his leaving college. Voltaire was 
sixteen ; up to that time, perhaps, he was only half 
way irreligious, for in spite of the lessons of his god- 
father, he had found among the Jesuits a good odor 
of Christian candor; but once in this school of licen- 
tious gayety and unbridled voluptuousness, how could 
he live with that virginity of heart which preserves 
youth to the age of reason ? 

Arouet was not admitted into this brilliant com- 
pany as a poet. He took the bearing of a noble- 
man. What was wanting to him for the part? He 
2* 



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84 VOLTAIRE. 

bad wit, person, money — be wanted only a name; 
he took the name of Voltaire. He ventured to be 
familiar with everybody, already reckoning on wit, 
which saves everything. Thus, on his debut in tlie 
circle of the voluptuaries, he said to the prince of 
Conti, who had read vei-ses to him: "Monseigneur, 
you will be a great poet, I must get tlie king to give 
you a pension," In the midst of mundane dissipa- 
tions he did not lose sight of the poetical horizon. 
He sketched the tragedy of (Ed i pus, and wrote an 
ode for the competition before the French Acade- 
my. In the eighteenth century, the tragedy and the 
poem for the prize were, so to speak, the antecham- 
ber of poetry ; it is necessar}- to pass through it. 
Voltaire, you guess, did not obtain the prize of the 
academy ; he was not a poet trimmed to be a laureat, 
he liad too much boldness of mind. It must be said 
that the subject of the competition, was tlie decora- 
tion of the choir of Notre Dame. A religious sub- 
ject, and before the academy ! that would be some- 
thing to surprise everybody nowadays. 

Meanwhile his father thought that he was ruined 
on hearing that he made vei^ses and went into good 
society. The poor man was at the same time tor- 
mented by the obstinate Jansenism of his eldest son ; 
he often said, "I have two fools for sons, one in vei"se 
and one in prose." He exiled the fool in verse to 
the Hague, to the French embassy. The embassa- 
dor, the marquis of Chateanneuf, was not so easy to 



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PIMPETTE DU NOYER. 85 

get along with as his younger brotlier, the abb6 de 
Chateanneuf. He sti-ove to lead Voltaire back to 
prose, but the young poet would not be subdued ; he 
not only made verses, but, which was aggravating, 
he made amorous verses. "I no longer hope for 
anything from your son," wrote the embassador to 
the old notary, " for you see he is doubly a fool, a 
poet, and in love." Voltaire was desperately smit- 
ten with Pimpette du Noyer, the second daughter 
of the too celebrated adventuress who lived at 
the Hague upon libels and intrigues, who had 
taken refuge there as a protestant, but more for 
freedom of conduct than freedom of conscience. 
The embassador forbade love to Voltaire, the poet 
persisted ; the marquis de Chateauneuf ordered 
liim to return to France. Voltaire left, endeavor- 
ing to carry off Pimpette du Noyer; but madame 
du Noyer, who reckoned on her daughter's black 
eyes to carry her on in the world, wrot« a libel 
against Voltaire, and held Pimpette under surveil- 
lance. 

Fame seldom permits the paintei-s to give us the 
portraits of the poets before time's ravages have 
passed over their faces. The painter represents Ho- 
mer to us old, blind, and a beggar. Can we find in 
the gallery of the poets, from Homer to Milton, a 
single head in the freshness of youth, and the graces 
of love? All the poets appear to us crowned with 
laurel and cypress. Should we not be charmed to 



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36 VOLTAIRK. 

see them crowned with roses and myrtles? White 
hairs are venerable, but youthful locks are dearer to 
the heart ; age is noble and grave, but youth is so 
beautiful in its follies ! As a momlist has said, " we 
do not know a man of former times well, but when 
we possess at least two portraits of him." In think- 
ing of Voltaire, the fii-st image which is excited in 
our memory is that of a poet of eighty years, buried in 
a wig, armed with a diabolical smile, and a still pier- 
cing look. It is because the Yoltaire of the paintere 
and sculptors was the cacochymic old man^ laden with 
the weight of eighty winters. For all that, Voltaire, 
at twenty years, has many charms which he has no 
longer at eighty ; he is not covered with gloiy, but 
he is much more glorious, he is young! Besides, 
what was wanting in him to win fame? he has a 
wit to be dreaded ; he is a lover, he is a poet, he 
has not yet written Za Henriade! For my part, 
my pleasure was truly lively when, for the first time, 
I discovered a portrait of Voltaire at the age of 
twenty. What grace ! what fire ! what spirit ! That 
forehead contains a world, but that mouth before it 
speaks has still so many kisses for the Pimpettes. 
The chestnut curls of the careless lover of mademoi- 
selle de Livry are pleasanter to behold than that 
head which will soon be despoiled by genius. Do 
not complain that I endeavor in my turn to paint 
Voltaire in his giddy and charming youth. Those 
who are most familiar with their Voltaire, do 



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MADAMB DU NOYER. 37 

not know hiin young. For all of our generation, 
Voltaire is only the patriarch of Ferney, sowing 
with full hands scandal and irreligion. Thus to 
paint Voltaire, is it not to paint a man in an hour of 
suflfering, of anger, or of error ? 



II. 

CELEBRirY greeted Voltaire in his early years. 
His life may be written by looking through the 
memoii*s and compilations of the times. As early 
as 1718, Voltaire, who still called himself Arouet, 
occupies thirty pages in the " Lettres Galantes" of 
madame du Noyer. Firet there is a Parisian let- 
ter, several lines of which I will reproduce : "What 
astonishes me is that you have not discovered among 
the persons in the suite of M. the marquis de Cha- 
teauneuf, a young man who has made a great noise 
by his poems ; they are actually much sought after, 
particularly by those M'ho like satire, which is the 
forte of this new poet, whom I have been expecting 
to hear you speak of, not thinking that a man of wit 
and a Frenchman could escape your knowledge. 
He is called Arouet, he is the son of a treasurer of 
the chambre des comptes." 

To this letter madame du Noyer answei-s : " Your 
M. Arouet has not escaped me, though he has made 
a very short sojourn in this country. The character 
of poets accords very well with that of lover in which 



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38 VOLTAIRK. 

M. Arouet has shone in Holland, and which has 
caused his departure. He saw fit to talk thereon to 
a young lady of good condition, who had a mother 
difiicult to deceive, and whom such an intrigue in 
no wise pleased ; and it was on the complaint of this 
mother that it was judged best to send back our 
lover to the place whence he came, and that meas- 
ures were designedly taken to deprive liim of the 
means of continuing to see his fair one, measures 
which he knew how to render vain, as you may see 
by fourteen of his letters, which I send you ; for 
since they are so curious about his verse at Paris, 
they will not be less so about his prose. You must 
let me know what you think of them." 

The fourteen letters of Yoltaire follow. They ai*e 
an entire romance — a romance, at least, as it was 
understood a century ago. Rendezvous, disguises, 
surprise, separation, tears, oaths, nothing is wanting, 
not even the premeditated coup de thedt/re. In 
the letters, Voltaire is just at that enthusiastic age 
when one would be willing to buy, at the cost of all 
the troubles of Amadis, the pleasure of lamenting 
over them with the same eloquence. In the firet 
letter, the page of the marquis de Chateauneuf is 
a prisoner of love. Without doubt madame du Noyer, 
to enhance the eclat of her virtue, had been to 
the embassador to complain of the bold attempts 
of Arouet to seduce her daughter. As madame 
du Koyer is a mischievous woman, and, still worae. 



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PBISONER OF LOTE. 39 

a woman who writes, the embassador, fearing her 
anger, hastens to do her justice. He places liis page 
in arrest, resolving that he sliall return to France in 
a few days. Until then, tlie poet was perhaps only 
half in love : a dream, a fantasy, a caprice, one of 
those will-o'-the-wisps of love which precede the 
rising sun; but, scarce imprisoned, behold Aroiiet 
desperately in love with pretty Pimpette du Noyer. 
It was hardly love, it was already passion, his heart 
bounded and his tears flowed. He demands with 
loud cries, to distract the ennui of his solitude, the 
portrait of his mistress. What do I say? the por- 
trait ! he demands his mistress hereelf But as he is 
closely watched, he knows not to whom to confide 
his message. In the second letter, he passionately 
exclaims, "I am here a prisoner in the naine of the 
king, but though they have the power to take away 
my life, they can not take from me the love that I 
have for you. Yes, my adorable mistress, I will see 
you this evening, though my head falls for it on the 
scaffold. Be on your guard against madame, your 
mother, as the most cruel enemy you can have; what 
do I say ? be on your guard against everybody. Hold 
yonrself in readiness : as soon as the moon rises I will 
leave the hotel incognito^ I will take a carriage, we 
will fLy like the wind to Schevelin ; I will bring ink 
and paper, we will write our lettei^ ; but, if you love 
me, console youi-self ; recall all your presence of mind, 
constrain yourself before madame, your mother, en- 



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40 VOLTAIUK. 

deavor to bring your portrait, and tlie dread of the 
greatest torments will not prevent iny being at your 
service. Be ready at four o'clock, I will wait for 
you close by your street. Adieu, there is nothing to 
which I will not expose myself for you. My dear 
heart, adieu." 

In the following letters Yoltaire, who, up to this 
time has shown himself timid, becomes emboldened 
like a gallant of good lineage who has heard the 
due de Richelieu speak of his high deeds. It is not 
enough to have seen Pimpette by moonlight, he must 
see her at midnight. "You can not come here; it is 
impossible for me to go to your house in open day; 
I will escape by a window at midnight; if you have 
any place where I can see you, if you at that hour 
can quit your mother's bed. Let me know if you can 
come to your door to-night; I have things of great 
consequence to tell you. Adieu, my amiable mis- 
tress." Still it is not enough to have seen, or rather 
to have pressed to his heart the blushing brow of 
Pimpette; Arouet imagines that it would be still 
pleasanter to introduce his mistress into the hotel 
where he is a prisoner. You see that the romance be- 
comes complicated, here is the chapter of the dis- 
guises : " If you would change our misfortunes to pleas- 
ures, it only depends upon yourself. Send Lisbette 
at three o'clock; I will give her a parcel for you, con- 
taining a man's dress ; you will put it on at her house, 
and if you are kind enough to have the goodness to 



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love's disguises. iJ 

visit a poor prisoner who adores yon, jou will take 
the trouble to come to the hotel at dusk. To what 
cruel extremity are we reduced, my dear? Is it for 
you to come and seek me ? But, nevertheless, it is 
the only means for us to see one another. You love 
me, so I hope to see you in my little apartment. 
The happiness of being your slave will make me for- 
get that I am the king's prisoner. As my dress is 
known, and you might consequently be recognised, 
I send you a cloak which will conceal your doublet 
and your face. My dear heart, remember that our 
circumstances are truly critical." 

Pimpette, at least as romantic, if not as much in 
love as her lover, runs the risk of this curious dis- 
guise, whereupon the next day this letter of Vol- 
taire's : " I know not whether I ought to call you 
monsieur or mademoiselle. If you are adorable in a 
cap, i'faith you are a handsome cavalier, and our 
porter, who is not in love with you, thought you a 
very pretty boy. The fii-st time that you will come 
he will give you a marvellous reception. But for 
all that, you have an appearance as terrible as ami- 
able, and I fear lest you should have drawn your 
sword in the street so that nothing should be want- 
ing to your character of young man. After all, 
young man as you are, you are as cautious as a 
girl :— 

" At last T have seen thee, dear object of my love. 
This very day disguised as cavalier; 



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42 VOLTAIRE. 

I thought that Venus from above 

In CupiiTs garb had stolen here. 
Although the god in age resembles thee, 

And though his mother is less fair, 
This truth was still revealed to me. 

In spite of all that could thy charms impair, 
Pirapette, for a divinity, 

Your virtue is too great, I fear. 

" There is never a god who should not take you 
tor a model. They think to surprise us to-night, but 
he whom love guards is well guarded ; I will leap 
out by the window, it is the lover's road, and I will 
come at dusk to your mother's door." 

This interview was discovered; instead of two 
guards, Voltaire had four. On her part, madame du 
Noyer placed Pimpette under lock and key ; but, in 
spite of all the jailers in the world, will not lovers who 
set about it with good will succeed in seeing one an- 
other? Arouet and Pimpette would have deceived 
the universe. They met again, but it was for the 
last time. At the Hague, nocturnal rendezvous are 
not as pleasant as at Venice or Seville. Pimpette 
took cold and willy-nilly had to lie abed. Voltaire 
liad but two days more to remain in Holland ; he 
wrote letter upon letter, but was obliged to leave 
without bidding adieu to his divine Pimpette. Mon- 
day, December 16, 1718, he wrote, before getting 
into his carriage, " Adieu, mine adorable, if one could 
write kisses, I would send you an infinitude by the 
postman ; in lieu of kissing your hands, I kiss your 



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AT PARIS. 42 

precious letters where I read my felicity." Three 
days after, he wix)te from the hold of a yacht which 
was taking him from Rotterdam to Ghent : " We have 
fine weather and a fair wind, and besides that, good 
wine, good pastry, good hams, and good beds. There 
are only two of us, M. de M * * * and I, in a large 
yacht ; he employs himself in writing, eating, drink- 
ing, and sleeping, and I, in thinking of you ; I see 
nothing, and I swear to you that I do not feel sensi- 
ble that I am in the ctanpany of a good pate, and a 
man of wit. My dear Pimpette is wanting to me, 
but I flatter myself that she will not be wanting tp 
me always, since I travel but to make you tmvel 
yourself." 

In the following letter, Voltaire relates his arrival 
at Paris, which he reached on Christmas Eve. 
"Scarce had I arrived at Paris, when I learned that 
M. L * * * had written a severe letter to my father 
against me ; that he had sent him the lettera which 
madame, your mother, had written to him, and in 
fine that my father has a lettf'e de cachet to have me 
locked up. I do not dare to show myself; I have 
had my father spoken to ; all that could be obtained 
from him, was to have me sent to the islands; but 
he could not be prevailed upon to change his resolu- 
tion regarding the will which he has made, in which 
he disinherits me. This is not all; for more than 
three weeks I have had no news of you — I do not 
know whether you are living, and whether you are 



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44 VOLTAIRE. 

not living very unhappily ; I fear that you have writ- 
ten to me to my father's address, and that your letter 
has been opened by him." 

Voltaire, under these sad circumstances, passed 
his whole time with liis friends, the Jesuits, in per- 
suading them to snatch his mistress from the prot- 
estant religion, that is, to tear her fvom Holland for 
the good pleasure of the amorous poet. He planted 
his batteries so wisely, he put all his forces on the 
field so well, that this fine scheme came very near 
succeeding. He continues to write : " If you have 
inhumanity enough to make me lose the fruit of all 
my misfortunes, and be obstinate enough to re- 
main in Holland, I promise you that I shall most 
assuredly kill myself at the first news I have there- 
of. I have placed myself, on losing my head, with an 
attorney, to become a limb of the law, to which my 
father destines me ; so you see I am fixed at Paris 
for a long time ; you have but one way to get here, 
and is it possible that I can live without you? The 
bishop of Evreux, in Normandy, is your cousin ; 
write to him, insist above all on the matter of re- 
ligion; tell him that the king desires the conversion 
of the huguenots, and that, being a minister of the 
Lord, and your relative, he should, on every consid- 
eration, favor your return. Write to me to M. de 
Saint Fort, at M. Alain's, attorney of the Chatelet, 
near the steps of the place Maubert." 

We at last arrive at the catastrophe. You think 



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PATERNAL RECONCILIATION. 45 

perhaps that Pitnpette became a catholic for the 
sake of the handsome eyes of Arouet. Alas ! Pim- 
pette was a woman ! Arouet far away ; she thought 
the simpler plan was to let another make love. It 
was not the poet that the fair one had loved, it was 
the page of the embassador of France; now the 
page who succeeded Voltaire in the household of the 
marquis de Chateauneuf, succeeded him also in the 
heart of Pimpette. Poor Madame du Noyer had soon 
to file among her letters of gallantry those of this 
other page to her daughter. 

Voltaire, however, had not love alone in his mind, 
it was necessary for him to disarm his father, as 
angry as the father of a romance. He had not seen 
him since his return. Either to appease him, or in 
good faith, he caused him to be told that being about 
to depart for America, he asked as a sole favor to be 
permitted to embrace the patenial knees. M. Arouet 
pardoned him with tenderness. "But you shall fol- 
low the path which your ancestors trod, you shall at 
once take your place at M. Alain's." He" was an at- 
torney of the rue Perdue. Will it be believed ? Vol- 
taire, already surnamed the familiar of princes, suf 
fered himself to be installed in this old-fashioned 
place! He found there a friend, Thiriot; not a 
friend of a day, but a friend for life. Voltaire, 
happily, did not grow thin over the intricacies 
of the law. He passed thence to the chateau 
of Saint Ange, in company with M. de Caumar- 



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iH VOLTAIKK. 

tin, another friend of his father; he was to choose 
a profession there. At the chateau of Saint Ange, 
lie found an old man, a passionate admirer of Henry 
IV., who inspired him with the idea and even the 
ideas of La ITenriade, He therefore returned to 
Paris more of a poet than ever. 

A misadventure plunged him still more deeply in 
poetry; one day he was taken to the Bastile, with- 
out x\r\y reason being given. Now, what was to be 
done at the Bastile, except to write verses! Every- 
thing conspired against this poor M. Arouet, who 
wislied that his son's mind should be turned, per- 
force, to the spirit of the laws. Voltaire had been 
sent to the Bastile for a satire which was not his : " 1 
have seen these evih^ and Tarn not yet twenty?'* He 
consoled himself for this injustice by singing the 
loves and conquests of Henry IV. At the Bastile 
he commenced the Ilenriade and finished (Edipus. 
The duke d'Orleans soon restored him to libel•t3^ 
The marquis de Noce, the illustrious roue, brought 
Voltaire to the palais-royal, on his leaving the Bas- 
tile, to present him to the prince. While waiting his 
turn in the antechamber to be presented, a violent * 
thunder-storm came on ; the poet, raising his eyes 
upward, exclaimed before a crowd of bystandei-s, 
"Things could n't go woi^se up above, if they had a 
regent to govern them." The marquis de Noce re- 
lated the mot in introducino: Voltaii-e. " Monseiirn- 
eur, here is young Arouet, whom you have just 



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THE MARECHALK DE VILLIERS. 47 

taken out of the Bastile, and whom vou will send 
back there." The marquis knew well to whom he 
spoke. The regent laughed to split his sides, and 
offei'ed a gratification, whereupon Voltaire said to 
him, " I thank your rojal highness that you had the 
kindness to provide for my board, but I beg of you 
not to charge yourself any more with my lodging." 

Pie offered CEdipus. Thanks to high influence, 
this tragedy was played ; thanks to the talents of the 
poet it had great success. M. Arouet, dissolved in 
teai-s at the close of the performance, at last gave his 
son permission to become a poet; better late than 
never. Yoltaire was already accustomed to ridicule 
everything, even his glory; thus at a representa- 
tion he appeared on the stage wearing the wig of the 
grand priest. The mar6chal de Villiers's wife asked 
who that young man was who wanted to ruin the 
piece. Learning that it was the author himself, she 
sent for him to her box, and gave him her hand to 
kiss. "Behold," said the duke de Richelieu to him, 
on presenting him, " two beautiful eyes which you 
have made shed many teai-s." — "They will revenge 
themselves on otheiV' answered Voltaire. The 
beautiful eyes revenged themselves on him. He 
fell in love seriously ; it was his second love ; but 
Pimpette du Noyer had scarcely entered his heart, 
he had not had time to sigh, he did not take time to 
regret. Things did not pass off so with the fair 
marechale, he hoped always. She deijj^ned to ro 



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4r8 VOLTAIRE. 

ceive his rhjmes and liis sighs, but that was all. 
Nevertheless, he was twenty-four yeai*8 old, was al- 
ready celebrated ; a portrait by Largilliere represents 
Lim to us full of grace and spirit, a mocking mouth, 
marked profile, the air of a gentleman, bold fore- 
head, a fine hand ornamented with a tine ruffle. In 
truth, the mar6chale was truly virtuous, to resist 
Voltaire under the regency I For more than a year 
Voltaire lived only for her. "She has made me lose 
a great deal of time," he said at a later day. The 
ingrate I the madman ! is it wasting time, when one 
is twenty-four, to love ? 

He continued to live among the nobility. His 
intimacy with certain enemies of the regent, among 
others the duke de Richelieu and the baron de 
Gortz had exiled him from Paris. He returned 
there with a tragedy, Artemise^ which fell dead, or 
something near it. This was a matter of course ; at 
Paris one never succeeds twice in succession. He 
suflFered himself to be consoled by Mademoiselle Le- 
couvreur, that model of the great actresses. He 
wished to love again on another scene ; and accom- 
panied madame deRupelmonde to Holland. While 
passing through Brussels, he visited J. B. Kousseau. 
They embraced as brethren in poetry, but unfortu- 
nately for friendship, they read verses to one another. 
J. B. Rousseau commenced ; Voltaire, after having 
heard his " Ode to Posterity ^^^ said with a smile, " My 
friend, that is a letter which will never reach its ad- 



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HIS WIT. 49 

dres8." And saying this, he took a manuscript and 
read to the exiled poet an epistle to madame de 
Kupelmonde. J. B. Koiissean, who then took refuge 
in religion, accused Voltaire of impiety. Thereupon 
they separated, enemies in verse and in prose to their 
deaths. 

It is seen that Voltaire's life is all strown with 
sallies. I endeavor to avoid them, but in vain, for 
they mark every step he took. Wit has, so to sj^eak, 
marked out his path. Wit, whosesoever it be, even 
Voltaire's, fatigues when it occupies too much space. 
It is the sun which pours down over the entire land- 
scape, without leaving a bit of shade for the dazzled 
eye. I like wit, but I like revery and naivete 
better, that is to say, the wit of the heail. Who 
would not like to see this youth of Voltaire's thought- 
ful occasionally? Did he never look on the sky 
with a reverent thought? Did Nature never show 
him a corner of her robe? His mistiess, no matter 
which one, did she never shed a tear, a tear of ten- 
derness when he kissed her eyes? But we must 
pardon Voltaire for the wit which took possession 
of him from head to heart : celebrated when twenty 
years old, what had he but his wit, to combat his 
innumerable oggmies with ! You know that he was 
always on tlie battle-field of thought, almost alone 
on his own side. A man does not defend hiuiself 
bv his heart. 
Vol. 1.— 3 



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60 TOLTATRR. 



III. 



Voltaire, desirous of publisliing the Ilenriade^ aa- 
Bembled at the house of the president de Maisons a 
circle of curious literary men selected from the fash- 
ionable world. They were so severe on him that he 
lost patience and threw his manuscript into the fije. 
It cost the president Hainault a fine pair of ruffles to 
save the poem from the flames. The poet was recon- 
ciled to looking at his manuscript again While he 
was retouching it with a more confident hand, the 
abbe Desfontaines, it is not known from what copy, 
had the poem piinted under the title of The League, 
The famished abbe was not contented with taking a 
stipend from two printers, but dared to add some 
lines after his own fashion. The poem was received 
with 6clat; disfigured as it was, it obtained Vol- 
taire so many eulogies that the poet pardoned the 
abbe. Voltaire in his turn wished to have the work 
printed, but the priests, reproaching him with em- 
bellishing and reanimating the errors of semi-pela- 
gianism, set to work to have the privilege of printing 
refused him. To counteract these cabals, Voltaire 
dedicated his poem to the king, but the king would 
not accept the dedication. From that day, war was 
declared. Until then, Voltaire had been irreligious 
only after the amiaVle and careless fashion of his 
masters, the abbe de Chateauneuf and the abbe do 
Cliaulieu. ITe was no longer content with laughing 



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FIBST AND LAST. 51 

Wittily at the hypocrites ; he began to laugh angrily. 
" What !" exclaimed he, " then I am destined to 
fight honest gentlemen, who number among them- 
selves the abbe Desfontaines." It will be seen what 
was the real starting-point of the quarrel. The abb6 
Desfontaines, saved from jail by Voltaire, trimmed his 
pen to take npthe defence of the church against him. 
How could Voltaire be quiet? "With the most grate- 
ful remembrances of the Jesuits, could Voltaire hu- 
miliate himself before the majesty of the abb6 Des- 
fontaines, their representative? The conflict was to 
take place on another battle-field. Was the poet to 
bow before the glory of the regent who had i-ecom- 
pensed him for a witticism, or before the power of 
the king who had refused his dedication ? Voltaire 
would then be in conflict with both church and court. 
A third power remained to protect him, and w^liich 
was, perhaps, to repress his struggles for liberty. But 
it was not to be so; the noblesse were to lose Voltaire 
by their own act. One day at dinner at the duke 
de Sully's, he began to oppose, after his uncere- 
monious fashion, an opinion of the chevalier de 
Rohan-Chabot. As wit and sense were on Vol- 
taire's side, the chevalier said, with a proud, disdain- 
ful voice : " Who, pray, is this young man who talks 
so loud ?" — "It is," answered the poet, "a man who 
has not the weight of a great name. I am the first 
of mine, you are the last of youi-s." The next day but 
one after, as Voltaire was dining again at the duke de 



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62 VOLTAIRE. 

Sully's, he was told that some one wanted him at the 
door of the hotel. He went. A man whom he did 
not know called to him from the interior of his car- 
riage ; he advanced, the unknown seized him by the 
collar of his coat, at the same instant a valet gave 
him five or six blows with a stick, after which the 
chevalier de Rohan-Chabot, posted a few steps oif, 
cried out, " That's enough !" Were not these words 
the most cutting insult? Voltaire indignantlj'- re- 
turned to the hotel, related his fatal adventure, and 
entreated the duke de Sully to aid him in his re- 
venge. The duke refused. " Very well," said Vol- 
taire, "let the outrage fall upon yourselves." There- 
upon he went directly home and erased the name 
of Sully from the Heniiade. Knowing well that the* 
tribunals would not do justice to a poet against 
a courtier, he swore to do himself justice. He 
shut himself up and learned at the same time the 
sword exercise to fight for his life, and the English 
language to be able to live out of France after the 
duel. This design showed the man of head and the 
man of heart. As soon as he knew the use of his 
sword, he defied his disloyal adversary in such con- 
temptuous terms, that the chevalier did not dare to 
refuse to fight. They agreed to meet the next day, 
but in the interval, the family of the chevalier showed 
the prime minister a quatrain of the poet's, which 
contained, at the same time, an epigram against his 
excellencYj and a declaration of love to his mistress. 



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IN ENGLAND. 53 

Voltaire was taken to the Bastile during the night. 
Less than that would give a man a taste for democ- 
racy. Thus, at thirty, Yoltaire found himself alone, 
without friends, without defenders, without money, 
awaiting exile in imprisonment — alone against the 
court, which was nothing — against the noblesse, 
which was not much more — against the Jesuits, who 
were everything! A weak and cowardly spirit 
would have asked pardon, and suffered conversion. 
Voltaire allowed himself to be punished in order to 
have the right to avenge himself. 

After six months of the Bastile, he was pennitted 
to leave, but " by the gate of exile." lie went to 
England, the country of the liberty of the mind and 
df the pen. Scarce at London, the remembrance of 
the outrage forced him to return secretly to Pans, in 
the hope of at last meeting his adversary' face to 
face. On the point of being discovered, he retunied 
to London without being revenged. " At least glo.'y 
shall avenge me; this name which he wished to 
degmde, shall shine eternally in the face of his 
own." 

In England, Voltaire suffered himself to be led 
away by the philosophy of Shaflesbury, set to rhyme 
by Pope, and commented on by Bolingbroke. Voltaire 
had only been irreligious by sallies, he had mocked 
at the mysteries of Catholicism with the wit and the 
carelessness of the epicureans of the temple. In 
England, in the school founded by Newton, he 



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64 VOLTAIRE. 

Bought for truth, he collected all the weapons which, 
at a later period he broke against the church. From 
London he saw his country the slave of prejudices, 
the people the slaves of the nobles, the nobles the 
slaves of the courtiei-s, the courtiei-s the slaves of 
the king and his mistress, and the king and his mis- 
tress the slaves of the Jesuits. " He swore," 6a3'8 
Condorcet, "to render himself, by the mere power 
of his genius, the benefactor of an entire people, by 
snatching them from their errors." Condorcet, en- 
nobled the design of Yoltaire, who was above all 
things desirous to avenge himself in the name of 
truth, whatever the truth might cost. 

In England, as a relaxation to his philosophic 
studies, he published the Henriade^ without the fa- 
voi-s of the abbe Desfontaines. This edition, pub- 
lished at an immense price, was the commencement 
of Voltaire's fortune. The entii-e English court had 
subscribed, without doubt, on account of the dedi- 
cation to the queen. " It is a part of my destiny, like 
that of my hero, to be protected by a queen of Eng- 
land." Voltaire passed three years in England ; he 
studied there the poets and philosophers, conceived 
the tragedy of Brutus^ sketched out the Lettres An- 
glaises^ and took notes for the History of Charles XI I. 
from the recital of a servant of this adventurous mon- 
arch. He returned to Paris 'secretly, but resolved to 
return to the Bastile ratlier than not see his country 
again. E'e hid himself in a remote faubourg, saw a 



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A SPECULATOR. 65 

few faitliful friends, and set to work to become rich in 
order to become strong. When a poet pursues for- 
tune, he is no easier repulsed than another. Fortune 
loves people of wit, almost as much as she does fools. 
Voltaire, in less than three yeare, became six times 
a millionaire. It must be said that he was bold and 
fortunate; he commenced by risking the proceeds 
of the edition of the Henriade in the lottery which 
the comptroller-general had established to liquidate 
the city debts ; it was rouge et noir. Voltaire 
quadrupled his crowns. This was not enough for a 
man of his mettle. • He risked again all he possessed 
in the Cadiz trade and Barbary wheat; finally, as a 
last financial operation, he took an interest in the 
provisioning of the army of Italy, after which he re- 
united his millions, and invested them in all sorts of 
securities. He had as much as four hundred thousand 
livres income; and, although ill paid in many places, 
after having lost much, built a city, given with a 
royal hand, and spent with one often prodigal, he 
had left at the end of his life more than two hundred 
thousand livres income in real estate and personal 
property. You see that the poet did not build castles 
in the air only. If some die of misery, others die 
twenty times too rich. In the fiice of Malfilatre, of 
Gilbert, and of Jean Jacques, who lived on alms, do 
you not see Fontenelle pass with his income of eighty 
thousand livres? Gentil Bernard with more than 
half, Voltaire with more than double? And note 



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56 VOLTAraE. 

tliat in tliis noble profession, there is not a single 
bankruptcy to record. 

Voltaire began to live at Paris without disquietude, 
when Mademoiselle Lecouvreur died, whom he had 
tenderly loved. As burial was refused to this il- 
lustrious actress, the indignant poet wrote that 
elegy on the occasion, which breathes all the English 
hardihood. The priests, who, by acts of the parlia- 
ments, had no one left to excommunicate but actors 
and actresses, took the field again against Voltaire, 
*' indignant," says Condorcet, "that a poet should 
dispute with them half of their empire." Voltaire, not 
wishing to return a third time to the Bastile, took 
refuge at Kouen, under the name and with the retinue 
of an English nobleman. He there had the Histoire 
de Charles XIL^ and the Lettrea Anglaises privately 
printed. When the storm had blown over, he re- 
turned to Paris, resolved to again attempt the peril- 
ous victories of the stage, hoping that the specta- 
tors, once on his side, would defend him against 
fanaticism. He had Brutus played without any 
very great diflSculty. It was only half understood 
that he made himself the safeguard of the rights of 
the people ; the piece had only a half success, in 
spite of the second scene, and in spite of the fifth 
act. After the representation, Fontenelle said to 
Voltaire, " I do not think that tragedy is your right 
field ; your style is too strong, too pompous, too bril- 
liant." — "I will immediately reperuse your pasto- 
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EFFECT OF A JOKE. 57 

He had almost finished La Mort de Cesar ; but 
he did not dare to risk on the stage a tragedy in 
three acts, and without women. He brought out 
Eriphile^ which fell dead. Voltaire, like a man 
who recovers courage from a defeat, shut himself up, 
seized the subject of Zaire^ finished the tragedy in 
eighteen days, and had it represented the same sea- 
son. It was received with great enthusiasm; its 
success became prodigious; it was decided that it 
was " for all time, the tragedy of pure souls and ten- 
der hearts." He did not give himself time to enjoy 
his success, but had two other tragedies represented 
one after another, both of which failed through a 
couple of sallies from the parterre. It is known that 
Marianne could not be continued, after this simple 
observation of a spectator: "The queen drinks." It 
is also known that Adelaide Duguesclin had the 
same fate, thanks to this response from the par- 
terre io 2i, mot of Yendome : " Es tu content, 
Coucy? — Coiici-eoucV^ — ^The whole house enjoyed 
the joke. 

Voltaire led a life of great excitement ; he only 
half tasted the intoxication of success, he forgot very 
soon the vexation of a failure. He had recovered 
his taste for the great world ; feted everywhere, 
above all by the women, he passed his happiest 
hours in giving and receiving compliments. Do not 
think that he then held vigils before the midnight 
lamp of inspiration — ^no ; his vigils were at suppers 

3* 



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58 VOLTAIRE. 

and the faro-table, where lie gallantly lost some 
twelve thousand livres in an evening. 

While ruminating in the morning on his pillow, 
he constructed the '^ Temple du GoutP As he al- 
lowed himself, according to his custom, to be right 
in his judgments on the jwets of the past and present 
century, he excited innumerable literary animosities 
against himself; for in litemture, as in everything 
else, there is always a party who make it a point to 
be wrong. The little tempest raised by the literati 
became so strong, that Voltaire, will it be believed, 
W518 threatened with a lettre de cachet if he did not 
exile himself of his own accord. He undei-stood then 
better than ever these words of the N'orman Fon- 
tenelle, "If I had my hands full of truths, I should 
take care not to open them." He concealed himself 
at a lady-friend's near the palais-royal. 

Tempests of all sorts broke over him. An infidel 
Dookseller circulated an edition of the Lettres An- 
glaises^ which had become Lett/res Philosophiques. 
Yoltaire took flight; while his book, condemned in 
his place, was burnt by the hands of the hangman. 
The devotional furore was then at its height; miracles 
had returned with the deacon Paris, and the rev- 
erend father Girard ; people let themselves be cru- 
cified out of love of God, as if God could accept this 
impious parody of a divine mystery. "I shall re- 
turn soon to Paris," Yoltaire had said on leaving, 
"for the Jesuits make the most of their respite." 



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RETUBN8 TO PABIS. 59 

He returned soon in fact, and, becoming gradually 
emboldened, suffered the Ejp^e a Uranie to be 
printed ; a new uproar, a new lettre de cachet^ which 
Voltaire becoming aware of, said the epistle was by 
the abbe de Chaulieu, who had just opportunely 
died. As it was, this epistle did not injure the abbe 
de Chaulieu's reputation as a poet or as a Christian. 
Scarcely did Voltaire breathe freely when, in his 
ardor for combat, and wishing to turn his arms else- 
where, he published La Mori de Cesar, This time, 
his publication was authorized by the court. He 
persuaded the courtiers, most of whom had become 
his friends, that the play was not the least in tlie 
world republican ; the court, on solicitation, shut 
their eyes. 

When Voltaire did not do battle with his pen, he 
did so by his words. Welcomed and sought atler 
by statesmen and noblemen, from curiosity and 
from fear, if not from curiosity and admiration, he 
almost always preserved his freedom of speech. 
One day at the house of the keeper of the seals, a 
man was spoken of who had been arrested for having 
fabricated a lett/re de cachet, Voltaire asked what 
was done to that new class of forgers. " They are 
hanged." — "Very good, provided those who sign 
real ones are treated in the same way." 

A few days after, as some one was reciting in a 
corner of the saloon, amidst roars of laughter, some 
fragments of La Pucelle^ the keeper of the seals 



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60 VOLTAIRE. 

threatened the poet witli a new lettre de oachet^ if 
lie ever saw fit to have the poem printed. Voltaire, 
tired of living continually at the door of the Bastile, 
or on the road to exile, tired of gaming, by which he 
lost a great deal of money, disgusted with most of 
the frivolous circles where he heard too much talk 
of the genius of Crebillon and the wit of Fontenelle, 
resolved to withdraw himself from the world, not like 
a St. Anthony, but like a well-inspired poet ; he re- 
tired to a chateau with a fair mistress, resolved to 
live like Adam after the fall — that is to say, to de- 
vour in solitude the fruit of science and the fruit of 
love, the bitterness of the one making endurable the 
bitterness of the other. 

Madame du Chatelet was, in the eighteenth cen- 
tury, the free liver p^^r excellence ; like certain 
dames of our days, she had dispensed w^th the re- 
straints of marriage; but the husbands of those days 
were much easier to get along with than those of the 
present times. M. the marquis du Chatelet lived in. 
community with the marquise du Chatelet and M. 
de Voltaire, her lover. For several years previous, 
Voltaire had been smitten with the graces of this 
lady, charming on many accounts. They were two 
unquiet and turbulent creatures, always ready to 
take fire, always armed for controversy, always burn- 
ing for tumult and eclat. Madame du Chatelet 
was no better catholic than Voltaire ; she had 
gayly placed on her escutcheon the profane sentence 



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MADAME DU CHATELET. 61 

of tlie poet, ^^ Happiness is the aim^ he who ac- 
qim^es it has gained his salvation,^'* Like Voltaire, 
she had a passion for science 2^ndpetits soupers^ for 
the fine arts and gaming, for philosopliy and fine 
clothes. They saw one another — they loved one 
another. M. du Chdtelet did not complain — he was 
another philosopher. 

Then therefore all three retired to the chAteau de 
Cirey, on the confines of Champagne and Lorraine. 
Do not suppose that they passed their time like poets 
or like lovers, in cooing elegies or madrigals under 
the green arcades of the park. Cirey was not en- 
tirely the terrestrial paradise as Voltaire called it. "I 
have the happiness of being in a terrestrial paradise 
where there is an Eve, and where I have not the 
disadvantage of being Adam." Madame du Chate- 
let, who already knew Latin, set to work to learn 
three or four living languages. She translated New- 
ton, analyzed Leibnitz, and was a candidate for the 
prize of the Academy of Sciences. Voltaire did not 
want to be left behind, he made himself a savant^ 
almost as much of a saA)a/rht as his mistress. The 
Academy of Sciences had proposed as the subject of a 
prize essay, the nature and propagation of fire. Vol- 
taire and madame du Chatelet were competitors; 
they were beaten by Euler, but their pieces were 
inserted in the collection of prize essays. They soon 
reappeared before the academy as adversaries in the 
dispute on the measure of living forces. Voltaire 



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62 VOLTAIRE. 

defended Newton against Leibnitz, madanie du Chd- 
telet Leibnitz against Newton. The academy gave 
judgment for Voltaire, but Voltaire gave judgment 
for madame du Chatelet. 

Is it not a curious and mournful spectacle to be- 
hold these two lovers finding nothing better to do 
than to dispute on points of philosophy, physics, and 
metaphysics, when the sky smiled over them, and 
talked to them of love by the voice of roses and 
of birds, in a chateau which was almost a garden of 
Artnida? Their love had nothing of a pastoral 
charm ; now and then tender, it was most often full 
of storms ; in their fits of jealousy or anger, they went 
so far — must I say it? — as to fight — as lovers fight. 
Voltaire, Voltaire though he was, always ended 
by yielding; the storm over, they wept like chil- 
dren. M. du Chatelet came to the rescue, and rec- 
onciled them with the zeal of the husbands of those 
times. 

At Cirey, Voltaire grew a little tired of love and 
science ; he returned to literature with greater ardor, 
Alzire^ Zulime^ Mahomet^ Mkrope^ and L^ Enfant 
Prodigue^ are the fruits of his retreat. It was also 
at Cirey that he finished the Discours sur VHomme^ 
and La Pucelle. His retreat, besides, was anything 
but calm and quiet, for besides the charming wrath 
of madame du Chatelet, he had to undergo pei^secu- 
tions without number. Cirey did not always shelter 
him from his enemies. lie was twice forced to pass 



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LOVE, PHILOSOPHY, AND LAW. 63 

into the Low Countries. Persecution had at last be- 
come pleasing to him, he had become habituated to 
strife and tumult. To it we owe his pamphlets against 
his enemies and himself, his innumerable letters scat- 
tered everywhere, either for attack or for defence. The 
enemy whom Voltaire most dreaded was oblivion. 

His ordinary journey at that time was from Cirey 
to Flandei-s. Madame dn Chatelet, " the nymph of 
Cirey," the blonde Eniilie, that leanied Eve, whose 
blue eyes poured so much warmth into Voltaire's 
heart, went to plead before the Brussels tribunals a 
suit growing out of the will of Trichoteau, her uncle. 
The courts of Brussels took from seven to eight 
years to examine the case ; it was therefore neces- 
sary for seven or eight years to pass from love or 
philosophy to the tedium of a ruinous lawsuit. 
This is the reason Voltaire remained so long in 
Flandere. He resigned himself to it with a good 
grace on his mistress's account. Nevertheless, he 
says somewhere that it is a little sad to pass the last 
years of one's youth in going to law on the will of M. 
Trichoteau. He did not, however, lose his time at 
Brussels. Madame du ChAtelet was often a travel- 
ler. They went together to teach the Flemish nobility 
the follies of the Parisian world, gaming, suppeis, 
and fetes. Voltaire has left the souvenir of a fete 
given by him to the marquise du Chatelet, the 
princesse de Chimay, and the duchesse d'Aremberg. 
He gave this fete, not as a poet who makes bouquets 



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64 VOLT A IRK. 

and fireworks in vei-se. " See how well I play the 
part of a lord ;" he exclaims, "I did not dish np a 
single veree in my own style." 

At Brussels, he expiated on the tomb of Jean- 
Baptiste Rousseau, his injustice toward him. In a 
letter to a bookseller of the exiled poet, he declared, 
at the same time that he subscribed for his works, 
that he regretted that he had not been able to recon- 
cile himself with a man worthy to be loved. It was 
from Bmssels that he sent a writing-desk to the 
king of Prussia, with these words : " Soliman sends 
a sabre to Scanderberg." 

He went several times to the Hague for his books. 
The Holland of Rembrandt made no impression upon 
him. He did not linger in a charmed re very by the 
fields of Paul Potter and the fords of Ruysdael. 
He wrote to Maupertius : " When we both set out 
for Cleves, and you turned to the right and I to the 
left, I thought we were at the last judgment where 
God separates his elect from the damned. Divus 
Fredericus said to you : ' Seat yourself on my right 
hand in the paradise of Berlin ;' and to me, ' Depart 
accursed into Holland !' I am then in this phlegmat- 
ic hell, far from the divine fire where you are. For 
the love of God ! bestow on me in charity some 
sparks in these stagnant watere where I have caught 
cold." 

He was never long without visiting " la grande 
capitale des Bagatelles^ to assist in literary brig 



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vox POPULI, VOX DEI. 65 

and age." Brigandage ! would he content himself at 
the present day with that energetic word ? Paris 
soon tired him. "This vortex of a world is a hun- 
dred-fold more pernicious than those of Descartes." 
At Paris, he, however, always sought solitude, some- 
times as a poet, sometimes as a man proscribed. 
Thus, while Emilie was discussed at the hotel Kiche- 
lieu, he isolated himself at the hotel de Brie in the 
me Clochepcrche. 

Shall I say that Voltaire, after having declared 
himself the rival of Homer and of Sophocles, con- 
sented, in 1746, to knock, for the third time, at 
tlie door of the academy, to replace the president 
Bouhier? Mundane ovations assailed him for sev- 
eral months. After the representation of Merope^ 
he was called for by the spectators ; taken by force 
to a box occupied by the marechale de Villars and 
her daughter-in-law, the parterre requested, or rather 
commanded, the latter to kiss Voltaire, which was 
done with a "^^x-^ good grace. 

After this triumph, the most beautiful and agree- 
able he had ever gained, his genius descended to 
court intrigues. He wanted to have the entree to 
Versailles, even if only by the back door. He com- 
menced by gaining admission at Etioles, where he 
followed madame du Chatelet. Madame de Pom- 
padour received him like a woman of wit, who 
liked open books. Voltaire became her master for 
the season in the art of thinking. From gallantry 



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66 VOLTAIRK. 

he passed witli her to politics. With a little pa 
tience Voltaire would have become a minister. He 
became a politician, he was sent as embassador to 
the king of Prussia ; he wrote for peace to the empress 
of Russia; he was on the point of betraying the 
secrets of his friends, the English. To obtain his 
fii-st audience of the king, lie went direct to the camp 
of Fribourg with an epistle in his hand. The king 
did not comprehend that Voltaire was better worth 
gaining than a German city ; he received liim as a 
poet of no consequence. Voltaire was not dis- 
couraged. The prime minister, and the second min- 
ister, madame de Pompadour, and the marquis 
d'Argenson w^ere on his side ; with such high pro- 
tectors what would he not reach ! He attained, quite 
out of breath, to the place of a gentleman of the cham- 
ber, and tlie appointment of historiographer of France ! 
This cost him dear. He consented to compose a 
ridiculous ballet, the Princesse de Navarre^ for the 
Versailles fetes on the arrival of the Spanish infanta. 
He also composed, besides the poem of Fontenoy, 
a heavy inventory of a poetical battle, the Temple 
de la Oloire, What is to be said of this parody of 
Metastasio's poem, except that it was outrageously 
applauded at Versailles for this good line, " Chan- 
tons le plus grand roi du monde?^ Intoxicated 
with this poor triumph, he endeavored to make him- 
self a courtier. After the representation, he ap- 
proached the royal box, and with the unceremonious 



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THE POPE AND THE DRAMATIST. 67 

air of a great poet addressing a king, said to him, " Is 
Trajan content?" The king, who did not like men of 
wit, Voltaire less than others, made no answer. The 
next day, Voltaire sold his post of gentleman, to be- 
come free again. Thus M. de Chateanbriand de- 
ceives himself, or wishes to deceive ns, when he 
assei-ts that Voltaire would have abandoned his 
opinions for a place at conrt. If he had really been 
a courtier, he would not have been offended at the 
king's silence; he would have continued to burn 
incense, whatsoever face the god had shown. Vol- 
taire was born a freeman ; we must interpret his 
contradictions in good faith. 

A new religions storm being about to burst forth, 
Voltaire had Mahomet printed, which had been for- 
bidden to be represented on the stage, and, to ridi- 
cule the priests, dedicated it to Pope Benedict XIV. 
The pope, who understood Voltaire, responded with 
eulogies, medals, and benedictions, with which the 
philosopher returned to Oirey. 

The hosts of the chateau went from time to time 
to pay their court to King Stanislaus. Lun^ville was 
then the Versailles of Lorraine : the marquise de 
BoufHere was the Pompadour of the place ; she had 
chosen her courtiers among men of letters. She 
reckoned among her poets, Saint-Lambert and the 
count de Tressan ; they were two bad poets, but two 
courtiere full of grace and wit. Madame du Cha- 
telet, with all her philosophy, allowed herself to be 



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OO VOLTAIRE. 

taken with the madrigals of Saint-Lambert ; madarae 
du Cliatelet was forty-two, the sun of her best days 
was about to set for her. Why not seek a little joy 
when its last ray was about to flicker and die? Why 
not bid a tender adieu to love when it is about to 
take flight for ever ! It is so sweet to blind one's 
self, still to believe that the heart will again be 
young, to fancy that spring-time is come again to the 
soul. Madame du Chatelet cast off all the rags of 
philosophy to snatch with an imprudent hand, the 
fatal scarf of pleasure. Love cost her her life. She 
presented an infant either to M. du Chatelet, or to 
Voltaire, or to Saint-Lambert. Poor Voltaire had 
passed to the rank of friend I A friend and a lover, 
without counting a husband, was not bad for a philo- 
sophical lady, who annotated Leibnitz. She carried 
out her philosophy to the end. Voltaire wrote from 
Luneville, September 4, 1719, to the comte d'Argen- 
tal: "Madame du Chatelet, while scribbling at her 
Newton to-night, felt ill at ease; she called her 
femme-de-chambre, who only had time to stretch out 
her apron before she received a little girl, who was 
placed in a cradle. The mother arranged her papers, 
put herself to bed, and everything is as quiet as a 
mouse at the time I am writing." The same day Vol- 
taire wrote as follows to the abbe de Voisenon : "My 
dear abbe Grelnchon [does not this nickname funn'sh 
a capital portrait of Voisenon ?] you must know that 
to-night, madame du Chatelet being at her desk ac- 



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PHILOSOPHICAL CONSOLATION. 69 

cording to her laudable custom, exclaimed, 'Why ! 
I feel something!' This something was a little girl, 
who came into the world forthwith, and was placed 
on a volume of geometry which happened to be near, 
and the mother went to bed." He repented, six 
days afterward, of having taken this tone of pleas- 
antry ; madame du Cliatelet died. He wept as hard 
as he could for her, although a private ring in which 
the miniature of Saint-Lambert had replaced his own, 
which had replaced the due deKichelieu, which had 

replaced , had taught him all. Worthy M. 

du Chatelet was present at this discovery, weeping, 
like Voltaire, with all his might. " Monsieur the 
marquis," said the poet to him, '* this is a thing 
which neither of us should boast over." 

Voltaire, inconsolable, wished to console M. du 
Chatelet ; he accompanied him to Cirey. " My dear 
Voisenon, what a hapless day ! I shall soon come to 
pour into your bosom the tears which will never 
cease to flow. I do not abandon M. du Chatelet. I 
shall, therefore, again behold the chateau which 
friendship had adorned, and where I hoped to die in 
the arms of your fair friend." At Cirey, he wrote to 
M. d'Argental, that the chateau had become a hor- 
rible desert to him. Nevertheless the place", where 
she dwelt were dear to him, he would have a som- 
bre joy in finding again the traces of her sojourn in 
Paris. He exclaimed that he had not lost a mistress, 
but a half of himself, a soul which was sister to his 



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70 VOLTAIRE. 

own — the genius of Leibnitz united with sensibility, 
a man of genius and a woman of feeling. He would 
not be consoled, he wished to follow her even to the 
tomb, her who was faithless to him. He returned to 
Paris as pale as a traj^pist. Is this really the Vol- 
taire who was always laughing? They pitied, they 
made a jest of him. Patience, he will laugh again, 
great griefs are not eternal. How long a time will 
lie weep, this man who implores death with such 
loud cries? A little less than six weeks! Saint 
Lambert wept a fortnight; the husband alone wept 
longer. 

IV. 

During this sojourn in Paris, he lived in great 
style, in order to distract his mind. He opened 
two mansions, one in the rue de Richelieu, the other 
in the rue de Longpont. The fii-st was devoted 
to playing comedy and suppers; in the second, 
Voltaire worked. Jealous at seeing Crebillon the 
Tragic feted at the court, he had resolved to contend 
with him by rewriting all his pieces. Lekain came 
to his aid. Voltaire was the poet of Lekain, Lekain 
became the actor of Voltaire. In spite of the court, 
Voltaire was victorious in the contest. Could one 
believe, that in writing Oreste^ Rome sauvee^ and Le 
Triumvirate he had no other object? Singular aim, 
to write three tragedies to put King Louis XV., 
madame de Pompadour, and himself, in the wrong. 



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AT POTSDAM. 7j 

The king of Prussia and the dncliesse dii Maine 
avenged liim sufficiently for the injustice of the 
court of France ; he was feted at Sceaux like a 
prince of the blood. The king of Prussia wrote to 
him, "I respect you as my master in eloquence, I 
love you as a virtuous friend." The motive which 
decided Voltaire to set out for Potsdam was a copy 
of vei-ses of Frederick's, in which a bad poet was a 
genius at his rising^ who was to console the world 
for Voltaire's setting. " The king of Prussia must be 
informed," said Voltaire, " that I am not about to 
set yet." He departed. Frederick received him 
better than a king, for, to Frederick, he was the 
king of poets and philosophers. He found at Pots- 
dam an apartment adjoining that of Frederick, the 
chamberlain's key, the cross of merit, a pension of 
twenty thousand livres, and finally, a table and equi- 
pages to his own use, at the sole charge of correcting 
the king's writings. Voltaire imagined that he was 
about to find liberty in a court, and a friend in a 
king; the illusion quickly vanished. Kings are 
always kings ; above all, philosopher kings. As 
Voltaire, on his side, was a king, he quitted Pots- 
dam, his chamberlain's cross, his friend Frederick, 
to create a court of his own. " On leaving my 
palace of Alcinous, I went and passed a month with 
the duchess of Saxe-Gotha, the best princess of the 
earth, the sweetest, the wisest, the most composed, 
and who, thank God ! does not make verses. After 



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72 VOLT A IRK. 

that, I passed some days at a country-house of the 
landgrave of Hesse, who was still farther removed 
from poetry than the princess of Gotha; I breathed 
again." Ilis adventure with the police of Frank- 
fort, touching Voeuvre de jpoeshie du roy son maitre^ 
is well known. 

Escaped from Frankfort, lie went to pass some 
days at Mayence, saying that it was to dry his gar- 
ments, wet from shipwreck. The elector-palatine 
sent for him, and received him with splendid fetes. 
Not daring to return to Paris, where they would not 
pardon him for having sung with the king of Prussia, 
where, moreover, there had circulated an irregular 
edition of the Essay on the Manners and Spirit of 
Nations^ he went to live at Colniar, calling himself, 
according to his custom, a bird of passage. He 
worked there at the Annals of the Empire^ with the 
assistance of certain peisons learned in German 
legislation. Learning that a short time before copies 
of BayW^s Dictionary had been burnt on the public 
square of Colmar, he took an aversion to that place, 
and retired to the abbey of Senonses alongside of 
Calmet, who tried to convert him. " I have not be- 
come a devotee, but I have made myself a Bene- 
dictine," wrote Voltaire. He retreated, in fact, to 
the rich library of the abbey. Thence he set out 
for Lyons in company with his niece, and Collini 
his secretary. He found at Lyons his friend, the 
duke de Richelieu. The Lyonnese received him 



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LES DELICK8. 73 

with transports of joy; they played his pieces at tlie 
theatre, and serenaded him. It is from Lyons that 
tliis celebrated mot dates: "It would be well for 
every monarchy," he said to Richelieu, " to have a 
Cromwell once in every fifty yeai*s." 

From Lyons, Voltaire went to Geneva; on his 
arrival the gates were closed, but scarce had he ut- 
tered his name, when they were opened wide. Ho 
was desirous of residing at Geneva, but the rigor of 
the protestants terrified him as much as the zeal of 
the catholics. He bought the beautiful country-seat 
called Les Deliees^ and lived there in great style, 
receiving a great deal of company and performing 
comedy. He was often seen promenading the park 
dressed as an Ai*al), with a long beard, reciting the 
part of Mohabar, or in a Grecian dress reciting 
Narbas. As soon as he was settled, the actors of 
Paris came to pay their court, by playing with him 
at his theatre ; savans, literary men, and princes, 
followed the actoi-s on the road to Zes Delices. It 
is remembered that Montesquieu was present at a 
representation of the Orphan of China^ and fell fast 
asleep. Voltaire, who perceived him, threw his hat 
at his head, exclaiming, "He thinks that he is at a 
meeting of the academy." 

As he could not live in quiet in spite of his sixty- 
four years, in spite of all the showers and tempests 
which he had undergone, he did not content himself 
with Les Delices^ but bought a magnificent mansion 

YoL. L — 4 



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74 VOLTAIRE. 

at Lansanne with fifteen windows in front, where he 
could see from his bed, fifteen leagues of Lake Le- 
man, Savoy, and the Alps ; it was his winter residence. 
Soon discontented with not being able to live in 
France, he abandoned Lausanne and Les Delices^ for 
the manor of Feniey, where he erected, after his own 
designs, his celebrated chateau. He did not forget 
either the theatre, or the cabinet of natural histoiy, 
or the library, or the picture-gallery. Tlie depen- 
dencies of the chateau were of the most enormous 
character ; to give an idea of them, the woods which 
they comprehended were valued at seven hundred 
thousand livres. This chateau was marvellously well 
situated for a view; at the horizon, eternal snows; 
at the foot of the walls, beds of roses. Ferney was 
a village almost abandoned ; the church, quite di- 
lapidated, threatened to come down at the next 
storm. As this church cut off a pleasant prospect, 
Voltaire had it pulled down, with the intention of 
building another elsewhere. See, on this subject, 
what he wrote to the count d'Argental. " As I pas- 
sionately love to be the master I have pulled down 
the church ; I have taken the bells, the altar, the 
confessionals, the baptismal fonts. I have sent my 
parishioners to hear mass a league off; the lieutenant 
criminel and the procureur du roi, have come to 
draw up papers. I have made everybody walk off. 
What does monseigneur the bishop of Amiecy com- 
plain of? II is God and mine was lodged in a stable, 



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FERNET. 78 

and I have lodged him in a temple ; the Christ was of 
worm-eaten wood, and I have had hin) gilt like an em- 
peror." This letter was only half impious up to these 
lines, "Send me your portmit and that of Madame 
Scaliger, I will put them on my high altar." The 
church finished, he had these words inscribed on the 
portal : " Voltaire to God." A few days afterward, he 
preached in the church unceremoniously on good 
works. There was not much of the humble catholic 
in this, but Voltaire was then atoning for many of 
his sins. After having built a chateau and a church, 
he built a village, almost a city, where he invited all 
those without means elsewhere ; he founded there a 
manufactory of watches, which soon did business to 
the amount of 400,000 livres a year. He had mai-shes 
drained and waste lands cleared, which he relin- 
quished to the labors of husbandmen. In spite of all 
the benefits he conferred he was not in safety ; the 
bishops of the neighborhood demanded with urgency 
of the parliament that such a man should be for ever 
banished from the territory of France. In a critical 
moment, he communicated in the church at Ferney, 
saying that he wished to perform his duty as a Chris- 
tian, as an oflScer of the king, and lord of the manor. 
The bishop of Annecy, not believing in the good faith 
of the poet, forbade all the cures of his diocese to con 
fess him, give him absolution, or administer the com- 
munion to him. Voltaire, not wishing to have the law 
laid down to him by a bishop, even in religious mat- 



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76 VOLTAIRE. 

ters, put liimself to bed, played the sick man, main- 
tained to his pliysician that he was about to die ; had 
himself absolved by a capuchin, demanded the eucha- 
rist by way of a viaticum, communicated in his cham- 
ber, and had record taken of the fact by a notary. This 
sacrilegious action was regarded as a piece of cow- 
ardice by the philosophers, and as an impiety by the 
catholics, which was all that Voltaire gained by it. 

But he did not stop at this sad chapter. To 
amuse himself, without doubt, he had himself ap- 
pointed father temporal of the capuchins in the prov- 
ince of Gex. He was even received as a capuchin 
in pei'son, and took all the fathers under his protec- 
tion. He wrote then to the duke de Richelieu, " I 
should like much, monseigneur, to give you my 
benediction before I die. This term will appear 
rather strong to you, but it is in exact truth. I am 
a capuchin, our general who is at Rome has just 
sent me a diploma ; I call myself brother spiritual 
and father temporal of the capuchins." A short time 
before, he hiid hoped to become a cardinal on the 
faith of the duke de la Valli^re, on condition that he 
would translate in verse the Psalms and the Book 
of Wisdom^ for the use of madame de Pompadour. 

Ferney became a holy city to the philosophers of 
Europe, as Mecca was for the mussulmans; they 
made pilgrimages there. Voltaire was surnamed the 
patriarch ; every day brought him a friend or a 
stranger, a wit or a prince, a man of tlie sword, a «:en- 



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JEAN-JAGQT7ES KOU88EAU. TY 

tleman of the long robe or a churchman, a painter like 
Vemet, a sculptor like Pigale, or a musician like 6r6- 
try. The ladies came in great numbers during the fine 
season. They played comedy every evening at Fer- 
ney ; a ball followed the comedy ; Voltaire, happy to 
make others happy, appeared there for an instant, and 
then shut himself up again to resume his labors. He 
had succeeded in living a solitary and laborious life in 
the midst of bustle, splendor, and fetes. What was 
wanting to his happiness? But was he happy? The 
fortune and glory which dazzled him were there, but 
when he turned his eyes toward the sky, toward the 
future, toward heaven, a sombre inquietude devoured 
his heart : " Where am I going ?" he asked himself, 
with some terror. He, however, soon fell back into 
the whirlpool of the joys and sorrows of this world ; he 
made war on his enemies, the critics and the devotees, 
more cruelly than ever. Lefranc de Pompignan fell on 
the battle-field, riddled with pleasantries; Fr6ron saw 
himself taken off on the stage of the theatre Fran9ais ; 
twenty others came off hobbling. The desire of re- 
venging himself led away Yoltaire, and inspired 
him with cynical buffooneries. His bitterness against 
J. J. Rousseau is particularly to be deplored. He at 
once recognised his genius. But it must be confessed 
that Jean- Jacques was not always a man who acted 
\vith good taste When he was beset on account of 
his Emile, he responded to Voltaire's offer of an asy- 
lum, thus : " I do not like you ; you have corrupted my 



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78 VOLTAIRE. 

republic by exhibiting plays." After this answer, 
anger dictated to Voltaire the most unworthy satires 
against this man of genius, poor and solitary, banished 
from Geneva, his native land ; banished from Paris, 
his adopted country. 

In the midst of this wilfiil blindness toward his 
enemies and toward religion, Voltaire preserved 
some claims to the gratitude of liumanity. A desti- 
tute young girl of the blood of Corneille was recom- 
mended to his care. "It is the duty of an old sol- 
dier," he said, " to assist the daughter of his general." 
He invited mademoiselle de Corneille to Ferney, 
gave her a Christian education, dowered her with the 
proceeds of the Commentaires svr Corneille^ and 
married her to a young gentleman of the neighbor- 
hood. The stories of Calas, of Montbailly, of the 
count de Lally, in which Voltaire made himself so 
nobly the defender of the oppressed, are too well 
known for it to be needful for me to repeat them. 
He had, besides, the glory of provoking the edict of 
Louis XVI., which affranchized the serfs of Mount 
Jura. He did not occupy his whole time in combat- 
ing religion, in defending his reputation, in aven- 
ging the victims of human justice. A great number 
of his works are dated from Femey, among others 
L^Histoire de V Empire de JRussie^ L'Histoire d\b 
parlement de Paris^ Tancrede^ VEoossaise^ and 
tales, poems, and letters without number. 

Like the poets of the time I love to make rny 



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HIS POKTRAIT AT EIGHTY-FOUB. 79 

journey to Femey. The painters went to Kome, the 
poets to Ferney. I enter a small room where books 
of all languages and of all ideas are scattered about. 
There are two men at work on the destinies or the 
chances of the world. Voltaire who dictates, Van- 
nieres who writes. I bow before Voltaire, who 
stretches out his hand without interrupting the con- 
clusion of a sentence. " Permit me," says Vannieres, 
" I think that you are mistaken about the texts." 
" Keep on," says Voltaire, " I am mistaken, but I 
am right. Truth before all things, sincerity will 
follow." While he is speaking, I regard him from 
head to foot ; he is in a curious dress, and would 
make a worthy pendant to Jean- Jacques as an Ar- 
menian. His face full of fire peeps out from a gigan- 
tic periwig, a waistcoat trimmed with fur, breeches 
of doeskin, his feet in slippers and his hands full 
of books; thus Voltaire appeared to me. While 
dictating he talks to me about Paris, of a rascal called 
Desfontaines, of a fellow called Freron : he talks to 
me of poetry like a man who has not taken time to 
be a poet. I speak to him of his glory, I ask the 
favor of subscribing for his statue. " Alas ! I am 
quite naked for a poet who is neither as young nor 
as comely as Apollo, but I shall not trouble my- 
self about it, that rogue of a Freron will dress me. 
But come, I have talked nonsense enough for this 
morning, let us take a walk." He conducts me 
to his park. While I admire in all sincerity the gran- 



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80 VOLTAIRK. 

deur of the scene, he, little sensible to these marvels, 
ridicules in a lively enough manner evei'y thing which 
comes into his head. He exhibits the wit of Oandide 
at eveiy step. On turning a corner we meet the 
reverend father Adam. *' Let me introduce Father 
Adam, who is not the first man of the world." 
The worthy man bows and smiles with resignation. 
He awaits with patience for the first tear of repent- 
ance from the great sinner. " Father Adam, where 
are you going ?" — " To church." — " Lazy fellow." 
The reverend father can not repress a smile. " You 
forget that it is time for our game of chess." We 
return to the chAteau and pass to the saloon. Voltaire 
sits down to the board and calls for coflee. Already 
very animated, he becomes still more so; Father 
Adam does not dare to profit by his advantages, he 
lets him win. It is known that Voltaire had threat- 
ened Father Adam that he would throw his peruke 
in his face, if he dared to beat him. One day the 
poor father, sure of checkmating him, rose in terror, 
escaped by the window, and disappeared in the park. 
Meanwhile Madame Denis comes in sullenly, and 
embraces her uncle ; she complains of ennui ; Vol- 
taire calls for coflee. Breakfast is served, Voltaire 
takes only coffee and water. Visiters arrive, he gives 
them audience, amusing himself at the same time 
with their gravity. He pleasantly corrects their 
extravagant compliments. Thus an advocate presents 
himself full of provincial eloquence; "I salute you. 



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LIFE AT FERNET. 81 

*light of the world,'" says he, with emphasis. Vol 
taire exclaims, " Madame Denis, bring the snuffers." 
After the hour of glory comes the hour for business. 
The farmers, the borrowere, the tenants of Ferney, 
an entire world supported by Voltaire arrive. He 
calls for coffee, more coffee, always coffee. He shows 
himself in turn easy and severe, he receives some 
as the father of a family, others as the lord of a vil- 
lage. He walks again in the park, sometimes with 
a gardening tool in his hand, sometimes with a flow- 
er, never with a book. The news from Paris arrives 
to astonish him ; he could do without coffee if he 
could recover all his energies. He enters in agita- 
tion, writes twenty lettera in less than an hour, his 
hasty pen saving itself by its wit from its impudence. 
In the evening the guests of the chateau, Marmon- 
tel. La Hai-pe, or Florian, come to make their court 
to the patriarch, in company with some ladies or 
actresses. 

Meantime Voltaire was some eighty-four years old. 
For twenty years he had lived at Ferney without 
thinking much about further travel. His tomb, a 
simple stone, was placed near the church which he 
had built. All his friends had come again and again 
to bid him adieu ; he awaited death firmly like all 
those who have done good and evil here below, 
when Madame Denis, tired of so long a stay at 
FeiTiey, made every exertion to compass a visit to 

Paris. He decided to set out; arrived at Paris. 
4* 



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82 VOLTAIRE. 

February 10, 1Y78, and aKglited at the mansion 
of the marquis de Villette, quai des Theatins, now 
quai Voltaire. Each day that he passed at Paris 
was marked by a new triumph. The academies 
came in a body to offer liim their homage ; with 
the exception of the courtiei-s and tlie priests, all that 
was illustrious in Paris came to ask audience of the 
patriarch of Ferney. Bernardin de St. Pierre relates 
that he heard porters at the comei*s of the streets 
asking one another about the health of Voltaire. 

On Monday, March 30, 1778, a triumph more 
splendid than monarch or hero ever obtained, greeted 
Voltaire after more than half a century of glory and 
of persecution. For the first time since his return to 
Paris he went to the Academy and the theatre. The 
homage of the Academy was but the prelude to the 
triumph of the theatre. All Paris was on his foot- 
steps ; a cry of univei-sal joy, acclamations, clapping 
of hands, burst forth from all sides during his prog- 
ress. Grimm is so intoxicated with his triumph that 
he becomes eloquent over it. " When this honored 
old man was seen, so weighed down with yeai*s and 
glory, when he was seen to dismount, supported by 
the arms of two friends, sympathy and admiration 
reached their highest point. The crowd pressed on 
one another to reach him, they pressed still more to 
defend him against themselves." Scarcely had the 
carriage stopped, when the horses and wheels were 
covered with people. The actors were to play Irene, 



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THE LAUREL CROWN. BS 

Voltaire sat near the stage, in the box of the gentle- 
men of the chamber, between his niece and the mar- 
quise de Villette. As soon as he appeared, the actor 
Brisart appeared, bearing a crown of laurel, which 
he requested madame de Villette to place on the 
brow of this illustrious man. The spectators ap- 
plauded with cries of joy. Voltaire immediately re- 
moved the crown, the spectators begged him to retain 
it. There were many more people in the lobbies than 
in the boxes ; all the women stood up, a large num- 
ber of them having descended to the parterre, not 
having been able to find better places elsewhere. 
It was more than enthusiasm, it was adoration, 
in fact worship. Ttie piece was commenced ; it 
was played badly ; in spite of the actors and the 
piece, never was piece more applauded. Vol- 
taire rose to salute the public. At the same instant, 
a bust of the poet appeared on a pedestal in the 
middle of the stage. All the actors and actresses 
heaped garlands and crowns around it. "At this 
sublime and touching spectacle," exclaims Grimm, 
"who would not have thought himself in the midst 
of Rome or Athens ? The name of Voltaire resounded 
from all parts with acclamation, transports, cries of 
joy and gratitude. Envy and hatred, fanaticism and 
intolerance, dared only to blush in secret; and per- 
haps, for the fii*st time, public opinion in France was 
seen to take possession of its full authority." While 
the performers heaped the bust with crowns and 



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84 



VOLTAIKE. 



garlands, Madame Vestris advanced to the front of 
the stage to address to the divinity of the fete the 
verses improvised by the marquis of Saint Marc. 
Nanine was played after this, the bust remaining on 
tlie stage. On leaving the* theatre, Yoltaire, over- 
powered by his laurels, breatliing only by the con- 
sciousness of his glory, thought himself at last relieved 
from his honors ; but all was not finished ; the ladies 
almost bore him in their arms to his carriage. He 
wished to get in, they still restrained him. " Torches, 
torches, so that everybody may see liim." At last, 
seated in his carriage, he must give up his hand to 
be kissed ; people clung to the doors, they mounted 
on the wheels though the vehicle was in motion ; the 
crowd, more and more intoxicated with enthusiasm, 
made the air resound with his name. The people, 
who also shared in the fete, for the people love men 
who are pereecuted for their genius, cried with trans- 
port, "Vive Yoltaire! He has been exiled fifty 
years for driving away the Jesuits! Vive Voltaire!" 
At the door of his residence, Voltaire turned, stretched 
out his hands, wept, and exclaimed in a broken voice, 
'^ Must you sufibcate me with roses ?" 

The hour of death had however struck. He had 
other triumphs before his death. Franklin, who had 
adorned the ranks of philosophy, and delivered the 
New "World from the yoke of Europe, wished to see 
tlie poet who had charmed, diverted, and delivered 
the Old from the yoke of pi-ejudice. The American 



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GOD AND LIBEETY. 85 

philosopher presented his grandson to him, requesting 
his benediction for him. " Qod cmd Liberty ^^"^ said 
he to him — the only benediction befitting the grand- 
son of Franklin. They saw one another agq.in at the 
Academy of Sciences ; they embraced amid loud 
acclamations : some one said it was Solon embracing 
Sophocles. 

At the time of his death he led the most agitated 
and laborious life ; not only did he work, discuss, 
and give audience from morning till night, but when 
night came he lighted his lamp for further exertions. 
The literary and grammatical revolution which he 
wished to effect in the dictionary of the Academy is 
known. By having his mind continually awake, he 
was no longer able to sleep ; he took opium, made a 
mistake in the dose, and fell into the half-sleep of 
death. Thus the two most illustrious men of the 
eighteenth century, Voltaire and Jean-Jacques Rous- 
seau, died by poison. 

The history of the death of Yoltaire is covered by 
a cloud, through which the truth but feebly appears. 
A cur6, who had converted the abbe de Latteignant, 
an abbe without faith, and a poet without poetry, 
was desirous of also converting Voltaire ; he wrote to 
him to ask an interview. Voltaire granted it, and 
said to him : '' I shall say to you the same thing which 
I said in giving my benediction to the grandson of 
the wise and illustrious Franklin — ' God and Liberty !' 
I am eighty-four yeai-s old ; I am soon to appear be- 



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86 VOLTAIRK. 

fore God, the creator of all worlds. It is what I sliall 
still say." — " Ah, monsieur," said the cure, " how 
well recompensed should I consider myself if you 
should become my conquest ! This merciful God does 
not desire your loss ; turn to him, since he turns tc 
you." — "But I tell you that I love God," answered 
Voltaire. "That is much," answered the cure; "but 
it is necessary to give the proofs thereof, for an inac- 
tive love can never be the true love of God, which is 
active." The cure departed, he returned and ob- 
tained a very Christian profession of faith from the 
dying man ; but the cure of Saint Sulpice lost all by 
wishing to have all. Jealous of being anticipated 
by another, he demanded a disavowal of all doctrines 
contrary to the faith. Voltaire, wearied, asked for a 
little repose in which to die. The cure of Saint Sul- 
pice did not give up, braving the railleries of D'Alem- 
bert, Diderot, Condorcet, all the philosophers, who 
encouraged Voltaire to die as a sage, he continued to 
his last day to cry in his ear, " Do you believe in the* 
divinity of Jesus Christ ?" According to Condorcet 
Voltaire replied, as weary of the contest, "In 
God's name, monsieur, do not talk any more about 
that man." I do not believe that he uttered this 
sacrilegious antithesis ; or if he did say it, he had no 
longer his reason, as the cure affirms. I more incline 
to believe this simple answer reported by other con- 
temporaries, "Let me die in peace." 

He died three hours afterward. His death was as 



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THE LIVING ASS AND THE DEAD LION. 8f 

disturbed as his life had been, and repose had not 
even then arrived for him. Paris rejected his body. 
They wished once again to exile him whom they had 
so often exiled. Voltaire had prepared for himself a 
simple tomb in the cemetery at Femey ; in the soil 
where he had grown old and done good ; they would 
not even let him have this scrap of earth which was his 
own. It was decided that he who had built the 
church had no right of citizenship in its graveyard. 
The abbe Mignot, his nephew, carried off the body 
of the poet in all haste to the monastery of which he 
was the head. The bishop of Troyes, however, indig- 
nant that such a man should lie in the holy land of 
his diocese, sent to forbid his interment. It was too 
late ; Voltaire was sealed beneath one of the chapels ; 
the prior was, however, turned out. 

Voltaire has been avenged by all the reasonable 
men of his times. Ferney still attracts philosophic 
pilgrims. The king of Prussia ordered a solemn ser- 
vice in the catholic church of Berlin, where the 
whole of his academy appeared ; and at the head of 
his aimy, while defending the rights of the princes of 
the empire, wrote the eulogy of his friend the poet. 
The empress of Russia also wrote the eulogy of Vol- 
taire. A great lady, the marquise de Boufflers, w^hc 
was not a poet, became one to sing the praises of 
Voltaire. 

** God knows well what he does, La Fontaine has observed 
But had I created a being so grand, 



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88 VOLTAIRE. 

Voltaire had his wit and his talents preserved, 

I ne'er could destroy, the great work of my hand. 

** The man whom all Greece would have joined to extol, 
Whom Augustus himself wouM have made his delight, 
By the kings of to-day, has been spurned from their sights 
And De Beaumont refuses a mass for his soul. 

•* Saint-Sulpice, you are right; why commit to the dust 
A being exempt from mortality's doom ? 
To that genius divine it were surely unjust, 
To refuse him an altar, though we well may a tomb." 

Voltaire returned again to Paris for tlie last time. 
Twelve yeai-s after his death the Pantheon opened 
her doors to him triumphantly. At this horn* Jean- 
Jacques Rousseau and Fran9ois Marie Arouet de 
Voltaire ; he who consoled in his sadness, and he 
who saddened in his gayety ; he who bore proudly 
his poverty, and he who bore nobly his wealth ; he 
who sought divine truth with the solitary lamp, and 
he who sought the sovereign reason with his hand 
full of firebrands — these two men who saved the 
eighteenth century by their greatness, and who lived 
as enemies — these two rash philosophers, who dared 
to interrogate Heaven without falling on their knees, 
repose beneath the same vault, reunited by the hand 
of God ! 

If you wish to find Voltaire elsewhere than in his 
books, do not go to Femey. He was its soul, its for- 
tune, its grandeur. At the present day Ferney is a 
ruin without majesty, a commonplace ruin, which 
does not retain a single memento of Voltaire. Do 



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THE DESK OF A SAGE AND A POKT. 8& 

not go to the Pantheon, a sepulchre without grandeur, 
where the explanatory words of a prattling guide dis- 
turb the solemn silence of the illustrious dead. If he is 
there for God, he is not there for the visiters. He is at 
Versailles, the true Pantheon of France, painted by 
Largilliere, in all his passionate youth and all his sar- 
castic humor. It is there you should go. A portrait 
is more eloquent than a tomb. 

Some have said that Voltaire sinned against friend- 
ship; they have forgotten to say that friendship had 
sinned against him. Do not talk to me of those chance 
friends he had elbowed at the courts of France, the 
court of Prussia, or the court of Stanislaus. Friend- 
ship knows neither ranks nor titles. She is born in 
our youthful days, in the days of illusions. The heart 
is always young only in the recollection of those 
whom it has loved in youth. Look at Voltaire before 
the friends of his twentieth year ; is he guilty of breach 
of friendship with the marshal de Richelieu, Cide- 
ville, Helvetius, Thiriot, Formont, d'Argental? does 
he not in writing to these, exclaim on every page, 
" My heart does not grow old" ? How many charming 
letters in prose and verse ! And how prodigal he is of 
wit and gayety for his friend Cideville. Those pretty 
stanzas are not forgotten on the counsellor's pulpit, 
" Ah ! date from Manon's hosom — But you kiss your 
desh?^ And this letter, which is that of a sage, a 
poet, and what is worth more, of a friend : " It 
would be pleasanter to talk to one another, than to 



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90 VOLTAIRE. 

write to one another; but destiny is always putting 
off the happy time, when Paris is to unite us. We 
will live there one day, but I shall come there an old 
man. The heart does not grow old, as I well feel, 
but it is hard for the immortals to find themselves 
dwellers in ruins. I was thinking not long ago of 
this decay, which makes itself felt from day to day, 
and see how I spoke of it : — 

"If you would have me love again, 
Again the years of love restore, 
And to Life's twilight nearly o'er, 
Its dawn, if in your power, enchain." 

But everybody knows by heart these pretty stanzas, 
which have undergone a thousand transformations 
by our modern poets. Do we not find in them the 
sentiment we pride ourselves on in our day? Do we 
not find besides all the wisdom of the ancients, thus : — 

♦* Without the spirit of his age 
He still has all irs grief and pain. 

** To brighter youth it's pleasures leave. 
Its joys and transports ever new ; 
And since life's moments are but two, 
Let us then one to wisdom give. 

*'What! have ye then for ever flown. 
Folly -r Illusion — Tenderness — 
Ye heavenly gifts whose charm alone. 
Stripped life of half its bitterness ! 

"We must die twice, too well I see; 
To cease to love, and to be loved, 
A death more bitter far has proved, 
Than merely ceasing once to be." 



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A poet's fortune. 91 

He says afterward, that friendship comes to him to 

console him : — 

'* Yes, I pursued her, but I wept, 
Because 1 could pursue but her." 

Arm yourselves again against the dryness of heart 
of the man, who thus wears mourning for his youth. 

Voltaire has been accused of being a miser. Vol- 
taire did not throw money out of the window, be- 
cause he knew well, that money is the best travelling 
companion through life. He early felt that to be 
strong in this world, one must be rich ; fortune was 
therefore one of the divinities of his youth — although 
a poet, he amassed millions. The miser hoards his 
treasure to clasp it with his hands in voluptuous 
frenzy: Voltaire spent his money with the wisdom, 
perhaps too cautious, of the father of a family, which 
did not prevent him as soon as he was forty, from 
using the capital with the interest. Is not Ferney, 
that colony which was so flourishing under his reign, 
if I may so call it, is it not a proof that Voltaire 
made a noble use of his fortune? 

In order to judge a man properly, we must after 
having seen him from a distance, go up to him, evoke, 
as Bacon said, the genius of his times, make one's 
self for an hour a man of his times. After all the 
metamoi-phoses evoked by Voltaire, which have in- 
tervened in the France of ideas, the arms of this ter- 
rible combatant appear to us weak or blunt, to us, 
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y^ VOLTAIRE. 

ment we were to awake under the reign of Louis XV., 
how much we should be astounded at the heroic te- 
merity of this man, who was for a long time the only 
one of his party. In fact, what was the France of 
Louis XV., the France of ideas, the head of the na- 
tion ? In the fine days of antiquity, the thinker had 
only to say to his thought, " Go, thy day is come." 
But in the year of grace, 1750, three centuries after 
the discovery of printing, the thought of the philoso- 
pher met at every step a sentinel, who said " You can 
not pass." The book did not fly like a bird, from the 
window of the thinker ; it was first, before anything 
else, submitted to the censor, to the exempt, to the 
whim of the minister,' the criticism of the confessor, 
the fancy of the mistress, the minister not speaking 
until after the mistress and the confessor. Yes, in 
1750, in the face of Voltaire there was a royal censor 
who wrote gravely, upon the works of Homer and of 
Corneille, " I have read this book, by order of inon- 
seigneur, the keeper of the seals, and I have not found 
anything, which, it appears to me, should prevent its 
publication." And the royal censor had to render 
an account of his acts only to monseigneur the 
keeper of the seals, who did everything by the grace 
of God. It is too well known, that Voltaire and Jean- 
Jacques, D'Alembert and Diderot, had not, like Ho- 
mer and Corneille, the approbation and privilege of 
the king. If Voltaire shook out illnmination from 
his hands, it was out of France, in the swamps of 



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HIS GREATEST CONQUEST. 93 

Holland, the fogs of England, the wilderness of 
Switzerland. If the censor once let a work of 
Voltaire's pass, this work was entitled The Prin- 
cess of Navarre^ or The Poem of Fontenoy ! But 
if Voltaire dared to think, stop! They commenced 
by the Bastile, thej' continued by exile, they would 
have ended by a dungeon. Meanwhile, Voltaire, 
a gentleman to the king of France, a friend of the 
king of Prussia, and of the empress of Kussia, as- 
sumed pseudonyms in order to speak the truth. 
It was only a jest, you will say a hundred years after, 
as you smile over the follies of Louis XV. It was 
so little of a jest, that it was only by a surprise that 
Voltaire when dead, obtained a tomb in his native 
land. The finest conquest of Voltaire's genius, is 
that of the liberty of thought ; the light, at the breath 
of the philosopher, has consumed the bushel. At 
the present day, whatever may be done, the dawn 
has broken, and as Lord Chesterfield said to Mon- 
tesquieu : " The will of your ministers may still erect 
barricades, but they will never become barriers." 



The universalitj' of his genius has been made an 
accusation against Voltaire. In reference to this, we 
may mention a scene which took place one evening, 
at the residence of Duclos. A choice and elegant 
company were a88em])led ; Voltaire was mentioned, 



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.94: VOLTAIRE. 

all vied in extolling his encyclopedian geniua 
" What a pity," soon remarked a jurisconsult, " that 
he should have undertaken to talk about law." — 
" For my part," said a geometrician, " I can pass 
over everything else, but he should not have dis- 
cussed geometry." — "You will, however, admit," 
said an historian, " that he made out badly in his- 
tory." — A poet rose to proclaim his opinion. — 
" Silence !" said Duclos to him, " it is not your turn 
to speak." Dnclos might have added: "You, M. 
the jurisconsult, and you M. the geometrician, do 
not condemn Voltaire for having given a charm to 
the drvest studies, despise not the dazzling light of 
this boundless intellect. Yoltaire had a fault which 
formed a part of his glory : he had the eye of an 
eagle, he saw everything, embraced everything, 
illuminated everything; Jie contented himself with 
spreading his luminous intellect over the surface, 
leaving the depths to more patient explorers. You, 
M. the historian, do not disdain a man who has often 
given life to history ; who has not been false, unless, 
like the gifted painter, in order to give a greater 
force and a greater charm to the truth. Do you, M. 
the poet, bow yourself before a poet, who has said 
what he wished to say. 

Nature, who embalms the works of Jean-Jacques, 
does not show even an end of her robe in those of Vol- 
taire, it was the academic nature of Boileau, which 
inspired the poet of the TTenriades : the waters, 



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PERIWIGED NATURE. 95 

trees, flowers, mountains, valleys, hamlets, were the 
only words which Voltaire condescended to use. 
Even in his epistle on agriculture, we can seldom 
find verses like these : — 

"The tree our hand has planted and uproars, 
Lovelier to us than all Versailles appears. 
In Paris* walls the Norman Fontenelle 
Lent new attractions to the rural reed ; 
He praised the life he i^^uld have feared to lead, 
And turned his rustics, into beau and belle. 
I would the heart should speak or be the author mute." 

The rest of the epistle does not contain a single word 
of reference to nature. When one can so well judge 
others, why does not one judge one's self? In the 
whole of the Henriade^ there is nothing more to be 
seen of nature. " There is not," said Delille, " pasture 
to feed the horses, nor stream to give them drink." 
In the sixteenth century, nature gave inspiration to 
poets. Boileau appeared, and put upon her head the 
solemn periwig of the court of Louis XIV.; thus, in his 
epistle to his gardener — what did I say, gardener? — 
Anioine^ governor of my garden of Auteuil^ Antoine 
directs the yews, and exercises on the hedge the art 
of La Quintinie, Hereupon is a note by tfie poet, 
to explain this hemistich : Jean de La Quintinie, 
director of the fruit orchards and vegetable gardens 
of the king. Another note has already warned the 
reader, that Boileau would not have condescended to 
speak of his gardener, if Horace had not sung of his 
farmer. As Boileau was listened to by the poets of 



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96 VOLTAIRE. 

his time, poetry in the seventeenth eenhiry, despised 
the striped petticoat of the hamlets and the cowslips 
of tlie meadows, the cascades of the brooks and the 
harmonies of the forests, the reveries of the path and 
the view from the mountain. It was decided thattlie 
garden of Versailles was alone worthy, thanks to its 
yew-trees and it^ statnes, of being snng in heroic 
vei^se. La Fontaine alone, whom nobody listened to, 
ventured to sing of the curling smoke of the farm- 
house, and the dew of the wayside. Unfortunately, 
Voltaire was of the school of Boileau. 

Voltaire judged rapidly and judged well ; he often 
paints, with a single word, a man and his works ; 
Gentil'Bernard^ the dbhe Greluchon^ Babet the 
jlower-girl^ Floriannet^ here are four poets criti- 
cised. What is more original or more true than his 
remark to Marivaux : "He is a man who knows all 
the paths which iTin in the direction of the human 
heart, but does not know the straight highway." No 
one better than he could throw off an epigram. " (Edip- 
us^^'^ exclaimed La Motte, " is the finest subject in 
the world, I must put it in prose." — " Do so," said Vol- 
taire, " and I will put your Ines in vei'se." Speak- 
ing of Marmontel and his Poetique : " Like Moses, 
he conducts othera to the promised land, though he 
is not permitted to enter it himself." He amused 
himself good-naturedly with the opinions of the 
world. One day, at the Prince of Conti's, the com- 
pany were tearing to pieces with some justice, the 



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HIS TALES. 97 

fables of La Motte, while praising those of La Fon- 
taine. " By the way," said Voltaire, " I know a 
fable by La Fontaine, which has never been printed." 
'*HowI a fable of La Fontaine I pray make haste and 
tell it to us." And, Voltaire having done so, " That 
is capital, it is not like those wretched things of La 
Motte's ; how natural, how graceful I" — " Well, gen- 
tlemen," exclaimed Voltaire, " this chaiTning fable 
which you all admire, is for all that La Motte's." 

Voltaire is almost abandoned by the stage, because, 
more faithful to the ideas of his age, than to the eter- 
nal idea of grandeur and beauty, he made every one 
of his tragedies a weapon with which to combat prej- 
udices which have passed away. 

This man wlio could so well laugh in his tales, 
is almost morose in his comedies. It is because 
a comedy is a work of patience and reflection; 
because in the drama, the most dazzling wit, is wit 
thrown away, if it does not serve to paint characters 
and passions. Was Voltaire aware that Comedy is a se- 
rious and deep-thinking muse, who assumes the mask 
of folly, only tlie better to tell the spectator the tnith ? 

It is in his tales that Voltaire is especially to be 
sought : it is there that his genius expands in full 
liberty ; it is there that he surprises us by his profound 
gayety and his masterly wisdom ; it is there that un- 
der a merry mask, he flings truth at us by hand- 
fuls ; it is Rabelais, it is Montaigne, it is Voltaire. 

He is to be found not only in these stories, he per* 

Vol. I. — 5 



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98 VOLTAIRE. 

vades all bis works ; his sketches even indicate tho 
powerful hand of a great master ; the poorest of his 
pamphlets is still worthy of our8tnd3\ In the days of 
that carnival, which lasted so long in the eighteenth 
century, he masked himself like the rest, but he knew 
how to make himself known through the mask. 

It is in his tales in veree and prose, that the stylo 
of Voltaire appears in all its force. At the present 
day, when the French language has become a laby- 
rinth, in which the thought does not always hold on to 
the thread of Ariadne, this style of Voltaire's strikes 
and attracts us like a fine ray of light. Nothing is 
more frank, nothing more simple, nothing more beau- 
tiful ; never have wit and reason travelled better in 
company. Nothing is wanting, unless it is the gran- 
deur which results from sentiment; but God has 
reserved to himself, the right of making a perfect 
work. 

Yes, the style of Voltaire's tales is the tnie French 
style. It is Voltaire's own. In these the poet has 
imitated none of his predecessoi^s ; he has dared to 
listen to himself. Unfortunately, in his tragedies, 
tradition spoiled almost everything. After Comeille 
and Racine, how is one to make a good tragedy 
which shall not be indebted to the works of these 
two masters ? And then, if one is a man of genius, 
why make one ? 

The word which would most nearly comprise the 
genius of Voltaire, would be reason. All his works 



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HIS REASON. 99 

attest this, whether prose or verse, poem or pamphlet, 
tragedy or tale. This pitiless reason has suppressed 
from us, many of those ehaiming pages on which his 
wit would have so brilliantly gilded the arabesque va- 
garies of his fancy. Yes, reason, this pure spring which 
springs forth in France, this clear cascade at which 
Rabelais, Montaigne, Moliere, and La Fontaine, have 
slaked their thii-st ; this exquisite, elevated reason, 
which forms the entire genius of the French nation. 
Is not this reason the feeling of the beautiful and the 
good ? is it not the horn of abundance whence fall 
all the fruits of genius ? Is it with aught else that 
Voltaire has produced literary masterpieces and 
shaken humanity ? Was it not with this, that he 
vanquished the false philosophers and the false 
devotees ? 

In the work of Voltaire, Reason displays herself at 
every step, like an enlightening and animating soul. 
There is a poet who sings, but there is also a man 
who wishes to be right. It is not enough to speak 
the language of the gods, he would also speak the 
language of his brethren. Thus with this flaming 
sword, which he calls reason, does he traverse litera- 
ture, politics, philosophy, and religion, scattering 
light and combating error. Look around you at the 
consequences everywhere, often good, sometimes 
fatal ; but who, here below, can flatter himself that 
lie is not sowing tares with the good grain? 

In poetry, in the poetry of Voltaire hin^self, reason 



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100 VOLTAIRE. 

18 often in the wrong, for reason pi-oscribes enthusi- 
asm and temerity. Now, is there any great poet 
without these two majestic failings? Poetrj is, be- 
fore everything else, a di-eam, so poets dream ! Vol- 
taire has just been able to save himself, and then 
only by his wit,*bnt in the tale, the epistle and the 
satire. In these it is wit which speaks in all its 
grace, its fire, its attractiveness. Sometimes Fancy 
ventures with light step into Voltaire's domain, she 
sings there the Tou and tlie Thou with all her 
charm. But almost always in this sparkling verse, 
wit alone speaks. 

If Reason is in a wrong place in the lofty verse of 
Voltaire, in the poetry which soars on the wings of 
re very and enthusiasm, she soon resumes her place 
in the poetry which argues as it rhymes, in the 
poetry which speaks to tlie ideas while it addresses 
the sentiment. Thus is it not reason which predomi- 
nates in these tragedies, these stories, these epistles 
in which Voltaire incessantly attacks prejudices, and 
is in quest of tnith ? 

Follow step by step tin's I'eason, through all its 
fertile paths : in politics it produces the love of coun- 
try, and the love of liberty ; it raises man to his proper 
height, it proscribes the last traces of feudality, it 
glories in the nobilities of heart and mind, it says to 
the peasant at the plough ': to cultivate the earth with 
love, is to ennoble one's self by labor. 

In philosophy, the reason of Voltaire has created 



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HIS BKASON. 101 

criticism ; it has seized boldly, with a pitiless hand 
on the ridiculous side of all the philosophies which 
have strutted here below in robes of velvet or in 
rags. 

In religion, the reason of Voltaire becomes excited ; 
but is it not still the reason ? If he went too far, it 
was because he saw that he would lose ground. Did 
lie not write to D'Alembert ? " Time will make men 
distinguish what we thought, from what we said ?" 
If he struck violently against the church, it certainly 
was not to attack the Deity; it was to crush the 
priest, the impure priest of the eighteenth century, 
who, on the avowal of a cardinal, crept up in the 
shadow of the altar, in order to scale soon, not the 
kingdom of heaven, but the kingdom of earth. In 
this matter, Voltaire experienced tlie same misfor- 
tune as Diomedes, who, before Troy, fancying he 
was pui-suing an enemy, wounded a divinity. 

Voltaire is no longer read, he is neglected ; his 
enemies explain him according to their own taste as 
certain priests explain the Scriptures. He is taken 
at his word, in some letter or satire which escaped 
him in the anger of the moment ; he is condemned in 
consequence of some contradiction suggested by him 
some day, of bad faith. Voltaire was before every- 
thing else a poet ; he believed in his verses ; he did 
not foresee, that after his death, his polemics in prose 
would be reprinted. Not a letter, not even one of 
confession, has been overlooked. Can a man be 



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102 VOLTAIRE. 

judged by letters written without reflection, as fast 

as an impatient pen could move ? If Voltaire is 

judged by his serious poems, it will be seen that he 

was not so bad a Christian. What in reality does he 

say to and cause our Savior to say, whom he calls 

the man-Ood^ the divine enemy of the scribes and 

priests ? " He who knew all — 

" Has deigned to tell us all in telling ns to love." 

Does not he whom you call atheist, talk as well as 

you do yonreelf ? In the Discourse on YirPue^ is not 

Jesus represented in all his humble grandeur and all 

his glorious simplicity ? 

How does this atheist who venerated the Savior, 

address the Deity in his last days ? 

♦* To what conclusion* can we come but this, 
That the fool's reason springs from prejudice ? 
For them we should not with ourselves contend ; 
Error is earth-born, Troth from Heaven 'descends. 

*♦ O God unknown ! O God proclaimed by all ! 
Hear the last words that from my mouth shall fall — 
'Tis in thy law I err, if err I do; 
My heart may wander, bat to thee 'tis true." 

Do not these verses appear to be a cry from the 
heart ? Yes, in spite of all the errors and passions 
from which even genius is not exempt in this world 
of errors and passions, Voltaire has played his part 
in this great religion of feeling which Christ brought 
to men. 

Fes, in his silent hours, when his thoughts led him 



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HIS cHBiBTiANrrr. 108 

far from the noise of the world, and tore from him 
Lis pride, in his sincere hours, when disentangled 
from party strife, he raised his eyes to heaven after 
having visited humanity, Voltaire was a Christian ; do 
not misconstrue my meaning, he was not a Christian 
in the church, but he was a Christian under the open 
sky, before God, in the splendid temple of Nature, a 
Christian like Jean-Jacques, without like him attach- 
ing sublime dreams to reason. Genius always rises 
high enough to comprehend, that the works of Christ 
were the words of God. 

Many a religious writer of our time who condemns 
Voltaire, would perhaps have been a Christian like 
him in the eighteenth century. Like Voltaire, he 
would have labored to remove all the tinsel gewgaws 
which concealed the altar, he would with a bold hand 
have torn away some of the veils from truth. 

Tou talk of the sterility of the man who tore down, 
not to build up again ; he has himself answered this 
attack : " I demolish pi^ejudices, what would you 
have had me put in their place ?" It must be said, 
that in his passion, he was something like the bear 
in the fable. To kill a fly he sometimes threw a 
stone. 

Was it not in order to make truth shine forth re- 
splendent, that God created in the same century, 
two great men who contrast so brilliantly with one 
another, one to open and one to close it — Voltaire^ 
De "M^aistre ? Do we not incessantly see one or the 



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104 VOLTAIRE. 

other in the ardor of truth armed, one with an axe or 
a ehib, tlie other with the sword of a gentleman, or 
brand of an archangel, ever ready to take or replace 
by assault? 

Philosophy, said the church, is the science of 
death ; it is the science of life, exclaimed Voltaire. 
The church bent the human countenance toward the 
tomb, Voltaire raised his brow toward heaven. Pride 
you will say ; Keasou, he will answer. Before Vol- 
taire, philosophy was the angel of good and evil ; in 
his great work, the devil's claw always displays itself 
with the finger of God ; these were but light in dark- 
ness, clouds amid rays of light. Philosophy is the fruit 
of genius; a cherished yet bitter fruit which God re- 
serves to those who rise high enough to taste of the tree 
of knowledge. Christ was God, but was he not also a 
philosopher? Christ died for having preached to us 
divine and human truths, how many others have died 
for us in preaching wisdom. Every philosopher has 
in some sort borne the cross in this world : Socrates, 
you have drunk the hemlock; Galileo, you have 
walked on your knees ; Pascal, you died from phi- 
losophy as others die from love ; you, Voltaire, were 
insulted even in death ! 

Philosophers are noble spirits who penetrate boldly 
from the unknown to the miknown. They attempt to 
read a book of which they possess neither the 
beginning nor the end. They succeed in reading, 
but do they also in comprehending ? However, not 



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HIS PHILOSOPHY. 105 

knowing the language which they speak, scarcelj 
have they stammered out the first word, than they 
venture to pronounce the last. Is not this the last 
word of the philosophera of the eighteenth century, 
Love tJie work of the CreaUn* or love the Creator in 
his worh^ while awaiting the funeral blast of death, 
which will extinguish the torch or reillumine it with 
purer flames — Doubt or Pantheism. 

Voltaire said at the same time, Ilove the Creator 
in his work^ and Ilove tlie Creator and his work. 
He said one or the other, sometimes listening to Spi- 
nosa, sometimes to himself. It would be a great 
wrong to wish to subtilize with his mind, it is too 
French to furnish matter for a page of German 
metaphysics ; however, in studying Voltaire in his 
philosophy, we pass from contradiction to contradic- 
tion. He lived somewhat out of the way of philo- 
sophic ideas, without troubling himself much about 
anything not visible to the mind. But he was king 
of literature, he was crowned king of philosophy, of 
Pantheistical philosophy, he the eclectic philosopher. 
He accepted this royalty in jest, he ended by taking 
it seriously, judging that he was predestined always 
to walk in the front rank. I fancy, however, that lie 
laughed a little behind the scenes, for, at a later time, 
he hoped to become a cardinal, had himself made a 
capuchin, would have accepted the papacy. Having 
become a philosopher, he was constrained like the 
rest to walk in the dark, to contradict himself, to 

5* 



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106 VOLTAIRE. 

wander astray, though he threw fireballs in plenty as 
he passed along. 

The greatest enemy of Voltaire, has been his 
school which has grossly deceived itself. The master 
had reason, with tlie sentiment of the beautiful and 
the good, if not complete, at least elevated enough, 
to vivify and ennoble reason. But the ignomnt 
school possessed reason without the sentiment of 
the beautiful and the good, this gross good sense has 
become in the hands of the disciples only a danger- 
ous weapon, a tree without fruit, a sterile field. One 
has picked up his abandoned classic gown : here less 
than ever is it the dress which makes the monk ; there 
is no use to dress up in the rags of Voltaire, no one 
will be deceived ; I do not speak of simpletons who 
let themselves be taken in by the outside. Another, 
only half understanding, for from realizing, his ideas 
in politics, has fallen into absurdity while daring to 
call himself a Voltairian. Another, but half compre- 
hending, in lieu of confining himself in philosophy to 
a wise criticism, has ended in a sterile skepticism : 
it would be needful to mention too many here ; some, 
far from separating religion from supei*stition, have 
confounded them in a common blasphemy : are such 
worthy to be named ? 

But the hour has come, to contemplate Voltaire in 
his glorious solitude. Push aside all these disciples 
who cast a shadow about him. Do not listen to what 
the pedants preach in his name ; listen to the man 



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HIS POSTHUMOtrS WORK. 101 

himself, to him who said, like Pascal, that true elo- 
quence laughs at eloquence, read and reread his 
books, for how many of his lines are axioms I let us 
follow the bee to the hive, without disturbing our- 
selves about the wasps buzzing about him. Let us 
not be afraid of his wrath, it often bursts out like a 
thunder-clap of truth. Why should he not be vio- 
lently enraged against all the follies which he hears 
so vaunted ! Let us follow him, let us follow him ! 
All the paths through which he has passed, are not 
pleasant paths, but how few minds would refuse to 
pass through them. Was it not he who was the first 
in France to visit Prometheus, he who broke the firet 
chain, who placed himself between the victim and 
the vulture ? 

Genius has its fatality. Must we not see in its 
works a manifestation of the will of Providence? 
Voltaire, this great mower of prejudices, had cut 
down all the ill weeds which covered the soil of 
France. His reason like a burning sun, had shed its 
rays everywhere, it was the sunlight which precedes 
the storm.. The storm did not burst until after the 
death of its precursor. The French revolution was 
the posthumous work of Voltaire. There is an epic 
poem which all the great poets would gladly sign. 
Let us salute the work, salute the workman. The 
revolution has done better than offer us liberty, it 
has given us the sentiment of high aspiration, it has 
brought us nearer to the divinity. A second time 



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108 VOLTAIRE. 

Christ issued from the sepulchre, with the grand 
poetry of his symbols, to spread abroad charity to 
console the world by love. We were no longer catho- 
lics, we have become Christians, the word of God 
has resounded in our souls, the tears and the blood 
of Christ have caused hope to bloom again in our 
hearts. The church had shown us a narrow path to 
heaven, have we not found the highway? 



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VOLTAIRE AND M"«- DE LIVRT. 



PBEFAOE. 

It was a hundred-and-one years ago. 

Monsieur de Yoltaire one morning had taken by 
surprise, the marchioness de Boufflers, all in tears be- 
neath the old elms of her chateau, where she had 
gone with the marquis and the marchioness of 
Ch&telet. 

" Ah, the teare of a Magdalen," said he to madame 
de Boufflers, with his usual impertinence. 

" I will not answer you," the marchioness replied, 
without getting angry, for Voltaire was allowed to 
say what he pleased — "I will not answer you, for 
you have never been in love." 

Voltaire made a pirouette and exclaimed : " Never 
loved ! Marchioness, this is not mere impertinence, 



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110 VOLTAIRE AND MLLK. T)K LTVRY. 

but injustice; whoever has readied twenty years, 
beneath the sun, has loved ; it is only the devil of 
whom Saint Theresa could say: 'The miserable 
being, he has never felt his heart beat!' " 

" I know that," replied madame de Boufflers, 
wiping her beautiful eyes with a rose freshly plucked, 
" but shall I, monsieur de Voltaire, intrust you with 
a secret ?" 

Voltaire approached the marchioness, smiling — 
*' The secret," continued she, " is that you are the 
devil!" 

" I am aware," replied Voltaire, without allowing 
himself to be disturbed on the score of the secret, 
" that all men like me, have a devil as they say ; 
the devil is wit, is genius, is madness, if you will; 
but believe me, madame, that the more we have 
of the devil, the more we have of God. The god — 
who can deny it? — is love. As for myself, I have 
loved four times with passion. Don't you then know 
my adventures? Did I not disguise myself as a 
nun, an abbe, a guardsman, in order to deceive the 
sentinels ?" 

" Yes, you were in love with Pimpette, madame 
de Rupelmonde, mademoiselle de Livry, and the 
marchioness du ChAtelet." 

" Tou forget the mar6chale de Villars," said Vol- 
taire, placing his hand on his heart, 

" Yes, you have loved ; but your love has been 
the love of the salon^ without storms and without 



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PONT-DE-VESLE AND MADAME DU DEFFANT. Ill 

teare, like that of Pont-de-Vesle and madame du 
DefFant."* 

Voltaire started like a deer. 

"Without storms! without tears!" said he an- 

* From an excellent criticism by Monsieur Eugene Pelletan, on 
the Men and Women of the Eighteenth Century^ I extract the fol- 
lowing page ; and I may here remark, that I take what is good 
wherever I find it : — 

"What strange contradictions loTe seems always to heap around 
him ! It is a very old remark, that those beings made to love each 
other, and to be united together, are always, by mysterious and in- 
stinctive ways, seeking each other over mountains, across the plains, 
over seas, from horizon to horizon. The contrary would appear to 
be more true. Those beings made to unite themselves in a common 
sympathy, to guard their fidelity like myrrh in a golden vase, ap- 
pear in this world only to be avoiding each other; as soon as they 
meet, each one flies to his own pole. When the gods visited the 
earth, they found two old folks in love with each other ; but I never 
heard that they found any young ones. 

" When we see two beings truly united, a long time united, do not 
let us hasten to the conclusion that love has been and remains with 
them. If it were possible to unmask that hypocrisy of the heart 
which has never confessed to itself its self-interested deceptions, we 
would obtain such revelations as would render impossible, or false, 
three fourths of the romances which are published : and instead of 
making love interfering everywhere, instead of finding it every- 
where — of lavishing it everywhere — we would see that it is an ani- 
mal as rare, if not as fabulous, as the unicorn. Listen to the fol- 
lowing story relative to this subject : — 

"The whole eighteenth century for a long time admired, exalted, 
the constancy of Pont-de-Vesle for Madame du DeflBut. In fact» 
they passed fifty years together, in the most delightful and perfect 
intimacy, to the great scandal of the manners of the day, which 
could not appreciate an attachment so deeply rooted. There was 
never a cloud in that clear sky, never a quarrel, never a moment of 
cessation in their love. The little abbes, the philosophers of the En- 
cyclopedia, and the lords of the court, were so completely van- 
quished by it, that they ceased to laugh at it. The honest man, Du 
Deffant^ let it all pass with a resignation that was truly touching: 



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112 VOLTAIRE AND MLLE. DE LrVKY. 

gvily ; " without storms ! you are not aware then 
that raadame du Chatelet and myself never passed 
a week together without quarrelling ? Ah ! I have 
no passion I You will persist in saying that I am 

he studied philosophy, he read Bayle's dictionary; but he forgot 
the division of the page, and read directly across, which made him 
find the writer admirable, but somewhat too deep. Finally, after 
fifty years of small attentions, sighs^ protestations^ oaths, trials, 
pledges of all sorts, assiduities, devotion, Pont-du-Vesle and madame 
du Deffant found themselves alone one day in the chamber of the lat- 
ter. The witnesses of this marvellous constancy and un discoverable 
happiness were dead. Madame du Deffant, blind, was seated at a 
distance, within an inner room, in an old worn-out arm-chair : Pont 
de-Vesle was reclining on a couch near the fireside. • Pont-de-Vesle 
where are you?' exclaimed madame du Deffant, in a dying voice. 
* In the corner of your diimney, with my feet upon the andirons^ 
quite at home.* — *It can not be denied there are very few liaisons 
of as old a standing as ours.' — 'It is fifty years.' — 'Yes, fifty years 
past' — 'And during this long interval. . . .' — 'Not a single rupture.' 
— 'That is what I have always admired.' — 'But^ Pont-de-Yesle, has 
that not been from the fact of our being at the bottom very indif- 
ferent to each other?' — 'It may well be so, madaftie.' 

" Thus, these two lovers, who had passed fifty years in these love- 
deceits, within a month, a day, an hour perhaps before death, when 
weak and impotent, confessed that they had never loved each other 1 

"I beg you, fair and gentle reader, not to understand me too 
literally, and not to think me dogmatically skeptic on the subject of 
love. True love is, in my opinion, an ideal perfection, to which 
we should doubtless tend, and to which we will arrive, more or less, 
according to our merits. Ladies, let us confess to each other ; to a poor 
devil, who has passed his day of error, the confession will be without 
risk. Love is not, is it^ that which the poets — those liars who lie 
in the name of Heaven — describe as a thing absolute, eternal, and 
exclusive? Love in the life of a woman is a centre, which a thou- 
sand other loves enlarge, without injury, by their tributaries. We 
need not say, that women have their preferences: but that does 
not prevent them from listening, with a secret emotion, to the rat- 
tling of certain spurs upon the pavement, or to the romances sung in 
the moonlight at their windows^ while the summer breeze diffuse? 



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THE TKAR8 OF LOVK. 113 

without passion ! Only three days ago, if that good 
monsieur du Chdtelet had not in pei*8on put a stop to 
it, we would have scratched out each other's eyes." 

" I believe, indeed, in your frenzy," said the mar- 
chioness, with a mocking manner. " But why do you 
quarrel ? that is not the way with true lovers, who are 
jealous or in despair ; you quarrel, perhaps, because 
you can not agree upon some point in metaphysics." 

Voltaire burst into a laugh. 

" It is true," said he resuming his gay, malicious 
look. " I did not think of that." " But," resumed 
he all of a sudden, " if you have no faith in my tem- 
pests of love, you will believe at least in my teai*s. 
I have never dropped a tear upon the beautiful brown 
hair of Pimpette, but how I have wept for mademoi- 
selle de Livry ! Ah ! marchioness, if you knew how 
I loved her ! It was the second love, the most ter- 
rfble, the most charming." 

the warm aroma of the vervains — or even from examining, with a 
curiosity which is not without its charms, the elegant grace of the 
young dancers: and I am not here speaking of actors — of famous 
performers and opera-singers — of aU those from whom, after the 
excitement of a soirtCy there is borne some reminder, to last through- 
out the nighty and to be dreamed of a long time after. 

" It is this inconstancy and these contradictions of love which the 
author of thtf Men and Women of the Eighteenth Century has trans- 
ferred,'* <&a 



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114 Voltaire and mlle. de livry. 

II. 

HOW ONE BECOMES AN ACTRESS. 

I WAS twenty-four, I was already celebrated, I had 
forgotten Pimpette with the actresses of the theatre, 
and the actresses of the world. I believed neither in 
God nor the devil, I supped to my full, every day of 
my life, without troubling myself about the sun's 
rising next morning. I wallowed like a hog in the 
philosophical mire of my god-father, the abbe de 
Chateauneuf. Ninon de I'Enclos, in bequeathing me 
her library, had only bequeathed me some bad books ; 
such were my articles of faith. 

One day that I had nothing to do, a young girl 
presented herself before me. She was so beautiful, 
that I arose before her, like a point of admiration. 
She was clothed for charity's sake, in a di*ess of beau- 
tiful material, but long since faded. The poor girl 
did not know what to say to me, and I did not know 
how to answer her. I begged her to be seated ; she 
preferred to remain standing. 

" Monsieur de Yoltaire, I have come to you . . . 
She was pale and faltering with weakness ; I took her 
in my arms, and pressed her to my heart. She with- 
drew herself from me without getting angry, and 
finally addressed me. 

" Monsieur de Voltaire, my destiny is the stage, it 
is my last resource, for I have neither father nor 



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THE PREFACE TO THE THEATRE. 115 

mother ; but before making my debut, it is necessary 
for me to take some lessons. Tou are acquainted 
with Mademoiselle Lecouvreur." 

I interrupted the young girl. 

" Mademoiseile Lecouvreur, like all great ac- 
tresses, only took lessons of her heart. However, if 
you wish it, I will take you to her. But what will 
she teach you? She will teach you to speak not with 
your own feeling, but with hers. Have you ever 
loved ?" 

The young girl blushed and appeared confused. 
I put on my sweetest smile and approached her. 

"Trust to me, mademoiselle, I will give you les- 
sons. The preface to the theatre, is love." 

I seized her hand, and carried it to my lips with a 
tenderness, that was somewhat rough. 

" You will observe," said I to her, assuming a de- 
clamatory manner. 

I withdrew a few steps, and returned toward her, 
reciting with an impassioned manner, some tragic 
verses. 

She enjoyed the play; besides the poor girl had no 
time to become rebellious; she had not supped the 
evening previous, and carried her fortune on her back. 

She had by degrees sold everything even to her 
rags, always believing that there is a God who pro- 
tects the orphan. She had presented herself at the 
Comedie Frangaise, for permission to appear, not 
knowing all the influence necessary for the purpose 



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116 VOLTAIRE AND MLLE. DE LIVBY. 

A roguish actor, who knew that I was the oracle of the 
place, took it into his head to send the poor girl tc 
me. Need I tell jon, marchioness, that though she 
did her best to defend herself, she was obliged to take 
from me her first lesson in declamation ; an eloquent 
lesson, for it was mj heart that gave it. 

" What is your name ?" I asked her, after having 
showed her how to speak of love. 

" Mademoiselle Aurore de Livry." 

" A beautiful name which will pass from mouth to 
mouth, like that of Mademoiselle Lecouvreur." 

" Where do you live?" (I was living at that time 
in the rue Cloche Perche). 

"Kue Sain t- And re-des- Arts, where my mother 
died, and where I owe more than eighty crow^ns. 
God only knows all the insults I am obliged to suffer, 
for want of money." 

" I will not give you any, for a very good reason," 
said I to her: "because if I do, you will feel for 
me gratitude, not love ; but my house is at your ser- 
vice, remain here, and I will take you to the Comedie 
Fran^aise ; after the play, we will go to sup gayly in 
good company ; after supper we will love each other 
until morning. When it shall be day, I will write 
upon your lap, some lines of tragedy, some gallant 
vei-ses, until the hour when the loungers, shall come 
to take us to breakfast, and to stroll about Paris, not 
in a coach, but upon our twentN^-y ear-old horses." 

Madame de Boufflei-s interrupted Voltaire. 



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A FRKNCH CiESAR. 117 

" All things considered, you are a man of wit, 
and read the heart of a woman as if it were an open 
book. Any one else in your place, would have gone 
to his desk, and counted out eighty crowns, to oflFer 
tliem to mademoiselle de Livry. As you say : he 
would have received nothing but gratitude : a dead 
flower without peifume. I am quite sure, on the 
contrary that mademoiselle de Livry considered you 
at once as a lover and not as a benefactor/' Voltaire 
leaned gently on the arm of the marchioness. 

As you say, madam (resumed he,) it was not with 
out entreaties, without a struggle, and without teai-s. 
Oh! how beautiful she was in her resistance with 
her hair dishevelled, her eyes so mild, her cheeks, 
by turns pale and red. She has acknowledged 
t() me since, that it was her virtue alone, that 
struggled against me, as if by an instinctive resist- 
ance, for she loved, before she had ever seen me. 
Like Caesar, I had only to show myself, to conquer. 
Excuse this boast in the Roman emperor style, you 
know that I do not take advantage of it. 

You are acquainted with my life, I will not relate 
word for word, all the phrases of this charming pas- 
sion. The abb6 de Bussi, Thiriot, the marquis de 
Mimeum, the prince de Vendome, Genouville, could 
have told you how happy I was in my infatuation. 
I had thrown aside with disdain, the mantle of .the 
philosophers, I no longer beheld human wisdom but 
under the figure of mademoiselle de Livry. Such 



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118 VOLTAIRE AND MLLE. DE LIVRY. 

gay suppers ! The melancholy air that she had at our 
firet interview, now only returned at occasional inter- 
vals, when I allowed her time to reflect ; her passion 
moreover, exhibited all the various characteristics : 
by turns it was serene like a beautiful sky or fiery 
like a horse, excited in the course, by tunis wild and 
unruly, pensive and tender. The rue Cloche Perche 
was paradise for me. In those days I believed in 
paradise. 

This happiness lasted full six weeks ; I did not keep 
any account, however ; I lived as it were, in a dream ; 
when I awoke, I did not desire to remember, or rather 
madame de Villars absorbed all my mind. Happy 
in having found another madness, when I lost that 
one. 

III. 

WHV ONE LOSES HIS MISTRESS. 

If you could see my portrait, painted at that time 
by Largilliere, you would behold the portrait of a 
happy man or ratlier of a lover, for the joys of love 
do not bestow that air of serenity and of beatitude, 
that is seen in the elect of good fortune. I shall 
never forget how Largilliere painted this ; he used to 
come in the morning, always too early, for he 
found us in bed. She would spring out by the wall 
and call to him with her sweet voice: "Monsieur 
Largilliere, throw me my rose-colored slippers!" He 
handed her her lippers, while I hastened to put on 



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HOW ONE LOSES III8 MISTRESS. 119 

my robe de-chambre and make my toilet. I sat for 
my picture, and I was never wearied, for at each mo- 
ment slie would come and lean over my chair. And 
besides, the sitting was broken by a frugal breakfast, 
of fruits and coffee. Largilliere would have willingly 
given me his talent for my mistress. He wanted to 
paint her portrait also, that it might hang as a pend- 
ant to mine. But love never allows sufficient time 
for a painter to paint the portraits of two lovei-s. The 
portrait of the one is hardly finished, when already 
the other has gone. 

Mademoiselle de Livry carried off my portrait, be- 
fore it was hardly finished, to her chamber in the me 
Saint-Andre-des-Arts, for I had ended by paying 
what she owed there. 

You know the result : G6nouville, my dear Genou- 
ville, was affected at this unexpected love which gave 
token of only ending with our lives ; this little rogue, 
Gr^nouville, came very assiduously to breakfast with 
ns. He used to say, that never had wit and beauty 
been so well married. There was no end to epi- 
thalamiums that he sang in our honor, to the very 
day when he left me the privilege of singing an epi- 
thalamium upon himself, for he carried off my 
mistress. 

" Cruel ones !" They said to me : " We will go on 
before you to the theatre," and they never returned. 
My best friend I my most cherished love ! I was 
furious, and wanted to draw my sword ; but she 



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120 VOLTAIRE AND MLLK. I)K LIVRY. 

wrote to me, asking for her slippers — her entire 
property !— I set to laughing, but I thought I was 
still laughing, when my eyes were bathed in teare, 
for in her letter, she said to me such tendei', foolish, 
cniel, and charming things ! I recollect this, for ex- 
ample : " Oh ! my dearly beloved ! I will adore you 
until death, for another is still you, yourself! Do we 
not always seek our first lover in our second ? Fancy 
that I am dead, and write my epitaph : Here lies 
one^who loved her lover well! — ^If monsieur de 
Genouville carried me off, it was because we both 
thought, that if I remained any longer with yon, you 
would never do anything. I leave you to the nine 
muses. Farewell !" 

" Ah, marchioness !" exclaimed Voltaire, pressing 
the hand of madame de Boufflers, " it was not the 
nine muses that I wanted, but the tenth. I pui*sued 
the fugitive, ready for anything; not being able 
to find her, I shut myself up with my despair. Do 
you now believe in my tears of love?" 

IV. 

HISTORY OF MADEMOISSELLE AURORE DE LTVRY. 

" And what became of mademoiselle de Livry ?" 
asked the marchioness, at the end of the confession. 
" She became a marchioness just like you." 
" Let me hear then the end of her history." 
Genouville did not keep lier a long time captive; 



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AN ACTRKS8 IN PAWN. 121 

Bhe had a passion fo»' comedy ; and a fondness for 
being carried off: a poor actor, a bastard imitator 
of Baron, carried her off fi*om G^nouville, and took 
her to England, with a company picked up from 
almost everywhere. This cliance company lodged 
in an inn, which had for its sign, VEcu de France, 
After a delay of six weeks, the actoi-s and actresses 
were enabled toexhibit their talent and their pei-sons, 
upon a wretched theatre in the city. Mademoiselle 
deLivry, who played the parts of Leconvreur, was tlie 
only one applauded ; but she could not save the 
company from shipwreck : she remained at the inn, 
as security for the debt of her companions. As she 
was beautiful and charming, the innkeeper did not 
care to revenge upon her, all the scurvy tricks played 
on him by those actors, without house or home, law 
or gospel. Far from reproaching her, he told her 
that she might live at his inn, without troubling her- 
self about her board or lodging, adding that he would 
be too happy to have such a beautiful girl as a sign. 
Beautiful girls are like the swallows : they bring 
good luck to the house. 

I eaid an inn, I should have said a cafe. The house 
was divided into two parts quite distinct: on one 
side, beer, pipes, and common people ; on the otlier, 
coffee, the snuff-box, and gentlefolks, mostly French- 
men. 

Mademoiselle de Livry, be it understood, never 
showed hei'self in either one place or the other. She 

Vol. I.— 6 



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122 VOLTAIRE AND MLLE. DE LIVKY. 

lived with a great deal of reserve in a cliainber 
above, waiting for fortune to remove her. Now and 
then, however, she passed through tlie caf<§, with the 
light step of a fairy, on her return from her walk or 
from church, for she possessed all the weaknesses, 
even that of going to the confessional. 

The innkeeper, when she thus passed with such an 
admirable grace, did not fail to remark to his cus- 
tomers, that he had beneath his roof, the pearl of 
beautiful girls. 

Among his customers, there happened to be the 
marquis de Gouvemet, who until that time had spent 
his revenue in the purchase of rare flowers. You 
have heard, marchioness, of his rage for tulips. The 
one which he called madame de Parahere^ cost him 
a thousand pistoles. This arch fool would have gone 
to Peru to pluck a blue rose. 

As soon as he beheld mademoiselle de Livry, he 
seemed to forget his passion for flowers. However, 
the first time he attempted to address her, it was 
with a bouquet which had cost him fifty crowns. 
Mademoiselle de Livry looked at the marquis, took 
the bouquet, and departed without knowing very well 
why. 

Slie had taken the bouquet in spite of lierself, as if 
tiie devil had guided her hand. The marquis asked 
for permission to visit her, she refused point-blank; 
he insisted, she resisted ; he was not the man to aban- 
don the siege, he who had shown such prowess and 



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STOBMmO THK CITADEL. 123 

Buch resolution, against the most beautiful tulips of 
Harleera. 

" I wish to visit her," ssid the raarquis de Gouver- 
net one morning to the innkeeper. 

"It is impossible!" said the man, who knew the 
pride and the virtue of mademoiselle de Livry (there 
is some virtue, everywhere). 

" It must be possible," said the marquis. "Where 
is the difficulty of entering a chamber ? Order my 
chocolate and newspaper to be taken to her room." 

The innkeeper did not dare to reply. The marquis 
mounted the staii^s, with the air of a man who will 
not stop on the way ; the innkeeper followed him 
with the cup of chocolate, the Gazette de Hollnnde 
and the Mercure de France. The key was in the 
door, the marquis opened it and entered gayly,a8 if 
it were the simplest matter in the world. 

" O my God I" exclaimed mademoiselle de Liv- 
ry, "who is it that entere my room with such a 
noise ?" 

" It is a man," says the marquis. " There is no 
occasion for your recommending youi-self to God." 
And addressing the innkeeper: "Well ! put it upon 
the table, for I am hungry. Madame, take a seat, you 
see that I am going to do so myself" 

"Monsieur," said mademoiselle de Livry, "you 
ought to get up and leave, for I can not receive the 
visit of a stranger." 

" But I -am no stranger: my name is the marquis 



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124 VOLTAIRK AND MLLK. DK LIVEY. 

de Gouvernet, I have travelled over the whole world ; 
I am not vicious, I have not cut off an}' heads, ex- 
cept of roFos or tulips, and besides, I have suflFered 
deeply eveiy time that has occurred. Are you fond 
of tulips, mademoiselle ? But why talk of tulips when 
the chocolate is ready ? Will you take some choco- 
late with me, or without me? As you please." 

^' This man is killing me," said mademoiselle de 
Livry, looking toward the innkeeper. 

HOW ONE BECOMES A MARCHIONESS. 

VoLTAiBE continued the story of mademoiselle de 
Livry, without noticing the bell which rang for 
breakfast : — 

Yes, marchioness, this devil of a fellow, got an 
entrance to the room of the poor deserted actress. 
She finished, by coming to a determination and 
taking a seat hei-self. 

" Will you read the newspaper to me?" continued 
the marquis, " or do you prefer to work at your tapes- 
try with those fairy hands ?" 

"Mademoiselle," said the innkeeper, respectfully, 
in alow voice to the actress, "he is an original, but 
do not be offended, he is an excellent pei'son. He 
gave my daughter a hundred guineas on her wed- 
ding-day." 

In the meantime, the marquis de Gouvernet had 



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PRIDE AND POVKBTT. 126 

opened his journal, and swallowed some niouthfuls 
of his chocolate, with no more ceremony than if he 
had been at home. Mademoiselle de Livry resumed 
her tapestry-work. 

" Let us be frank," said the marquis, " you are 
poor." 

" As I am not in want of anything," mademoiselle 
de Livry replied, " I am not poor." 

" That is mere talk ; I know that we can not eat 
money, as King Midas proved ; but notwithstanding, 
without money we may die of hunger." 

"I shall never die of that." 

" Do not be so proud, mademoiselle ; I know your 
virtue, I see your beauty, I have the right to speak 
to you frankly. Well I this fine fellow of an inn- 
keeper may do his best, you still are in want of 
everything, and sometimes it happens, from pride, 
that you deprive youreelf of a meal." 

" It is by order of my physician," said mademoi- 
selle de Livry blushing. 

" May the devil take you !" said the marquis de 
Gouvemet, wiping away a tear. " Do you not see 
that I am weeping like a child ? Listen : I have 
wherewithal to support fifty pretty girls like you ; 
will you take my key ? you can bestow the charity 
youreelf." 

Mademoiselle proudly rejected this proposition. 
However, she did not desire to sustain the siege, to 
the extent of a famine. She signed a treaty of alliance 



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126 VOLTAIRE AND MLLK. VK LIVRY. 

" I will marry you," said he at the third interview. 

" It is folly,'* said she with tendemess. 

" So much the better," replied the marquis, " for 
I am still of the age to commit folly." 

" Yes, but I will prevent you from committing such 
a one as that ; a man of your condition can not marry 
a girl without fortune." 

It was in vain that he plead his cause, mademoi- 
selle de Livry was not willing to proceed any further 
in this alliance. After a turn one day about London, 
he said : — 

" I have just taken two tickets in the state lottery, 
you must choose one of them." 

"Well, I will, if it be only to make curl-papei*8." 

VL 

YOU AND THOU. 

Madame de Boufflers inteiTupted Voltaire : — 

" I understand," said she, "the lotteiy-ticket drew 
ten or twenty thousand pounds sterling. It is a fine 
subject for a comedy." 

" Yes," replied Voltaire, " I thought of that.* You 
can guess then, madame, the result?" 

" Tes, mademoiselle de Livry possessed a dowry, 
and touched with the delicacy of her lover, became 
the marchioness de Gouvernet." 

* **L*Eco88ai8e :** Lindam (mademoisene de livry), Freeport (tlie 
marquis de Gouvernet). 



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THE SULTANA. OF FLOWERS. 127 

Monsieur de Voltaire continued : — 

Tlie rumor of this adventure became current in 
Paris and Versailles, in the saloons and the green- 
rooms ; the princesses of the court and those of the 
theatre, never wearied of the story. As for me, I 
listened in silence, always sad when I thought that in 
losing mademoiselle de Livry, I had lost youth itself. 

I consoled myself somewhat with the hope of see- 
ing her again. 

'^ She can not have forgotten me," I said to my- 
self; "as soon as her beautiful eyes are laid upon 
me, she will extend her hand to me, and I will 
throw myself into her arms." She installed hereelf 
with a good deal of fuss in the rue Saint-Domi- 
nique, where monsieur de Gouvernet had a splendid 
hotel, but above all, a garden like those in the Ara- 
bian Nights. The marchioness was accordingly 
christened on her arrival in Paris, " The Sultana of 
Flowers." 

The Henriade had just been published ; I sent her 
a copy printed upon fine Holland paper, with a little 
note, in which I recalled to her mind, that all the 
love verses about Gabrielle, had Leen written at her 
feet, and from her inspiration. 

Not a word in answer. The cruel one had taken 
her title of wife, in downright earnest. 

I could not describe to you my rage. I was some- 
what disarmed, in learning through madame de Ber- 
nieres, who visited her, that the marchioness de Gou 



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128 VOLTAIRE AND MLLE. DE LIVEY. 

vernet had redeemed my portrait, which she had 
pledged at Gersaint's, on the Pont Notre-Dame* on 
lier departure for London. 

I recovered my confidence in our old passion, and 
went boldly to her hotel. 

" Your name ?" asked an arrogant footman, a great 
devil of a footman, built like a Hercules, and all over 
gold. 

" Monsieur de Voltaire." 

" Well ! please to write your name, and to-morrow 
I will give you an answer, for the name of monsieur 
de Voltaire^ is not down on the list of her ladyship, 
the marchioness." 

You are aware, that at that time, I was received 
with open arms in the best houses ; I was the guest 
of dukes and princes ; so the arrogance of the foot- 
man of her ladyship, the marchioness de Gouvernet 
did not humiliate me, but almost made me die a 
laughing. On my return home, while I was still in 
fine humor, I took a scrap of paper, and wrote, off 
hand, this epistle to the marchioness : — 

** Phillis, where are those happy days, 
When with a hackney-coach content, 
You had no train your steps to grace, 
Your charms your only ornament; 
When you our humble supper made 
A heavenly banquet seem to me, 
And yielded, in your gayety. 
To him who, happy but betrayed, 
Had sworn for life your slave to be?" 



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POETICAL CONSOLATION. 12fi 

Voltaire bad hardly repeated the first line of this 
epistle, when the marchioness de Boufflers, who knew 
it by heart, as all the world of letters did then, inter- 
rupted him to repeat it herself. 

"There is a masterpiece, monsieur de Voltaire, 
worthy of the antique ! If you had written me that 
epistle, and I had been the marchioness de Gouvemet, 
I should, without drum or trumpet, have abandoned 
my hotel and my footman to follow you, even to the 
end of the world. But what was her answer ?" 

" She answered me with four lines, that the wis- 
dom of the ancients should have inscribed in lettere 
of gold, upon the pediment of their temples or the 
pedestals of their statues : — 

*» * To brighter youth its pleasures leave, 
Its joys and transports ever new ; 
And since life's moments are but two, 
Let us then one to wisdom give.'" 

" It is charming ! And you became virtuous, both 
of you?" 

" More or less, marchioness. She wrote an epitapli 
upon her heart ; as for me, I consoled mine with 
singing : — 

" * Fertur et abducta Lymesside tristis Achilles, 
HoBmonia curas atteunasse lyra.'* 



I did as Achilles." 



♦ Oyid, Tristia, lib. iv. 
6* 



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130 VOLTAIBE AND MLLK. DE LIVBY. 

VIL 

THE LAST HOURS OF LOVE. 

Monsieur de Voltaire never saw mademoiselle de 
Livry but once again ; it was a few days before his 
death ; he had his hair powdered, he drank oflF three 
or four cups of coflFee ; he got into the marquis de 
Villette's carriage, and ordered the coachman to drive 
him to the hotel Gouvemet. 

This time, the doors opened wide ; the marchio- 
ness had been informed in advance; besides, she 
could receive him without risk, she was more than 
eighty. Voltaire, all out of breath, took her hand 
and kissed it. 

" This is all that we can do now, marchioness," 
said he, shaking his head. 

She was quite overcome at beholding him so aged 
and broken. 

" Ah, my friend Voltaire," said she to him with a 
melancholy smile, "what have we done with our 
twenty years ? We are no longer the wild boy and 
girl, who loved each other so gayly in the rue Cloche 
Perche or in the rue Saint-Andre-des-Arts." 

" It is true," said Voltaire, " we die every twenty 
yeare, we die every day, until the last hour when tlie 
body is only a winding-sheet which covers the bones. 
Happy are those who have lived ! On that score, 
marchioness, you have no reason to complain, nor I.' 



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YOUTHFUL RECOLLECriONS. 131 

" I thank God ! my life has been a romance easy 
to read ; but youi-s, what an eloquent and desperate 
struggle ! You have renewed the war of the Titans." 

*' Yes, yes, I have unbound Prometheus : my 
liands are still all bloody ; it is no matter, now that 
I have traced my furrow of anguish, I have forgotten 
the labor and the tears, in order to think only of the 
roses which have bloomed beneath ray feet. All! 
Phillis, what a spring-like freshness there was upon 
your cheeks of twenty yeare? I never cultivated 
peaches at Ferney, without kissing one every year in 
your honor. Ah I madame, have the vanities of the 
world ever allowed the enjoyment of such happy 
hours of love and sport, as we spent more than half 
a century ago ?" 

' Alas !" said the mai-chioness, who no longer saw 
before her Voltaii'e, the strange old man of eighty 
wintere, but beheld again in imagination, the Vol- 
taire painted by Largilliere, " I would readily give 
my hotel, my farms in Beauce and Brittany, my 
diamonds and my carriages, with my footman into 
the bargain, in order to live over again one hour of 
our early life." 

"And I," said Voltaire, lightening up, "I would 
give my tragedies and my epic poem, my histories 
and my tales, all my past glory, all my claims in pos* 
terity with my seat in the Academy in the bargain, 
for a single kiss of the good old times I" 



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132 VOLTAIRE AND MLLK. DE LIVRY. 

VIII. 
WHEN WE ARE DEAD. 

Dm they embrace ? History does not tell us. The 
marchioness had become religious. A priest who 
lived at her table, and who put her to sleep in the 
evening with his prayere, came in and rudely dis- 
turbed the interview of the old lovers. 

"When Voltaire had gone, this priest frightened the 
marchioness, by telling ber, tbat she had just received 
Antichrist in her house ; she wished to do penance 
for this return to forbidden pleasure. She had al- 
ways kept Voltaire's portrait ; on the next day a tall 
lacquey carried this portrait to the house of Monsieur 
Villette, upon the quai des Theatins, where Voltaire 
had come from Ferney to die. Voltaire gave this long- 
beloved portrait to his niece, in accordance with the 
wish of madame de Gouvemet, who desired to con- 
ceal her fears of the Antichrist, beneath an air of 
politeness.* 

The 30th of May, 17Y8, Monsieur de Voltaire, 
yielded up his soul to God, and mademoiselle de 
Livry, marchioness de Gouvernet, also set out for 

* This portrait by Largilli^re, which is known by some tolerable 
or detestable copies, as that at the Museum of Versailles, in the hall 
of the Academicans, is now in the chateau de Villette, in a gallery 
of illustrious persons of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuriesi 
An engraving from the original of this portrait, is prefixed to thit 
volume. 



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THK CHURCH, THE ACTRESS, AND THE POET. 133 

the mansions of the dead. It may be said, that they 
made the journey together. 

France had rejected Voltaire living ; when dead, 
France still proscribed him. He had prepared a 
tomb for himself in the burial-place of Ferney, be- 
neath the sky where he had grown old, and where 
he had done some good ; they were not willing to al- 
low him that corner of the earth which was his own ; 
they decided that he who had built the church, had 
no right of citizenship in the burial-ground. While 
the remains of Voltaire knocked in vain at the doors 
of all the churches and all the church-yards, her lady- 
ship the marchioness de Gouvemet, was interred 
with great pomp, in the church of Saint-Germain- 
des-Pr6s. 

Did they meet on high, by the side of Him, who 
according to Voltaire 

** Has dei^ed to tell us all, in tellinc: ns to love /'' 



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THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO. 
I. 

SUMMARY OF PLATO's WORK. 

In constructing the imperishable edifice of his re- 
public, Plato has summoned to the task, Lycurgus 
and Socrates, laws human and laws divine. 

The work of Lycurgus has long been a ruin, be- 
cause it was the house built on the shifting sand of 
politics ; that of Socrates stands intact, consecrated 
by more than twenty centuries, because it is the im- 
mortal work of philosophy, because it is built on the 
divine principles of the good and the beautiful, and 
because it is the republic of souls. 

Plato wrote this beautiful book to give a sovereign 
lesson to the world, almost constantly under heavenly 
inspiration. The sky was veiled, he foresaw the 
night which came, he desired to seize again the ray 
which had illuminated at the best times, the fore- 
heads of the sages of India, Egypt, and Greece. 

He desired to survive his country in his ideal 



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THE MEETING AT THE PIRiSUS. 135 

monument, like Phidias in bis visible temple. He 
bas said to posterity : " Behold wbat was tbe republic 
of Lycnrgiis, and bebold what it would have been 
with my laws. Oh I you who shall hearken to me, 
when I am no more, realize my dream !" — ^Now, wbat 
was this dream ? how can we portray faithfully this 
fiction, whose feet rest on tbe earth, and whose brow 
mounts to tbe infinite ? 

Plato believed that tbe best of governments could 
be established, in a community free fi'om luxury, 
ambition, and injustice, in which virtue and ability 
would alone be called to supreme power. So far, all 
is well, but Plato, absolute in his principles, goes on 
to dictate impossible laws. 

The Republic is divided into ten books. It is 
generally known to consist of a dialogue between 
Socrates, Cepbalus, Polymarchus his son, Glaucon 
and Adimantes, brothers of Plato, Thrasymaclius the 
sophist, and Clitophon the son of Aristonymus. Platq 
speaks under the character of Socrates, out of his dc: 
sire to perpetuate the name of his master. The scene 
of the dialogue is at tbe Piraeus, in the house of the 
old man Cepbalus. The first page is vividly painted. 
It presents a disposition of tbe characteis full of life 
and brilliancy. Let us translate its chief features. 
Socrates (that is to say, Plato) goes to the Piraeus 
with Glaucon to offer his prayei-s to Diana, on a fes- 
tival. As they are returning to the city, Polymar- 
chus and his friends come up to them and forcibly 



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136 THE EEPUBLIC OF PLATO. 

detain them. " Do you not know that the torch-light 
lioi"8e-raee takes place to-niglit, in honor of the god- 
dess ; there will be a vigil in addition : we will go 
after supper, and amuse ourselves with sages and 
fools." Socrates returns to the Pirseus, and enters the 
residence of Polymarchus, where he finds the family 
assembled with some friends. The aged Cephalus 
was present with his head encircled by a crown, on 
account of his having made that day a domestic sac- 
rifice. They seat themselves on chairs ranged in a 
circle. By the first words uttered, we recognise the 
liighest school of philosophy. The aged Cephalus 
commences with these words : " Socrates, you come 
too seldom to the Pirseus ; and yet I love so much to 
listen to you ! If I were strong enough to go to the 
city, I would spare you the trouble of coming here. 
Do vou not know, that in the same measure that the 
physical powers forsake us, the soul nourishes itself 
on the sacred fruit of wisdom. There are those who 
complain at growing old, does the soul ever grow 
old? Should we regret our slavery to the physical 
passions ? I remember sometime ago, happeuing to be 
with the poet Sophocles, some one asked him, if age 
still permitted him to taste the joys of love ? * The 
Gods forbid !' he exclaimed, ' I have long since 
shaken off the yoke of that furious and brutal mas- 
ter.' — Yes, when the violence of the passions is 
deadened, we find oui-selves delivered from a host ot 
insane tyrants." 



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PLATO AND nih POETS. 187 

Thus from the opening of the volume, we breathe 
the invigorating atmosphere of wisdom, and detach 
our souls without regret from earth and from its 
passions. 

The whole of this first book is devoted to the sover- 
eignty of justice, the bountiful mother of wisdom 
and of virtue. It is with such travelling companions 
that Plato sets forth for the ideal regions of his 
republic. 

In the second book, Plato analyzes good and evil 
into two principles, which contend in the world with- 
out ever coming to a decisive battle, because they 
live one by means of the other. 

It is in the third book, that Plato banishes poets 
from his republic, because poets by their fictions 
compromise the sacred character of the gods and 
the pious memory of heroes, because they weaken the 
courage of warriore, and lead astray the imagination 
of the young. After this sacrilegious banishment, 
Plato is desirous that temperance should banish the 
physicians, and justice the judges. We advance 
with gigantic strides toward the impossible republic. 
Plato is studious for equality and attains inequality. 
He divides the state into three races : those of gold, 
of silver, and of brass, the warriors, the magistrates, 
and the mercenaries. 

In the fourth book, the republic is completely or- 
ganized. Plato proscribes in it both opulence and 
poverty. The republic is strong, because it is just 



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188 THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO. 

The citizen is his own master, because the soul gov- 
erns the body, and the mind rises victorious from in- 
vading attacks of the passions. 

In the fifth book, the education of women is dis- 
cussed. Plato makes men of them. He destroys the 
family in order to destroy the privileges of birth. 
All the sterile germs of communism are to be found 
here. The women are in common ; they belong to 
all, and give birth to children, which the republic, 
tlie sole mother, tears from their bosom. The same 
book is devoted to the study of slavery and to the 
laws of war. 

The sixth book is in praise of philosophy. The 
philosopher alone, according to Plato, is worthy to 
command men. Philosopher must become kings, 
or kings philosophers. Plato then commences the 
sublime description of the visible and invisible 
world ; the visible world in which all is false and 
illusive, the invisible, in which all is true, for it is in- 
habited by God. 

The following book is a continuous aspiration after 
the beautiful. Plato compares the world to a dark 
cavern, in which men live enchained by their pas- 
sions. Those who do not break their chains and seek 
invigoration in the open air, are not men, but shad- 
ows who dwell in the tomb ; such will never be called 
to power in the republic of Plato. It is the contem- 
plation of the divine world which instructs men how 
to govern the lower world. 



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HIS IDEAS ON GOVERNMENT. 189 

In the eighth book, Plato passes in review, the 
five kinds of government : Aristocracy, timocracy or 
government of ambition, oligarchy or government of 
the rich, democracy which, by means of liberty, gives 
birth to license and tyranny, two children of the 
same birth. Plato, doubtless irritated at the jealous 
and ambitious men of Lacedemonia, at the haughti- 
ness, avarice, and ignorance of the rich njen of his 
time; by the indifference and contempt of certain 
democrats for all that is elevated, by the odious reign 
of the tyrant, whom democracy has too often suckled, 
accords his solemn suffrage to the fii-st of these five 
forms. But the aristocracy which Plato is on the 
point of causing to be proclaimed by a herald, has 
no similitude with the aristocracy of modem times. 
The philosopher-king or king-philosopher of Plato, is 
supported only by virtue and justice. To govei'n in 
the republic of Plato, it would be needful that God 
himself should descend upon the earth. 

In the tenth book, Plato seeks whether there is 
anything beyond his republic : he sounds the mys- 
teries of the tomb ; the tomb is in his eyes the path 
to the skies. This concluding book is a sublime 
revelation of the immortality of the soul. 

Now that I have stretched out a summary of this 
book, in which Plato institutes the education of a 
people, and illuminates justice by rays which are all 
divine, I will examine some important points, and 
some that are merely curious. 



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140 THE BEPUBLIO OF PLATO. 

n. 

ON OLIGAECHY, DEMOCRACY, AND TYRANNY. 

" What do you understand by oligarchy ? It ie 
the reign of money, it is a fonn of goveninient in 
which the census decides the rank of each citizen, in 
which thei rich imperiously rule the poor. Luxury 
at home and abroad becomes contagious, men throw 
themselves furiously upon money — on the money 
of others — to gild the toys of vanity. The stronger 
the reign of money becomes, the more is that of vir- 
tue eflFaced. Are not money and virtue like two 
weights in the scale, one of which can not rise unless 
the other sinks ? Therefore are virtue and men of 
worth less esteemed in proportion, to the high value 
set upon riches and rich men. Ambition becomes 
naught but intrigue. A law is made establishing the 
conditions requisite for admission into power. A tax 
must be paid for taking the helm ; and where does 
the vessel go to ? — ^This state is not one by its very 
nature, or rather it contains two states, the one com- 
posed of the rich, the other of the poor, who dwell on 
the same soil and are incessantly striving to destroy 
each other." — Is not this somewhat the picture of the 
reign of the last king?* While those enriched yes- 
terday, passed their time in counting their money, 
to convince themselves that they would have somo- 

♦ Louis Philippe. 



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THE BKI&NOF THE LATE KING. 141 

thing left to live upon beyond the tomb, while theii 
wives were driving through public places, in quest 
of adventures in luxurious equipages, while their sons 
mocked at them with girls known to all the world, 
because they had been common to all the world, the 
people, who already foresaw the sovereignty of in- 
tellect, courageously gave their last penny for the 
purchase of a book — the bread of the mind. At the 
time when the rich were counting their money, the 
poor were counting the days which still separated 
them from the regeneration preached by Christ. 

Plato afterward paints in lively colors, the demo- 
crat and the tyrant, for according to him, according 
to the law of humanity, oligarchy leads to democracy, 
and democracy to tyranny. The democrat of Plato 
lives from hand to mouth, gathering all the fruits of 
life which hang over his path. To-day he revels in 
intoxication and bacchanalian songs, to-morrow he 
will edify his fellow-citizens, by fasting and drinking 
nothing but water. He passes gayly from idleness 
to labor, and from labor to idleness. All of a sudden 
behold him a philosopher, an orator, a statesman. He 
speaks and acts, but does he know what he says and 
does ? Free as the wind, which blows from all points, 
he will apply himself to commerce to acquire riches, 
or tc war, to display his heroism. In a word, this 
friend of equality unites in himself all sorts of man- 
ners and characters. He inscribes on his standard : 
Liberty, Equality, Variety. He is everything, 



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142 THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO. 

and he is nothing, poor and obscure to-day, he will 
be in power to- morrow. He submits only to his pas- 
sions and his caprices, he amuses himself with every- 
thing, and is amused by everything. If he lives 
sometimes for his country and for his heart, does he 
not also often live for his curiosity ? 

Democracy is expansion, diffusion ; it is life poured 
out in impetuous torrents. Its world is, however, 
Biibjected to revolutions, no matter how beautiful the 
repnWic may be, after having devoured her first off- 
spring, she will be devoured by her last: for she will 
give birth to tjTanny. When a democratic st.^te, 
pervaflod by an ardent love of liberty, is governed 
by evil men who pour forth strong liquor, and make 
her drink to intoxication, then does the democratic 
state, in the fumes of the strong wine, abandon her- 
self to all kinds of license ; on the first repression ac- 
cuses her rulers, and overthrows them on the pretext 
that they are unfriendly to liberty. All those who 
have a respect for law, are men of no account, volun- 
tary slaves. Then, through unbridled liberty, men 
fall into anarchy, everybody is a magistrate and ad- 
ministers the law, but no one chooses to acknowl- 
edge the law. The old are less heeded than the 
young. The son gives advice to his father, the dis- 
ciple leads the master. Women become men, but 
virtue gains nothing by the change ; love rests laugh- 
ingly in the strong arms of violence. Let us forget 
nothing, and in the words of ^schylu8,let us sav every 



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DEMOCRACY. 143 

thing that comes to our lips. Here Plato seriously 
relates how " little dogs are ou the same footing as 
their mastei's ;" how "donkeys accustomed to walk 
with heads erect, and not to inconvenience them- 
selves, jostle all they meet if way is not made for 
them." Who doubts, but that with us, anarchy may 
give the same privilege to donkeys and puppies ! 

The ship has no longer sails or helm. The captain 
does not dare to contend against the wind, for he 
would excite mutiny in all the crew. The captain 
exists bat in name, the greenest hand is more listened 
to than he is. Now, as men always go from one ex- 
cess to another, if the sails uf the ship are again 
spread, it is to run before the wind, from democracy 
to tyranny. It is so with evej'ything in this world : 
Winter in his mantle of snow gives birth to Spring, 
garlanded with roses ; the joyous Autumn, crowned 
with grapes, begets the heartless old tyrant Winter. 
Servitude is the mother of Liberty, Liberty reproduces 
Servitude in her days of license, when she falls madly 
in love with noisy declaimed, who are ever talking 
and never thinking, who stop the mouth of truth if 
truth terrifies them, who make themselves kings of 
the populace, by laying criminal hands on the for- 
tune of the rich — who have become rich by labor. 
What do they do with this fortune, for which they 
express their contempt so loudly. They give a few 
bribes to the poor, and keep the lion's share. The 
rich seeing themselves plundered, are desirons of 



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144 TIIK RKPUBLTC OF PLATO. 

defending themselves; they appeal to the people, but 
the others accuse them of wishing to conspire against 
the libeities of the people. The people, whose sole 
property is liberty, are induced to side with calumny. 
It thus happens that the rich, who were accused yes- 
terday of being oligarchists, and who were not, be- 
come such to-day. The tyrant is, however, bom 
from the stalk of the protectors of the people. He is 
as yet only a protector, but he is to become a tyrant 
In Arcadia, in the temple of the Lycean Jupiter, it 
was said that he who had tasted human entrails, 
mixed with those of other victims, was changed into 
a wolf: in like manner, when the protector of the 
people moistens his tongue and lips with the blood 
of his fellow-citizens, when he plunges his impious 
liands into the entrails of his neighbors and friends, 
when he decimates the state by bloodshed and exile, 
when he proposes the abolition of debts and the par- 
tition of property, is he not to perish by the hand of 
his enemies, or become the tyrant of the republic ? 
The tyrant, is the wolf — the wolf in sheep's clothing. 
Plato passes in review the acts of the tyrant. In 
order to rule the better, he commences by making 
himself a slave : he servilely flatters the passions of 
the people, he talks to them of plots against the pro- 
tector of the people, he demands guards to make the 
sovereignity of the people respected ; the people, al- 
ways the people, like him who talks continually of 
love, and whose heart never beats. " What do the 



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THE TYRANT. 145 

last of the rich men do ? They take to themselves 
the oracle addressed to Croesus : ' He flies toward 
the river Hermua^ and does not fear the reproach 
of cowardice^ And they are right, for they would 
have no occasion a second time to fear such reproach. 
In fact, it costs them their lives if they are caught in 
their flight. The protector meanwhile is not asleep ; 
he mounts openly to the chariot of state, overturns 
right and left, those who possess courage, riches, pru- 
dence, greatness of soul. He plays the opposite part 
to that of the physicians, who purge the body by re- 
moving from it that which is hurtful. He composes 
his guards of the scum of the country, who flock to 
him in crowds; after having ruined the rich, de- 
spoiled the temples, squandered the public fortunes, 
he lays his sacrilegious grasp on the harvest. The 
people, who is the father of the tyrant, will suppoit 
him and his." 

in. 

WHY HOMER IS BANISHED FROM THE REPUBLIC. 

Plato banished the Muses, because the Muses 
were the courtesans of the mind. They led young 
minds astray into all the follies of dreams, into all 
lying delusions. Plato, a poet himself, by the crea- 
tion of this republic, from which he repels the poets, 
loved Homer and Hesiod, declaring at the same time 
in the tone of a pedagogue, that t}ie poets, ^' those 

YoL. I.— 7 

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146 THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO. 

of the present as well as those of the past, do nothing 
but set forth fables for tlie amusement of the human 
race." He does not pardon Hojner for his Olympian 
fictions; he "desires that all poetry should be in the 
beautiful ; now, the beautiful, in his eyes, is the truth 
in its splendor. Plato, besides, is not a rigorous 
logician ; in condemning the images, the accent, the 
character of poetry, he repels Truth herself. He does 
not admit, and I thank him for it, that art is the imi- 
tation of nature, like his bad disciple Aristotle ; his 
truth being that of the poets, like the mysterious 
realism of Rembrandt. 

" He is afraid of Homer not only for his falsehoods, 
but also for his truths." Though all this were true, 
these are not the sort of things to be spoken of before 
children, whose reason is still undeveloped. They 
should be buried in silence. Do you not see in the 
Republic of Plato, the scissors of the censor sus- 
pended like the sword of Damocles, over the germi- 
nating thought? 

Plato loved Virtue tco much, not to sacrifice too 
much to her. In depriving her of her poetic aureole, 
does he make her loved ? Does he not make young 
imaginations sterile, by condemning them to the cul- 
ture of but one product ? The blight must make the 
wheat poor in harvest-time, but who could dispense 
with the cyanus at the dawn of spring? The cyanus 
forms the coronals of lovers, they are the poetry of 
vouth. 



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PLATO AND HOMER. 147 

But Plato would not build his republic on fictions, 
he did not wish to erect the palace of his thought on 
the quicksands of fable, scarcely admitting that fable 
is a torch borne in the hand of Truth. When his pal- 
ace is built by the masons, he will perhaps summon 
the decorators and sculptoi-s to enliven the columns 
and facades, but he wishes before all, that the laws 
of his republic should be inscribed on walls of brass. 
If Homer did not give the rein to his imagination, 
a wild steed, intoxicated by the course, by the fra- 
grance of the turf he prances over, the rural fresh- 
ness of the forests of Diana which he traverees ; if 
Homer relied only on his wisdom to travei*se the ideal 
world, Plato would kiss his venerated sandal, and 
say to him : " My brother, the world which I create 
is yours;" but Homer is more than a sage of Greece, 
he is a demigod, he is a poet. Plato admires him, 
and forbids him to enter his door. In truth, this ra- 
diant and sublime Bohemian of the Olympic centu- 
ries, would cause impiety to flourish in the Platonic 
church. Is it not he w^ho says: "I should prefer 
to the empire of the dead, the condition of the slave 
of a poor man, who lives by the labor of his hands." 
Plato becomes indignant with reason, and exclaims: 
"Those who are destined to the life of a freeman, 
should prefer death to servitude." The legislator 
does not wish that Homer's hell should be known in 
his republic. "Let us efface from the poem of Ho- 
mer, those odious and formidable names of Cocytus, 



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148 THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO. 

Styx, the Manes, and the like, which make the most 
resolute shudder. Let us dread lest the terror they 
inspire, should chill and weaken the courage of our 
warriors." In truth, how suddenly are those who 
would brave death, arrested by the thought of the 
Styx or the Cocytus ! Mahomet, who was also a 
great legislator, seems to have had this passage in 
mind when he created the dogma of fatalism. Ma- 
homet has gone farther, he has indicated the realiza- 
tion beyond the tomb of all the poetic fancies of 
oriental revery. He has filled the path to the tomb, 
with blossoms and with fragrance. 

It is in this style that Plato draws up liis acts of 
accusation against the poets : " If we desire that the 
defenders of our republic should hold dissensions in 
abhorrence, let us not speak to them of the combats 
of the gods. And if our poets keep silence, let not 
our artists, in their pictures or tapestries, ever repre- 
sent the discords of Olympus. Let it never be heard 
that Juno was put in irons by her son, and Yulcan 
hurled from heaven by his father. Let not Homer 
say : The gods go from city to city^ disguised under 
feigned shapes^ for such metamorphoses are un- 
worthy of divinity. Let not the mothers cradle their 
children in these fictions, which at a later period will 
destroy their faith and their prowess. Let not ^schy- 
lus cause Apollo the god of light and truth, to utter 
odious lies, for ^schylus says by the mouth of The- 
tis : " Apollo who was present at my marriage, savg 



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Plato's emendations of hombb. 149 

at the feast that I should he a fortunate mother^ I 
believed that he uttered an oracle and not a false- 
hood. Yet this god^ who sang of my happiness^ 
and predicted for me all the joys of marriage^ this 
god is the murderer of my son?'* 

" Let us strike out of the poems of Homer, all the 
impious verses, such as these : " Alas^ nothing then 
remains of us after deaths hut a shadow^ a vain im- 
age deprived of sensation and reason^ 

It must be admitted with sorrow, that the accusa- 
tions of Plato (I have brought forward the most ter- 
rible), are mere cavils, whose spirit recalls too much 
the old French criticism, which put on its spectacles 
to examine the details of a work, without troubling 
itself about the harmony of the whole. We must 
pardon Plato, on account of his contempt for tragic 
discussion. 

Homer is therefore banished from the republic of 
Plato, in much the same way that Lamartine would 
be at the present day from our own, if Lamartine 
were not now and then both Plato and Homer. 
Lamartine the statesman, has repeated to Lamar- 
tine the poet, the words of Plato: ''If thou comest 
airiong us to cause us to admire thy art, we would 
lender homage to thee as to a divine being, of rav- 
ishing and marvellous power, but we would tell thee, 
that om* republic is not formed to possess a man like 
thee ; we would banish thee after having poiu'ed per- 



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150 THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO. 

fumes upon thy head, and adorned thee with sacred 
chaplets." 

Plato is too much of a poet not to adore tlie muse 
of Homer. "I have loved him from my childhood,* 
but I condemn him, because the respect which I owe 
to a man, is less than that which I owe to truth." 
But at the same time Plato is too much of a philoso- 
pher to forget that, from ancient date. Poetry has 
been a very bad guide for her sister Philosophy, 
"this snarling dog which barks at her mistress * * 
The company of sages are desirous of elevating them- 
selves above Jupiter * * These subtle thinkers 
whose poverty sharpens their wits." The divine Plato 
however, raises himself above these family quarrels, 
and, while he laments at beholding poems and trage- 
dies soften men into tears, he permits Homer to come 
and defend his cause before the chiefs of the repub- 
lic, either in an ode, in iambics or a hymn. To per- 
mit Homer to come and defend his cause, is to permit 
him in a frateraal way to triumph. However, if Ho- 
mer triumphs he is to sing henceforth solely in honor 
of the gods and of great men. "The voluptuous 
muse, whether epic or lyric, is banished for ever," if 

* Plato commenced his career as a poet, the muse of Homer 
suckled him. These verses are attributed to him, on the mirror 
which Lais the courtesan dedicated to Venus in her old age : — 

" Venus, take my votive glass, 
. Since I am not what I was. 

What from this day I shall be, 
Venus, let me never see.** 



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HOMER^S DKFKNCK. 151 

Homer does not prove to the Areopagus that poetry 
I>088e88e8 republican virtues, that it is based on rea- 
son and on truth. 

"Should we not imitate," says Plato, "the conduct 
of lovers who do violence to themselves to tear them- 
selves from their passion, after they have acknowl- 
edged its danger?" The legislator will imitate 
Ulysses, who caused himself to be fastened to the 
mast of the ship, in order to pass by the sirens ; he 
will chain himself with all his power to reason, in 
order to pass through without danger the enchant- 
ments of the Muses, those sirens of souls. 



IV. 



HOW HOMER WOULD HAVE DEFENDED HIMSELF 
BEFORE PLATO. 

And if Homer had still come and plead his cause 
before Plato ! " You, O Plato, banish me I you who 
accept the title of the Homer of philosophy, you have 
not understood me. You have not understood the 
moral conclusion of the Iliad. Every poem is a 
sphynx, every reader should be an CEdipus. Have I 
not plainly proved, that the people are always the 
victims of the madness of kings? I made my ap- 
pearance at the close of the primitive world ; the 
dawn of the social world has spread its rays over 
my brow, it was not Phemius who was my master, 
it was misfortune. I have wandered from city to 



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152 THE BRPCBUC OF PLATO. 

city, with Poverty as ray sole companion, but Poverty 
is often the tenth muse. With her I have penetrated 
t() tlie sanctuary of Osiris, I have taken fire from the 
altar, and, greater than Prometheus who desired to 
create men, I have created gods ! Olympus is mine. 
Jupiter and Juno in their radiant embraces drink of 
the pleasure, which my poverty pours forth in full 
floods. 

" Thy republic, O Plato ! was in my heart. I have 
sung the fall of kings and the royalty of nations. 
Have I not taught liberty, by singing the pride of 
heroic nations ? Was I not republican when I called 
the kings derrwhores^ or devourers of the people ? 

" Condemn not my muse, O Plato ! all those who 
have come to her, have drunk of her divine milk. 
She has unveiled her bounteous bosom to all the des- 
tinies of the countiy. She has said to the ancient 
East : " Let night fall on thee, and bury thee up ;" 
she has said to the New World : " Turn thee to the 
sun ; Apollo and Minerva are with me." 



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PLATO, VERSUS THE CORINTHIANS. 153 

V. 

ON THE PROSCRIPTION OF COURTESANS. 

After having banished the poets, Plato banislies 
tlie courtesans. 

In Greece, tlie courtesans were ahnost all muses :* 
Sappho who sang, Lais who personified beauty, As- 
pasia who inspired Socrates, or who counselled Per- 
icles, Leontium, slave of Epicurus, but redeeming her 
heart by her noble love for the beautiful Timarclius.f 
Corinth was the tabernacle of voluptuousness. Thus 
when Plato proscribed the fair Corinthian, it was as 
if he had said "the ardent courtesan." 

Plato was a reformer who protested against the 
consecrated religion, by protecting philosophy against 
every aggression of love. The Greeks had dedicated 
the academy to Minerva ; but they had borne there 

♦ Did the French when, adopting the Grecian style, they made 
choice of the dress of the courtesans, and not of the wives and moth> 
ers of Athens, know that the courtesans were muses ? 

f Leontium proves, by her letter to Lamia, that all the delicacies 
of love were known to her : " Epicurus, who pretends to be a Soc- 
rates, would make of me a Xantippe ; but I will go to the end of the 
world rather than bear the grossness of his insults. You know that 
charming youth, born on the banks of Cephysus. That beautiful 
Timarchus, who says to me when I speak to him, 'You are so beau- 
tiful, Leontium, that I do not comprehend a word,* has not seduced 
me by giving me the most precious of tunics, handfuls of gold, slaves 
brouglit from the most remote lands, but has enchanted me for ever 
by his voice and his glance. Speak no more to me of Epicurus ; he 
is no longer a philosopher, but a Cappadocian rustic, who sees the 
ramparts of Minerva for the first time." 

7* 



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154: THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO. 

in triumph, the statue of love. By this sj^mbol, they 
desired to bring together pleasure and wisdom. 
Montaigne adopting this religion, has said : " He 
who takes from the Muses their amorous imagina- 
tions, robs them of their most pleasing attraction and 
the noblest subject of their work, and he who would 
cause Love to lose communion with, and the service 
of poetry, would deprive him of his strongest arms." 

The mistake of Plato, was not having been a lover. 
No man in this world who has not had an hour of 
folly, the folly of "love — will ever attain to sovereign 
wisdom. 

Plato would have soared still higher, if he had ac- 
cepted the wings of love and poetry. His austere 
philosophy was not able to impress the multitude. 
Homer sang, Plato spoke. The philosophy of Homer 
is all in images, that of Plato is in sentences. Homer 
changed men into gods, and gods into men, so that 
his gods should be visible, and his men should aspii*e 
to climb Olympus. Plato raises his ideal divinity 
so high, that his disciples themselves can not catch 
a glimpse of him. Jesus Christ was the God-man 
and the man-God of Homer. The philosophy of 
Plato is the glorious spouse of a god, she is the proud 
Juno. But Plato has forgotten that Juno, to make 
bei-self attractive, took the girdle of Venus. 



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THE EDUCATION OF WOMEN. 165 

VI. 

OF THE COMMUNITY OF WIVES AND CHILDREN. 

The fifth book is the most curious. Plato miglit 
hnve admitted there the reveries of the poets, wlien 
l:e judged it fitting " to put the women on the stage, 
after having exhibited the men there." I commence 
witli this comparison. " Do we believe tliat the fe- 
males of the dogs, should keep guard like them over 
the flock, go to the chase, and do everything in com- 
mon?" He asks himself, if tliey should not rather 
stick to the kennel, give birth to puppies and take 
care of them. He decides for the community of 
labor. He concludes from this, that women must 
receive the same education as men. They must prac- 
tise music and the gymnastics, they must accustom 
themselves to the discipline of war; learn to handle 
arms and ride on horseback. They will present them- 
selves naked in the gymnasia where they will wrestle 
with men. But modesty ? Modesty does not blush 
at a nudity, as calm and austere as that of marble. 
It is an innovation which will excite railleiy, but 
Plato does not trouble himself about that. He recol- 
lects, however, that he said in one of his early books, 
that there was a chasm between the nature of man 
and that of woman. Now how can he admit the 
community of labor? Plato hesitates. " We are in 
the sauie condition as a man who has tumbled into 



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156 TUK REPUBLIC OF PLATO. 

the water. Whether it be a fish-pond or the open 
sea, is of little matter, he will perish if he does not 
swim. Let ns imitate him ; let us take to swimming 
to overmaster this reflux. Perhaps some dolphin will 
lend us the aid of his back." Plato escapes by 
swimming and reaches the ideal shore of his repub- 
lic. The women are men of another complexion, but 
they are citizens for the state. They will participate 
in the duties of citizens, they will go to the wai-s. 
" They will abandon their garments, since virtue will 
stand them in their stead." Plato is imtated at 
those who make merry at the spectacle of naked wo- 
men, "who exercise their bodies for a good object." 
The philosopher cites these words of Pindar : " He 
gathers the fruits of wisdom out of season." After 
the community of labor, Plato broaches the commu- 
nity of women. "The wives of our warriors, or rather 
our female warriors, will be common to all ; for none 
of the one will live with any one of the other in par- 
ticular; the parents will not know their children. 
This community will produce a univei*sal family. 
As they will possess nothing individually, as all must 
be in common to them, houses, dining and bathing 
rooms, they will always be together." Now male 
and female being thus mingled like the waves of the 
sea, will be united in one joyful and fruitful mar- 
riage. It is the unity of love. Besides, all of free 
volition ; violence is banished from the republic. Ve- 
nus will give her girdle, but no one will tear oflTthe 



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UNITY OF THE STATE. 157 

girdle of Venus. One will receive the other with 
rapture, with the solemnity of a patriotic duty. It 
is the ideal harmony of dreamers, who hear naught 
but the benedictions of earth to heaven. " Pains 
and pleasures will be in common. The reason that 
a state becomes divided, is because joy and sorrow 
are individually experienced therein ; now, suppose 
all the citizens equally affected by joy or sorrow, and 
we have the state in perfect harmony. When we 
receive any wound on the finger, the mind in conse- 
quence of the intimate union between it and the 
body, is instantly informed. Now let good or evil 
happen to a citizen, the entire state will participate 
therein, as if self conscious of it, for the state is the 
soul ; it will rejoice or be afflicted with the mem- 
beis." It was possible, it was sublime in the repub- 
lic of Plato, which scarce reckoned some thousands 
of men ; but in republics of millions, this image is no 
longer just. In the republics of Greece, all knew 
one another, as in a large family or in some retired 
corners of the provinces. The custom of living to- 
gether, brings hearts near to one another; one may 
therefore say that the state, that is everybody, will 
be thrilled with joy or grief at every isolated instance 
of happiness or sorrow ; but in a republic like ours, 
intimate unity will never be very firmly established. 
A man may weep at Beziers for the death of his wife, 
without having the city of Saint-Omer purchase a 
mourning robe. Because the winter will be severe 



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158 THE EEPUBLIC OF PLATO. 

at Calais, must the people of Vaucluse be sad when 
spring will shine upon them ? We must none . the 
less for this recognise the great heart and great genius 
of Plato. 

Plato, who has already expressed his sympathy for 
those who are beautiful, because he is of those who 
say, ''The beautiful contains the good," is full of 
solicitude about the generations who are to cover the 
surface of the world. Love is not a forbidden fruit 
in the paradise of his republic, but he summons under 
the tree, only those youths and maidens, whose 
beauty Phidias and Praxiteles would have wished to 
immortalize in marble. The women will be mothei*s, 
but during twenty happy seasons, after they arrive 
at the age of twenty ; men will not be admitted to 
marriage until thii-ty ; Plato admits their virility up 
to the age of fifty-five. " But if it should happen 
that any one either under or over this age, should be- 
stow children on the republic, we will declare him 
guilty of injustice and sacrilege, we will say that his 
child is a work of the tomb, since its birth will have 
been preceded, by neither the prayers nor sacrifices 
which the priests and priestesses offer to the gods for 
the prosperity of marriages." Whoever, however, 
will restrain himself within the limits of the pre- 
scribed age, may marry when he pleases, with 
whomsoever he may see fit, and as many times as 
love shall bid him. All alliances between citizens 
of the same family is forbidden, except between 



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TBEATMENT OF CHILDBKN. 159 

brothere and sistere, when the oracle of Apollo shall 
80 decide. " But," you will say, " how is this, since 
the children know neither their fathei*s nor inothei's, 
like to the waves of the ocean, which know not from 
what mountain-top the rivei*s have brought them ?" 
Plato has foreseen everything : the republic, which is 
the true mother, will recognise their true origin, and 
detach the limbs of the tree to plant them in the for- 
est. There will be in each city, but one nursery fo* 
all the children. Those who grow up hardy, will be 
the hope of the state, those who are sickly and de- 
formed, will be banished. " They will be concealed 
as is proper, in some secret place, which it will be 
forbidden to reveal or seek for. It is the sole means 
of preserving the purity of the races of gold or of 
silver. The mothers will be taken to the nui-sery, as 
soon as the milk begins to flow ; care will be taken 
that none of them recognise a child." 

Plato, who had no children, was not worthy to 
found a republic. If he had seen under his roof the 
mother smile on the new-born child, forgetting, in her 
hope, all the pains of her labor; if he had seen the 
child cling lovingly to the lap and the bosom of the 
mother, he would have understood that she who had 
for nine months borne her hope, was not, at the end 
of nine months, to offer her bosom flowing with milk 
to strange lips. What also led Plato to the commu- 
nity of propert}', was, that he wished in his republic 
neither poverty nor riches — because both give birth 



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160 THK REPUBLIC OF PLATO. 

to the love of novelty ; the one by tlie desire of doing 
ill, the other by idleness. Now, the love of novelty en- 
gender revolutions. "And besides, as wealth is the 
mother of effeminacy and idleness, so is poverty of 
baseness." The poor man may by lalor become 
rich. Plato, in the name of labor, does not wish 
this. " Will the potter, when he has become rich, 
trouble himself about his trade? He will become 
more and more negligent and idle from day to day. 
On the other hand, because he' has become rich, his 
neighbor will have become poor ; he will no longer 
have the means of replacing his tools; his work 
will suffer ; the laborers he will instruct will be less 
skilful." Plato is neither a philosopher nor a poet 
in desiiing neither riches nor povei*ty. Humanity is 
not a herd living by the same appetites. God has 
not driven them before him like a rude herdsman, 
who seeks only green pasture. God ha^ created the 
gamut of the passions for the human heart. God 
knows all the bitterness, but also all the sweetness 
of tears. Some there are more beautiful than pearls 
and diamonds. He has chosen that there should be 
rich and poor. Evil is anterior to good. Justice is 
born from injustice. Besides, if there were no rich, 
every one would be poor, except at Sparta. Wealth 
18 a stream which flows from the mountains, water 
ing and fertilizing all that it touches in its descent. 
Cast down the mountains, make the earth a level, 
and the river would no longer flow. 



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PLATO A COMMUNIST. 161 

And yet, property impoverishes human destiny. 
If he possessed nothing, man would be truly rich. 
Does not the wrestler go to the combat naked ? In- 
stead of fixing his eyes on a field which has swal- 
lowed up all his strength, which he has watered with 
his sweat and his teai-s — a field ravaged by the lep- 
rosy of tax and mortgage — a field which he will 
have seen sold before his death on execution, or even 
by his son ; he will look at the heaven and the earth, 
the mountains and the forests, the stains of the firma- 
ment, and the flowers of the valley, saying at the 
same time : " I have my part in all these wonders : 
I have my place at this show and at this festival." 

But let us leave the poor, as well as the rich, his 
portion of the globe, since it is his own conquest or 
that of his sire. Let us leave him that painful rock 
which he rolls ceaselessly like Sisyphus. 

Everything is in Plato : all the political systems, 
all ancient and modern philosophy, Christianity and 
Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Socrates and Malebranche, 
Fenelon and Babeuf Where is the modern dreamer 
who has not walked an hour with Plato on Cape Su- 
nium ? It is the living spring which falls in a cas- 
cade from the heights of the Alps, and flows eter- 
nally through old Europe. 

Plato is a communist : it is impossible to deny it. 
He thought — as did, at a later date, Spence and 
BabcBuf— that the earth was the farm of the people 
as the sky was their light. God, in sending us on 



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162 THE BEPUBLIC OF PLATO. 

the earth, lias bestowed on us only its fruits. The 
Savior, the Son of God, was born in a stable. Let 
those who are born in a stable find their comer of 
the earth at the hour of labor; and, in fine, "let not 
the rich join land to land until there be no place left 
for the poor," as the Scripture hath said. 

But have not the communists, whatever be their 
banner, taken too seriously these dreams of Plato 
who did not believe in his republic, or who built it 
only for a corner of Greece ? At the present day 
the world is fonned — the world is old. If you say 
that the world is eternally young like life, like na- 
ture, you will be answered, that every cradle is stained 
by original sin — that every infant has sucked in 
his mother's milk the ardent thii*st of possession — 
that the whole of life is condensed for him in these 
words, to have^ even beyond the tomb, since he still 
holds to the six feet of earth in which his bones are 
laid. 

VII. 

THE BACKS OF GOLD, 8ILVEB, AND IBON. 

Plato has scarcely banished the poets and their 
fables, ere he turns poet and gives us a fable himself. 
It is, at the same time, plain that he is not accus- 
tomed to fiction, and that he blushes to commit him- 
self to it, even to symbolize the truth. "I do not 
know where to find the boldness and the expressions 



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DIFFERENT CLASSES OF CITIZENS. . 163 

of which I have need, to ivy and persuade the 
magistrates and the warriors, and afterward the rest 
of the citizens, that they have only received in a 
dream the education which we have given them, 
that in reality they have been formed and educated 
in the bosom of the earth, themselves, their souls, 
and all which belongs to them ; that, after having 
formed them, the earth, their mother, has brought 
them out to the face of day ; that they should, there- 
fore, regard the earth on which they dwell as their 
mother and their nurse, defend her against whoso- 
ever may seek to attack, and treat other citizens as 
their brothers, come like themselves from the same 
womb. But, since I have commenced, hear the rest. 
You are all brothei-s, I should say to them, but the 
God who made you has caused gold to enter into the 
composition of those among you who are fitted for 
governing the rest. Such, therefore, are the most 
precious. He has mingled silver in the composition 
of warriors, iron and brass in that of laborers and 
other artisans. Since you have all a common origin, 
you will generally have children like yourselves. 
But it may happen that a citizen of the race of gold 
may have a son of the race of silver — that another 
of the race of silver may bring into the world a son 
of the race of gold — and that the same thing may 
happen in respect to other races. Now, this God 
especially commands the magistrates to keep watch, 
f bove everything else, as to the metal of which the 



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164 THK REPUBLIC OF PLATO. 

soul of each child is composed. And if their own chil 
dren have any mixture of iron or brass, he does not 
wish them to pass it over, but that they should place 
them in the condition befitting them, whether that 
of artisan or laborer. He also wills, that if any of 
these latter have children containing gold or silver, 
that they should be elevated, the latter to the rank 
of warriors, the former to the dignity of magistrates : 
because there is an oracle which says that the repub- 
lic will perish when it shall be governed by iron or 
brass. Do you know any means of intimating to 
them that this fable is a truth?" 

Yes, there will always be three races of men — 
those who will live by the pure ray of intelligence ; 
those who will live in the doubtful daylight of truth ; 
and finally, those who will be best satisfied with night. 
But these races of gold, of silver, and iron, will spring 
from the same source without distinction of origin. 



YIII. 

HEAVEN AND EARTH. 

Plato, after having shown that we must flee from 
the pleasures of the unjust and accept the sorrows 
of the just, goes on to establish his state: "In a 
republic, everything depends on the commencement. 
If well commenced, it goes on continually increasing 
like a circle." He desires that men should watch 



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EDUCATION THROUGH ABT. 166 

religiously over the education of children — the chil^ 
dren who gayly bear the future in their hearts. Af- 
ter having forced the poets " to offer in their verses 
a model of good manners, or not to write any at all," 
he asks himself if it is not necessary, also, " to have 
an eye on all the other artists, and restrain them 
from giving us, either in painting or in architecture, 
or in any other form, works void of grace, majesty, 
and proportion. As to those who can not do other- 
wise, shall we not forbid them to work among us, in 
the fear lest the guardians of our republic — educated 
in the midst of these vicious images, as in bad pas- 
turages, and, so to speak, feeding every day on the 
sight of these things — should, in the end, contract 
some great vice in the soul without being sensible 
of it? We must, on the contrary, seek for able art- 
ists, capable of following closely the nature of the 
beautiful and the graceful, in order that our young 
people, educated among their works as in a pure and 
healthful atmosphere, may constantly receive salu- 
tary impressions through the eye and the ear, that 
everything should insensibly lead them from infancy 
to imitate and love the beautiful, and establish be- 
tween it and themselves a perfect harmony. Is it 
not also for this reason, my dear Glaucon, that music 
IS the principal part of education, because number 
and harmony, early insinuating themselves into the 
soul, take possession of it, and bring in their train 
grace and beauty, when this part of' education is 



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ISB THE REPrBLIC OF PLATO. 

given as it should be given, instead of the contrary 
liappening when it is neglected ? The most beauti- 
ful sight for him who could contemplate it, would be 
that of a soul and body, equally beautiful, united in 
themselves, and in which all the virtues should be 
found in perfect harmony. But that which is very 
beautiful is also very lovely. He who is tnily a 
musician would not, therefore, be able to restrain 
himself from loving those in whom ho should meet 
this harmony." 

This ]^nge is a sublime one. The whole history 
of the conflict between the spirit and the flesh, the 
soul and the body, heaven and earth, is palpitating 
there. Plato himself wished to confound by the 
laws of harmony, these two forces always in conflict. 
He did not say, like Moses, "take heed to your 
eyes:" he did not say, like Job, "I have made a 
covenant with my eyes that I should not look upon a 
maid :" he did not say, as at a later period did Bos- 
suet, resounding echo of the fathere of the church, 
" Wo to the earth I wo to the earth once again ! wo 
to the earth whence issues so thick a smoke, such 
black vapoi-s, which rise from these dark passions 
which hide from us the light and the firmament." 
He invoked, with ardor, the ravishing betrothal of 
the soul and the body. 



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PLATO THE PAINTRE OF THE mEAL. 167 

IX. 

THE EEPUBLIO OF PLATO AN IDEAL EEPUBLIO. 

Plato did not believe any more in his republic 
than old Homer did in his gods. 

" Do you believe," says he, in his fifth book, " that 
a painter would be any the less great, if, atler having 
painted the most beautiful model of a man that could 
be imagined, and given to every feature its finest 
touch, he should be incapable of proving that nature 
could produce a like man ?" Plato is therefore the 
painter of tlie ideal. 

However, as everything is possible in this world, 
whose destinies set at naught all calculations, why 
should we not believe in the realization of the impos- 
sible republic? Heraclitus fancied that the sun was 
extinguished every night, and relighted every morn- 
ing. Heraclitus was not treated as a madman, be- 
cause he spoke of visible appearances : why should 
we deny tlie world which Plato created in his mind 
beyond the visible horizon ? When he has resolved 
that it was necessary to have in his state a king-phi- 
losopher or a philosopher-king, he maintains that 
there has been, is, and will be a republic like his own. 
" If it has happened in the course of ages, if a true 
philosopher has been able to take in hand at some 
former time, the helm of state, or if it is taking place 
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168 THK REPUBLIC OF PLATO. 

our eyes, or if in fine, this is to happen some day, we 
are ready to maintain that there has been, is or will 
be a 8tat«, such as ours, when the muse of philosophy 
shall there possess the supreme authority." 

Philosophy is the queen of intelligences ; the re- 
public of Plato is therefore, nnder this point of view, 
the sovereignity of the intelligence. 

In the ninth book, Plato believes that, if he has 
seen anywhere the model of his republic, it has been 
in turning his soul like a pure mirror toward heaven. 
" Besides, it makes little matter," says he with the 
haughty disdain of creative genius, "it makes little 
matter whether this state exists or is to exist some 
day; this much is certain, that a sage will never 
consent to govern any other than such a one." 

X. 

THE SOVEREIGNTY AND IMMORTALPIY OF THE SOUL. 

Plato, while recognising the harmonious union of 
the body and the soul, proclaims the sovereignty of 
the soul. " The inner man should hold sway over 
the outer: the human or rather divine portion should 
rule the animal, for the latter is a many-headed 
monster." The philosopher sees all the violent pas- 
sions surging in the body, as voluptuousness, a mon- 
ster whose gaping mout,V. ingulfs all the bloom of 
virtue. It is necessary to cajole these like lions, put 
them to sleep and kill them in their torpor, if we arc 



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THK WORSHIP OF GO! 169 

afraid of them wlien excited. " Let ns imitate the 
wise husbandman who exterminates the wild beasts 
but nourishes and trains the domestic animals." 
Plato must be told, however, that it is necessary to 
combat, not kill the passions; for how often have 
genius, courage, and heroism, burst forth in the tem- 
pest of passions, even of bad passions. Let us take 
care that the brutal and ferocious passions become 
gentle and tractable. 

And after having thus built his temple of marble, 
gold, stone, and brass — a monument of grand though 
irregular appearance, Plato inscribes these majestic 
words on its pediment, as if Grod himself had guided 
his hand : Immortality of the Soul. 

And in reality, it is not suflScient to have built an 
immortal edifice, destined to shelter perishable crea- 
tures, it is necessary to make known that beyond this 
edifice, higher than the angle of the pediment, higher 
than the cloud that floats over it, higher than the sun 
which sheds over it his golden rays, that there is a 
God — a God who has taken our soul into his own, 
who has poured upon us his love from his bosom, 
like the pelican that gives its life to its offspring, in 
giving them its blood ; God, who is all waimth and 
light, eternal source of life and love, of the beautiful 
and the good, of intelligence and virtue. 

How shall this God be worshipped ? Plato invokes 
God himself, to command or inspire the solemnities 
of his worship. "Let us leave to the Delphian 

Vol. I.— 8 



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170 THE EEPUBLIC OF PLATO. 

Apollo, the charge of making the greatest and best 
laws of the republic, those which concern the con- 
struction of temples, the sacrifices, the woi-shipof the 
gods, genii, and heroes, the funeral rites and the 
ceremonies which appease the disconsolate manes. 
Where we found the republic, it will not be wise for 
us to apply to other men, or consult other interpreters 
than the men and interpreters of the country. Now 
the god of Delphos, is in religious matters our natu- 
ral intei*preter, since he has chosen the navel of the 
earth to issue thence his oracles.* 

Our soul, says Plato, is immoi-tal. The ophthalmia 
is the malady of the eyes ; sickness, that of the body ; 
mildew, that of the wheat ; rust, that of iron. Every- 
thing visible, carries in itself a principle of corrup- 
tion, which gradually destroys it; but the soul is a 
fire which gradually undergoes all the attacks of in- 
visible evil, without perishing tiiereby, because it is 
of celestial origin and the bad passions of earth ex- 
haust themselves upon it. To know the soul well, 
its origin and destinies, it must be regarded with 
spiritual eyes, not in its well of darkness, but as the 
radiant truth that sits naked on the margin of the 
well. It is only thus that we discern its aspirations 
toward all that is divine and imperishable. "We 
shall conjecture w^hat it becomes, when it abandons 
itself with fervor to this sublime course toward 

♦ The ancients believed that Delphos was placed in the centre of 
the earth, .^chylus says so in his Extinenides. 



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THE DK8TINY OF THE SOUL. 171 

heaven, when it springs with a noble eifoii; from the 
depth of this foaming sea in which it is phmged, when 
it frees itself from the pebbles and shells which at- 
tach themselves to it, from the necessity which it is 
under of feeding on teiTestial things." Although of 
celestial origin, although destined to behold again its 
country, the soul according to Plato, sometimes pre- 
sents itself before the judges, defiled by the flames 
of impure fire. He avails himself of the recital of 
Her, the Armenian, to point out the recompense of 
the soul of the just, and the punishment of the soul 
of the unjust : the tii*st, like an amorous bird of 
the azure skies, wings its flight in all the paths 
of heaven, the second is condemned to darkness. As 
at a later period was the Wandering Jew, they were 
condemned to the dust of the I'oads. Between heaven 
and earth, according to the Armenian, there is a 
point of meeting to which the just and unjust resort, 
after a journey of a thousand years, to talk of para- 
dise and hell. "It is a field where they salute one 
another, and seek intelligence of what has passed in 
heaven or under the earth. The one relates the ad- 
ventures with groans and tears, excited by the recol- 
lection of their own sufierings or the sight of the suf- 
ferings of others, the othere tell of all the joys, de- 
lights, wonders aud enchantments of heaven." It 
will be seen that the Greeks had found out heaven 
and hell. It is the same picture, only the painter is 



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172 THK REPUBLIC OF PLATO. 

more or less of a colorist. It is the same idea and 
the same poetry in different words. 

In the meantime, after having tmvelled amid all 
the enchantments of the kingdom, or the republic, 
of heaven — the souls of the just purified by the 
breezes and the wamith of heaven, must recom- 
mence another career and re-enter a mortal body. 
The spirit will not choose for them, but each select 
for himself. The fii-st soul designated by lot, will 
choose its place in tlie world. "Her has seen Or- 
pheus choose that of the swan," in hatred to women, 
who had formerly caused his death, "as he does not 
wish to own his birth to any of tliem." The soul of 
Tamyris had chosen that of a nightingale, the swans 
and nightingales having to undergo the perils of hu- 
man existence. " I wish to be a lion," says the soul of 
Ajax, " for I remember too well the affront I under- 
went, in the judgment of the arms of Achilles." — " I 
would be an eagle," says Agamemnon. The soul of 
Atalanta wishes to become a wrestler. That of Epeus, 
who built the wooden hoi-se, chose to spin wool like 
Penelope and Lucretia. Thersites took the body of 
an ape, faithful to his buffoonish instincts. Ulysses, 
the most wise, sought in a comer of the world, far 
from court, the rank of the most obscure and simple 
peasant, for Ulysses had again learned pradence 
while above. 

Plato has ended his book with these words : " We 
will always walk in the celestial road, we will devoti) 



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THE WORLD AT A STAND. 173 

ourselves with all our strength to the practice of wis- 
dom and justice. In peace with oureelves and with 
the gods, after having won on earth the palm of vir- 
tue, like victorious athletes, who are led in triumphs 
we shall be again crowned on high, to accomplish 
with all the joys of eternity, this journey of a thou- 
sand yeare in paths of enchantment." 

I close this beautiful book with an emotion of sad- 
ness. Why have we not lived — not in the republic 
of Plato — but in that splendid age, when the gods 
had transported Olympus to Athens ! Since Plato, 
the world has grown old, but it has not advanced. 
Since Plato died, night has fallen from his tomb. 
Thrice has light again dawned on the earth, with the 
Christian era, the Renaissance, and with 1793. This 
last dawn promised a radiant sun, but when will the 
sun rise? 

XI. 

THE REPUBLICAN ASPASIA. 

Plato, however, preserved for his posterity, the 

beautiful style and patriotic ideas of Aspasia.* As- 

pasia, who must be counted among the great person 

ages of the age of Pericles, has written, among othei 

nervous passages : " Republics are the nurses of 

men. The good produce the good ; the bad the 

bad. Ours has for its basis, the equality of our 

* Eulogy of the warriors slain in the Peloponnesian war, composed 
by Aspasia. 



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174 THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO. 

origin ; the authority is in the hands of the people, 
who intrust the power to the most worthy. Weak- 
ness, poverty, origin, however obscure, are no causes 
of exclusion, but the opposite advantages do not con- 
duct to honors. 

" Our republic is tlie unanimous harmony of all or- 
ders of citizens. The other cities are composed of 
unequal classes of every description ; their adminis- 
tration is consequently unequal ; it is tyrannical or 
oligarchical. Among the men who inhabit them, 
some are masters, some slaves, as for us, who are 
hrothers^ and bom of a common mother, we know 
not these odious distinctions. Equality of origin sub- 
mits us to the same laws, and elevates us to the same 
rights. Intelligence and virtue alone, are our titles 
to power. For liberty^ we are resolved to fight against 
the Greeks themselves." 

Now do you think that Aspasia, who proclaimed 
Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity, before Plato, 
and before Christianity, that Aspasia who would have 
governed the known world, had not a soul capable 
of soaring in the ethereal paths of Plato? What did 
she, the impure courtesan, say to Socrates in love ? 

" Imbue thyself with a sacred enthusiasm, raise 
thy mind to the divine lieights of poetry, open the 
doors of thy soul to the ideal light ; it is in the path 
of heaven that we should lead those whom we love." 

Plato was neither a lover nor a disciple of Aspa- 
sia ; it is perhaps to be regretted. If the republic of 



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THE MISSION OF CHKISTIANITY. 175 

Aspasia was open to me, I should enter it most gladly, 
even if Plato did not banish me from his. 

Since Aspasia has been dead, do you believe that 
liumanity has advanced ? Is tliere a new word to 
add to the language of the passions or the ideas ? 
With Plato, the golden chain of human destiny was 
broken : has Christianity had aught else to do than 
rejoin it ? 



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MADEMOISELLE GAUSSIN. 

Mademoiselle Gaussin could not boast of her es- 
cutcheon, like mademoiselle de Carmargo, who used 
to spread out her petticoats, exclaiming : " Thirty- 
six quarterings I" Here, in a word, is the history of 
the biith of Mademoiselle Gaussin: — 

The comedian Baron, had a carriage and a chateau. 
He had brought from his chateau, to drive his coach, 
a big rogue of a Burgundian, with a higli color, and 
as gay and cheerful as a hill-side in Chambertin ; you 
could scent the bouquet of his wine within twenty 
paces of him. 

This great rogue of a coachman, when he found 
himself upon a gilded throne, guiding a couple of 
roadsters, caparisoned like a pair of blood horses, took 
it into his head to make love to all the Margots of 
the neighborhood. 

As tlie rogue had, to some degree, the attractions 
of a gallant cavalier, he turned the heads of a whole 
phalanx of kitchen-maids. 



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A BURGUNDIAN DON JUAN. 177 

Baron never once got into bis coach, whatever 
might be the hour, when going to the theatre, or re- 
turning from it, without finding near his horees, some 
sentimenUil washer of pots, in an elegiac colloquy 
with his rogue of a coachman. " What is the vaga- 
bond about?" Baron used to say. "Study human 
passion in Corneille, in Moliere, and in Racine ! You 
will not in the end know as much of it, as a coach- 
man and a kitchen-maid who give each other a single 
kiss." 

The high deeds of this coachman, spread far and 
near; they were much talked about at the Comadie- 
Fi'an9ai8e, for there was not one of the young ladies 
there, whose servant-maid was not dead in love with 
this Burgundian Don Juan. 

One evening, Mile. Lecouvreur, approached 
Baron mysteriously, and said to him : " I have to 
demand satisfaction from you : my kitchen-maid, a 
woman of Roman virtue, has been seduced by your 
coachman, who threatens to abandon her with her 
child, for the poor girl will be soon put to bed. I give 
you due notice, that if you do not force Antoine to 
marry Jeanne, I will oblige you to acknowledge the 
child." 

" Make me acknowledge the child !" exclaimed 
Baron laughing. " I have never signed my own 
works, I do not wish to claim those of othei-s ; but 
since this rogue has been guilty, he must expiate his 
crime. Moreover, there is no need of telling him, 

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178 MADEMOISELLK GAU8SIN. 

that when the wine is poured out we must drink it." 
"Tliere are no pei-sons equal to the actors," said 
Mademoiselle Lecouvreur, " to make virtue re- 
spected : the theatre is the school of morals. To 
crown the work, Baron, you must be godfather of 
the child." — "And you, godmother," replied Baron. 

Such was the origin of Mademoiselle Gaussin. 
The name of Baron's coachman, was Antoine Gaus- 
sin, that of Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's kitchen-maid 
was Jeanne Pollet ; Mademoiselle Gaussin's Chris- 
tian names were Jeanne-Catherine-Marie-Madeleine. 
That of Madeleine, she added herself at a later day, 
because she wished to love much. 

Tableaux vivants or table a\vx parlants^ are not, it 
is well known, a modern invention ; the courtesans of 
pagan antiquity, had learned, in the studios of the 
paintei*s and sculptors, to represent the banquets and 
festivals of Olympus. They were to be seen in the 
public places of Athens and Sicyon, under the form 
of Yenus or Diana, the Hours or the Graces, vying 
with the works of the painters and sculptors. Among 
the ancient Hebrews, were not such living symbols 
to be seen, at the court of David and Solomon ? 
When the queen of Sheba went to Jerusalem, she 
had a whole phalanx of young girls, dressed in the 
style of the time, who represented before Solomon, 
the visions of the queen of Sheba. 

Mademoiselle Gaussin revealed herself in the tab- 
leaux anax^reontiques ; there was so much expression 



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UNDISGUISED DISGUISE. 179 

in her eyes and mouth, she possessed to so high a de- 
gree, the art of contrast and shade, she had such an 
adorable grace, in inclining her head, placing her 
foot, raising her hand, in binding and unloosing her 
hair, which flowed like golden waves upon the undu- 
lating marble of her bust, or the empurpled snow of 
her bosom, that the amazed spectatoi*s, beheld in her, 
Venus, Juno, Diana, Daphne, Terpsichore — and 
never Madeleine Gaussin. . 

It was thus that she said, upon being reproached 
for her representations in dresses, that were some- 
what low-necked, that aJie h<jid never exhibited her- 
self in public. 

She passed entirely with full devotion into the 
character she represented. 

When Mademoiselle Rachel plays Hermione^ who 
thinks of Mademoiselle Rachel ? The actress disap- 
pears in the raging woman, more jealous than a 
panther. Thus, Mademoiselle Gaussin veiled her 
nudity, in exhibiting to the spectator the proud bust 
of Juno, the amorous bosom of Venus, and the chaste 
expression of Diana. 

The cardinal de Bemis, who was a good judge, not 
exactly in his quality of cardinal, wrote one day, on 
his breviary, in the presence of madame de Pompa- 
do'~r, these two lines : — 

♦* Of being nude, th' embarrassment 
Gives nudity its greatest charm." 



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180 MADEMOISELLE GAUSSIN. 

Mademoiselle Gatissin, did not offer that kind of at- 
traction to the pnblic ; ehe was like the Susannah by 
Santerre, who in concealing hereelf from the eldei-s, 
exposes herself to the spectator. In the picture, as 
Diderot remarked, Susannah is chaste, she does not 
know that the public is looking at her. So Mad- 
emoiselle Gaussin concealed hei-self, in her meta- 
morphosis. 

D'Aubei-val, in his closing discourse, that he ad- 
dressed to the public, in 1763, recalled the tableaux 
AnaAyi^eontique% of Mademoiselle Gaussin. "Her 
eyes," says he emphatically, " spoke to the soul : 
love seemed to have created her, in order to prove 
that voluptuousness has no adornment more piquant 
than artlessness." 

She commenced, as was usual in her day, with 
going the rounds of the provinces; liistory does not 
record what she did with her heart during these 
wanderings, in the spring-time of her life. She did 
not meet, like Mademoiselle Clairon, with any indis- 
creet lover, to publish her early adventures. 

Actresses do not make the tour of the country, 
without tearing their linen robe among the bushes; 
but as, after all. Mademoiselle Gaussin, is not one of 
the saints in the calendar, I am not obliged to make 
an apology for her virtues. But this is beyond 
doubt, that on the 28th of April, 1731, when she 
made her debut at the Corned ie-Fran^aise, she knew 
thoroughly the science of the heart. She had been 



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THE ZAIRE OF VOLTAIRE. 181 

in the school of sentiment, of jealousy, of rage : in 
her acting, she sounded the gamut of all the pas- 
sions. 

She passed through the infinite joys, the unspeak- 
able tenderness, the wild grief of love. No one on 
the stage was more varied, more capricious and 
more profound, more sportive, and more reflective ; 
she gushed forth into gayety, and she melted into 
tears. 

It may be said without hyperbole, that for ter 
years all Paris was in love with her: the people ol 
the court, the church, citizens, and the limbs of the 
law, the men of the sword and the men of the pen, 
allowed themselves to be captivated by her diffusive 
and vibrating sensibility. 

Monsieur de Voltaire, even, enrolled himself upon 
the firet page of the golden book of Madeleine Gaus- 
sin ; he gave her the part of Zdire^ which was one 
of his best conceptions. 

After the representation, Voltaire wrote an epistle, 
as follows, to the tragic actress : — 

**Gau8sin, receive this gift of mine — 

Receive the lines success has crowned ; 
Protect them; for Zaire is thine, 

Since thou hast made the work renowned.'* 

I will not quote the whole of this epistle. Those 
madrigals are well known which come, not of poetry, 
but of wit. Voltaire wrote it upon some impatient 
knees, in the free and easy style of the graces of hie 
day. 



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182 MADEMOISELLE OAUS8IN. 

After Zaire, it was Alzire — Second edition, re 

vised, corrected, and enlarged by the madrigal : — 

»* 'Twas not to roe tbey homage paid ; 

You won their love and praise frora thera, 
Charming Alzire; you too condemn 

The converts that Don Guzman made." 

Not unto me belongs the praise ! If Voltaire had 
been told that this was from the gospel ? He wlio 
writes for the stage may always ask the actor, when 
the actor gives the author his whole soul, to sign the 
piece, unless he who writes is a Moliere. 

It was especially in the part of Ines, in the cele- 
brated tragedy of La Motte that Voltaire wished to 
put into verse, that Mademoiselle Gaussin revealed 
the impassioned and expressive poetry of her act- 
ing. The celebrated line will be recollected : — 
"All Paris, for Ines, had the eyes of Don Pedro." 

Madeleine Gaussin having been painted by Tour- 
nieres in this affecting part, La Motte had it inscribed 
upon the frame in letters of gold. 

At her debuts, she was pui-sued by all that remained 
of the roues of the regency, Eichelieu, who had para- 
phrased the line of Boileau : — 

"Woman is but a slave, made only to obey." 
Richelieu, accustomed to conquest on a loftier stage, 
was very much surprised and very much irritated to 
see the door of Mademoiselle Gaussin closed before 
him. He swore that he would avenge himself upon 
some woman of the court. 



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A BILLETDOUX. 183 

Now, why was the door of Mademoiselle Gaussin 
closed to this hero of the bedchamber, who never 
gained any battles except with Master Cupid ? 

It was because Madeleine Gaussin was a woman 
of heart, who had only one lover at a time. Now, 
who was it that defended the place when the mar6- 
chal de Eichelieu laid siege to it? A brave fellow 
by the name of Bagnole, who had not a sou^ but who 
could get the better of the mareGhal in an affair of 
the heart. 

This is the whole story: — 

One morning, her chambermaid brought to her, 
while in bed engaged with her chocolate and her 
novel, a letter written in this fine style : — 

" Mademoiselle : I am a poor student at law, whom 
your eyes have ruined for ever. I must cast myself 
at your feet and die there of love. I saw you last 
night in Zaire! You are so beautiful that I did 
not understand a single word. I have passed the 
night in prowling under your window, without taking 
note of the weather. For Heaven's sake, let me 
live or let me die. Your lacquey would not admit 
me. I do not wish to dance attendance upon you. 
Order me to be admitted to you. In beholding me, 
so foolish or so sublime in my madness, you will 
either burst into tears or into a lauojh, mv life or 
death. " Bagnole." 

Mademoiselle Gaussin read this letter over three 
times. " He is a madman !" said she. And she rang 



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184 MADEMOISELLE GAUSSTN. 

the bell. " Jacqnelinette !" — " Mademoiselle ?" — 
" What is the meaning of all this ?" 

Jacqnelinette burst out a-langhing. " Ah ! made- 
moiselle, lie would make you turn your head, but on 
the wrong side." — "He is ugly, then?" — "Oh no, 
as to that! but he has a strange look — it is enough 
to make one die a-langhing. He has been here 
already three or four times, as if we got up with the 
sun." — "His letter is very pretty." — "If he should 
return, what shall I say to him?" — "Tell him to 
write me some more letters." 

Bagnole returned. He might knock his hardest 
at the door — he did not get in. 

He guarded the door like a sentinel in order to 
take the actress by surprise as she went out ; but at 
noon, as she did not make her appearance, he betook 
himself to the cafe Procope to w^rite a second letter 
to her. 

While he was writing, she went out. On that 
day she acted in Z^ Oracle, During the interval, 
while she was receiving bouquets and compliments 
in the green-room, Bagnole, niore excited than he 
was on the evening before, ran to her and threw him- 
self at her feet, after having overturned Pant de 
Vesle in his passage. 

There were twenty-five pereons in the green-room. 
Absorbed by his passion, he beheld only Madeleine 
Gaussin ; and kneeling, said to her, with a voice full 
of emotion : " I love you, and I will tell you so 



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ALL FOR LOVK. 185 

everywhere." Mademoiselle tried to escape from 
him, but he held her by tlie arm. 

A young man, the marquis d'Im6court, addressed 
him sharply and ti'ied to separate him by force from 
the actress. But Bagnole held on. 

Mademoiselle Gaussin, angry as she was with this 
mode of conducting one's self — or, rather, with this 
mode of making love — had, nevertheless, scniti- 
nized the face of the young law-student. His face 
was beautiful, very pale and very expressive — a 
soul animated it. The flower of youth and poetry 
spread a halo around it. '' Do you observe what 
a charming face he has?" remarked the actress to 
the marquis d'Imecourt, who was her lover of the 
day before. " By heavens !" he replied, " I'll wash 
my hands of him." And he released Bagnole. 

At that moment, the soldiers of the guard at the 
Comedie-Franjaise came up to seize him. He al- 
lowed himself, Leneath the penetrating charm of a 
tender glance from Mademoiselle Gaussin, to be 
conducted, as if he were a drunken person, to the 
guard-house of the Luxembourg. He asked for his 
father ; he was an innkeeper at La Rdpee. Thinking 
his son was mad, or that he had a disposition for 
the follies of the prodigal son, he had him taken by 
force to St. Lazare. 

But, the next day, the amorous youth escaped by 
a window and hurried to the Comedie-Frangaise. 
He waited this time until Mademoiselle Gaussin 



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186 MADEMOISELLE GAU88IN. 

passed. When she alighted from her phseton, he 
threw himself again at her feet. "I wished to see 
you again," he exclaimed passionately : and showing 
her a poniard — "Do not be impatient, all will be 
soon over." — " You are a child !" said she, grasping 
his hand — to take the poniard from him. "Arise 
and do not die. I am not so cmel as that If I 
must love you — well, I will love you!" 

The poor Bagnole experienced so unexpected a 
]oy in hearing those words — or rather that sweet 
voice, which had become tender for his sake — that 
he fell, fainting, to the ground. 

Madeleine Gaussin called her lacquey, while she 
i-aised the head of Bagnole. 

The lacquey took him in his arms and carried him 
to the cafe Procope, where mademoiselle Gaussin 
hereelf followed. 

Piron and Boissy were there. A group gathered 
about the actress, who related, with all her artless 
simplicity, the folly of the law-student. 

Piron, who had never as yet been in love, ap- 
proached the young man, and saluted him with 
respect. " The folks of the academy," said he to 
to Boissy, "saluted wisdom, which is sterile: I do 
as Erasmus — I salute folly, which goes whither the 
heart leads it." 

BagnoU, who had come to, opened his eyes, moist 
with joy, upon Mademoiselle Ganssin, who had 
kindly bent over him. 



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THEATRICAL LOVE. 187 

" I," said Boissy, " salute passion when it is sc 
strong and so candid." — "And I," said mademoi- 
selle Gaussin, " will give to so much folly and so 
much passion, my folly and my passion." 

Bagnole arose ; he cast a jealous look around, and 
seemed to ask of the actress if they were not going 
elsewhere to pai-take of the honey-moon. " Evil be 
to him who evil thinks !" said Madeleine Gaussin. 

She went out, followed closely by Bagnole, to her 
phaeton. " Get in !" said she to the amorous youth. 

He had the sense not to ask where they were go- 
ing. Did they know where they were going ? But at 
the theatre, when it was announced that Madeleine 
Gaussin, "suddenly indisposed," would not appear 
that night in the part of Lucinde in VOracle^ the 
audience, naturally roguishly inclined, exclaimed : 
"Bagnole! Bagnole!" 

Mademoiselle Gaussin returned — they alwa^^s re- 
turn ! She returned alone ; as occurs often when 
two set out together. Moreover, Mademoiselle Gaus- 
sin did not wish to assume the airs of a sentimental 
Phillis : she wanted the whole world to love her, but 
she was somewhat fearful of the sublime ridiculous- 
ness of loving any one. As for Bagnole, he was 
still enveloped in all the flames of passion : but he 
had, in a few days, been forced to submit to so many 
caprices, that he had bid La Gaussin farewell with- 
out much regret, calculating upon consoling himself 
elsewhere, with some other girl in the Latin quai*ter, 
without any stage-play. 

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188 MADEMOISELLE GAU88IN. 

In spite of her caprices as a stage-queen, Made- 
moiselle Gaussin had a way of living very much at 
her ease. "I have no prejudices," she used to 
say ; which meant : " I turn with the wind ; I love 
when in the humor, I obey only ray own folly, and 
I laugh at the prudence of othei-s." She preferred 
a golden girdle to a good reputation. A girdle? 
did she ever find time to tie it? As for her repu- 
tation, hers was the worst on the stage. The pit 
vindicated outraged morality, by giving her an oc- 
casional hint. On the first representation of a 
comedy by Destouches, the Force dunaturel^ at this 

line: — 

"I believe she will never say, nay." 

which indicated the character of the part she was 
playing, the whole house burst out a laughing. 
Mademoiselle Gaussin sustained her very tottering 
virtues by a great deal of wit and originality. She 
ennobled, if I may be allowed to say so, her courte- 
san aire, by some touches of true passion, and by 
a noble disinterestedness. Take one stoiy out of a 
thousand : she loved Helve tins for his beauty and his 
renown ; one night in the green-room, during an 
interlude, Helvetius was then at her side, discuss- 
ing some point or other of transcendental philo- 
sopliy; a financier, an old rou6 of the regency, 
very ugly but ver}^ rich, approached Mademoiselle 
Gaussin, and offered her without further prelimina- 
ries, a hundred pistoles if she would go sup with 



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A PORTRAIT BY A RIVAL. 189 

him. "Turcaret, my friend," replied Mademoiselle 
Gaii88in, with a loud voice, and with an impertinent 
toss of the head ; " I will give you two hundred pis- 
toles, if you will come to sup with me with that face 
there." And she pointed to Helvetius as she sai(f so. 

A great deal has been said about the beauty of 
Mademoiselle Gaussin. See how Mademoiselle Clai- 
ron has painted her: " Mademoiselle Gaussin had 
a most beautiful head, a most touching voice ; her 
ensemble was noble, all her movements had a child- 
like grace which it was impossible to resist, nor did 
she resist it either ; but she was always Mademoi- 
selle Gaussin. Zaire and Rodogune were cast in 
the same mould ; age, condition, situation, scene, all 
v/ere of the same form." Mademoiselle Clairon says, 
moreover, that Mademoiselle Gaussin had but a 
vagne instinct of the dramatic art, that she had not, 
as she herself had, an intelligent and impassioned 
eeatiment. She denies her outright the power of form- 
ing a true conception of a dramatic piece, whether 
tragedy or comedy. Mademoiselle Clairon appears 
tc me to be joking. This right of judgment, who 
has it? Time, and even then ! Monsieur de Voltaire 
judged Comeille at a distance of a hundred yeara; 
did he form any better judgment than the cardinal 
de Richelieu? Mademoiselle Clarion would have 
done better to have loved one hour longer, than to 
Lave exhibited her relative position. 

Tliere is in the green-room at the Com6die-FraTV 



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190 MADEMOISELLE GAU8SIN. 

9ai8e, a portrait of Mademoiselle Gaussin — more or 
less authentic. It is a pretty woman with ronge and 
powder, painted by Nattier. She is draped like a 
vestal of the eighteenth century. She displays her 
delicate and white shoulders ; she takes but little 
care to conceal her bosom. 

All such beauty, all such brilliancy, all such glory, 
pajis rapidly away, like everything that loves the sun. 
The green-room of the Com6die becomes depopulated 
about Mademoiselle Gaussin. The age has become 
a reasoning one ; the lovers become philosophers. As 
for her, not knowing whither to turn, she sought wis- 
dom — fnun curiosity. The example of Mademoiselle 
Gaussin, did not correct at a later day, Mademoi- 
selle Guimard, who ended like her. Now, listen hoij 
Mademoiselle Gaussin ended : — 

Marriage which had appeared to her, for fifty 
yeai-s like a prejudice, seemed to her all of a sudden 
the only plank of safety for eternity. She had sc 
lively a desire to die with the benefit of the sacra- 
ment, "honored like all wives," that not being abl6 
to unite hereelf to a more distinguished pei'sonage, 
she married an opera-dancer, she who had lived on 
familiar terms with dukes and philosophers, Riche- 
lieu or Helvetius! She became then Madame Toa- 
laigo, as robust as one's arm. But it was too late tc 
be happy, and consequently have many children; 
The Sieur Toalafgo, jealous of the past, poor man ! 
— I would say poor dancer! — beat her for all the 



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TWO TO A BARGAIN. 191 

lovers she had had. Poor woman ! — Vanity of vani- 
ties ! she consoled herself somewhat, when Toalaigc 
purchased in Berri, the estate of Laszenoy, the name 
of which he assumed. But whatever his name was, 
his heart and head were always those of Toalaigo. 

It is related, that during one season passed at this 
famous chatGSiu, she met her dear Bagnole, w^hom 
she had not wished to take time enough to love. 
Bagnole had become a rustic philosopher ; he hunted 
while meditating upon human troubles and vanities. 
" Ah ? Bagnole ! Bagnole !" exclaimed she, throwing 
iitn-ahii into his arms, "it was you and not the 
others.^ — "It is true," said Bagnole, growing pale, 
•' i)Q\. it is too late for you to rest upon a heart which 
no xoiiger beats for you." 

Sue returned to her husband more desolate than 
ever. Toalaigo did her the favor of quitting her, 
fyyV the other world. But what was left to her in 
tnis? A pair of eyes to behold the solitude, which 
surrounds those women who have lived too much in 
tne crowd. She had but one part to take — that was 
to escape herself — which happened on the 6th June, 
1767. Poor Gaussin! so much beauty, so many 
cnarms, so much genius ! She who drove four hoi-ses 
to her coach, she who had been the adoration of all the 
prodigal sons of the generation of Voltaire, she died 
without having enough to leave a will, and what is 
still more sad, without a friend to cause her to regret 
that she had not wherewithal to make a will ! 



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JACQUES CALLOl. 

A 0AENAVALE8QUE EPIC. 
I. 

The Nature in which we breathe is also our iroth- 
er; our soul, most frequently, forms itself in he** 
image. If we are paintei*s or poets, if God has per- 
mitted us to reproduce or to sing of his works, it i« 
the nature of our native land which forms our fir«it 
inspiration. The soul of every man of genius is a 
mirror which he carries along his road. We may 
he astonished, at fii'st, to find the cradle and the 
tomb of Callot amid the smiling scenery which encir- 
cles Nancy. Claude Lorraine it would suit right 
well ! Was it there that Callot saw his captains, his 
bravoes, his sorcerers, his gipsies — the whole of tlij»t 
splendid gallery of the curiosities of human nature? 
In studying the life of Jacques Callot from his in- 
fancy, I shall discover, I am sure, the happy chance 
to which he owed his genius. 

If you wish to look on, with me, at the curious 
infancy of Callot — rebuild, according to the fancy 



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A HAPPY FAMILY. 193 

of your historical recollections, at Nancy, near the 
old hotel de Marque, a nnansion of somewhat lofty 
front, ornamented at the door and casements with 
carvings which have suffered from exposure to the 
weather: between the two windows of the ground- 
floor is a stone bench for the use of beggars and pil- 
grims ; on the fii-st story above, two windows — that 
is to sa}^, two stone crosses — forming each four aper- 
tures; on the second floor, two dormer-windows open- 
ing on the roof above the gutter — around these two 
windows, some moss, some tufts of grass, a little flower 
which the wind or a bird has planted there; at the 
summit of the roof, a single, very tall chimney, 
which is always smoking. At the two casements we 
may now and then see enframed the tender and 
•anxious face of a mother, or the grave and dignified 
head of a father — the father and mother of Callot, 
Jean Callot and Ken6e Brunehault. At the two dor- 
mer-windows we can see a young and joyful family, 
in all the charms of freedom from care: among 
these children we shall recognise Jacques Callot, by 
his proud and inquisitive glance, which already rests 
on everything — on you and on me, as if he thought 
us worthy of his gallery. 

If we enter the house, we shall find it furnished 
plainly, in harmony with the pale light which enters 
through the small, lozenge-shaped panes : chests of 
walnut, a faldstool, an ebony crucifix surmounted by 
the Easter palms, in which the spider has never any 

Vol. I.— 9 



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194 JACQUES C ALLOT. 

clmnce to spin his web; higli-backed cliaii-s of carved 
oak ; gotliic tables on twisted feet ; a great cliiinney- 
piece, over which hangs a mirror with edges and 
frame highly decorated ; on the mantel of the good 
old time, two silver goblets, of good form and height, 
produced in a time when people knew how to drink ; 
between the windows a gothic clock; on the shelves 
a brilliant pewter vessel ; pots of flowered earthen- 
ware; a handsome Bohemian glass. At the fii*st 
glance, we discover Jean Callot, walking np and 
down the better to reflect, in velvet breeches, slashed 
and puffed — or Eenee Brunehault, seated in the 
chimney-corner, busy with her distaff. 

It was in this house that Jacques Callot entered 
the world in 1593. His family can be traced back 
to 1400 — a year in which it was attached to the 
dukes of Burgundy. It is believed that the family 
is of Flemish origin. A Callot, secretary of Duke 
John, father of Charles the Bold, was surnamed the 
Liegeois. Claude Callot,* father of John and grand- 

* Claude Callot, whose ancestors had been attached to the dukes 
of Burgundy, was ennobled by letters patent of Charles IIL, bear- 
ing date July 30, 1584, after haying been an archer of his guards for 
twenty-two years. He had married Claude de Fricourt^ grand-niece 
by her mother of the maid of Orleans. His son, John I., herald-al/- 
«rms of Lorraine, had by his wife, Renee Brunehault, daughter of 
the physician of the dowager duchess Christina of Denmark, amonsr 
other children, Jacques Callot, engraver. The coat-of-arms of tho 
family bore Azure^ five stars oTf saltire-wise. I have seen it, accom • 
panied by the motto, ScirUillant ut astrOy which would appear very 
ambitious were it not justified by the celebrity of Jacques Callot*- - 
Des Maretz Eloge historique de Jacques Callot. 



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THE BENJAMIN OF THE FAMILY. 196 

Bire of Jacques, was one of the valiant inen-of-arms 
of his time. Charles III., duke of Lorraine, in order 
to properly recompense his bravery and loyal ser- 
vices, had ennobled him in a marked manner, as, at 
a later period, genius ennobled his grandson. The 
arms of Claude were brilliant and ambitious; the 
shield bore, azure five stare or, placed saltire-wise ; 
for a crest, a mailed right-hand, compone or and 
azure, holding a battle-axe, the whole borne and sup- 
ported by a helmet argent, covered by a mantle of the 
metals and colore of the shield. Claude inscribed 
on it the motto ^^ SGintillant ut astral He had 
married a grand-niece of the maid of Orleans. Jean 
Callot, firet herald at- arms of Lorraine, married Een6e 
Brunehault, daughter of the physician of the duchess 
Christina of Denmark. Ren6e was a good, simple- 
minded woman, made to be a mother ; so she had 
eleven children. Jacques, the last of the boys, 
was her Benjamin. As she had the misfortune to 
lose her daughters, her love for Jacques became only 
the more tender. Jacques always remembered the 
generous milk and pious teare of his mother : he had 
always a good heart. Jean Callot — prouder of his 
title of herald-at-arms than the duke of Lorraine of 
his duchy — counted on his youngest son as his suc- 
cessor : his elder ones had already taken other paths ; 
one entered the excise, the other became a lawyer. 
Jacques, when eight yeare old, learned to draw and 
color coats-of-arms under the eyes of his father. 



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196 JACQUES C ALLOT. 

The passion for drawing took such firm hold of hira, 
that at scliool, when learning to write, he made a 
design out of each letter of the alphabet. The A 
was the gable of his father's house, the B their neigh- 
bor's weathercock, and so on with the other letters; 
his writing was therefore of the most curious descrip- 
tion — an entire world might be discovered in it- 
There had been painters in his mother's family : 
among others an uncle, a disciple of Holbein, who 
had become the head of a religious school in Hol- 
land. Ilen6e Brunehault loved the arts: without 
wishing to do so, perhaps, she instilled a love of 
them into the last of her sons. She could not under- 
derstand how a man could pass his whole life, like 
the solemn and austere Jean C;illot, in carefully 
shaking: off the dust from old coats-of-arms. As 
soon as she was alone with Jacques, she roused his 
young imagination by the simple narrative, inter- 
rupted by kisses, of the historical singularities of 
men of genius. The good woman was marvellously 
well acquainted with the curious chaptei-s in the his- 
tory of the old painters. I love to picture to myself 
the mother of Jacques Callot in the costume of Maiy 
Stuart, ruff, laces, and fardingale, taking his hands 
in the chimney-corner, caressing his curls, smiling on 
him with a melancholy tenderness, and finally re- 
lating to him some marvel of art. Thereupon Jacques 
mounted to his room, trimmed his pen or pencil, and, 
Without knowing what he was going to do, scattered 



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ARTISTIC EDUCATION. 197 

his lines right and left. When he had exhausted his 
enthusiasm, he leaned out of the window, crumbled 
the bread for the sparrows which he had not used 
in his drawings, reviewed in his memory all his 
mother's stories, and carried his glances along the 
streets or in the windows of the neighborhood. At 
his dormer-window he had a view of a charming 
landscape, surrounded by woods and mountains, dot- 
ted with clumps of trees and church-spires, varie- 
gated by patches of cultivated land. In rainy sea- 
sons he could follow, through the verdant meadows, 
the meanderings of the streamlet called the Meurthe. 
But Jacques cared little for the magnificent displays 
of nature — he was not one of those who are smitten 
with the magic of color at the sight of the splendid 
flames of the setting sun, penetrating the thick foli- 
age, and losing itself in the blue heavens. What 
most struck him in nature was man. In his time^ 
humanity had still a thousand distinct characters, 
the great tree a thousand separate grafts : either by 
chance or by the will of the Creator, then — more 
than now, perhaps — every man had the spirit and 
the dress of his calling in the mingled drama of 
smiles and tears which is performed here below. 
Jacques Callot, instead of studying the mysteries 
and grandeur of nature, studied, with a curiosity yet 
childish, all that he found strange, extravagant, and 
original. In a word, among the actors of life who 
played their parts before his eyes, these who most 



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198 JACQUKS CALLOT. 

clianned bim were always gasconading soldiers— 
ballad-singei*8, opening their mouths larger than the 
wooden bowls they presented for charitable offer- 
ings — rope-dancers, reheareing their pantomimes — 
beggars, in their picturesque rags — pilgrims, with 
their doublets lashed by time, enamelled, starred, 
furrowed with rosaries of boxwood, artificial flowers, 
leaden medals ; in fine, with all the devotional mar- 
vels of Notre Dame de Bon Secoura, In 1600, 
there were scarcely any other theatres in the prov- 
inces than those of the open air : those were, there- 
fore, the palmy days of bear-leadei-s, fortune-telling 
gipsies, clowns, and harlequins dancing on a scaffold- 
ing on holydays. Jacques soon attempted to sketch, 
either in his chamber or in the open street, all the 
genuinely grotesque or buffoonish figures that he 
met with. He was seen, more than once, to seat 
himself unceremoniously on the pavement — open 
his school-portfolio — take his paper, his pen or pen- 
cil — and, in the quietest manner, sketch some jug- 
gler with his cups, who seemed to be standing for 
him. Once, among other times, his father met him 
seated at the basin of a fountain of Nancy, his naked 
feet in the water, sketching, with unequalled enthu- 
siasm, the great nose and mouth of a clown who was 
playing his tricks at a little distance.* 

When Jacques failed of such sights, he still found 

• Watteau, who has in painting the physiognomy of Gallot it 
engraving, commenced in the same way. 



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NATURE IS THE 8CHOOLMASTEB. 199 

Romething to employ his pencil. Had lie not always 
before his eyes — sometimes severe and dignified to 
a ridiculous extent, sometimes illumined by Moselle 
wine — the face of his schoolmaster? And then, 
when tired of his lessons, it exactly suited him to 
play truant: he rushed into the fii-st church he found 
open, and passed long houre in contemplation before 
the sculptures of the altars and tombs, the frescoes 
of the chapels, the gothic designs of the pointed win- 
dows, the religious pictures of the simple old mas- 
ters. He went everywhere, where there was any- 
thing curious to be seen — into the churches, the 
monasteries, the hotels ; even to the palace of the 
dukes of Lorraine. Thanks to his pretty face, half 
hidden in golden curls — thanks to the precious Flan- 
ders lace with which his mother trimmed his collar 
and cuffs — he was allowed to pass everywhere, youth 
is so beautiful and pleasant to see! Is not a child, 
playing, running, or smiling, a charming dream of 
the past? 

One Sunday moraing, on awaking, Jacques was 
attracted to his window by the sound of the fife and 
drum of a company of gipsies, who were putting up 
their booth before the hotel de Marque. The rays 
of a spring sun shed a cheerful and pleasant glow 
over the troop. Jacques, delighted with the sight, 
descended at fii-st to the gutter to see more at hie 
ease. He afterward abandoned the gutter for the 
chimney : it was like a place in a stage-box. There, 



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200 JACQUES CALLOT. 

without sajing a word — the eye fixed, mouth half 
open, ear pricked up — he witnessed, when the cm*- 
tain was raised, all the preparations for the show. The 
decorations were taken out of a little wagon drawn by 
an ass, the said ass and said wagon being themselves 
player and decoration. They made the spangled cas- 
socks, wliich had long since seen their best days, glitter 
with a sort of pomp in the sun. Three infants at the 
breast were set-down, helter-skelter, among the paste- 
board lions and serpents, which served them for 
playthings. Jacques saw, in less than a quarter of 
an hour, so many things, natural and unnatural, issue 
from the chariot, that he fancied that the chief of 
the troop had the gift of creation. He was desirous, 
at all hazards, to descend to the stage. In reaching 
the street, he at firet hung back ; but soon, more and 
more astonished, he went as far as the side scene. 
To obtain pardon for such boldness, he ofiered one 
of the gipsies, the fii-st who passed near him, a sprig 
of wild-gillyflower which he had just gathered on 
the roof of the paternal mansion. "By my holy 
bowl," said the gipsy, smelling the flower, " he is a 
pretty boy. Do not blush, my child. Is it your 
mother who has adorned you with those pretty laces ? 
She may well kiss those locks. Let us see — don't 
be afraid — I am not 'the old red-headed woman.'" 
Saying this, the gipsy embraced Jacques with the 
tenderness of a mother. She forthwith resumed: 
** Here is a face which foretells a fair and good day ; 



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A PREDICTION. 201, 

BO 1 shall predict a good fortune to this pretty child. 
Come, look at me with your blue eyes : they are 
something which will recommend you to the ladies; 
you will make your way, my child." — "My way? 
my way?" murmured Jacques with a sigh. He 
continued : " Have you been to Italy — you and the 
rest ?" — " Often. So you want to travel ? Yes, that 
truly is a restless glance, which seeks distant lands. 
You will travel so far, and so well, that your bones, 
at your death, may be buried in your cradle. 
If we may believe this rather proud lip, you will 
be a valiant man-of-arms." — "Never!" exclaimed 
Jacques. " And what better do you want to be ?" — 
"A painter." — "A painter? it is a dog's life: do 
not enter on it, if you always want to wear these 
laces. I know more than one of them who is obliged 
to live as it pleases God to provide for him. How- 
ever, if it amuses you, go on : but it is not your des- 
tiny." — "When do you set out for Italy?" asked 
Jacques. " In November ; for in winter we have no 
other heai-th than the sun of Naples." — "Since you 
know everything," continued Jacques, with an air 
of doubt, "tell me at what age I shall die?" The 
gipsy took his little hand. By a chance, which des- 
tiny at a later period obeyed, the line of life was 
broken off in the very middle. The gipsy turned 
her head aside sadly : "The line is not yet formed ; 
at our next meeting, I will tell yon the date of your 
deatli." — " Provided that I can reach fortv, like my 

9* 



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202 JACQUES CALLOT. 

uncle Braneliault, it is all that I ask of God." At 
this moraent, Jacques, seeing his father returning 
from the ducal palace, fled in all haste to the house. 
"Success and happiness be with you," cried the 
gipsy after him, as she pressed the flower to her lips. 

Jacques hoped to re-enter without being seen by 
his father, but the fii*st care of the herald-at-arms on 
his return, was to summon his son for the purpose of 
pulling his ears. — " Go," said he to him, "you are no 
better than a rope-dancer, unworthy to bear my name 
and arms, unworthy above all of my title of herald. 
I have counted upon you, but do you think that 
the grand duke will trust you with his volume of 
genealogy, when I am dead ? Instead of learning the 
ancient history of the nobles of our land, to render 
justice to each, according to his arms and his works, 
you are composing by pencil sketches the history of 
cup-tossers — the greatest grand duke for you is the 
greatest rope-dancer. Go, I despair of you, rebel- 
lious child, with your vagabond tastes you will turn 
out a juggler." 

With these words, the venerable Jean Callot 
passed solemnly to his study. Jacques went and hid 
his tears in his mother's bosom ; the good woman 
wept also, as she at the same time lectured her son : 
*' You will become more reasonable, my dear child, 
your tears are those of repentance. From to-morrow 
you will study without intermission the noble science, 
of heraldy. Come, come, the bells are ringing for 



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AN ARTIST DBKAM. 203 

masB, do not be the last at church, as you always 
are." 

Wlien Jaques was dressed from head to foot, he 
muttered with a smile of hope: "This is a dress 
which would answer admirably for my journey to 
Italy." Until that time, he had only thought of Italy 
with trembling ; he began to abandon himself to this 
dream with more confidence. On his way to church, 
his imagination wandered over the mountains of 
Switzerland and the Tyrol. The chants of the mass, 
the sun shedding its rays on the altar through the 
gothic windows, the fumes of the censers, excited 
him to the highest degree. "Italy! Italy!" cried 
an unknown voice to him ; and all the splendore of 
the Eternal city passed before him, like enticing 
fairies ; the Virgins of Raphael smiled upon him 
with their divine smile, and stretched out to him 
their celestial arms. If he thought of the dangei-s of 
the pilgrimage, he reassured himself at the same in- 
stant — " Shall I not soon be twelve j^eai-s old," said 
he raising his head. In reality, what had this child 
of twelve to fear? Did not God follow his steps to 
protect him ? The mass over, he remained in the 
chnrch, to pray to God to bless his jouraey, and to 
console his mother ; after a while he rose, wiped away 
liis teal's, and took, without turning his head, the 
road to Luneville, thinking, in all sincerity, that his 
light purse wonld take him to the end of the world. 
We must not deceive oui*selves ; the love of art was 



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204: JACQUKS CALLOT. 

without doubt the motive of the journey, but did not 
the journey itself play a great part, in forming the 
bold resolution of this capricious aud rambling 
genius ? 

II. 

We have not the entire history of Jacques Callot's 
journey. We know that he went resolutely ahead, 
sleeping at the farmhouse or the tavern, like a young 
pilgrim after having stolen some fruit in the neigh- 
borhood ; resting at the lonely springs, praying at all 
the wayside crosses. Although he was accustomed 
to a degree of luxury, to a good bed, delicate fare, 
and above all, to the solicitude of his mother, he 
slept marvellously well on the truckle-bed of the inn, 
the fresh straw of the farmhouse, usually in bad 
company ; he ate without grumbling, from the earthen- 
ware of the peasants, black bread, spoon meat or 
beans. He never regretted, even in his woi*st days, 
the patjraal mansion, so severe and pitiless did the 
face of the worthy herald-at-arms appear to him. In 
pursuing a glorious aim, Jacques had not laid aside 
the joys of his age, the pleasing idleness when the 
sun makes nature gay, the careless liberty, the charm 
of adventure. If he met a donkey at pasture, he 
leaped gayly astride of his back, and without 
troubling himself about his steed, restored him to 
liberty at one or two leagues from the point of de- 
parture ; if he found a skiff on a fish-pond or little 



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THE JOUBNEY. 205 

stream, he unfastened the chain unceremoniously, 
leaped in, pushed off and rowed until he was out of 
breath. When caught, flagrante delicto^ his esca- 
pade was soon pardoned, on account of his good 
looks. He thus reached a village near Basle. Al- 
though he had so far lived on little, his purse began 
to sound hollow ; two days more and it would cease 
to ring at all. Jacques consoled himself by thinking 
that he would live on fruits, that good mother Nature 
would everywhere open to him the rural hostelry 
which has the sign of the Oood Star, The nights 
were beautiful, the meadows were being mowed, and 
did not every sweep of the scythe furnish a bed for 
Jacques? He resigned himself with good heart to 
this. prospect, more poetical than agreeable, when he 
heard the sounds of shrill music, which reminded 
him of his friends, the rope-dancers. You may fancy 
whether he followed the music or not. 

It was twilight; the setting sun was gilding the 
discolored slates of the steeple, the cows returning to 
the stable, responded to the shrill sounds of the pipe 
by their lowings, the bulls by the silvery tones of 
their bells, the shepherd by the deafening sound of 
his horn. Jacques soon came up to a troupe of gip- 
sies near the church, who were executing a grotesque 
dance, to the great wonderment of the villagei-s as- 
sembled in a noisy circle. In order to contemplate 
the sight, entirely at his leisure, Jacques perched 
himself on the top of a grave-yard wall. He saw a 



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206 JACQUES CALLOT. 

score of gipsies of all ages, from the grandmother tc 
the little girl in the cradle, dressed in rags covered 
with spangles, some dancing, others playing on the 
fife and violin, some telling fortunes, othei^s passing 
with forced grimaces, the wooden bowl around the 
circle of spectatore. The sun imparted a pompous 
splendor to their wretchedness; thanks to the fine 
weather, the luxuriousness of the season, nothing 
was apparent but their laugh and their tinsel; one 
might fancy himself witnessing a gay company of 
fairies, seeking divei'sion, or capricious sprites, giving 
an entertainment for their own amusement. Among 
the dancers, two young girls of fifteen or sixteen 
were noticeable, who shed around themselves, by 
their striking beauty and impassioned grace, a charm 
of the most attractive character. Jacques followed 
thcni with his eyes, with a smile of love and happi- 
ness ; he could not resist the desire of sketching their 
portraits. He set to work; as you may imagine, he 
never moved without his roll of paper enclosing his 
pencils. When he had grouped after a fashion, the 
two beautfnl dancere in the same movement, he was 
very much surprised to find himself surrounded by 
several curious peasants, who were in silent wonder 
at his skill ; he continued his work without troubling 
himself much about them, but he was not able to 
finish ; fur soon the two dancers, finding out that 
their portraits were being taken, desired in their turn 
t(j see if they made a good appearance ; they there- 



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ALL ROADS LKAD TO ROME. ?^T 

fore came and leaned over, close to the two eai-s of 
the sketcher, who finding his charming models so 
near him, dropped his pencil, "How pretty he is, sis- 
ter I" said one of them. " How skilful !" responded 
the other. — "Where does he come from ? What is 
he ? Where is he going to?" — " I am going to Rome," 
said Jacques, without knowing very well what he 
should say. — " To Rome I to Italy ! We are going to 
Florence, what a lucky companion if he w^ould join 
US ! all roads lead to Rome!" — "Yes, lucky com- 
panion !" said Jacques, drawing out his purse, " see 
all I have got for my journey, and I have besides 
dined very poorly to-day." — " Poor child ! I will 
take him to the Red Inn, where we expect supper 
and lodging, milk and beans, and twenty bundles of 
straw on the barn-floor. Come on, the sun has set, 
and our bowls are full. Kiss my necklace of pearls, 
and give me your hand." 

Saying these words, the pretty girl inclined her 
neck to the somewhat rebellious lips of Jacques ; he 
however kissed the necklace, and the neck with a 
good will, after which the two sisters took him each 
by the hand, and led him toward the troop, which 
was just setting forth. He allowed himself to be led 
away veiy willingly, tiiinking, with a blushing face, 
of the twenty bundles of straw, where he was to have 
his share of sleep. 

The troop arrived a few minutes after at the Red 
Inn, where they had left their asses and mules, their 



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208- JACQU>:S C ALLOT. 

wagon and panniers, in charge of two old cripples ' 
Before supper, Jacques was foi'inally admitted ; a 
good escort was promised him to Florence, in con- 
sideration of tlie little money that he had left, on the 
rigorous condition of taking the portraits of the entire 
band, men and beasts, without any exception. The 
odor of the beans made him promise everything the 
gipsies requested. The supper was gay and noisy ; 
it was washed down with sundry cups of claret, and 
ended off by a rondo chorus, of which Callot pre- 
served the recollection until his death. The two 
pretty gipsy-girls, who were his neighbor at table, 
were also desirous of being so on the barn-floor. He 
had no cause to complain, for they were the only 
loveable creatures of the set. He had remarked, 
that before supper they had, as in the good patri- 
archal days, washed their feet and hands in the 
brook. As soon as they felt sleepy, they loosened 
their ebon locks, tressed them up in a thousand fan- 
ciful ringlets, knotted them up or twisted them in 
papei-s. He slept beside them, with pleasant, though 
agitated dreams. 

The next day they passed through Basle, where 
they reaped but a sterile crop. Beyond this city, 
tliey pitched their tent in the neighboring woods, 
where they lived during a week on plunder, like 
savage beasts. Jacques did not at first understand 
why they thus retired from the world. It was for 
man and beast to take breath, to mend coi'sets and 



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GIPSY LIFE. 20S 

petticoats, wash the linens and laces, polish the 
spangles, beat out money and work at small jeweh'y, 
necklaces, copper and lead rings, brooches, buckles, 
medallions and other ornaments, for the use of peas- 
ants. Besides, the life was not worse in the forest 
than in the tavern. Three of the gipsies were capi- 
tal hunters, not a day passed, that they did not bring 
to the kitchen in the oj^jen air, some rare piece of 
game. Jacques was surprised to find such good 
cheer. He followed the two young gipsies in their 
walks, while the matrons were lighting the furnaces 
for dinner or supper; he searched with them for 
birds' feathei"S for ornaments, for bunches of sorb-ber- 
ries for necklaces ; he gathered wild cherries, straw- 
berries, and gooseberries, for thedessertof the band. 
He sketched on the bark of trees. In the night, a 
large fire was kindled to scare away fiimished visit- 
ers ; they lay down pell-mell under the tent or 
about it; they told grotesque stories of assassins 
and ghosts. Although the nights in the forest were 
chilly, Jacques never complained of the cold, thanks 
to the two pretty gipsies, who jealously protected 
him. They pushed their tender solicitude for him so 
far, as to conceal from him the scandalous incidents 
which were passing around him. 

They resumed their route to Italy ; walking by 
short stages, begging in the villages, pillaging de- 
serted chateaux, leaving everywhere their destructive 
traces. Jacques might have said with Pilate, "I 



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210 JACQUES CALLOT. 

wash my hands of it," he however ate veiy heartily, 
and without needing any pressing, of the frnit of the 
phmder. One must needs live on something. They 
crossed the Alps, always supping at the expense of 
tlie monks. At last, after six weeks of strange and 
perilous adventure, Jacques Callot saluted Italy, the 
Holy Land of Ai-t. It was time ; for the poor child 
in spite of the recollections of his mother, which pro- 
tected him amid the savage horde of gipsies, had 
ended by losing himself among these chance com- 
rades, who recognise neither God nor devil, virtue 
nor vice, good nor evil. The splendid images of 
Italy were already paling before the two smiling and 
.amorous forms of the two pretty gipsies, when ho at 
last set foot on that sacred soil. " Ital}", Italy," ho 
exclaimed, raising his arms to heaven. He wopt 
with joy, and thanked God. From this instant, he 
felt himself in a purer air; the wind swept away in 
shreds, all the clouds over his soul. "Adieu, Pepa ! 
adieu, Miji ! you are both beautiful, but Italy is still 
fairer. Italy is my mistress, she it is who stretches 
out her arms to me, who calls me to her bosom ; slie 
is more than niy mistress, she is my mother! I go 
to drink in the love of art from her breasts, full ot 
milk." 



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THE FBUrrS OF TRAVEL. 211 



in. 



In all this I invent nothing. There are artist liveS; 
like this of Callot's, more romantic than romances. 
Callot in his most charming caprices, has imagined 
less than he has recollected. He gave a place a little 
afterward to his friends the gipsies, in his works ; 
thanks to his immortal graver, we may inspect the 
whole of the curious group halting, and on the 
road, entirely at our ease. In the first etching, in- 
scribed with this distich — 

" These wretches naagbt but fortunes bear, 
And things to come are all their care," 

we see the gipsies on foot, on horseback, or in their 
wagon. The picture is most suggestive. The horses 
give one an idea of the horse of the Apocalypse ; the 
men are covered with steeple-crowned hats, the wo- 
men are clothed with little save things to come^ the 
children are wrapped in rags ; tliey are in great 
number, there is not a mother who has not one by 
each hand, one on her back, and one in front. The 
band is led by a lively young fellow, not ill equipped ; 
a broad-brimmed felt hat, locks falling in ringlets, a 
doublet far too much slashed, a lance on his shoulder, 
a cutlass at one side, a carbine at the other, and 
finally, trousers which sweep up the dust. The young 
bandit is followed by two rickety nags, each carrying 
a woman and children, one at the breast, the othei 



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21S JACQUES CALLOT. 

scarcely weaned but sitting bravely behind. At the 
tail of the hoi-se a saintly brigand, dressed in the 
spoils of a monk, and two children who walk hand 
in hand. The first is dressed in a costume, well 
worthy of description : his hat is an iron pot, whose 
handle forms a necklace for him ; for a cane, a spit, 
for coat a basket, for breeches a gridiron, so that on 
a day of meager fare, the gipsies might broil the 
child. After these, come the horse and the cart. A 
gipsy of a ripe age, as behooved to guide so fiery a 
steed, is gravely perched on the packsaddle : with 
one hand he holds on to the collar, and with the 
other, brandishes a whip of formidable dimensions. 
He carries on his back a small keg of wine or spirits, 
which he has very good reason to trust to no one but 
himself. On this keg, a tame cock is crowing and 
towers above the group, with his crest and feathere. 
In the wagon, we find heaped together, a man armed 
with a lance, a woman suckling an infant, other 
children who are urging on the horee, cooking uten- 
sils, a dog, a cat, and decapitated chickens. An ass 
follows the wagon, carrying like the horses, a mother 
with her child at her breast. On each side of the 
wagon are children, children everywhere, who are 
gipsies already, for they display with pride the ducks 
and chickens purloined on the route. The caravan 
is guarded in the rear by a stoutly-built gipsy, 
who carries a lamb on his arm, a sheep in his 
shoulder-belt, and a carbine on his shoulder. All * 



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THE GIPSIK8 AGAIN. S13 

the faces have the true expression of their parts. 
The men are savage, maternity gives the women a 
gentle air of melancholy, tlie children are saucy and 
frolicsome, the ass and the horses are fearfully 
meagre. Callot, like a man of intellect who is en- 
gi-aving history, has taken good care not to bridle the 
horses; for in reality, it mattere little what course 
they take. Whence come they ? Where are they 
going? they do not know themselves. Of what use 
then are bridles to guide the horses ? They go on as 
chance directs. The ass only is bridled, for the ass 
is self-willed, and who knows whether he would fol- 
low the company ? 

In the second etching of the youthful days of 
Jacques Callot, we witness a halt of gipsies at the 
firet tavern of a village. The band is installed with 
arms and baggage in a hay-loft, covered with reeds. 
In the foreground, a man on foot and a woman on 
horseback, come straggling along, with a large sup- 
ply of booty, rabbits, pullets, lambs, and lesser plun- 
der. The woman is dismounting from her horse; 
with her dishevelled locks, her necklace of glass- 
beads, her striped dress and roguish smile, she pre- 
sents an agreeable appearance. A well-equipped 
gallant, gracefully offers his hand ; as a contrast, her 
companion is the u)0st splendid-looking rascal ima- 
ginable ; carbine, sabre, cutlass, nothing is wanting 
to his equipment. A monkey, doubtless of the party, 
is perched on the back of this redoubtable gipsy 



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214 JACQUK8 CALLOT. 

The rest of the company are already installed, so that 
the pigs who inhabited the ground-floor of the barn, 
have already taken flight in their panic : the poor 
animals have never seen such bad company. Their 
flight is amusing, they upset everything in their way, 
even the gipsies. Before the dwelling, the dignita- 
ries of the band are strutting with their majestic rags, 
an 1 picturesque head-dresses; behind this group, 
which savors of the well-born canaille^ is a ladder on 
which the children are climbing, to mount to the hay- 
\o1it : do you recognise, almost under the ladder, the 
hat and feather of om- friend Jacques Callot, sitting 
uhjuirsivlo of one of the pretty gipsies? The artist 
has been desirous to show that he was present, but 
not to display the figure he cut. We will not enter 
the barn, where very curious things must be going 
on, to judge by what we see at. the door, and on the 
roof. Let us close the door. On the roof, a cat is 
pouncing on a bird, a dog is snapping at the cat's 
tail, and a well-aimed stick is about to light on the 
dog's back. It is a complete drama d la Callot, 

The gipsies were going to Florence for the fair 
of the Madonna ; they did not leave their guest time 
enough to visit at his leisure, Milan, Parma, and Bo- 
logna; he scarcely glanced at the palaces, the pedi- 
ments, the colonnades, the fountains, the statues ; 
he went on and on, more and more dazzled and 
enchanted. It was an endless intoxication which 
gave him no time to think of liis presence among the 



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A PATRON. 216 

gipsies, even wlien the company were giving a 
performance. 

Now, at Florence, a Piedmontese gentleman, who 
had become an officer of the grand duke, fell in with 
Callot among the gipsies. He was struck, at first 
glance, with the delicate face and noble bearing of 
the vagrant child : he could not believe that he was 
part and parcel of this horde, destitute of house or 
home, faith or law, who were then shaking off their 
wretchedness by grotesque dances. Callot remained 
in the midst of the gipsies during their picturesque 
evolutions ; but it was easy to see that he did not 
belong to this great vagabond family. His wander- 
ing glance paused in wonder at the carvings of a 
fountain, while the looks of all the rest appealed for 
alms to the Florentine spectators. The gentleman 
wanted to know what to think of this : he called 
Jacques, and questioned him with a more paternal 
air than the herald -at-arms at Nancy. Jacques an- 
swered by signs that he knew nothing of the Italian 
tongue. The gentleman, who knew a little bad 
French, succeeded in putting himself into more di- 
rect communication with Jacques. He learned, in 
few words, how this second prodigal son had set out 
one fine morning for Rome, having no other luggage 
than his rosy youth and his blooming hopes ; how he 
had met on the road, and at a very opportune mo- 
ment, these brave gipsies, who had sheltered him and 
given him his board and lodging, without initiating 



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216 JACQUES CALLOT. 

him too far into their lawless mode of life; how, in 
fine, he hoped soon to arrive at Rome, in order to 
study the great masters, and become a great master 
himself, if it pleased God. This well-defined and 
reasonable desire in a child from twelve to thirteen, 
warmly interested the oflScer of the grand duke. He 
had never protected anybody ; he wished to be good 
to some one, and for something. He took Callot's 
hand and led him forthwith to a painter who was 
one of his friends, Canta Gallina : " Treat this child 
as you would if he were my own ; make him wor- 
thy of yourself and of me." Callot was admitted 
immediately : he was to find, at the end of his reck- 
oning, that it did not cost much to go and study in 
Italy. At the end of six weeks, Callot informed his 
protector that he wished to leave for Rome ; Rome 
was the fountain of the living water of art, he wished 
to drink at the springs where the divine Raphael 
had steeped his lips. The protector feared that he 
had been bestowing his favors upon a child who was 
more of a vagabond than an artist. However, as he 
loved Jacques, he desired to protect him still with 
his purse and his counsels. He bought him a mule, 
filled a valise for him, recommended to him the good 
roads in all the passages of life, promised to come 
and see him at Rome, in fine, bade him adieu with 
teal's in his eyes, like a good father of a family. 
Jacques, firmly settled on his mule, also shed teai-s ; 
but, once on his way, he soon forgot his protector, to 



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BETWEEN TUE CUP AND THE LIP. 317 

see only the atti-active horizon in which his hopes 
were floating. Ungrateful infancy leaves nothing 
behind it. 

Callot's journey was blessed by Heaven. He 
halted at Sienna to visit the church. In examining 
the pavement of the Duomo, the splendid mosaic of 
Duccio, he took a good lesson in engraving. He 
proposed to himself, if he should hereafter eugrave, 
to form his figures with a single line, thickening the 
lines more or less with the graver, without making 
use of hatching. At the gates of Rome, he let his 
mule go at her will. The animal, who had acquired 
somewhat of the vagabond disposition of its master, 
established itself, unceremoniously, at a sort of am- 
bulatory manger; it followed, step by step, a donkey 
laden with vegetables, taking now and then a bite. 
Jacques did not at first perceive this little genre pic- 
ture ; his dazzled glance was lost in the great picture 
of the Eternal City, over which the setting sun was 
casting a golden haze. 

He was thus attaining his aim; but, as so often 
happens, he was stopped short at the critical mo- 
ment. Some merchants of Nanc}', who were quit- 
ting Rome to return to their own country, met 
Jacques Callot perched on his mule, his nose in the 
air, on the point of receiving a whack from the mas- 
ter of the donkey who was walking before him : " Oh 
ho, Messire Jacques Callot! where are you going to 
in that style?" The young traveller undei-stood the 

Vol. L— 10 



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21tS JACQUES CALLOT. 

danger of the rencontre; he tried to redouble his 
pace; but how could he escape with a donkey who 
was pasturing so agreeably ? The Nancy merchants 
had time to seize the fugitive. As the worthy peo- 
ple had witnessed the trouble of the Callot family, 
they forthwith vowed to reconduct him, under good 
escort, to the paternal threshold. Jacques could do 
nothing. It was in vain for him to pray with clasped 
hands and weep with anger — he must obey. He 
bade adieu to Home before entering it 

IV. 

Callot made various attempts to escape from the 
merchants' caravan ; but the Nanceans held on to 
him well : be was never lost sight of; his mule did 
not move unless in the midst of the othei:s ; all his 
struggles were in vain. Although he was travelling 
with respectable company, he sighed with all his 
heart for those gallows birds the gipsies, repeating 
this sentence of the Italian beggars: "There is no 
real amusement except in bad company." He ar- 
rived at Nancy after a month of this tedious jour- 
neying. His father received him with a sermon on 
playing truant, and a discourse on the science of 
heraldry. So Callot secretly resolved on another 
journey : l)e refrained for a while, only on account 
of his mother's teal's. 

As you know, or you guess, Jacques soon set out 



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A SECOND RETURN. 219 

again with a light purse, without informing any one 
of his movements. He took the road to Italy through 
Savoy, after having kept along the shore of Lake 
Geneva. We have no record of this second jour- 
ney ; we merely know that he lived as an adventurer 
in poor taverns, often in the company of pilgrims^ 
actoi"8, vagabonds, and beggara of every description. 
He arrived at Turin without many misadventures ; 
but at Turin he met with one annoying enough — he 
met his brother, tlie attoniey,* who was making a 
journey on business. This pitiless brother, therefore, 
hastened to signify to him that he was taken in the 
very act of rebellion against the paternal authority, 
and consequently condemned him to retrace his steps. 
Will it be believed? — poor Jacques was com- 
pelled to return to Nancy, on the requirement of the 
attorney, on the crupper of the horse of Dame Jus- 
tice. What will be still more difficult to believe, ie, 
that Jacques set out a third time, but with the con- 
sent, and teai-s of benediction, of his father himself. 

* " Jean II., eldest brother of Jacques Callot» was father of Jean III. 
who married Christina Cachet. He had, by this marriage, an 
only daughter, Mai'guerite Christina, whose second husband was 
Henri Dubuisson d*Isembourg, lord of Aponcourt, major of the 
gendarmerie of H. R. H. From this marriage was born, in 1697, 
Frangoise, who married Hugo de Graffigny. Tliis lady, great-grand- 
niece of Jacques Callot, who died in 1768, is well-known by her 
Peruvian Lettern, and her comedy of Cenie,''' (Des Maretx). The 
portrait of Madame de Graffigny is in the French gallery, at the 
Louvre ; it is attributed to Chardin. It is at the same time a most 
striking likeness of two celebrated actresses of the present day, the 
two Brohans. 



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220 JACQUES CALLOT. 

He set out in the suite of the embassy of Lorraine, 
which was commissioned to announce to the pope 
the accession to the throne of Henry H. Callot was 
fifteen : there was no time to be lost for his studies 
at Rome. It would be diflScult to describe his en- 
thusiastic admiration of the wonders of the ancient 
city. It was, however, a transitory one ; for he soon 
found more amusement in looking about the streets 
than in the contemplation of the masterpieces of 
Michael Angelo: the Signora Lavina, with her train 
and plumed hat, interested him more than the Ma- 
donna of Raphael. He worked under many mas- 
ters, but never followed any but himself. By dint 
of making light sketches — of representing, like Ti- 
manthes, much in small space — he had a vague feel- 
ing that his destiny was not to be a painter ; more- 
over, at that time, in spite of the noble attempts of 
the Caracci, painting was in its decay. He took 
up engraving with the sanae ardor that he had draw- 
ing. He entered the studio of Thomassin, an old 
French engraver, who had established himself at 
Rome. Engraving was an art still in its ci*adle; 
with the exception of Albert Diirer, Lucas of Ley- 
den, and some German artists, all the engravei-s had 
shrouded themselves in the swaddling-clothes of this 
new-comer. Thomassin, with slender enough abili- 
ties, had made a fortune at Rome. He engraved 
religious subjects — now and then a secular one. 
Jacques Callot was of good service to him ; ycMuig 



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TIIK DKVKLOPINO ARTIST. 221 

as he was, lie showed him, in each new plate, some 
new resource. The only trouble was, that Callot 
grew weary of always engraving figures of saints in 
ecstasies. As soon as he had a little freedom, he 
gave the rein to his fancy : he recalled the beggars, 
the strolling actore, the guitar-players, punchinelloes, 
bravoes, and other curiosities of the human species. 
He set to work on his Cov/r des Miracles^ that great 
work, at once light and profound, comic and serious, 
more sad than gay. Under Thomassin, he engraved 
in line ; but of his works under this master, scarce 
any are noted but the Seven Mortal Sins^ after a 
Florentine painter. The burin was too slow an in- 
strument for one who had so much to create: he 
soon engraved only by etching. In this style of 
work a discovery was of much service to him ; he 
found that the varnish of musical-instrument makers, 
which dries immediately, suited his purpose better 
than the soft varnish, leaving the artist at leisure to 
keep his plates in an unfinished state, and return to 
them with renewed inspiration. He made another 
discovery, which suddenly gave a very striking char- 
acter to his works. While admiring in the pave- 
ment of the duomo of Sienna the incrusted figures 
of Duccio, he resolved to suppress henceforth the 
shadows of his figures, and seek efiect by a simple 
line drawn with more or less force.* 

♦ He received the criticisms of the master and his comrades gayly. 
**It IB stated that, while sketching one day in the midst of his younjj 



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222 JACQUES CALLOT. 

One day his point fell from his hands ; his thoughts 
wandered lovingly to the recollection of those two 
charming gipsies, for ever lost, who had loved him 
better than a child is loved. Soon among the forms 
of his revery, in which all the features of the two 
impassioned countenances were still living, he be- 
held, as by enchantment, the proud and. beautiful 
face of the signora Bianca, the young wife of old 
Thomassin. She sometimes descended to the studio ; 
she took pleasure in watching Callot at work ; she 
smiled upon him with her lips of pomegranate and 
her teeth of pearls. He strove in vain to defend 
himself from the attractions of the signora : his heaii; 
was overcome — he had not power to resist his heart. 

I have read this story in the Curiosites Galantes^ 
where it is entitled the " Speaking Picture."f Thus 
the chronicler relates the amoui-s of Jacques Callot. 
Thomassin inhabited a palace on the banks of the 
Tiber. His hand which had already begun to fail, 
had constructed in this palace, a graceful love-nest 
for his young wife. He had had the good sen e, in 
spite of his passion for painting, to having nothing 

rivals a figure larger than usual, the latter set up a laugh at his 
defects. Instead of getting angry at the mode and severity of the 
criticism, Gallop without hesitation, joined in this gay movement, 
and, himself doing justice to himself, surrounded his defective 
Colossus with a multitude of charming little figures pointing their 
fingers at him in sign of derision. Who would not recognise the man 
in this incident?** — Des Maretz. 

f Curiositen Galantea, sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Am- 
■terdam, 1687, pp. 63-68. 



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223 

but Venetian mirrors around the chamber of the sig- 
nora, so that these glasses, by portraying her, formed 
the most beautiful pictures in the world. What 
more beautiful picture is there, in fact — Giorgione 
is of this opinion — than a pretty Italian woman, 
dressed or not, nonchalant and coquettish at her 
rising or retiring to rest. The furniture well worthy 
of the signora, was composed only of articles which 
might have pleased a favorite sultana, or a queen 
troubled with ennui : the richest Turkey cai-pet, 
Chinese porcelain, Spanish fans, jewelry of Mogul, 
the riches of all countries were assembled in this pro- 
fane temple. What shall I say of the couch ! I have 
not seen it. If I may believe the book before me, it 
was all silk and gold. In saying that Thomassin had 
had the good taste not to hang any picture on the 
wall, I am wrong : he had suspended between two 
mirroi-8, guess what ? his portrait by himself. It was 
the only fault which could be found with the room. 
It must be said, that the good old engraver, was 
only suffered there in painting. Madame Thomassin 
scarcely permitted her husband to do more than kiss 
her hands, when they met in the picture galleries, or 
when she came into the studio — to see Callot. 

Callot was twenty ; he was at that time a hand- 
some youth, absent minded and pensive, who knew 
how to wear his mustache and his sword. He loved 
luxury in everything ; his dress was of the most gal- 
lant description ; his velvet doublet letting cascades 



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224: JACQUES CALLOT. 

of lace escape ; no cavalier had handsomer plumes 
in his hat. 

Two young hearts that repose under the same roof, 
always end by beating for one another. Callot be- 
came enamored of the signora Bianca. The sig- 
nora in spite of her pride, was sensible of a weakness 
for Callot ; she took pleasure in seeing him, in speak- 
ing to him, in lighting up his soul^ as the chronicler 
says, at the flames of her heautiful eyes. The good 
Thomassin could see nothing short of fire, to such a 
degree, that he begged Callot to accompany his wife 
to the mass and the promenade, on the days when 
the gout detained him perforce at home. The young 
engraver found all this charming. He saw only her 
at the promenade, he adored only her at the mass. 
For six delightful weeks it was Paradise regained. 
Callot contenlod himself with seeing and admiring; 
his was the pure joy of the eyes and the soul, the 
cloudless dawn of love ; but the clouds at last ap- 
peared, the sky was overcast, the storm descended on 
Callot's heart : he went farther in his reveries, he 
lost himself in thick-grown paths, where the rustling 
vine-branches possess an intoxicating charm. He 
felt that he'could quiet his heart only on the heart 
of the signora ; a kiss, a single kiss, fii-st stolen and 
then granted, was the great object of his ardent de- 
sires. How accomplish this? There are arbora 
of myrtle and orange-trees in the garden of the pal- 
ace ; has not the signora a skiff, of the wood of the 



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FORBIDDEN FEUIT. 225 

Indies on the Tiber ? Callot was neither a landscape 
painter nor romantic ; he had seen the chamber of 
the signora, it was in this paradise of Mohammed, in 
the evening, when the lady, on returning from various 
conversazioni^ laid down her fan, glancing in the 
mirror at the same time, to see if her beauty had lost 
none of its splendor, it was there that he wished to 
throw himself at her feet, seize her hand and snatch 
a kiss by surprise. The adventui-e was a diflScult 
one, no man ever entered Bianca's chamber, scarcely 
was Thomassin himself in his strange adoration, ad- 
mitted there to kiss her feet on the annivei^sary of the 
marriage. Jacques Callot got into the good graces 
of the signora's tiring-woman; the girl consented, 
cost what it might, to give him the key of the cham- 
ber, reserving for herself the excuse, that she had 
lost it. It was a silver key, chased by a Benvenuto 
Cellini of the time. The engraver did not take time 
to admire its execution, but pushed, in all haste, 
driven by the demon of love, toward the chamber. 
He started at the shai-p click produced by the key in 
the lock. The door opened, his firet glance was ar- 
rested by a golden lamp suspended by silver chains 
from the ceiling. The lamp was always burning, to 
drive away black dreams: its pale and mournful 
light died away at the edge of the bed, on the ample 
gauze curtains. Jacques Calh)t entered on tiptoe, 
knowing none too well what he was going to do, and 
trembling lest he should awaken the lady. He ad- 

10^ 



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226 JAOQUKS OALLOT. 

vanced, scarcely breathing, teiTified at the silence, 
terrified by his love, terrified at beholding on all 
sides, in the sombre background of the mirroi*s, his 
pale face, reproduced to infinity. Reaching the 
couch, he cast a furtive glance toward the pillow, he 
discovered in the shadow of the curtains, the beauti- 
ful face of the signora, who was asleep, or who made 
believe to he asleep^ says the sly chronicler. Callot 
could not refrain from raising the curtain a little. 
The ray of light which touched only the curtain of 
silk, embroidered with flowers in gold and silver, fell 
on the signora's arm, an arm which Titian would have 
despaired of being able to paint, so much voluptuous 
grace was there in its contour. Callot turned his 
head to see, whether some malicious sprite was not 
following him. What did lie behold ? Thomassin 
himself, with his face half-smiling, half-frowning. 
Jacques Callot let the curtain drop, but he reassured 
himself at the same moment : it was only the portrait 
of Thomassin. "The poor man!" he murmured, 
again withdrawing the silk and satin. This time the 
lamp lit up the half-naked shoulder of the signora ; 
at the first glance Callot saw only a lock of hair and 
a flood of lace. By degrees his glance penetrated 
the transparent veil, his lips would fain have followed 
his glance ; but by a chance, I will not say providen- 
tial, his lips met those of the lady, who awoke gently, 
as happens after an agreeable dream. " Until then," 
observes the chronicler, " she had taken no care to 



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AN mCONVKNIKNT PORTRAIT. 227 

wake." — "Is it a dream?" asked the signora, in 
order to have more time not to know where she was. 
"Yes, a dream," murmured Callot, as he seized her 
hand. " Where am I ? What do I see f Is it vou, 
Jacques?" — "Do not awake," murmured the young 
man, falling on his knees on the carpet; "I have 
come in spite of myself, so much has your image fas- 
cinated me." — " Here is a piece of audacity ? You 
entered by the window?" — "By the door," said 
Jacques blushing. — "And if Master Thomassin 
should follow by the road which you have taken ?" 

Saying this, the signora looked at the portrait of 
her husband. Jacques Callot also involuntarily did 
the same. " It is strar ^e," said he with emotion. — 
" What is the matter ^ith you ?"— " Nothing. This 
portrait is a striking likeness. Do not let us say any 
more about it; let iny heart speak, which is full of 
yourself; it is a prettier subject of convereation." — 
" I know all that you want to say to me. Return 
to your chamber, forget that you have entered here 
through error and surprise. Not a word more, and 
I pardon you." — " Depart ! you do not then imagine 
how much amorous heroism I required to come 
here?" 

Callot at the same moment, touched with his hand 
and lips, the white hand of the signora. The sound 
of a voice drowned the noise of the kiss. The lady 
gave a shrill cry Callot turned his head with anxiety. 
He saw nothing new ; his slightly-terrified glance 



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228 JACQUES CALLOT. 

again lighted on the portrait of his master. "This 
portrait," said he, "is quite capable of giving an 
opinion." 

And with an ill-timed pretence of boldness, 
Jacques Callot rose and advanced with an air of 
mockery toward the portrait. " Come, Master Tho- 
massin, give us your opinion." 

At this solemn moment, the portrait turned aside 
to admit the original. — " iiy opinion," said Master 
Thomassin in a fury, " is that I had better pitch you 
out of the window." 

This time Callot himself fancied that he was 
dreaming. He judged it best to leave Thomassin 
and Bianca in a gallant toU^jitete. Pushing back 
the arm of the old engraver, who trembled with rage, 
he quickly jumped to the door concealed by the por- 
trait, and descended at full speed a secret staircase 
M^hich led to a study of Thomassin. From this apart- 
ment, Jacques passed into the studio, where he pa- 
tiently waited for morning. At daybreak, he col- 
lected some engravings, and decamped without other 
baggage, understanding very well, that he could not 
dwell longer under the same roof with the good 
Thomassin. He thought at first of remaining at 
Rome, but the same day he left for Florence with a 
muleteer, thinking that it was necessary to fly from 
the signora for ever, to live in peace with his heart. 
In bidding adieu to Home, he underwent a great dis- 
enchantment: it seemed to him as if he was flying 



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PARADISE LOST. 229 

witliout Lope of return, from all the joys of youth, 
the glory which is radiant, and the love which sings, 
the intoxicating dreams of an exalted imagination, 
tlie enchanted cup at which he had scarcely moist- 
ened his lips, glowing with the age of twenty, the 
palace which he had built on the sand of gold. 
" Alas 1" he exclaimed, " that I could again behold 
that embodiment of happiness, styled Bianca ; shall 
I some day return to see her?" And he sought in 
the broad lines of the horizon of the Roman cam- 
pagna, the fair and attractive face of the signora. 
He did not again behold Madame Thomassin, he did 
not again return to Rome. As he had foreseen, the 
Eternal City was the tomb of the fairest portion of 
his life, of the amorous dreams of his soul, of the 
spring-time of his heart. Once away from Rome, the 
life of Callot loses its adventurous and gallant char- 
acter, and oifei-s us henceforward scai'cely anything 
but laborious nights, following peaceful days. 



Jacques Callot went to Florence, not knowing 
whether he would remain there ; he hoped to find a 
situation in the studio of his former master. He was 
almost without resources, and, what was much woree, 
without courage. He indolently abandoned himself 
to his somewhat capricious star. At the gate of the 
city he was arrested as a stranger. Already in a 



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230 JACQUES CALLOT. 

bad humor with the uncertainty of his lot, he flew 
into a rage and wished to resist. He demanded to 
be conducted forthwith to the palace of the grand 
dnke, and made known his griefs and his claims to 
his highness Cosmo II. The grand duke, who re- 
ceived and protected in a royal manner the artists 
of all ordei-s, told Jacques Callot that he congratu- 
lated himself that he had been an*ested in his states ; 
that he himself would go through the form of detain- 
ing him in his palace, where there was a great school 
of painting, sculpture, and engraving. Callot was 
enchanted at the accident. He installed himself in 
the palace and set to work with greater ardor than 
at Thomassin's. Besides his old master, whom he 
found again, he met with a painter and engraver 
whose acquaintance was precious to him ; it was 
Alphonso Parigi, who prepared the stock of ballet- 
scenes, festivals, and comedies, forming the pompous 
spectacle of the grand duke. Callot passed some 
time at this work.* It was then, if we may believe 
certain indications, that, to relieve himself, Callot 
now and then took the brush from the hands of his 
friends the paintei*s, Stella and Napolitano. He 
painted at random, following only his fancy, some 
paintings in the Flemish style. We find in the gal- 

* I have seen at the Academy of the Fine Arts of Venice, some 
pictures attributed to Callot. They are believed to be authentic, but 
I scarce recognised the Lorraine artist in them. What is indisputa* 
ble is, that at the sight of the pictures attributed to Callot, no one 
will regret that he should have used the graver in place of the brush. 



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NOT A PAINTER. 231 

leiy of tlie Corsini palace twelve small pictui*e8, rei> 
resenting the Life of the Soldier ; the catalogue 
signs them with the name of Jacques Callot — but 
catalogues are often deceived. A small and more 
authentic picture has remained in the Florence gal- 
lery, in testimony of Callot's talent as a painter. 
This painting is in the Flemish and Dutch room. It 
represents a half-length of a warrioi* dressed in the 
Spanish style, with a hat and plume. We discover 
the piquant manner of the engraver in this little pic- 
ture; it has the same purity of design, the same 
severe and fine touch, the same ingenious grace of 
composition. It might be regarded as a lighter page 
of Terburg. Farther than this we can not go; Cal- 
lot never was a painter any more than Jean-Jacques 
was a musician ; the effects of chance or caprice 
should not count for much in the arts. The enthusi- 
astic admirers of Callot have desired, at any cost, to 
represent him as a painter; they have found his 
works everywhere, have almost declared him moi*e 
fertile than Van Ostade. I imagine that we must 
rather trust to Vasari, Balduccini, and the abbe 
Lanzi, who have preserved silence about Callot in 
their histories of painting. 

Callot remained ten years at Florence. Cosmo II. 
having died, Ferdinand continued to him similar 
protection. He was even honored, like the great 
geniuses of the grand duchy, with a gold medal sus- 
pended by a costly chain. During these ten years, 



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232 JACQUKS CALLOT. 

scarce relieved by any glimpses of love, he engraved, 
among other subjects wortliy of his talent, The Well^ 
and the Purgatory^ the Journey to the Holy Land^ 
the Massacre of the Innocents^ the Fair of the Im- 
prunetta^ the Oreat Passion^ the Life of a Soldier^ 
and a hundred other charming and grotesque fancies, 
always original. 

These plates are almost all marvels of art; Callot 
attains in them magical effects before unknown, un- 
known afterward even to his imitatora. Never did 
the copper resist his powerful hand ; on the copper 
he created ; we may push the image so far as to say 
that he created a world out of chaos. He was not a 
severe and artless creator, for he saw everything 
through the prism of his fancy. Perhaps, like a 
great poet, he understood that everything meets in 
life, the grand and the grotesque ; that, in the most 
serious pages of this great book, there is always a 
word to raise a laugh. 

Toward the close of his sojouni at Florence, work 
became his sole passion, a passion of more and more 
engrossing character, without pity, without reprieve, 
which led him to the tomb, still young, but already 
bent down, blasted, exhausted like a noble horse who 
has run too long for the prize. The poor artist had 
lost without recall, by a fatal blindness, the precious 
treasure called time. Wo to those whom time over- 
takes and drags along ! Poor Callot had no longer 
eyes except for engraving ; if he left his studio, it 



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RETURNING HOME. 233 

was only for subjects, a beggar, a soldier, some queer 
actor in the comedy of life. He did not give him- 
self time to admire the grandeur and beauties of 
creation, neither the sun, nor the golden stars, nor 
the flowers that scatter their perfume, nor the beau- 
tiful evenings, nor the fine nights, nor the verdure, 
nor the cascades, nor the girls of twenty. It seems 
as if God had given him, as his only joy, the cop- 
per-plate ; heart and soul were of small account. 

He returned to Nancy. One evening, the old 
herald-at arms, leaning out of the window, seeing a 
carriage draw up at the door of his house, asked his 
wife whether it was an equipage of the court. The 
good dame Ren6e, who saw clearer, with heart and 
eyes, than he did, exclaimed, as she fell powerless 
on the window-sill : '• It is Jacques — it is your son !" 
The old herald descended in all haste, asking him- 
self whether it was possible that his son, the engraver 
of bits of buflbonery, could have returned in a car- 
riage. He embraced him gravely, and after the 
fii*st hug, hastened to see if the arms of Callot were 
painted on the carriage. He put on his spectacles, 
and discovered with a proud joy the blason of his 
son : five stars forming a cross, " the cross of labor," 
it has been said, "for the stars indicate the vigils of 
Callot and his hopes of glory." 

Somewhat weary of his vagabond career, Callot 
resolved to end his days at Nancy; he bought a 
house and married. Nothing is said of his wife, 



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234 JACQUES CALLOT. 

Catherine Kuttinger, except that she was a wido\^ 
and had a daughter. This must certainly have been 
a marriage of policy. Scarce was lie married when 
he became a great devotee, attended mass every 
morning, and passed an honr in )>rayer every even- 
ing. Was it to thank God for having given him a 
good wife? Was it to console himself for an un- 
happy marriage ? He resumed his labors ; but adieu 
to his mad inspiration, adieu to satire and gayety ! 
If any flashes of his better days ever returned to 
liim, it was because a man's character, however ex- 
tinguished, will now and then emit a spark of its 
former self. His burin was henceforward occupied 
only witli religious or grave subjects. 

His talent, as is always the case with original tal- 
ent, made a noise everywhere ; at Paris, at the court 
itself, his wonderful fancy-pieces were admired. The 
king Louis XHI., about to set out for the siege of La 
Kochelle, summoned the Lorraine engraver to his 
suite, saying that he alone was worthy of immortali- 
zing his victories. Jacques Callot, somewhat averse 
to human vanities, more imbued with the glory of 
God than that of men, obeyed with some regret, for 
liow could he go to the mass down there, among all 
tliose soldiei-s, destitute of faith or law. After the 
siege he returned to Paris, to complete the engra- 
vings of this feat of arms. He was lodged at the 
Luxembourg, where he again fell in with his friend 
Sylvestre Israel, and where he became intimate with 



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A PUBLISHING FRIKND. 235 

some decoratore of the palace, decorators sufficiently 
remarkable, sucb as Rubens, Simon Youet, Poussin, 
Philippe de Champagne, and Lesueur. 

In spite of these illustrious friends, the protection 
of Lonis XIII., the thousand attractions of Paris, Cal- 
lot returned to Nancy as soon as his work was com- 
pleted. He loved more than any one else, peace, 
quiet, and a limited horizon. He left the care of 
editing his works, to his friend Israel, who pushed 
his good friendship, I am speaking without raillery, 
so far as to sign with his own name, a great number 
of Callot's engravings ; but usually he contented him- 
self with bringing them to light, according to his ex- 
pression, that is to say, publishing them. Here is 
pretty nearly the title of all these engravings. " The 
Miseries and Misfortunes of War^ portrayed by 
Jacques Callot, a Lorraine noble, brought to light by 
Israel, his friend." Israel is sometimes desirous of 
passing for a wit; nothing is so curious to mark, as 
his artlessness of style ; he might be taken for a child, 
or a schoolmaster who had assumed the pen. 

Callot's chief motive for returning to Nancy, was 
his love for his family and his native city. He was 
a national artist. " He had quitted with contempt," 
says an historian* of Nancy, "the servile people of 
Italy ; he returned to Nancy to humbly lay down 
his glory, and live on his genius." He loved his 
country with a proud and noble love ; in that respect, 
lie had been imbued with the paternal traditions. 



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236 JACQUES CALLOT. 

In his leisure hours, he studied with a thoroughly 
national religion, the high deeds at arras of Lorraine, 
as the defeat of the Burgundians, where the men of 
Nancy accorded to the conqueror of Ghent, of Liege, 
and of Montlhery, Charles the Bold, the hospitality 
of death. — "Ah!" exclaimed Jacques Callot with 
the Latin historian, " the Greeks are glorious by their 
wai*8, but especially by the recital of their victories. 
Nothing more is wanting to our countiy, but a Xeno- 
phon." He left among his unfinished engravings, an 
allegorical figure of Lorraine, surmounted with a 
shield, with the device: God and my sword. In 
reality, in those fine days of universal vassalage, Lor- 
raine was mistress of hei-self, mistress of her glory, 
her labor, and her thoughts. Jacques Callot ap- 
peared in the splendor of the royal duchy ; he was a 
witness of the great reigns of Charles III., and Henry 
II. The entire nobility were illustrious by its ac- 
tions, the body of citizens laborious and intelligent, 
the people happy under their light chains ; the arts 
were worthily represented in painting, music, and en- 
graving ; religion was based on the good faith of our 
forefathers; industry already mised her manufac- 
tures, the laborer blessed the honorable peace. 
Nancy, protected by four gigantic bastions, master- 
pieces of Orphee de Galean, seemed to say to 
strangers, by the sculptured ornaments of these bas- 
tions : Kespect the empire of the arts and of liberty. 
Jacques Callot however, had the misfortune to wit- 



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THE KING AND THE CARDINAL. 237 

ness the decline of his nation (the word is in the 
writings of the times). Charles IV., a rash soldier 
whose sword was his entire policy, suffered the great 
and noble edifice which Henry had confided to him 
to be demolished by piecemeal, through a fatal blind- 
ness ; in his imprudent hands, Nancy lost all except 
honor. The origin of the great misfortunes which 
weakened this country, was Gaston d'Orleans. 
Charles IV. bestowed upon him his sister in mar- 
riage. Cardinal Richelieu was exasperated against 
this ally of his enemy, to such an extent, that Louis 
XIII. came and laid siege to Nancy, at the head of 
his best soldiers. The king, on the promises of the 
cardinal, fancied that he was going to reduce the 
city, like La Rochelle ; but he was disappointed on 
discovering that Nancy was the best-fortified and 
best-defended place in the whole Christian world. 

Louis XIII. kept at a distance, and lost courage. 
The bad season arrived, there was despair under the 
tent of the king, they talked of raising the siege, 
when the cardinal, who desired a triumph at any 
price, at the price even of honor, attained his ends,^ 
by a falsehood followed by a violation of the law of 
nations. He enticed the duke Charles into the pres- 
ence of Louis XIII. in the hope of signing the pre- 
liminaries of peace. The duke of Lorraine presented 
himself without mistrust, in the camp of the French 
army, where the king in obedience to the cardinal 

* Nancy. — Histoiy and Picture by Guerrier de Daniast. 



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228 JACQUES CALLOT. 

made him a prisoner, and extorted from him the or- 
der to open the gates of Nancy. The princess of 
Phalsbourg, who defended lier capital like a heroine, 
wished to pay no attention to this despatch of a cap- 
tive sovereign; but the governor chose to obey his 
master. The French — must it be said ? — abused this 
surprise ; the garrison, forced to lay down their arms, 
we|)t with rage. '' Ah ! if we had known that, the king 
would have entered only by the breach, and over our 
bodies." Jacques Callot had been of the opinion, 
held by i he proud Henriette de Phalsbourg; when 
he saw that all was lost, he shut himself up in his 
study to restrain his wrath, he wept with rage as he 
heard the joyous flourishes of tlie conqueroj*s drown 
the sobs of the conquered. 

All the careless artists of the city, rushed to pay 
their court to Louis XIII., who was astonished at not 
seeing Callot among them. " He has then forgot 
what I have done for him?" said Louis XIII. to 
Claude de Kaot. The painter went and reported the 
king's remark to the engraver. " Yes," said the 
brave artist with indignation ; "yes, I have forgotten 
his favors, since he entered fully armed, by the open 
gates of Nancy." Claude de Ruet pressed his friend 
to follow him, to the ducal palace, where Louis XIII. 
gave audience. " Never," said Jacques Callot. The 
painter left him to his anger and grief; scarcely had 
he gone out, when an order arrived, signed by Duke 
Charges • " Jacques Callot is summoned to the pah 



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THE KING AND THK ARTIST. 2S9 

ace, to appear before the king." — " Well, then I will 
go, but without lowering my head." The king re- 
ceived him very graciously : " Master Callot, we 
have not forgotten that you have devoted your tal 
ents to the service of our glory ; you have engraved 
for future ages the siege of the island De Ro and ot 
La Rochelle ; you will now represent the siege of 
Nancy." Callot, who felt liimself outraged, raised 
liis head proudly : '' Sire^'^ he answered, "/ am a 
native of Lorraine / / would sooner cut off ray 
thurab r 

Having said this, Jacques fancied with reason, 
that he was to pay dear for his bold answer. The 
whi)le hall was in a hubbub, the courtiei*8 exclaimed 
against him, swords were drawn, at a signal, soldiers, 
armed with partisans, appeared at the door; on the 
other side, the Lorraine nobles, who had remained 
faithful to their country, formed a circle around Cal- 
lot, resolved to protect and defend him, when Louis 
XIIL, who had now and then the soul of a king, and 
of a man, said to Callot, to the great surprise of the 
entire court, and of the artist himself: " Monsieur 
Oailot, your answer does you honor." — And turning 
toward the courtiers, "The duke of Lorraine is very 
fortunate in having such subjects."* 

* Callot was of a noble disposition ; De Ruet^ his friend, an histori- 
-tX painter and director of festivals, under the dukes Henry and 
Charles, decried him ; Callot^ to revenge himself aftf.: ^is manner, 
enfirraved the portrait of his friend at full length, and sent it to him 
witi) eiilogistic versop. 

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2i0 JACQUES CALLOT. 

Tin's same year, Jacques experienced the attacks 
of the malady, which slowly destroyed him. He was 
at fii'st desirous to escape from his love of labor ; lie 
resigned tlie burin, and passed the summer at Villei-s, 
where his father had a country-seat. He followed 
with a smiling eye, the merry sports of the daughter 
of his wife ; he took her out to walk, to see her 
bounding in the dewy grass, like a sportive heifer. 
Nature, who is a good mother for those who suffer, 
far from subduing Callot's illness, perhaps irritated 
it more by her spring-time splendor, her penetrating 
balm, her joyous songs. Besides, Callot was scarcely 
conscious of this sweet picture of the variegated fields, 
the rustling woods, flowering hedges, blossoming or- 
chards. He was contemplating the fantastic images of 
his imagination ; he was especially watching then — 
do you guess what? — the devil, Satan, his infernal 
population, his eternal flames! Callot believed 
strongly in the devil, in his pomps, his works ; he 
saw the Seven Capital Sins in person, with their at- 
tributes at work, under his catholic eyes. Callot had 
already commenced in his mind, his great work of 
the Temptation of St, Anthony^ a burlesque and 
grand poem, almost every page of which is worthy 
of Ariosto and Dante. 

It was at the doors of the tomb, that Jacques Cal- 
lot executed this strange work, with a pious venera- 
tion for Saint Anthony. Do not regard it as a gro- 
tesque work, designed to cause fear or pleasure; 



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THE TEMPTATION OF ST. ANTHONY. 241 

Callot was desirous of representing the triumph of 
virtue resisting by the sign of the cross all the at- 
tacks of hell. It is a pious work, composed between 
the mass and vespei*s, by a fanatical but Christian 
poet ; it is a vast pictm*e with a good design, in 
which we find the thought of the evangelist faith- 
fully translated. 

The Temptation of St. Anthony is most certainly 
a serious work. Callot, who believed in the devil, 
like Hoffman, that other dreamer of the same family, 
took good care not to laugh at him. If he has painted 
the devil as a wag, it must be attributed to his capri- 
cious turn of mind. All the accessories of this great 
picture, would appear less grotesque to us, if we 
could ourselves believe a little more in the devil. All 
the allegories produced by Callot, are strange, but 
very orthodox. The idea of the Temptaiion was de- 
rived by him from the perusal of Dante; he read 
and re-read the great Italian poet, he kindled his im- 
agination by the luminous and fantastic rays of this 
star of poetry, and at last in his turn, created a poem 
on copper, worthy of the other i)oem, by its fire, its 
force, and its madness, a strange poem which has a 
thorough savor of its own hell, and might scare the 
devil himself. 

The physicians ordered him to abandon work, to 
live free from care in the country, in the open air and 
sunshine. He paid no attention to their commands; 
he was desirous of cgnsecrating his last strength to 

Vol. I.— 11 

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242 JACQUES CALLOT. 

the final completion of his immense work, finding 
enjoyment only in labor. He was a prey to a mel- 
ancholy without apparent cause ; be no longer took an 
eager interest in anything, except in prayer ; he was 
not dead, and he was no longer of this world, it was 
all over with his heart, be wore, for more than a year, 
mourning for himself. We must believe that Cathe- 
rine Kuttinger was not to him another Signora 
Bianca. 

. In his last days, however, Callot seemed to rouse 
himself again to life ; he shook off the dust of the 
tomb, with his too catholic dreams, his heart leaped 
once more, a ray of youth reanimated his extin- 
guished soul. He caught up his point again and en- 
graved, with all the fire of his better time, the plate 
known as the Little Arbor, Fancy to youi^selves, 
a company of peasants, seated at table, under an ar 
bor of vines, at the door of a joyous village tavern, 
celebrating by a kiss to their sweetheaits, every stoup 
of claret which they toss off with a song. It is a 
Sunday, after vespera, the sun is sinking in the hori- 
zon, all nature is gay, the birds sing on the branches 
thickly covered with foliage, through which winds 
the flowering vine ; under the great rustling elms, 
the fiddler scrapes his violin to call together the girls. 
In beholding the serene joy of these drinkers, we ask 
ou!*selves, if happiness is in the depths f)f their flag- 
ons, on the lips of their sweethearts, in the cheerful- 
ness of nature. We pause with infinite zest over the 



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CALIOT BY LASNE. 243 

picture^ we would take, without being pressed, a seat 
at the rustic table, we would throw aside without re- 
gret, our little share of vanity, to breathe beneath this 
enchanted arbor. Who knows, but that Callot, un- 
deceived as to everything, has written there in dying 
his last dream? 

Callot died at last, the 25th of March, 1635, aged 
forty-two years ; he was buried in the cloister of the Cor- 
deliei'S ; a splendid tomb was raised over him, among 
the sepulchres of the family of the dukes of Lor- 
raine, a tomb surmounted by a pyramid, from which 
was suspended a portrait of the artist, painted on 
black marble, by his friend Michel Lasne. It was a 
portrait of life size, boldly touched ; a garland of oak 
leaves was carved in stone around it, for a frame. 
Was this the emblem of the national virtues of Cal- 
lot ? The genius of his art leaning against the border, 
sustained with one hand her pensive head, and in the 
other bore a palm. Callot was represented whh 
black hair, parted over the forehead, and cut in the 
style of the ci^es of his parish, a pointed tuft on his 
chin^ bright eyes, a ruddy complexion. He was 
dressed in a black doublet, with a large frill and 
sleeves turned back, and to complete his attire had 
the gold chain and medal of the grand duke of Flor- 
ence around his neck. Under the portrait, on a 
marble tablet, was to be read this epitaph, of a new 
sort : — 



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244 JACQUES CALLOT. 



(C 



TO POSTERITY. 



"Passer-by, cast your eyes on this inscription, and 
thou slialt know how far ray course has been ad- 
vanced ; thou wilt not be sorry if I should detain thee 
a little in thine own : I am Jacques Callot, that great 
and excellent cacographist, who reposes in this place, 
awaiting the resurrection of the body. My birth was 
respectable, my rank noble, my life short and happy, 
but my renown has been, and will be, unparallelled. 
No one has ever been equal to me, in all sorts of 
perfection, in designing and engraving on copper. 
The whole earth has acquiesced in the extraordinary 
praises which have been bestowed on me, without 
my ever having on that account departed from my 
natural modesty. I was born at Nancy, in the year 
1594, and died also at Nancy, March 25, 1635, to the 
incredible regretof Lorraine, my country, and of all 
the rarest spirits of our age, and principally of Cath- 
erine Kuttinger, my spouse, who, as a last pledge of 
affection, has erected to me this tomb. 

" Pray to God for him, who will never pray for 
anything to thee, and pass on." 

The cordeliers, not fancying this epitaph, effaced 
it, to inscribe a Latin one in true tombstone style, 
terminated V^y this distich : " Stabit in ceternum no- 
men et a/rtis opus?'* A friend of Callot, who did not 
understand any of the cordeliers' scrawl, traced 



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CALLOT IN 1'793. 245 

under the Latin verses these lines, which are in vei*se, 
if I may trust the ihymes : — 

**In vain whole volumes may be filled, 
With eulogies upon Callot; 
For me, I'll but one word bestow: 
Your pens must to his burin yield." 

This last epitaph was preserved ; it was inscribed 
on a small tablet inserted under the medallion; an 
erratum only was made, o\ir pens being substituted 
for your pens^ in order not to offend these good cor- 
deliers. It costs something to be interred like a 
great lord ; in 1793, the scms-culottes^ thinking they 
had to do with a grand duke, mutilated the portrait 
and destroyed the tomb. A poiiion of the portrait 
was afterward discovered and the curious fragments 
preserved. After having sustained the attacks of 
the French revolution, the ashes of Callot, discovered 
in 1825, were religiously transferred to the church. 
Callot reposes side by side with the dukes of Lor- 
raine, under an altar-like tomb surmounted by a 
pyramid. It is to be hoped that he will rest in peace 
this time until the last judgment. 

Had the grand-niece of Callot, the mother of 
madame de GrafBgny, who turned all the plates of 
Jacques Callot, the true armorial bearings of the 
family, into a fine set of cooking utensils, ever read 
this pompous epitaph? O vanity of epitaphs! 



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246 JACQUES CALLOT. 

VI. 

Thk works of Callot are composed of nearly six- 
teen hundred plates, including those signed by Israel. 
We must pass with a bird's-flight over almost all the 
minor religious works : Callot without fancy is no 
longer himself. We can see that he becomes weary 
over this tiresome work. The works in which he 
expands, in full luxuriance and splendor, are the 
Temptation of St. Anthony^ the Fair of the Ma- 
donna Imprunetta^ the Tortvres^ the Massacre of 
the Innocents^ the Miseries and Mishaps of War^ 
scoundrels of every form and fashion, from the im- 
pudent bully to the*beggar draped in his rags. It 
is in this strange gallery that we can study the treas- 
ures which he has lavished in the art of creation by 
engraving. 

He engraved with wonderful facility, more than 
once completing a plate in a day ; it was often noth- 
ing more than a pastime for his fairy-like hand, and 
his rich and vivid imagination. He often, as in 
his Boole of Caprices^ in his fancy and gi'otesque 
pieces, suffered his hand to move at random ; he 
talked with his friend, throwing out a witty speech 
at the time with a curious line, and was astonished 
himself at producing a figure. His burin, too, was 
so fruitful in resources, that amid his innumerable 
creations he never reproduced himself. He was be- 
sides an earnest artist, studying incessantly, full of 



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HIS ETCHINGS 24r7 

his work, loving the smell of the lamp. He had a 
passion for creating beggai's, bullies, and vagabonds, 
as others have a passion for gaming; it was almost 
an intoxication : when he sat up till morning, he said 
to his friend that he passed the night with his family. 

Etching is, as has been said, the writing of the 
thought of the artist. With it he enjoys full liberty 
of touch and fancy. It does not freeze inspiration 
by its slow progress ; it has the spirited pace of the 
high-mettled steed. Callot — so varied, so original, 
so capricious — is the grand master of the art. 

His genius has various characteristics worthy of 
study ; it is bold and fantastic. Whatever may be 
its disguises, it always astonishes. His manner is 
very exact in design and very finished, without be- 
ing labored ; he thus expresses, without any confu- 
sion, the thousand confused incidents of fairs, of 
sieges, fields, and spectacles. He needed, to suc- 
ceed, little space and many characters ; for in two 
strokes he created a scene, a character, or a physi- 
ognomy. According to the reverend father, Dom 
Calmet, "There are engravings of Callot's, in which 
you can cover with a crown-piece five or six leagues 
of country, and an inconceivable multitude of figures 
all in action." Never has, in so little space, so much 
fire, spirit, delicacy, and charm, been combined ; 
never was any one more pictui'esque. Salvator Kosa 
himself, in his etchings, does not surpass in pictu- 
r^squeness the engraver of Lorraine. Callot does 



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248 JACQUES CALLOT. 

not always, despite his marvellous dexterity, hit the 
mark; he dazzles, but does not convince.* He has 
pre-eminently the art to seize and surprise ; if he 
once gets you under the chai-m of one of his engra- 
vings, he does not let you go until you have exam- 
ined and re-examined the half of all his magical 
creations. I say the half, for one could never see 
the whole.f 

Coming after Albert Diirer, and before Kembrandt, 
Callot, in spite of all his genius, is somewhat effaced 
between these two great masters in the art of en- 

* Callot has more enthusiastic admirers : " What nobleness and 
elevation in his style, when he treats historical, and especially, sacred 
subjects, such as the Neio Testament^ the lAfe of the Virgin^ the 
Passage of the Red Sea^ the Massacre of the Innocents^ the Martyr' 
dom of St. Sebastian^ and so many others. Is not the " prodigal 
son" as noble when he takes leave of his father, as he is degraded 
when he returns to implore his forgiveness ? Remark the graceful 
carriage of this lady, the elegance of her cavalier, as contrasted with 
the humble attitude of the beggar who appeals to their compassion. 
How much pride in this warlike chief, how much charity in this 
ecclesiastic who is comforting the dying man 1 Everywhere shall we 
find the same contrasts, and the same truth, in the audacity of crime, 
and the terror of torments ; in the sports of the populace, and the 
exercises of the great; the ignoble effrontery of the buffoon, and the 
celestial resignation of the martyr." 

f There was a carver in wood, a worthy bourgeois of Nancy, 
Laurent Mennoyse, who produced the gi*eater part of Callot*s gro- 
tesques in relief. The work of this excellent figure-maker was of the 
most curious and varied description. His figures adorned the shelves 
and chimney-pieces of our fathera "These little figures," said the 
cordelier, F. Husson, a century ago, in his eulogy on Callot, "agree- 
ably replace on the chimney-pieces of Paris, as of Nancy, the mani- 
kins of China." His beggars are mentioned as little wonders. Time 
has scattered, mutilated, and destroyed all ; the artist's name alone 
has come down to us. 



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DUREE AND REMBRANDT. 249 

graving. Albei-t Diirer has a thoroughly German 
imagination; he is artless to sublimity; he disdains 
manner and effect. He is wanting in the ideal of 
the beautiful, but he lovingly caresses the ideal of 
expression. Sentiment is his genius. He copies the 
nature he has before him, as did Callot: but Albert 
Diirer, rising to the highest mission of art, ennobles 
his creations by thought and expression. Callot, 
more enamored with form, contents himself with 
making his actors play their fantastic comedy. The 
first touches us and sets us dreaming; the second, 
with his piquant grace, his original wit, his pleasing 
outline, dazzles and amuses us. Raphael, seeing the 
wood engravings of Albert Diirer, asked him for his 
portrait and sent him his own. Yan Dyck, seeing 
the wonders of Callot, was desirous of painting that 
master on his journey in Flanders ; they also made an 
exchange : while Vandyke painted, Callot sketched 
his painter. If I were not afraid of comparison, I 
should say that there is the same distance between 
Callot and Albert Diirer, tliat there is between the 
divine creator of the School of Athens and the chiv- 
alric Flemish portrait-painter. 

Rembrandt, who is akin to the great family of 
Leonardo da Yinci, Michael Angelo, Raphael, Cor- 
reggio, Titian, and Rubens, was also, like the artist 
of Loi-aine, a painter of rags : but, while he is the 
high poetry of rags, Callot is often but caprice in 
rags. Rembrandt neglects contour for efiect, Callot 

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250 JACQUES CALLOT. 

neglects effect for contour ; one is color in engraving, 
the other drawing. Callot, born at the thi-eshold of 
Germany and Flanders, has none of the artlessness 
of the Germans, none of the nature of the Flemings; 
born a Frenchman, he had the easy manner, the 
ringing laugh, the philosophy of his nation ; besides, 
he had acquired in Italy, his second country, light 
caprice and skilful boldness. In spite of the diver- 
sity of their genius and character, Albert Diirer, 
Rembrandt, and Callot, will always be confounded 
in a like admiration, when those who were creators 
in engraving are spoken of. All three Jid not pro- 
pose to themselves the same end, but all three 
attained their end.* 

No one has reaped so abundantly as Callot, with 
a golden sickle, in the verdant fields of Fancy. 
Fancy is the tenth muse ; she soars in the blue sky. 
If she descends to earth, her domain is everywhere 
where there are roses to be plucked. She neglects 
the golden fruit which weighs down the branch. 
She is a scholar who lingers along the sweet-smelling 
hedge-rows, who turns aside to pi nek a violet or drink 
at the brook. She is constantly in motion, like the 
bee, over the red flowers ; she gathers poetry from 
the verdant hedges ; but the bee returns to his hive, 

* Callot never willing to remain short of his aim, has often gone 
beyond it in the risks of his impetuosity. His expression is some- 
times extravagant Being afraid of not saying enough, he says too 
much : like those preachers, carried away by the intoxication of 
eloquence, and not by the luminous trace of thought. 



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CALL0T8 CARNIVAL. 251 

while the scholar loses herself in the pui-suit of her 
chimeras. The muse of Jacques Callot was Fancy; 
wit, grace, melody — nothing was wanting to this 
pretty poet except reason. II is Fancy is the lively 
gipsy-girl who hides her rags under the air of youth 
and gayety. How is it that he charms us without 
moving us deeply? It is because Callot has not 
painted man with his joy or his grief; he has painted 
a curious mask, which assumes the grimace of grief 
or joy. Tliis eternal picture of human miseries enli- 
vens or saddens only the fancy. His comedy of 
fifteen hundred acts is, therefore, neither purely gay 
nor purely sad ; it stops at the baik, it strikes only 
light blows. His finest effoi'ts in buffoons, the best 
grimaces of his beggars, bring a smile on the tips of 
our lips — a smile which floats, like himself, between 
nature and mannerism. His work is not the picture 
of life, but its carnival ; his rags are only disguises. 
Although a Frenchman, he has none of the comic 
depth of Moliere, or the Gallic ai*tlessness of La Fon- 
taine. This carnival of Callot is, however, dazzling; 
it is the complete history of the beautiful Italian 
gayety, which emitted its fii-st song with Ariosto, 
and whose last peal of laughter echoes in the eigh- 
teenth century through the comedies of Gozzi. 



FRIEND CALLOT. 

PHILOSOPHIC DREAMER. BENEATH THY STRANGE RAGS, 

SAD POET. BENEATH THT PEALING LAUGH, 

IF I HAVE FAILED IN THY PORTRAIT. TAKE THY SATIRIC PENCIL, 

AND WITH AN AVENGING STROKE CRUCIFY ME 

AMONG THY MOST FANTASTIC SKETCHJMJ 



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RAOUL AND GABRIELLE. 



Since romance-writei'8 have penetrated with the 
clew of Ariadne, the labyrinth of contemporaneous 
passion ; they have lost and recovered their way so 
often, that in fact, an unknown corner scarcely re- 
mains to be discovered. The virgin-forest has been 
profaned beneath every branch. Not a single hidden 
violet that has not been found and gathered, to per- 
fume some romantic page. 

Romance is no longer there. We must give Des- 
tiny time to write again upon the heart; passion 
must reveal itself under another form, for passion 
changes its mask with each generation. How great 
a distance separates the regency from the hotel 
Rambouillet, Jean-Jacques from Yoltaire, the shep- 
herdesses of Boucher from the nymphs of PrudhonI 
While awaiting this metamorphosis, let us travel in 
the past, let us stop for an hour in this tufted ro- 
mance, where sing the love and poetry of the twelfth 



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THE TOWER OF COUCY. 253 

century, the romance of Kaoul and of Gabrielle, a 
spontaneous romance, and which is yet, without dis- 
paraging the shade of Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, the 
finest in French literature, that of the abbe Prevost 
excepted. 

This romance is written word for word, in the 
poetry of the hero and the heroine, in the tradition 
and in the miniatures of the time,bnt not in the drama 
of Du Belloy. I write this upon the high tower of 
Coucy, evoking the phantoms of the past. 

IL 

The chdteau of Gabrielle has disappeared, but the 
tower of Coucy is yet erect, proud, mysterious, 
gigantic. 

The monuments of Gothic art, have not like those 
of antiquity, the rosy hue of youth. They give out 
the odor of the sepulchre, they speak to us eloquently 
of heaven, which is our destiny ; but for a path, they 
point out the sombre passage of the tomb. 

The tower of Coucy, built upon a mountain, which 
overlooks the valley d'Or, is one of the most eloquent 
pages of the history of France. It is like an old king 
of the fii-st race, standing erect upon a commanding 
throne. It is a min so majestic, that no one has had 
an idea of using it in an age when the utilitarians 
have seized upon everything. It is respected as a 
formidable temple, whose altar is cast down, but 
whose God still lives. 



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254 BAOUL AND 6ABBIELLE. 

The foundation of the chateau dates from 880. An 
archbishop of Khcims laid the first stone. Charles 
the Simple was imprisoned there in 929. The his- 
tory commences by tlie prison. The chateau passed 
from the hands of the count de Vermaudois into tliose 
of the counts de Senlis, soon into those of Hugues, 
count de Paris, finally into those of Tliibaut, count 
de Champagne, but it was upcm the stock of the counts 
de Yermandois, that was grafted, that powerful 
family of the sires de Coney. I am neither hing^ 
nor pri'iice^ nor duhe^ nor count / / am the sire de 
Coucy. He who had adopted this proud device, as- 
pired to the throne of France ; another Coucy dis- 
puted the crown with Austria ; a third took the title 
of sire de Coucy ^ hy the grace of Ood, 

And, in truth, the sires de Coucy were king^ upon 
their estates, and sometimes npon those of their 
neighbors. Thus Enguerrand the First, in his valiant 
or only adventurous excui-sions, met at Chateau-Por- 
cien, th3 beautiful countess Sybille, celebrated for 
the number of herlovei*8. She had just married the 
lord of Naraur, but he had gone to the wai-s. En- 
guen*and, without much violence, carried ofi* Sybille 
and married her in the sight of God and man, wait- 
ing till the other should return from the wai^s. The 
church prepared to launch its sacred thundei-s, hut 
it was a sire de Coucy ! 

The fii"st husband declared war against Enguer- 
rand. It was a war of extermination. They cut off 



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SETTLING A DIFFICULTY. 255 

the feet of the prisonei-s, and said to them : " Go, 
you are free." The most favored were hurig, and 
died pronouncing the sweet name of Sybille. At 
last the war ceased, because Sybille deceived both 
husbands. This Enguerrand was the father of the 
celebrated Thomas de Marie, " who counted upon 
his fingers the crimes of the previous evening" as a 
morning prayer. 



III. 

It is fi'om the centre of this rude epoch that we 
see the figure of Raoul de Coucy detach itself, radi- 
ant with the aureole of youth and love. 

It was in the time of tourneys and of minstrels, the 
world reposed in all the daintinesses of gallantry, 
from its religious and barbarous wai-s. Raonl de 
Coucy saw at a toumey Gabrielle de Vergies; she 
was beautiful, among the most beautiful ; twenty 
springs had crowned her brow with roses and lilies; 
but her white hand, which, according to the verses 
of the time, would not have blushed in the snow, she 
had given to Eudes, lord of Fayel, who was neither 
a warrior nor a poet, but a rustic hunter in love with 
the forest. 

At this tourney, Raonl spoke to Gabrielle only 
by his passionate glances. She appeared not to un- 
derstand him ; however, when slie mounted her pal- 
frey at the command of the lord of Fayel, she cast 



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256 BAOUL AND GABRIKLLK. 

upon Kaoul a look which dazzled and intoxicated hini. 
On his return to Coucy, Raoul found there a min- 
strel who was rambling through the province — one 
of those extravagant poets without house or home, 
who place their poetry at the service of those who 
have none of their own. Until then, Raoul had not 
written a line ; it was love that opened to him the 
sanctuary of poetry. 

When he and the minstrel had supped in company, 
he related to him his celestial vision at the tourney. 
The minstrel — like all of his class, fond of adven- 
tures — had a fearless predilection for enterprises of 
gallantry. He said to Raoul : " If you do not your- 
self dare to go to the chateau of the sire de Fayel, 
and tell his wife that you are dying for love of her, 
I will set out in your place, and will sing to her, un- 
der her husband's nose, the most tender lay that ever 
a woman in love listened to. 

Raoul consented to take the minstrel for his em- 
bassador; but the minstrel set out and did not re- 
turn, not daring to appear before the eyes of Raoul 
after having been badly received at the chateau de 
Fay el. 

Raoul, in the meantime, emboldened by his pas- 
sion, determined to go himself and sing the joys and 
griefs of his heart at the chdteau of Gabrielle. He 
mounted his steed and set out in all the charm of 
amorous visions. 

He arrives at the chateau, frightened at the beat- 



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A LOVKR OF TUB OLDEN TIME. 257 

ings of his heart. He was ushered into a large hall 
with dark beams, to which were suspended the tro- 
phies of the chase. Gabrielle was alone in the ogive 
of the window, looking through the panes, framed 
with arabesque, at the clouds flying across the sky. 
Eaoul placed one knee upon the floor, then went 
and seated himself before Gabrielle and gazed at 
her in silence. 

She was so beautiful, with her hair fastened with 
a circle of gold, and her robe with large flowing 
sleeves, he was all eyes, and could not find a word 
to say. 

"Such rare perfections surely prove 
That Gabrielle was made for love." 

I have before me the old miniature which repre- 
sents Kaoul and Gabrielle at this eloquent interview. 
She has on shoes pointed like the emperor of China. 
He is armed with a cutlass, the ivory handle of 
which is in the form of a heart — a charming trinket 
of the time. He has a silver collar, half hidden by 
a long beard and long hair. His hand is raised like 
an admiration point before Gabrielle. The chdte- 
laine de Fayel seems waiting for him to explain 
himself. 

Finally she met liis confession half way with these 
words, so naively engaging : " Messire de Fayel is 
out hunting in the forest since yesterday morning." 

Raonl, encourage 3, commenced to sing: "My 
eyes would never be satiated in gazing at her sweet 



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258 EAOUL AND GABEIELLE. 

and tender countenance, her white hand, her slender 
fingers, which makie us love violently ; neither her 
beautiful arms ; nor her graceful form, supple as a 
reed that waves in the wind ; nor her blond hair, 
like the sheaves in August : all the beauties which 
shine in othei's are united in her." 

He did not stop at this stmphe : in the second he 
undoubtedly became too bold, for suddenly the lady 
de Fayel reminded him that she was bound by the 
strong tie of marriage. 

Eaoul, however, was retained to supper, but he 
could neither eat nor drink. " Eat, then," said the 
lady de Fayel maliciously to him : "I beg of you, by 
the faiti: you have sworn to me, make somewhat of 
a bettei face of it." — " Alas, I am too much in love." 
— "I am not afflicted by your pain, Signor Kaoul, 
for I have been told that the pains of love only last 
for a season." 

The hunter entered while they were at table. He 
did not ihink of troubling himself at the visit of sire 
de Coucy ; he told him that he would always be well 
received beneath his roof. He related with simple 
pride a]l his prowess at the chase. He promised 
Raoul to lead his hounds to the woods of CoUcy. 

Some days after, Raoul returned to Fayel. This 
time Gabrielle dried the tears of her lover. At the 
same time, she told him tliat all that she could do 
for him would be to weep with him, but that she 
would never betray her plighted faith. 



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AN API-OINTMENT. 259 

Raoul retimed again, always more in love, always 
more entreating. He most always found Gabrielle 
alone ; he left her at the time the sire de Fayel wonld 
retiini. He often spoke to her of carrying her off 
and going to one of his chateaiix in Champaign, 
which would be for them a terrestrial paradise. At 
these words she would always get indignant and 
threaten to close the door upon him. But Kaoul 
had fought too valiantly, and had made too many 
breaches, to slope on the way. " I have never seen 
you," said he, " but by the light of day, or by the 
light of the silver lamps; I wish to see you, my 
beautiful chdtelaine, by the amorous light of the 
moon and stains." — "But I — I see you there every 
night," replied Gabrielle in her soft sweet voice; 
" when the moon rises, I descend to the garden, and 
your dear foim appears to me like a vision under all 
the trees which I pass. More than once — shall I tell 
it you? — I have gone out of the tower which faces 
toward Coucy, and have walked an hour, as if I was 
going to meet you ; I well knew that you would not 
come, but I was as happy as if you were to come." 

Raoul did not say that he would come, but he 
came. 

The first night Gabrielle did not leave the tower; 
but the second, Raoul while leaning against the dopr, 
heard the noise of the key in the lock. She opened 
it ; with one hand he seized that of Gabrielle, wnth 
the other he seized the key. " Since I have so well 



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260 EAOUL AND GABKIKLLE. 

that of your heart, why shall I not have that of your 
ch&teau?" 

An entire season passed with them in nocturnal 
meetings. Never had the moon, with her melan- 
choly eyes, seen such passionate lovers. They only 
met for an hour, but for them, the entire day and 
night was in that hour. 

However, Raoul who but now was the handsome 
chevalier everywhere renowned, no longer saw his 
friend, went no more to tourneys, nor to the castel- 
lans' fetes. In vain one of his neighbors, wearied with 
her solitude, attempted to draw him to her, and make 
a paradise for him in her chateau. At first he al- 
lowed himself to be taken, for the lady was pretty ; 
but the image of Gabrielle triumphed. The slighted 
chatelaine told Raoul, that she would be revenged. 
— " I know," she said to him, " why you do not see 
me when I am before you, it is because you love 
Gabrielle de Vergies ; but take care, the lord of 
Fayel is my cousin." 

Kaoul did not take care ; he went according to his 
custom. He took the key and opened the door of the 
tower, but having ventured into the dark, he seized 
a hand which was not that of his love. ''I am be- 
trayed," he cried, " to me, my cutlass !"Hehad recog- 
nised the sire de Fayel. 

There was a violent combat. The sire de Fayel 
had a reinforcement, but Raoul fought to see Ga- 
brielle again. But if Gabrielle had not entered the 



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A MILLER FOR LOVE. 261 

tower, though frightened, strong through love, it 
would have been ended with her lover. The women 
of this loving aud barbarous epoch, did not content 
themselves with falling on their knees and weeping. 
They were valiant in love and in danger. 



IV. 

Six weeks passed away. Do you see down there, 
through the willows, in the valley, the yellow roof 
and red chimney of that little noisy mill, which turns 
day and night? Since yesterday, you will find there 
a pretty fellow of a miller, who calls himself Raoul, and 
who sings sadly a lay of love ; he is dressed in coai^se 
cloth, and covered with flour ; but beneath the dress 
and the flour, you see at once, that this pretty miller 
has not passed his youth in grinding corn. Why 
then has Kaoul de Ooucy come there ? *Is it that he 
is suddenly smitten with the miller's wife? 

Since six weeks, what has become of Gabiielle? 
The sire de Fayel has placed his chAteau in a state 
of siege. His wife has wept, but without letting 
her tears be seen. " Well," said he to her one day, 
" do you still think of the sire de Ooucy ?" — " The time 
is so long, since I have seen him, how is it you should 
think I have not forgotten him ? I only ask one thing 
of you, lord of Fayel, that is, to prevent me from 
dying from ennui ; give me some amusement. Ther 
why should I not accompany you to the chase ?" 



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262 EAOUL AND GABRIELLE. 

The sire de Fayel, loved his wife like all the Sga 
narelles of the middle ages and the present day. He 
allowed her to accompany him to the woods. After 
three or four promenades, she found means to send 
and infoi-m the sire de Coiicy, that she would be on 
Sunday at the mill of Gue. This explains the meta- 
morphosis of Kaoul. But how will she go to the mill 
of Gne, this loving woman, who is as it were, the 
source of the heroines of George Sand? 

On Sunday she heard mass in the chapel of the 
chateau. The chaplain has given her his benedic- 
tion, she begs the sire de Fayel to mount his hoi-se, 
and accompany her to the valle}', to go listen to the 
songs of the reapers. 

She draws him toward the ford, by the mill, tel- 
ling him, that she has never felt so happy as in this 
ride. On reaching the ford, she urged her horse on, 
and threw hei-self in the middle of the stream. The 
sire de Fayel threw himself after her, raised her up, 
and drew her to the bank. " And now," said he, 
'^ what am I to do w^ith you, in this pitiable state ?" 
"I am more dead than alive. But do I not hear the 
noise of the m'ill ? Carry me there, and go to the 
chateau and bring me other clothes." 

The jealous sire de Fayel carried his wife to the 
mill. Eaoul was at the door : " My good man, grant 
your hospitality for an hour to the lady de Fayel, 
Make a good fire, tell your wife to see to her, and to 



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THE COMEDY OF LOVE. 263 

give her her bed. I am going to the chateau and 
will soon return." 

He left. Is it necessary to say, that Raoul took 
Gabrielle in his arms, and dried her with his kisses. 

Do we find in modern romances, bolder inventions 
or fresher pages ? It is a complete succession of 
pictures, picturesquely accentuated, and of a brilliant 
and charming color. 

When the sire de Fayel came back with a dress 
to the mill, Gabrielle was in bed. She* did not wish 
to dress herself. She said to her husband, that she 
was sick, and would not be able for some time to re- 
turn to the chdteau. 

The historian lias not related word for word, all 
the pretty scenes of this comedy. This mill has been 
for the two lovers, a garden of Aimida. Love has 
this that is beautiful, that he creates a paradise 
everywhere, 

V. 

Raoul and Gabrielle could not always remain at 
the mill. There was a genuine miller and his wife ? 
who were ennuyed at no longer making flour. And 
moreover, that w^hich the two lovers made, was not 
always, said the chronicler, of gold or snow, for often 
in their joyous gambols, they forgot to put grain into 
the hopper. It was, however, at the mill, on the 
borders of the pond, under the green willows of 
the meadow, in this rustic ne^t, that they were liapj\y 



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264 EAOCTL AND GABEIELLE. 

to their hearts^ content. They had sentinels to warn 
them by an air on the pipe, when the sire de Fayel 
came to the mill, in going to the chase. 

Gabrielle surprised more than once in the peach- 
down of health, could no longer persist in calling 
herself sick. The sire de Fayel, gave a horse to the 
miller, for having taken such good care of his wife, 
and finally carried Gabrielle home. He learned the 
romantic comedy too late. He revenged himself by 
doubling the bolts. Gabrielle henceforth saw the 
sky only through her window; nevei-theless, after his 
jealous fury, the sire de Fayel permitted her to go to 
any part of the chateau, hoping to get once more into 
her good graces. It is not known whether she could 
still write to Raoul, but one evening, her maid said 
to her: "Lady, do you hear the wind and the 
rain?" — "Yes, I hear the wind and the rain." — "Do 
you hear, in the wind and rain, a voice that weeps 
and sings?" — " Yes, for my heart beats higher, it is 
my lord de Coucy." — "Lady, the sire de Fayel has 
returned weary from the chase, he wWl not awake 
before day." — "Bertha, do not talk to me thus. 
Give me my missal." — "What! your heart is not 
touched ? The poor sire de Coucy will die at the 
gate. Lady, take my dress, and go to the tower; 
if the sire de Fayel wakes, I will be in your beri." 

Gabrielle was fond of adventures, she took tlie 
maid's petticoat, and went to admit Eaoul. If the 
husband awoke, what mattered it? 



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A PILGRIM OF LOVE. 



VI. 



All the wiles of the Spaniards were known to 
Raoul and Gabrielle. One evening, an old pilgrim, 
broken down by age, with a tattered cloak, a beard 
like the Wandering Jew's, a rosary and cross of box- 
wood in his hands, presented himself at tlie chAteaii, 
and asked for hospitality. 

The sire de Fayel was at supper with the lady of 
the chdtean ; he called the pilgrim, and gave him a 
place at his table. " Whence come you ?" — " From 
the land of the passions." — " Whither are you 
going?" — "To the blue region filled with stare." — 
"Your name?" — "I have none." — "My father," 
said Gabrielle in her turn, " you are gifted with 
prescience ?" — " Yes, for I am a sinner, I have kept 
company with the seven capital sins, those fatal 
beads, which we must tell in life, before opening with 
faith the doors of heaven." — " My father, have you 
opened the doors of heaven ?" — " Yes, noble lady, in 
my pilgrimage to Jemsalem." — "Jerusalem!" — 
" Yes, I have brought from Jerusalem, a shred of 
the Virgin's veil." 

As he said these words, the pilgrim took a veil, 
from his heart, and offered it to Gabrielle. " If the 
lord of the chateau consents, I will give you this veil, 
noble lady, for no one in the world is more worthy to 
wear it, at a Christian cerejpony. I only ask in return, 

Vol. 1.-12 



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26(5 BAOUL AND GABRIELLTC. 

that you will grant me hospitality, to perform a nine 
days' devotion in the chapel of your chateau." — 
" We should be too happy," said Gabrielle eagerly, 
" to have such a holy person, diffuse here the per- 
fume of his faitli, and the incense of his prayers." 

For nine days more, Raoul and Gabrielle reopened 
their romance at its most impassioned pages. 

The sire de Fayel, weary of t)ie pilgrim's orisons, 
Bet out every morning for the chase, and did not ap- 
pear until supper. One evening, however, he came 
near surprising them. They had not heard him enter; 
the maid was singing and listening to her own song; 
all at once, the sire de Fayel appeared in Gabrielle's 
chamber, but the pilgrim had had time to throw 
himself upon his knees, before the prie-Dieu. 

Gabrielle was busy combing her beautiful locks, 
and spreading violets upon them. '^ Tou come in 
time," said she to her lord, "for this poor pilgrim 
was about putting me to sleep with his litanies." 

The pilgrim who was on his knees, turned around. 
"Lady," said he, bowing before the husband, "a 
day will come, when you will acknowledge that it is 
uimecessary to beautify yourself, except for God 
alone." — " And what of me ?" said the lord of the 
chateau, in a feudal voice. " God, the king, who is 
the image of God, the lord of the manor, who is the 
image of the king and of God, is what I meant to 
say," murmured the pilgrim in confusion. 

The husband out of patience went to lead to the 



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END OF THE NINE DAYS. 267 

kenael three large dogs, who were permitted to enter 
the halls of the ch4teaii,and wlio were wilding leaping 
about, or yelping for their share of the booty. 

The pilgrim approached Gabrielle. " Farewell, 
ray love, farewell ray heart, farewell my joy, for I 
perceive that we are at the end of the nine days' de- 
votion."— " To-morrow only," said Gabrielle in a sup- 
plicating tone. — ^'But this evening, it is nine days 
since I arrived." — " My lord has not counted, nor I 
either. Have you not one single orison more for to- 
morrow?" 

Kaoul cast a passionate glance upon Gabrielle. 
" Am I then no longer beautiful, at the end of nine 
days ?" 

She was so beautiful with her floating locks, spread 
over with violets, that Eaoul in intoxication, seized 
that dishevelled hair with a trembling hand, and bit 
it madly with his white teeth. He gathered up all 
the violets, and swore to bear them upon his heai-t, 
" until the day when my lips shall have hurned them 
vpr 

vn. 

Eaoul departed for the Holy Land. They saw 
each other once more to say "farewell;" and she 
gave him a t/ruelove Tcnot of silh^ very heautiful 
and well rnade^ a/nd there was some of her own hair 
worked in with the silk. She gave, him besides, a 
precious ring, which she had always kept, and which 



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RAOULL AND OABRIRLLE. 

he swore to wear until his last sigh. How many tears 
and how many kisses at that last farewell, for the 
Holy Land was far from France in the middle ages ! 

This is RaouPs song of farewell : — 

" Lovei*s, it is to you I tell my grief. I must go 
beyond the sea, T must quit my loyal mistress. In 
losing her, I have no longer my foot upon the earth 
where the roses bloom in the spring-time. Ah ! if 
men die of a broken heart, my amorous lays will be 
heai-d no more. 

" I am going to die so far away ! and she will not 
be there when I shall fall, to sustain my bleeding 
brow upon her snowy bosom. And she will not be 
there to speak to me those sweet words which she 
alone could speak beneath the heavens. 

" Oh ! my heart, where will you go ? You are 
bounding in my bosom, like the hind in the forest 
when she is wounded by the hunter. The hunter is 
my evil destiny. It is death that sends me beyond 
the sea. Oh ! my heart, go to her. 

"Why, oh my heart, dost thou remain to me, 
when Gabrielle is torn from my arms ? Song, spring- 
ing from my heart, go to her — go and tell her that 
I depart for the Lord, and that I will return for her." 

On his arrival in Syria, Kaoul was surnamed the 
knight of the mighty prowess ; he combated his love 
only by his valor. 

Or, rather, he still sang, to soothe his heart: — 

" When the sweet wind Hows that comes from the 



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THE POETRY OF LOVE. 

land where dwells the lady whom I love, I turn mj 
face in that direction ; I seem to feel upon my gray 
cloak the sweet wind that comes from the land 
where she that I love awaits me. Oh! breath of 
Gabrielle, soul of her mouth and of her heart, is it 
not thou that dost come to me from so far?" 

But he wished to live for the Holy Cross. Gabri- 
elle felt that she was dying far away from him. 
Love also made her a poet; she composed lays: — 

" I wish to sing to comfort my heart, for, in spite 
of the cruel loss which I have suffered, I will not 
abandon myself to the madness of despair. I wish 
to die, but not till I have embraced him once more, 
for at that last embrace, I shall die." 

The most curious stanza is this : — 



He sent the shirt he used to wear 

With fire to burn me all away; 
When thoughts of love my bosom tear, 

That shirt upon my couch I lay 
All night next to my body bare, 

To charm my raging pains away/' 

We see that the passion of Raoul and Gabrielle 
was at once tender and furious, gentle and savage; 
he sent her, not a lock of hair, nor an amber neck- 
lace, nor a ring of fine gold, but his shirt, to set her 
on fire. That verb emhraisoier (to set on fire) is para- 
dise and hell. Francesca de Rimini experienced 
nothing so passionate in the poem of Dante. 



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S70 BAOUL AND GABRIELLE. 

Raoul, after he had sent his shirt to Gabrielle, sent 
her his heai*t. 

For two j'ears he braved every danger in Syria: 
he was wounded deeply in the side hy cm enven- 
omed dart at the siege of Acre. The king of Eng- 
land took him respectfully in his arms and gave him 
the kiss of hope. But the dart was poisoned ; Kaoul 
understood that he had but a few days to live. He 
stretched out his arms toward France: "Fmnce! 
France! Gabrielle! Gabrielle!" 

He wished to depart, but hardly was he aboard 
the vessel when he called his squire : — 

"When I am dead, you will take my heart and 
carry it to France to madame de Fayel; you will 
likewise take to her all the rings and diamonds that 
I have, in token of love and remembrance." 

After which Raoul wrote, with a hand which 
death was about to seize : — 

" Lady, I love to let you know that I have always 
been your vassal. I have carried away your heart 
with me, I send you mine. Ah! charming and 
unctuous creature, you surpass all women as the 
evening star shines brighter than its sistere. Your 
heart is the purest grain. Your beauty, amid other 
beauties, is the diamond, the sapphire, the red rose. 
Sweet fountain of charity, you are filled with every 
virtue. When I think that I must die far away from 
you ! But you know the way by which we shall see 



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A lover's heart. 271 

each other again — it is the way to heaven. I await 
you in God ?" 

Raoul, as we see, had remained a poet in the 
midst of combats, in the face of death. This letter 
was like the song of the swan ; hardly had he signed 
it with his blood, when he expii^d, mising his eyes 
to heaven, that place of meeting at which no one 
fails, and where he did not wait long for Gabrielle. 

His squire, as he had desired, took his heart, 
*^ salted it and preserved it in good spices^'* which 
means that he embalmed it. After which he re- 
turned to France with that precious testament. As 
he passed tlirough Brindes, he left there the body 
of Eaoul, that it might be splendidly inteiTed. 

VIII. 

The chateau de Fay el was still a prison to Gabri- 
elle. The sire de Fayel was unwilling to pardon her. 
If Raoul had set out for the Holy Land, it was be- 
cause Gabrielle had prevailed upon her husband to 
join the crusade ; but the latter, having found out that 
Raoul had gone, remained behind. He had consti- 
tuted himself the judge and jailer of his wife. When 
he went to the hunt, he carried away all the keys at 
his girdle. 

Yainly had Raoul's squire attempted to penetrate 
into the chateau de Fayel; it was like the castle of 
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272 RAOUL AND OABRIELLE. 

He met the sire de Fayel, beneath the roughest 
exterior; the lowest of his game-keepers was better 
clothed than himself. The squire asked him if he 
could not get access to the chateau. Occupied with 
his own sorrow, he did not see the ferocious joy of 
the sire de Fayel, who according to the chronicle, 
smelt the fresh flesh of Kaoul. 

The squire allowed himself to be disarmed, after 
having received a hunting-knife in his side. The sire 
de Fayel when he had unveiled the precious charge 
and read the letter, possessed the secret of that fune- 
eral message. He re-entered thech&teau,and ran to 
his cook with a savage joy : "You will dress this 
heart in such a manner, that it will be an agreeable 
dish." 

The cook did so, "and dressed another dish in the 
same manner, and* served it up in fitting style, upon 
a plate ; and the lady was served with it at dinner, 
and the lord ate of another dish that resembled it." 

Yes, at dinner, the heart of Eaoul was served up 
for Gabrielle, who thus ate the hea/rt of the chdte- 
lain Raoul^ her lover. When she had eaten^ the 
lord asked her : " Lady^ have you eaten of a pleas- 
ant dishV* She answered that she had eaten 
heartily, " Therefore did Iha^e it prepa/red^'* re- 
plied the lord of the chateau^ ^^for that dish which 
you loved so well^ Tcnow that you have supped off the 
heart of Raoul de CoucyP 

As he said tl ese words, the sire de Fayel, threw 



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EFFECTS OF EATING A HEART. 273 

upon the table, the open casket wliich contained the 
letter. Gabrielle tunied pale as she recognised the 
seal ; she took the letter with a trembling hand, and 
read it with a haggard eye. 

" Sire de Fayel," she said with a majestic air that 
astonished her husband, " you have raised your ven- 
geance to the height of your soul. I complain not. 
It is true I loved that dish well, fori believe that he 
is dead, who should be mourned as the most loyal 
knight in the world. You have made me eat his 
heart, and it is the last food I will ever eat. Since 
it is not right, that after such noble food, I should 
ever eat any other." 

"Tlierenpon, at that word, she swooned away, and 
the body remained without life." 

Gabrielle fainted, and returned to life, only to die. 
The chronicle does not tell us whether she died of 
hunger, after having eaten the heart of her lover. 

It has been said that the sire de Fayel, had been 
cruel and savage ; cruel, yes ; savage, no ; for in- 
stead of making his wife eat the heart of Raoul, he 
might have eaten it himself. The sire de Fayel was 
refined and delicate in his vengeance. 
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274 KAOUL AND OABBIELLK. 

IX. 

The poems of Raoul de Coucy, like those of Ga- 
brielle de Vergies, are the eternal May-song, which, 
from the shepherds of Theocritus, to the romantic 
dreamers of 1825, all lovers have sung. The muse 
of love is always the poetry that confides to heaven 
and earth, to the woods and the fountains, the hopes 
of a heart half open unto life. It is always the same 
song, it is only the rhyme that changes — even the 
rhyme is almost always the same. 

I prefer Gabrielle's poetry ; we there feel the pas- 
sion more. Is not the whole poem of her heart con- 
tained in these three stanzas ? — 

"Within an orchard, 'neath the hawthom^s shade 
A lady held her lover to her heart, 
Until the dawn should come upon the hill. 
Oh God ! my Grod ! how soon the dawn appears. 

"My own sweet love, we'll play at other sports 
Within the mill that sings among the reeds. 
A lovely miller's wife Til be to thee. 
Oh Gkxl ! my God ! how soon the dawn appears. 

"But have a care, it has a sentinel! 
Sweet night's departing now ; my love, farewell. 
I've drunk thy soul as 'twere a ray of heaven. 
Oh God! my God! how soon the dawn appears." 

There is not one of these vei'ses bnt possesses po- 
etiy and feeling. Among the great poets, is there 
one who would disavow these three stanzas? The 
poetry and the lovei^s of the twelfth century were 



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WOMAN. 276 

disfigured at the Op^ra-comiqne, at tlie time of the 
Restoration ; but to persons of right mind, an epoch 
always has its serious aspect, even in its caricatures. 
"What especially strikes us in the manners of the 
twelfth century, is, that the refinement and gallantry 
of France begin to leave the savage forests and ap- 
pear in the ch&teaux. The heart of the lady is the 
feudal loi-d, the faith of the knight is the vassal. 
Chivalry has begun to make captive the primitive 
barbarism. It is only in days of war that they 
cry "Blood and pillage!" it is only on days of 
merry-making that they perpetuate the Roman or- 
gies. "What Catholicism has not done, woman, that 
apostle of the heart, will do with a glance, with a 
smile, with a tear. 

Woman in the middle ages was like the visible 
image of the Deity ; she opened the door to the new 
world, she plucked for the rude and savage hand of 
man the sacred flower of spirituality. 



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THE HUNDRED AND ONE PICTURES OF 
TARDIF, THE FRIEND OF QILLOT. 

Among the celebrated amateurs of pictures, in 
France, at the end of the seventeenth century, was 
Tardif, originally an engineer, afterward secretary 
to marechal de Boufflers. He was the friend of 
Largilliere, of Watteau, and of Audran, but es- 
pecially of Qillot. His criticisms went I'ight to the 
mark. When a picture was finished, none ventured 
to pass a verdict on its merits until Tardif had seen 
it; his opinion was, so to speak, the finishing touch 
of the bmsh. Watteau himself, who laughed at criti- 
cism, said, when laying down his brush before a 
newly-finished Fete Oalante^ " There is a master- 
piece ; if Tardif were here, I would sign it." Tardif 
had one of the finest cabinet collections in Paris — 
rue 6it-le-Coeur, No. 1. The mar6chal de Boufflers, 
aware of his secretary's passion, gave him every year, 
as a new-vear's gift, a picture from the hand of a 
master. Tardif himself, out of his patrimonial for- 
tune, had purchased pictures from his friends, the 



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A CHEAP HOUSEHOLD. 277 

living paintei-s, and by bis friends, the dead ones. 
So renowned was his cabinet, that one day the duke 
of Orleans went to visit it with Noc^, which suc- 
ceeded in turning TardiPs head. Nevertheless, if 
the woi-thy man had been guilty but of this one ex- 
travagance — which at least was evidence of a noble 
aspiration to the poetry of the beautiful — he might 
have retained wherewithal to live respectably till the 
end of his days. Unfortunately, he fell into another 
folly, and suffered himself to be duped by the scheme 
of Law. This is tantamount to saying that he lost, 
in that revolution of French fortunes, all that he had 
— except his pictures. 

It was essential, however, to find the means of 
living. Most people would have got rid of their pic- 
tures ; Tardif got rid of his servants. "Go, my 
friends," he said, " into the world, where money cir- 
culates; henceforward my household must consint 
of persons who do not eat ; my pictures will keep me 
company." Tardif was old, the passions of life had 
no further hold upon his heai-t, a ray of sun was all 
he needed to live happily in his cabinet. 

He had some wine remaining; he went down to 
his cellar, and found with joy that his wine, now 
that he should no longer keep open house, would last 
longer than himself; that he might even, on gay an- 
niverearies, summon Watteau and Audran to make 
merry with him, amidst the melodious gurgling of 
the bottles. 



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278 HUNDRED AND ONE PICTURES OF TARDIF. 

As he came up from the cellar, a bottle in each 
hand, he met old Gillot on the staii-s. " Watteau 
and Audran, well and good," said Tardif; "but, 
Gillot ! the barrel of the Danaides !" 

Before he had finished the words, the old wine- 
loving painter had seized a bottle and pressed it ten- 
derly to his heart. " My poor old Gillot, here is 
what I have left."—" Well !" said Gillott, " every 
man his bottle." 

For Gillot's farthest glance into futurity never 
reached the morrow. "Tardif," continued he, "you 
know that I have come to dine with you !" — " With 
all my heart, Gillot, but thei*e is no great matter for 
dinner." 

They went m. Tardif put a piece of bread upon 
the table. "The devil !" cried Gillot, unfolding his 
napkin, " your style of living will soon rid you of 
parasites." 

Taixiif, however, munched his bread with good ap- 
petite while gazing around him at his dear pictm^es. 
— " What matter !" he exclaimed ; " henceforth it is 
not this bread and wine that will compose my repast; 
I will breakfast with a Teniers and a Ruysdael, dine 
with a Vandyck, or a Murillo, sup with a Santerre 
or a Watteau. On grand festivals, I will treat my- 
self to my Paul Veronese ; when my spirits or appe- 
tite are bad, I will nibble your gay Itttle master- 
pieces, friend Gillot."— " Well said," cried Gillot, 
filling his glass. " If all these masterpieces were 



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A TABLEAUX VIVANT. 27S 

mine, I would eat them too ; but in such wise that in 
a few years, not one of them should remain. Take 
my advice, Tardif, and do not seclude youreelf from 
the world, with these dumb personages who already 
seem to mock you. Mother Nature did not give you 
a mouth that you should feed youreelf on chimeras. 
You will be like the dog in the fable, who eats his 
shadow and goes mad." — "As you please, friend 
Gillot. If you dislike my mode of living, you will 
not return to my table. For my part, I find my mind 
more hungry than my flesh." 

As good as his word, Tardif persisted in living on 
bread and wine in the midst of his pictures. 

He gave his watch and seals to a fish woman, who 
opened oysters at a tavern-door, opposite his windows, 
on condition, that each morning she should bring 
him his bread, make his bed, and sweep his room. 
This woman had still freshness, a kind of souvenir 
of that devilish beauty, which usually departs at five- 
and-twenty — or even sooner when the possessor is an 
oyster-seller, at the door of a wine-house. She sang 
merrily, and laughed continually with all the power 
of her red lips and white teeth. With her cap on one 
side, her short petticoat and her joyous humor, she 
was an additional picture in the gallery, and not the 
woi-st of the collection. 

Tardif, old though he was, became accustomed to 
this picture, as to the others ; and as it was voluptu- 
ous in drawing and in color, it often happened with 



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280 HUNDBKD AKD ONE PICTLRF:S <»F TARDIF. 

this, as with the other pictures, that he would en- 
thusiastically place his hand, often unconsciously, 
upon the most beautiful fragments. The fish-wife 
would laugh a little louder, and there was the end 
of it. 

Such was the state of affairs when Tardif, who at 
long intervals showed himself in society, met, at the 
house of abb6 le Ragols, the grammarian — who had 
been a frequent visiter at the hotel de Boufflei's when 
Tardif was the niarechal's secretary — the reverend 
Father Dequet, a Jesuit, celebrated in those days, 
and procurator of the novitiate of the faubourg Saint- 
Germain. Tardif, who remarked this holy man hover- 
ing about him, would fain have departed, in obedi- 
ence to a vague presentiment ; but, before he could 
do so, the reverend father got abb6 le Ragois to pre- 
sent him to Tardif. " Monsieur," said Father De- 
quet, "I have heard from my friend, that you possess 
one of the most curious cabinets of pictures in the 
world : will you not do me the favor to open your 
door to me ? Pictures are the only somewhat pro- 
fane enjoyment I allow myself" 

Tardif, who disliked visitei's, and did not greatly 
esteem Jesuits, did not, however, dare to shut his 
door on Father Dequet. He came two days after, 
accompanied by abbe le Ragois. He praised every- 
thing, the Magdalens as well as the Yirgins, the Bac- 
chantes as well as the Magdalens, with an expansive 
enthusiasm which intoxicated the old amateur. — " I 



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A FISHER OF MEN. 281 

own to you," said he to Father Dequet, " that I airj 
not exactly prepossessed in favor of the Jesuits. 
Tour morality is far from being that of the gospel ; 
your manner of interpreting the Scriptures is veiy 
different from mine. But in my eyes, you are now 
no longer of the congregation ; you are a lover of 
pictures, and, as such, you will always find my door 
open." 

The reverend father often returned, to go into ecs- 
tasies, in Tardif's cabinet, and little by little Tardif 
came to consider him as a friend. His other friends 
— his old, his true friends, those who drank his wine 
and talked to him of old times — laughed a little at 
his infatuation with Father Dequet, and foretold to 
him that he and his pictures would end by enrolling 
themselves in the order of the Jesuits. He laughed 
himself, and appeared quite easy as to his fate. 

On the other hand, Father Dequet did not lose his 
time. With evangelical mildness, he pointed out to 
Tardif the dangers of solitude, to the possessor of 
pictures of such great merit and value. With dis- 
creet, but seductive hand, he half opened to him the 
gates of the novitiate of the faubourg Saint-Germain. 
" There need be no change in your habits ; you may 
live like a pagan if you please, as you do now. If 
you fall ill, no strangers will approach your sick bed, 
for we shall all be there — we who are the brotheis of 
him who suffere. You will no longer have to fear 
being plundered — a picture you know, is carried off 



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282 HUNDEKD AND ONE PICTURES OF TARDIP. 

as easily as a book — we will prepare you a large 
bed-room, in which you can hang up the whole of your 
hundred and one pictures." — ''A hundred and one ! 
— ^you have counted them then ?" said Tardif slily 
to Father Dequet. " Counted — not so," the Jesuit, 
hesitati.igly replied. "If I know the number so ac- 
curately, it is because you told it me." He saw that 
he had ventured too far, and that the moment was 
not yet come ; he hastened to beat a retreat, to avoid 
being totally routed. "My friendship blinds me, 
perhaps," said he mournfully. " My sole desire, my 
friend, is that you may live long without uneasiness 
about your dear pictures. Believe me, you have too 
much confidence in your neighbors ; for instance, 
that fishwife, who enters here at all houre, coming 
and going without control — who knows what tricks 
she may play you? Would you believe it, my friend, 
I have seen her three or four times at the picture- 
dealer's on the bridge of Notre Dame ?" 

Tardif bounded like a wounded deer ; the shot had 
hit the mark. " Gersaint !" exclaimed he, " a scoun- 
drel who prevented Watteau from selling me his 
finest Fete Oalante^ Cythera Besieged, If ever 
she enters his house again, I will shut my door in 
her face." — "But, my friend, you will not know it; 
your legs are no longer good enough to follow the 
wanton, and she will take care not to tell you whither 
she goes or whence she comes." — " You are right^ 
my dear friend." — ^^ Mon Dieu! it was Father Ra- 



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SPREADING THE NET. 283 

gois who opened my eyes on that score." — " But, if 
I dismiss her, who will bring me my bread, go to 
the cellar, and make my bed?" — "That is easily 
managed — I will send you some one from the No- 
vitiate." — "All things considered, I would rather 
help myself; for I have already told you that, with 
the exception of a few superior minds, like you and 
Le iiagoisj I have little love for the priesthood. 
Nevertheless, now that I am aware of a real danger, 
the woman shall come here no more; nor will I 
allow any one, with the exception of two or three 
faithful friends, to penetrate into ray beloved sanc- 
tuary." 

Accordingly, Tardif told the fishwife he had no 
further need of anybody's' services ; and from that 
day forward he lived in strict solitude, fancying that 
all his neighbors, and all the persons whom he saw 
from his window pass along the street, were engrossed 
with the sole idea of making their way into his apart- 
ment, and carrying off his pictures. 

Each morning he went down stairs himself to get 
his bread ; he spoke to no one. Did he venture as 
far as a neighboring picture-dealer's to recall the 
happy time when he still was a picture-buyer, the 
key of his house was clutched in his trembling hand. 
As often as he met the fishwife, he turned away his 
head, not to hear what she said to him. " Ah ! my 
poor Monsieur Tardif, it is my notion that you are 
going mad : the black-gowns have troubled your eye- 



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284 HUNDBED AND ONE PICTURES OF TARDIF. 

sight, tlie ravens have flown across ymir path — my 
songs were well worth any that they sing you." — 
" 'Tis tme," said poor Tardif to hiraself, " but my 
pictures!" Yet he -could not help regretting those 
still recent days, when the fishwife's visits imparted 
cheerfulness to his apartment and to his heart. 

One night Father Dequet asked him if he had 
any heirs. "Yes," was the reply, "I have heirs — 
a brother and a sister : my brother has some prop- 
erty ; my sister has a great many children, and that 
is all she has. I am grieved to have lost everything 
by Law's scheme. But for that, I could the sooner 
have proved to her children how much I loved their 
mother." Father Dequet walked three or four times 
round the cabinet, pausing, with a sigh, before each 
picture. "Is it not a thousand pities," murmured 
he, " that so precious a cabinet must one day be dis- 
pei-sed ?"— " Never !" cried Tardif.—" Simple man," 
continued the Jesuit, "what do you suppose your 
nephews and grand-nephews will do with your pic- 
tures?" — "You are right. The Burgundians love 
color, but only in their wipe." — " Yes, my poor Tar- 
dif, they will sell your pictures to the highest bid- 
der. Some will go to your enemy 6ei*6aint; others 
to soiree Jew, who will hide them and deprive them 
of the light they live by. Some will go to America, 
some to China; and this beautiful Banqv£t by Ver- 
onese — who knows whether it will not be exposed 
for sale upon the quays ?" 



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CLOSING THK NET. 285 

Tardif had become pale as death. "You torture 
me," said he to the Jesuit, clasping his hands to- 
gether. In his turn, he made the circuit of the cab- 
inet, gazing despaii-ingly on liis pictures. "Do you 
know," said he on a sudden, turning to Father De- 
quet, "at night, when I do not sleep, which often 
happens, a strange desire — which I dare avow to 
no one — comes into my head, and that is, to build 
a subterranean gallery, where I might bury myself 
with my pictures. But it is madness; and besides, 
I am diverted from the design by the thought that 
these beautiful works of art would never see the sun 
again. But, for Heaven's sake, my dear friend, let 
us speak of that no more. You have put me in a 
fever; I shall eat no supper to-night." 

Father Dequet departed, leaving Tardif a prey to 
the most sombre anguish. The poor man went to 
bed half dead. Next morning the fever had not left 
him. He would receive no one — not even his friend 
Gillot, his good genius. 

The second day the fever was still more violent: 
Death himself was knocking at Tardif's door. He 
did not open it, but Death remained upon the thresh- 
old, and entered with Father Dequet when he next 
called. Tardif's mind had already wandered. He 
had no water left, and craved a drink. "Ah! my 
poor friend," said Father Dequet, "I little thought 
to find you in your bed." 

The Jesuit went down himself to fetch water. 



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286 HUNDRED AND ONE PICTURKS OF TARDIF. 

When Tardif bad drnnk, he expressed his gratitude, 
but in 80 altered a voice, and in such singular terms, 
that Father Dequet said to himself: "This is the 
last stage." For two entire hours he remained as- 
siduously by the sick man's pillow, striving to sub- 
jugate the now enfeebled mind which had so long 
repelled his caresses. What he said to the dying 
nnin, none ever knew. What is certain is, that at 
the end of the two houi-s. Father Dequet was in pos- 
session of the following eloquent lines, in Tardif's 
handwriting : — 

"I give all my pictures to the Novitiate of the 

Jesuits, in consideration of my friend Father Dequet, 

wlio is at liberty to take them away at once. 

a Tardif. 
" Paris, 20tk May, 1728." 

Father Dequet was not the man to await Tardif's 
decease to consider himself well and thoroughly the 
heir of his treasures. His first care was not to take 
the viaticum to the dying man, nor yet to run for a 
physician or an apothecary ; neither the soul nor the 
body of Tardif touched his heart — his sensibility 
was entirely engrossed by the pictures. No sooner 
liad he obtained the written donation than he went 
out, collected a dozen vagabonds who had nothing 
to do, took them up to Tardif's room, and ordered 
them, while the poor man lay moaning in his bed, 
to carry away the pictures. 



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AN APOSTOLIC DEATJGHT. 287 

With a dogged avidity, he himself took them 
down from the wall. The little Flemish gems, scarce 
larger than the hand, he laid aside to carry with him 
in a hackney-coach. The men he had brought could 
take but sixty pictures at one journey. He took 
away twenty-one in his hackney-coach, thus leaving 
twenty in Tardif 's room. He did not even tell him 
he was going away. From time to time, while taking 
down the pictures, he cast a furtive glance at the 
bed, and made sure that the poor man was becoming 
more and more delirious. 

Meanwhile the whole neighborhood was indignant 
at this profanation, this impiety, this sacrilege, com- 
mitted by the reverend father. But as, after all, for 
some months past, Tardif would have nothing to say 
to any of his neighbors, and as none interested them- 
selves in an old madman secluded from the world in 
a room full of pictures, the spoliation was allowed to 
proceed — just as, on the stage, people suffer so many 
crimes to be committed without thinking of inter- 
ference. 

The morning passed away: Father Dequet did 
not return. Doubtless he had to get ready a room 
at the Novitiate for the pictures, the majority of 
which were not very catholic in subject. 

Suddenly Tardif, rousing himself from a doze, put 
his head out of bed and called for Father Dequet. 
For the first time in his life he felt frightened at 
the stillness around him. He asked himself if he 



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288 HUNDRED AND ONR PICTURK8 OF TAKDIF. 

were already in the tomb. He hurried into hii 
cabinet. 

Seeing the walls bare, he shouted, " Thieves 1" 
ran to the window, opened it, tore his hair, and 
called to the oyster-woman, who was seated as usual 
at the tavern-door, smiling at her customers as they 
ate her oystere and drank her health. 

When Tardif called her, she left her chair and 
went under his window. " Make haste !" cried Tar- 
dif, "don't you see I am dying? and if that were 
all — but they have stolen my pictures!" The oys- 
ter-woman went up to Tardif's room; she bore no 
malice; and besides, she had always liked Tardif, 
because he flattered her and talked to her of her fine 
eyes. When she reached his room, she found him 
senseless on the floor. She took him in her arms and 
carried him to his bed. " He must not be left to die 
like a dog," said she to hereelf. When the sick man 
opened his eyes, there she was with her eternal smile. 
She had sent for a physician, who soon made his ap- 
pearance, and who saw that Tardif could not get 
through the night. "Have you any family?" he 
inquired. "They have taken everything," replied 
the dying man, " the best are gone ; a few remain, 
but what is that I" This was all the explanation that 
could be got from Tardif. 

Gillot came in. At sight of his friend, poor Tar- 
dif seemed visited by a gleam of intelligence. "Ah, 
my dear Gillot! why have you been so long without 



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A SUCCESSOR OF TflK APOSTLES. 289 

coming to see me? There is still more than one bot- 
tle waiting for ns in the cellar, bedded in the dnst, 
as I soon shall be myself. As for me, I am now but 
an empty bottle." Gillot took the sick man by the 
hand, and tried to prove to hira that he wonld re- 
cover. "I am no doctor, ray dear Tardif, but if 
you take my advice, you will send for four bottles 
of wine — one for me, one for you, one for your phy- 
sician, and one for Death, should he make his ap- 
pearance." — "Well spoken!" cried the fishwife — 
"only you forget that I am here." Tardif smiled 
his pleasant smile, as in his good days. But sud- 
denly he grew deadly pale. "My pictures! my 
pictures! my pictures! You have stolen my pic- 
tures !" He raised himself in his bed, but fell back 
again exhausted. 

These were the last words he spoke. Gillot and 
the fishwife watched beside him all that evening, 
and all that night. They drank his wine — of that 
there can be no doubt — but that was all they had of 
his inheritance. 

Tardif breathed his last at daybreak. The previ- 
ous evening, when he was already dying. Father De- 
quet came to take away the remainder of the pic- 
tures. The fishwife undertook to receive him in a 
manner worthy of the vestry-room and the fish-mar- 
ket. Gillot, though saddened, by the approaching 
death of his friend Tardif, could not help taking 
pleasure in the honest woman's yiyid and picturesque 

Vol. L— 13 



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290 HUNDEED AND ONE PICTURES OF TARDIF. 

eloquence. Father Dequet, who would fain have 
pushed aside the fishwife, to reach the sick bed, or 
i-ather the picture-gallery, was sharply repulsed. Then 
was the commencement of a diflScult struggle for the 
reverend father, for the fishwife placed in front her for- 
midable charms, which ought to shock a holy Jesuit. 
He departed, resolved soon to return with an army of 
lawyers. Gillot had written to Tardif s relations. 
The brother of the dead man, happening to be on a 
journey to Paris, came to call upon him the very 
day of his death. Gillot informed him of all that 
had passed, and advised him to commence proceed- 
ings against the Jesuits, for the recovery of the pic- 
tures, being persuaded that so respectable a hody^ 
would never dare defend such an action. " If you 
recover your pictures," said the fishwife, ''you will 
give me one by my friend, Gillot, which represents 
an incantation, and I will consider myself well paid, 
for my care of your brother." — " For me," said Gil- 
lot, " I am not so easily contented, I demand a dozen 
bottles of old Burgundy, to bewitch myself with a 
dozen times, before I shall die." 

What I have just narrated, is but the preface of 
a celebrated trial, to be found in the twelfth volume 
of the edition of Ilich6, the parliament advocate who 
collected the pleadings in all the curious trials of the 
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.* 

* This edilipn, dated 1776, was published at Amsterdam, by 
Marc-Michel Rey. The aflPair of the hundred and one pictures oecn- 
pies twenty-seven pages — 445 to 470. 



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DEFEAT OF THE JESUITS. 291 

" After three audiences, of two hours each, the 
reverend Jesuit fathers of the Novitiate, were con- 
demned to restore the pictures, and to pay the value 
of those which they alleged to be lost. The judg- 
ment was rendered on the 9th of August, 1729. 
There was no appeal. 

" There were remarked among the witnesses, the 
sieur Gillot. painter to the opera, and the demoi- 
selle Mane Anne Vatout, fishwife, who were con- 
sidered to be the best advocates of the heire." 

The pictures reverted to the heirs, who had a 
sale of them, which made some noise at the time. 
TVhat has become of those masterpieces, so cher- 
ished by Tardif, the light of his eyes and the joy of 
his heart? Have they made the tonr of the world? 
It is the history of the aflSliation, and migration of 
nations. I have fallen in with a head, full of light 
and spirit, unsigned, but which betrays the gay, rich 
brush of Gillot — this prodigal, who supped with 
courtesans, till the very evening of life. On the back 
of the panel are to be distinctly read the words — 
Collection Tardif. Poor man I If he knew that 
his joys and sorrows have been appreciated — more 
than a hundred years after his death I 



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MLLE. DE MARIVAC'X. 

THE PRAISE OF FOLLl' . 



Madame de Bez, a widow of a certain age, pretty 
and coquettish, was very desirous of being thought 
a wit. She wished, toward the close of the regency, 
to continue to some extent, the traditions of the hotel 
Rambouillet. Marivaux was pre-eminently the omcle 
of her circle ; he was compelled to follow her every- 
where, even to the country. She often took him to 
lier estate of Bez in Burgundy. 

Although madame de Bez was still attractive, as 
some women are under their autumnal sun, Mari- 
vaux had never regarded her, except as a companion. 
Madame de Bez on her side, provided that she could 
discuss for three or four houi*8 a day, some still un- 
decided points, in the metaphysics of the heart, fan- 
cied she had not wasted her time. It will be under- 
stood, that persons so accomplished in the phi'« sopliy 
of love, never thought of loving each other. 



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FEMALE CURIOSITY. 29S 

In 1721, during the summer, Marivaux was at the 
chateau de Bez; the mistress of the place had col- 
lected around her certain Parisians and provincials; 
the chateau was very animated ; madame de Bez 
and Marivaux had not lost their habit of disputing 
nn points of profane theology. One day, when they 
had stopped, like two solitary philosophers, under a 
grove of elms in the park, a young girl of Sens, 
Mademoiselle Julie Duriez, intrusted by her mother 
to madame de Bez, curious as we all are at eighteen, 
could not refrain, on seeing them under the grove, 
from hovering in the neighborhood, to listen to them. 

" So you persist in speaking ill of us 1" said ma- 
dame de Bez. 

" Yes, madame," replied Marivaux, '* when any 
one extols a woman to me, and the love which he 
has for her, I fancy myself beholding a madman, 
praising the viper who has bitten him. The viper 
only takes our life, women ravish from us our liberty, 
our reason, our repose ; they ravish us from ourselves 
and leave us to live ; are we not men in good condi- 
tion ? Men in love are intoxicated slaves. And to 
whom do these slaves belong? To women. And 
what is a woman ?" 

" To define her, it is necessary to know her." 

" Our age may commence the definition, but I 
maintain, that we shall not have its completion, be- 
fore the end of the world." 

" Come, the science of the heait belongs only to 



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294 MADKMOISKLLE DB MABIVAHX. 

woman. You men have an idea, that you possess 
delicacy, and you plan modes of tenderness. A wo- 
man does not desire to be either tender or delicate, 
and she is both without knowing it. Look at her 
when she loves and does not wish to say so : does 
your most noisy affection approach the love which 
pervades her silence ? Without the spur of pleasure 
what is your heart ? A true pai'aly tic. Whereas, 
the heart of a woman imparts its own impulse to it- 
self ; it starts off at a word spoken, at a word not 
Bpoken. The vocation of a woman is to drive the 
most sensible man mad. On the other hand, a wo- 
man is always a child ; people amuse her with fairy 
tales. It must be confessed, monsieur de Marivaux, 
that we have passed many seasons without under- 
standing one another. There would be a much sim- 
pler means of convincing you of the merit of women; 
that would be to address your heart, which does 
not agree with a word which your mind utters. I 
am very sure, that if Mademoiselle Julie were here 
in my place, you would not be seeking for complaints 
against women. Come, to punish you, I must force 
you to become happy, by marrying." 

The young girl who was within ear-shot, fled blush- 
ing and confused, without well knowing why. 

A few days after, Marivaux met this young girl in 
a path in the park. 

Before going farther, I reproduce this portrait 
which the poet has left us of her. "Julie, without 



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A PORTRAIT. 295 

being beautiful, is a very pleasing brunette ; she has a 
certain style of face, the features of which have a cer- 
tain indescribable irregularity, which are all the more 
pleasing for not being regularly beautiful. I have al- 
ways called such physiognomies agreeable fancies of 
nature, which never amuse the eyes but at the ex- 
pense of the heart. Yes, there are a distinct class 
of these physiognomies which resemble nothing else ; 
we like to look at them, without bethinking ourselves 
to be on our guard ; we see them with sincere pleas- 
ure, which does not forewarn us of what it is. There 
are showy faces which are declared dangerous; 
when one comes to love them, one has not been their 
dupe, the matter had been foreseen ; but the physi- 
ognomies of which I speak raise no disquiet ; nothing 
at firet can be more familiar ; their charm acts with- 
out display, it gives the heart no warning, and one 
is thoroughly surprised to find one's self in love witli- 
out having had the least premonition." 

Now, Marivaux saluted Julie in the park, with 
one of those involved sentences, which madame de 
Bez alone had the art of undei*standing. Julie, who 
had not the key to this artificial language, made no 
answer ; she cast down her eyes and blushed. Mari- 
vaux who had not until then noticed her, decided 
that she was charming. He continued to talk to her ; 
she continued to make no reply. He at last felt that 
this silence was eloquent. He soon found nothing 
to say himself, so far did his words appear to him tr 



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296 MADKMOISKLLK DE MARIVAUX. 

be below his tbouglits. For the first time in his life, 
his heart was seriously troubled. During the whole 
week he lived for Julie, without daring to say any- 
thing to her. 

This man, who had passed the ten fairest years of 
his life, in studying the metaphysics of the heart, 
suddenly felt himself the most ignorant lover of the 
world. Love is not a science, it is a revelation. The 
apparition of a face which charms, makes more light 
sparkle in the heart, than all the reflections of the 
philosophers and the poets. 

" What is the matter with you ?" said madame de 
Bez to Marivaux one day, "you have become sad 
and silent." 

" Sad !" said Marivaux, with an exclamation, 
" what, madame, do I give no evidence of all my 
joy ? Does not my silence tell you, that I am in 
love !" 

" In love I I do not believe a word of it ; however, 
love is the god of miracles." 

"So deeply in love, madame, that if I dared, I 
should ask this very moment for the hand of Made- 
moiselle Julie." 

" Come," said madame de Bez, " one must never 
despair; I will go and ask Mademoiselle Julie for 
you in marriage." 

Tlie same day, madame de Bez, knowing that 
Marivaux and Mademoiselle Julie were alone in the 
saloon, was desirous, out of love for philosophy, to 



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juiJE. 297 

know what wa8 the Unguage of Marivaux in love. 
She was very much surprised at hearing Marivaux 
speak with a simplicity, worthy of the first ages of 
the world. "You are beautiful and I love you," 
was all he had to say. 

In narrating this story, he used to say : " I had be- 
come too stupid to say more." He doubtless meant 
to say in his rage for involution, " I had become too 
intellectual." 

Mademoiselle Julie had loved Marivaux at first 
sight, but she had not avowed her love to herself 
until the afternoon, when under the grove of elms in 
the park, she had overheard the strange conversation 
reported above. She was the daughter of an attor- 
ney of Sens, who had lately died, leaving scarcely 
any estate. Her mother had known madame de Bez 
for a long time, and intrusted Julie to her for the 
season. 

Madame de Bez had no trouble in gaining the con- 
sent of the mother and daughter to the maiTiage, 
which Marivaux proposed. The ceremony was per- 
formed at the chAteau. Once married, Marivaux re- 
turned to Paris, fearing to lose his happiness in the 
brilliant and gay company of the chateau de Bez. 
In this he showed wisdom, for liberty is needed for 
happiness. He made a home for himself very calm, 
very quiet, pervaded by laborious study and restless 
love. 

But Marivaux had never discovered the secret of 

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298 MADEMOISELLE *DE MARIVAUX. 

being happy, from his deplorable habit of microscopic 
study of passion. His wife had all the charms of the 
heart, of simplicity and grace. She loved him with 
touching tenderness ; she was the life, the smile, the 
joy of the house ; he was not rich, but she was con- 
tent with little. She soon gave him a daughter, who 
was to enliven still more this happy household. He 
had happiness under his hand, but the blind philos- 
opher did not become conscious of it, until the death 
of his wife, eighteen months after his marriage. 
During these eighteen months, he had lost his time 
in searching after the philosophy of happiness. 



II. 

Eighteen years from that time a young girl of 
aerial beauty was pensively walking in the park. It 
was mademoiselle de Marivaux. 

She was passing up and down an avenue of cente- 
narian linden-trees. At the end of this avenue she 
paused an instant, and raised her eyes toward a 
mountain, whence were heard, at intervals, the sound 
of a horn and the baying of the hounds. There was 
a grand hunt in the woods of the ch&tcau. Made- 
moiselle de Marivaux was like the women imagined 
by her father, more beautiful in expression than in fea- 
ture, in complexion than in contour. Her blue eyes 
and black hair had a sweet and charming effect. 
The marquis d'Argens speaks of a poitrait of her, 



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LIFE AT TWENTY. 299 

painted by Largilliere, of which he greatly admired 
the sparkling beauty and delicate freshness. She was 
a reed which was to bend at the first contrary wind. 

While mademoiselle de Marivanx was thus walk- 
ing to and fro, her father, seated on the terrace near 
madame de Bez, was purauing his philosophic dis- 
putations. As he was no longer at an age to speak 
ill of women, he spoke ill of life. 

" But," murmured suddenly madame de Bez, " if 
we should return to twenty years? if we should 
snatch again all our flown pleasure? Ah, youth! 
youth ! All is thei-e ; for it is God who gives it to 
}'0U. See my son, how happy he is out there in the 
woods, free, strong, ready for everything. Go and 
ask your daughter, who is dreaming somewhere or 
other, if, at her age, life is not a pleasant burden." 
If mademoiselle de Marivaux could have answered, 
she would have said : " Ah, yes, life is pleasant ; I 
feel it in my heart, which beats when the horn re- 
sounds in the mountain : yes, life is beautiful ; I see 
it as it smiles upon me in the trees and in the flow- 
ei-s ; and I hear it speaking to me in the notes of the 
singing-birds, in the fountain gurgling so pure and 
fresh." Perhaps, imitating the style of her father, 
mademoiselle de Marivaux would have added : "Yes, 
life is beautiful ; I see it as it smiles upon me in the 
morning in my mirror, when I comb my long locks." 

Madame de Bez had a son, who was to inherit an 
immense fortune on the death of his grandmother. 



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800 MADEMOISKLLK DK MAKIVAUX. 

Madame de Bez, while passing all ber time in de- 
claiming against human vanities, had all the preju- 
dices of vanity and greatness. When she talked 
with Marivaux, or some other would-be philosopher, 
she maintained that the joy of the heart was all the 
fortune that was to be sought for here below ; but 
when she was planning by herself, it was in an en- 
tirely different point of view. We shall thus see 
how madame de Bez and Marivaux, who passed for 
sages, made their children happy, after having for- 
gotten to make themselves so. 

In the evening, on retuniing from the chase, M. 
Guillaume de Bez, a young man of twenty, who had 
not yet spoiled, by airs of quality, his frank and en- 
gaging though somewhat rustic manners, was ap- 
proaching the chateau through the park. Made- 
moiselle de Marivaux happened to be in the way, 
doubtless by chance — chance is so well disposed 
toward youths and maidens. 

" Ah, it is you," said mademoiselle de Marivaux, 
turning pale ; '^ what a trim you are in !" — " You 
know how it is : sharp rocks, thorns, and swamps. 
Jnst a little while ago, in order to return in the di- 
rection of the ])ark, I almost had to swim ; but, thank 
Heaven ! we had good sport." 

Saying these words, Guillaume de Bez presented 
a bunch of strawberries to mademoiselle de Mari- 
vaux. "I recollected," he continued, "as I entered 
the wood, that we last year passed a whole morning 



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UNCERTAINTY. 301 

in picking strawberries with a thoroughly pastoral 
enjoyment. We were happy about nothing, like 
children." 

At this instant, one of the friends of Quillaume de 
Bez called him away a little distance ; mademoiselle 
gave him a parting nod and withdrew. She re- 
turned to the chAteau, went to her room, and began 
to cry. " He does not love me," said she, pensively ; 
" he had to return to the woods and see the strawber- 
ries again, to recall that fresh morning which has 

been my whole life for a year Did not my life 

then commence ?" She took the bunch of strawber- 
ries, and breathed on it with a sadness full of charm. 

" However," continued she, drying her teai-s, " he 
could not have gathered a bouquet for me which 
could have been sweeter than this." 

The bell having rung for supper, she placed the 
bouquet in a glass and descended to the saloon. 
The supper was somewhat quiet ; the hunt had fa- 
tigued the young people; Marivaux and raadame 
de Bez could find nothing more to disagree upon ; 
mademoiselle de Marivaux thought that she was not 
loved. 

After supper, when madame de Bez and Guil- 
lanme found themselves alone, the young man asked 
his moflier if mademoiselle de Marivaux was to re- 
main much longer at the chateau. 

" Her father is expected at the academy to attend 
a reception." 



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302 MADEMOISELLE DE MABIYAUX. 

" And he wishes to take his daughter witli him?* 

" Doubtless ; besides, the season is nearly over." 

" She will not go, for, since I must t«ll you, I love 
her and wish to marry her." 

" You are mad " 

*' Not at all. Is it madness to love a beautiful girl?" 

Madame de Bez saw well that the matter was not 
to be reasoned a* out. She went straight to the 
chamber of mademoiselle de Marivaux. 

" My dear child, Gnillaume loves you ; it is a piece 
of folly ; you are about returning to Paris, but, before 
your departure, make Guillaume see that you would 
not love him, even if you were not going to enter a 
convent." 

"A convent!" exclaimed mademoiselle de Mari- 
vaux, who was, at one and the same time, overcome 
by the joy of hearing that she was loved, and by the 
grief of hearing mention made of that tomb, darker 
than the other, in which they wished to bury her 
youth . 

" Yonr father has not, then, informed you that he 
wished to shelter yon, in this blessed refuge, from 
all the dangei-s of the world? The duke d'Orleans 
is to pay your portion." 

" My portion !" murmured the young girl in a sti- 
fled voice. " Yes, madanie, my father has spoken to 
me of the convent, but — but I had forgotten it. . . ." 

Mademoiselle de Marivaux did not sleep at all 
during the night; the next day, at sunrise, on open- 



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THE PARTING. 303 

ing her window, she saw Guillaume setting out on 
hoi'seback. 

" Where is he going ?" she asked herself, pressing 
her hand on her heart. 

At the turn of the road he looked back and per- 
ceived the young girl. He made her a graceful 
motion of the hand. 

" Alas !" said she, " it is perhaps a signal of fare- 
well." She followed him with her eyes ; when he 
disappeared among the trees, she fell on her knees 
and prayed fervently. " And yet he loves me," she 
said after having prayed. 

III. 

She did not see Guillaume again. Madame de 
Bez, fearing some whim of his, had sent him to a 
friend's house in the neighborhood. He was to re- 
turn the next day; but, the next day, madame de 
Bez went and joined him with the news that M. de 
Marivaux and mademoiselle de MarivauK had start- 
ed for Paris the evening before. Guillaume wanted 
to mount his horse and follow the young girl; he 
swore that he would find her again, or die of vexa- 
tion. Madame de Bez, who underetood men well, 
let her son talk. She promised, besides, to plead 
his cause before mademoiselle de Marivaux when 
they returned to Paris. Guillaume, thanks to the 
pleasures of the season, waited with a little patience : 



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304 MADKMOISELLK DK MARIVAUX. 

l.e adored mademoiselle de Marivaux; but hunting 
is so good for restless minds. 

When he returned to Paris, six weeks after, mad- 
emoiselle de Marivaux was at the convent du Thre- 
8or, He wished to see her; he attempted to carry 
lier off. He had not even the consolation of know- 
ing whether his thoroughly impassioned lettere had 
reached her. 

Marivaux, who pretended to read all hearts, did 
not notice that his daughter was in love. "It is 
astonishing," he wrote after his fii-st visit to the con- 
vent, '^how solitude and pi*ayer make a woman 
grow pale. The poor little thing was so blooming 
before she entered the Thresor ! Oh, my God ! by 
what joys on high dost thou repay these human sac- 
rifices. It is not alone the heart and liberty which 
are laid at thy feet. The virgins immolate to thee 
their beauty and the sweet glow of their youth/' 
At a second visit, seeing his daughter more pale and 
exhausted, Marivaux asked her if the sacrifice was 
above her strength. ''No," she replied, clasping 
her hands. 

But was she thinking of heaven, or of Guillaume 
de Bez? She did not succumb under the first 
blow; Marivaux saw her return to herself; her 
resignation had even a certain character of melan- 
choly joy. 

"I am going to take the veil," she said to him 
one day; "I feel myself equal to the act; I shall 



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A LIVING DKATH. 805 

have the strength to withdraw without regret from 
the shore of life, as our Canticles express it." 

She doubtless sought to blind herself. The solemn 
day arrived. In the morning, as her father saw her 
in tears, she told liim that they were tears of joy. 
Madame de Bez arrived : it was time for robing ; 
the veil was brought; Madame de Bez chose to 
place it hei*self on that channing head, which she 
should have crowned with roses less pale. The bell 
rang. Mademoiselle de Marivaux threw hereelf into 
her father's arms. — " I am going to die," she said 
with calmness; "adieu, my mother awaits me." 
Marivaux, who never undei-stood natural language, 
fancied that she spoke figuratively. 

The superior preceded the young virgin, who was 
whiter than death. On reaching the altar, it was 
necessary to support her. She received the congrat- 
ulations of the priest, who had come to bless her. 
To all questions she answered " yes" in a sepulchral 
voice.* 

When his daughter was seized to be placed under 
the pall, Marivaux was no longer able to remain in 
the chapel. He went out wiping away his tears. 
By a singular chance, he met an actress at the door 
of the Thresor, Mademoiselle Sylvia, of the Comedie- 
Ttalienne. 

" You weep, Marivaux." 

" Yes, but I have just accomplished a good work, 
I have saved my daughter from the perils of thi? 



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306 MADEMOISELLE DB MARIVAUX. 

World ; at this very moment she is devoted to 
heaven." 

' What an idea !" 

" Yon know that I had no portion to give her." 

" Was she not pretty? Ah ! Marivaux, is liberty, 
(hen, noiliing, philosopher that you are ? 

" I have reflected upon it since her birth ; I have 
studied all, compared all : the joys of this world are 
drowned in tears." 

"And you do not count, then, the pleasure of 
weeping]? Go! you are not a man, you are only a 
philosopher." 

IV. 

A FEW days afterward, Marivaux returned for the 
last time to the chateau de Bez. At the sight of the 
bianchee swayed by the free air, the passing birds, 
the bubbling springs, the verdant fields, the golden 
harvest, the reddening vine-clusters, did he not think, 
with a throb of the heart, of the narrow and sombre 
cell where his daughter was praying and weeping? 

Guillaume de Bez, yielding to his mother's entrea- 
ties, resigned himself to marrying, unwillingly, mad- 
emoiselle de Riancourt, who never loved him. 

Mademoiselle de Marivaux did not long survive 
her heart. She died at twenty. Her father wept 
for her ; but he soon consoled himself by the reflec- 
tion that his daughter had died in peace of heart 
and in the love of God. 



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LA TOD R. 

I. 

Thk portrait-painter who has best succeeded in, 
withdrawing my mind from the hubbub of the pres- 
ent time, by the radiant smile of the past, is La Tour 
— La Tour who painted all the pretty women, and 
grave philosophei's of the eighteenth century. La 
Tour who was a sage and a fool, a true republican 
of the true republic. 

He was born in the fii"st years of the eighteenth 
century, and died among the first tempests of the 
revolution (1704-1788); how many different reigns 
had he seen pass ! Louis XIV., the Regency, Ma- 
dame de Parabere, Louis XV., Madame de Pompa- 
dour, Madame Dubarry, Louis XVI., Marie Antoi- 
nette — without counting the reign of Voltaire, who is 
the true sovereign of the eighteenth century, if it is' 
undei'stood as closing with the revolution. 

La Tour was born at Saint-Quentin, the capital of 
the Vermandois, a laborious and intelligent city, which 



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308 LA TOUB. 

has given Karaus to France. The street in which 
La Tour died, bears at the present day his name. 
His father was a musician, of the chapter of the col- 
legiate chnrch. He was one of those simple-minded 
artists, who are happy to live forgotten in study and 
leisure, a true German musician, like those whom 
Master Hoffman has sketched on the walls of his 
smoking-room — not precisely Krespel — less senti- 
ment, less impulse, out more gayety, and more free- 
dom from care. 

His godmother had commended him to the patron 
of the city, the great Saint-Quentin, by giving him 
this poetical name. Happily in past ages, men were 
contented with rendering their surname illustrious 
without disquieting themselves about their Christian 
name. La Tour left his to Saint-Quentin. He 
studied away at Latin and Greek, until he was eigh- 
teen. A pastel of Rosalba, drew from him the re- ^ 
vealing cry of Correggio. He never had any other 
master than this magic vision. He was desirous of 
going to Yenice, to ask from San Marco, the hand 
of Rosalba, but he had no money. One morning, 
however, he bid adieu to his father and his father's 
violin — that sweet violin which had unconsciously 
given a poetical turn to the early follies of his heart 
— " Where are you going to ?" — " I do not know, but 
I am going."— " What folly."— "Is not the bird, 
when he feels his wings flutter, right in launching in 
to space? Christopher Columbus was a fool, too, when 



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ARTISTIC VIEW OF THE WOBLD. 309 

lie set out to discover a New World ?" — " As you 
please ; for my part, the univeree is bounded by my 
dcor-sill ; but I have too much philosophy to con- 
demn you to a prison, though it were in the house of 
your bii-th, the house in which your mother died, and 
your young sister sings. Adieu. When you shall 
have discovered a new world, the noisy world of in- 
tellect, where one has not the time to live with one's 
heart, you will return, perhaps to ask for a little quiet 
at my chimney-corner. I, in my simplicity, compare 
the world to the opera : all this noise, all these lights, 
all this splendor, all these great aire, are not worth a 
little strain of old Lully, played in the evening at 
my window, on my poor violin, before my wild gilly- 
flower, when the sun is shedding his last ray." — " It 
is true," said La Tour, who had had as it were, a 
vision of the future, " I shall go to Paris, I shall be- 
come rich there, everybody will acknowledge my 
talent, I shall be first painter to the king; but, per- 
haps in the midst of my unhoped-for triumph, my 
sole joy will be to listen in recollection, to this sweet 
violin, which holds the secret of my heart." — 
" Adieu." 

La Tour wiped away a tear and departed. There 
were still in the eighteenth century, quite a number 
of schools of painting in existence in the provinces. 
Painters went to Rome, passed some time at Paris ; 
but returned with a love of their country, to enrich 
the humble school from which they had set out. 



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810 LA TOUR. 

Eheims, thanks to the coronations of the kings, cnlti- 
vated Inxniy; the flower of luxury is Art. There 
was an entire company of paintera at Eheims, some 
paid by the churches and convents, others by fami- 
lies who wished portraits. From Saint-Quentin to 
Rheims is not far. La Tour, not daring at first to 
venture himself in Paris, with an at least doubtful 
talent, since he had had no masters, went at first to 
Tlljeiins toti"y his powers : there, after some portraits, 
U8 he was about to start for Paris, he was seized with 
the good idea, that it was always more profitable, in 
painting, to study the dead than the living. He had 
seen a picture by Ruhens and he went to Flanders. 
On arriving at Canibray, his landlady, who was 
pretty and worth listening to, recommended him to 
stop in this city, in which the European diplomacy 
was at that time assembled. Although a thorough 
artist, La Tour was not a peasant of the Danube, or 
a gipsy living on chance. He was a painter, who 
had been well brought up, as some there are — I do 
not defend them. He loved fine clothes, the gay 
world, fashionable mannei*s, and fashionable conver- 
sation. Eight days after his arrival at Cam bray, his 
talents were talked of, eight days more and they 
talked of his genius. He was soon as much sought 
after as Largilliere himself had been, on arriving at 
Paris. La Tour thought it best not to say that he 
came from Saint-Quentin. The Erjglish embassador 
delighted with his pastels and charmed with his rep- 



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AN ARTISTIC COURTSHIP. 311 

artees, offered at once to take him to London, to Lis 
own mansion, where his family should be the paint- 
er's as well. He was to set ont soon. La Tour was 
pondering his answer to this enthusiastic friendship, 
when a little adventure of gallantry occurred, to 
settle the question summarily. 

It may be affirmed, that La Tour was a lover during 
half his life; he lived to eighty; usually, as he was 
not married, he was, according to Greuze, a poacher, 
subsisting on matrimony. At Cambray, he met in a 
diplomatic circle with a young married lady, much 
more Spanish than French or Flemish, some post- 
humous daughter of a Don Juan, in search of adven- 
tures. She was very pretty and very coquettish, she 
loved society ; but like many of the women of the 
north and of the south, had no serious passion for 
any one but herself. She had married a provincial 
squire who was passionately fond of her and made 
her believe now and thp-n, that she loved him. La 
Tour had no doubt of this conquest. She listened 
to him at fii*st with a charming smile, but she soon 
answered him by a peal of laughter. Although 
gayety in love might be of bad augury, La Tour 
did not retrace his steps. Out of coqueti-y, she per- 
mitted him to paint her. She found herself so beau- 
tiful in La Tour's pastel, that she was a little less 
cruel to him. For his part, he who finished a por- 
trait in three sittings, was three weeks retouching her 
hands. The husband was not always on liand. 



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812 LA TOUR. 

Squire as he was, he dabbled a little in commerce, 
citing in excuse the nobility of Yeuice. He pre- 
served the virtue of his wife, by dint of money and 
love, as othei-8 do by dint of love and intellect. La 
Tour became so much emboldened, that he was de- 
sirous to carry off the lady. 

"No," said she to him, casting down her eyes, "it 
is I who will cany you off. Be under my windows 
at midnight." — " How, a silken ladder ?" — " Silence ; 
you shall see." 

La Tour was a man of too good society to ask 
where the husband would be. He contented him- 
self with saying that he would be under the lady's 
windows at midnight with his sword. 

Scarcely had he returned to his hotel, when the 
waiting maid of the lady — a pretty Flemish girl, 
as chubby as the Diana of Jordaens — came to in- 
form him that all was arranged for the adventure. 
" You will enter by the window." — " But your lady's 
bedchamber is in the second story ; how can I enter 
by the window?" — "Nothing more simple, you will 
see. I come here to advise you to be as still as a 
statue." 

The mysterious air of the girl excited La Tour 
somewhat. He thought that the night would be 
stormy. 

" After an," said he as he gave her a gold crown, 
" I shall console myself gayly if I mistake the door 
in my journey, provided I come across this pretty 



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THE PATH OF LOVE. 313 

Flemish girl, all fresh and rosy — a drop of wine on 
a snowball." 

Midnight, however, strikes; all the bells of Cara- 
bray sing his victory and echo the beating of his 
heai-t. The servant-maid opens a little window, and 
makes a sign to him to get into an open basket 
placed against the house and attached to a cord. 
This basket had long been employed to make the 
journey from the ground-floor to the garret, as is 
common in many places. La Tour thought that his 
dignity was compromised ; but, when one is in love 
and carries a sword, one does not stop for such con- 
siderations. He mounted bravely into this aerial 
car and commended himself to the white doves of 
Venus. The creaking sound of the pulley did not 
succeed in reminding him of the prosaic reality of 
the journey. He mounts, and mounts, and mounts. 
Now he touches the summit of Hymettus. He sees 
through tlie damask curtains the outlines of an adored 
form. It is she. She comes to him, draws aside 
the curtain — at last ! He is about to seize her hand. 
The moon appeal's to illuminate this page of romance, 
which, at a later period, Fragonard wrote for the 
gallery of La Guimard. Ah ! but the lady is beau- 
tiful in her elegant dishabille, with her locks fal- 
ling in cascades on the embrowned marble of her 
shoulder! La Tour already attains the balustrade 
of the little balcony : another apcendiig movement 
of the robust Flemish girl, and he is at the ideal 

Vol. L — H 



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314 LA TOUR. 

paradise of adventure seekei^s ; but the movement 
is in a contrary direction. He descends again in 
spite of himself, and behold him six feet from Para- 
dise. It is truly life and its ascensions! As soon 
as we tonch the skies, we go down again before we 
liave drank of the aroma in which tlie angels reyel. 

" Well, Monsieur La Tour !" said the lady with a 
surprised air, "you don't come?" — "Confound it! 
Jeanneton, you don't know what you are about,'^ 
cried La Tour to the Flemish girl. — " Hush," said 
the lady, " you will wake up my husband." — " Well, 
madame, inform the girl youi^self, or descend with 
me. See, here I am, like Tantalus." 

At this instant, another window opened. The 
squire leaned out and cried, ''Who's there?" La 
Tour drew his sword. 

"Who's there?" asked the husband again. — "I 
wish to preserve the anonymous," replied La Tour, 
without knowing any too well what to do. — " Who- 
ever you are," continued the husband, "I wish you 
a good night in this new-fashioned bed." 

At the same instant, the window of the lady and 
the window of the gentleman closed as if they had 
obeyed the same thought. 

La Tour had too much sense not to recognise in all 
tliis a comedy played with him and against him. 
But if they would only drop the curtain ! He was 
on a stage full of traps. He could neither go nor 
come, mount nor descend. 



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A NIGHT IN A BASKET. 81 6 

" Here I am," said lie, " taking a lesson on free-will. 
After all, man is the toj^ of destiny. I have no more 
liberty of action in life than in this occurrence. This 
Flemish girl who has hold of the cord is one of the 
thousand forms of fatality. This cord is the thread 
of my life." 

After half an hour of philosophy, La Tour got 
angry. He was born a reasoner ; in any event he 
commenced by discussion with himself "What!'' 
exclaimed he suddenly, "I have a sword and can 
not avenge myself!" 

He measured with his eye all the distances. He 
could not touch the wall, he was fifteen feet from 
the ground ; nothing was left him but patience. He 
however informed the husband thathe intended to pull 
his house down if he did not give orders for his de- 
liverance. The husband reopened- the window, and 
charitably informed him, that if he made a noise, all 
the neighbors would be out, and he would be hissed 
at for being a bashful lover. La Tour continued to 
exercise philosophy; it was a fine night in July, 
whose quiet was disturbed only by merry chimes, 
some rusty weathercocks, a whistle now and then 
from the wind, and the elegies of the cats in the gut- 
ter. La Tour — will it be believed? — ended by 
going to sleep. 

When he awoke it was morning ; peasants were 
driving their donkeys to the market-place, for it was 
market day. 



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816 LA TOUR. 

"Bastien, do yon not see some one up there hold 
ing his sword in that vegetable basket?" — "Is it car- 
nival now, in the middle of July?" — "It is Don 
Quixote fighting with the windmills." 

On rousing himself, La Tour saw with fnght his 
delicate position. The laughter of the peasants at- 
tracted the attention of the neighbors ; there was a 
geneml hurrah all along the street. All the rag- 
muffins in town were gathered in front of the house 
when the Flemish girl let the lover down to the 
pavement. 

"Where did you come from?" — "From the can- 
opy of the sky." — " From the canopy of the bed !" 
said a roguish wag. 

This joke saved La Tour : the hisses were turned 
on the husband. The poor man had prepared with 
much care the scenic arrangement of this comedy ; 
it was no use for him to try and take the side of the 
laughers : he was soon compelled to leave the city. 
Public sentiment is always in the right. 

Meanwhile, the very day of the adventure, La 
Tour had left for London, with letters of recom- 
mendation from the English embassador. Fame 
and fortune awaited him in this capital, where Rey- 
nolds, "the only English painter," was yet but a 
child. Almost on his arrival he received this note: 

" Since I see you no more, I love you. Since you 
have left, I have sought for you." 

It was the squire's wife. O singularity of the 



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MASTER AND SCHOLAR. 317 

heart ! She was at first amused by the malicious 
tricks her husband played La Tour. But that very 
night, when La Tour was expiating the crime of 
having loved her, she promised hereelf to avenge 
La Tour. Tlie night was so beautiful 1 " If, after 
all," she said to herself, " he had cleared the balus- 
trade, and I had fallen swooning into his armsl" 

Keturning to the window, she had half opened it; 
she leaned over the balcony as if to console La Tour ; 
perhaps — who knows? — to seize the rope and draw 
toward the wall the aerial vessel ; but La Tour was 
asleep. 

At London La Tour was on the look-out, for the 
note indicated no other than a chance-rendezvous. 

One morning he was ordered by Lady B to take 

her portrait : Lady B was the amorous lady. 

It is not related wliether he took her portrait. What 
is without doubt, is, that he passed three years in 
singing to her that she was beautiful, through the 
entire gamut of love. This pretty woman, perfectly 
Spanish in form and heart, learned to paint in pastel, 
and gave more than one good lesson to her master 
in the Art of Love! Love is to the study of art 
what philosophy is to the study of languages — it is 
the pediment of the temple, the commencement of 
the work, its final word. 

Meanwhile, he used to say that it was nearer from 
London to Paris than from Saint-Quentin to Paris. 
He embarked for France with a few handfuls of 



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818 LA TOUR. 

gold, not doubting his star. On arriving at Paris^ 
lie gave out that he was an English painter travelling 
for amusement. He presented himself at the studio 
of Largilliere, one day, when Yoltaire was sitting. 
La Tour, who had studied at London all the philo- 
sophical theses then afloat, began by astonishing 
Voltaire by the power of his reasoning. " And I, 
too, am a painter," said he to Largilliere, " but I am 
only an English painter, a true hap-hazard dauber. 
See, now 1" In his turn, he set to work to paint 
Voltaire. After two hours' work and conversation, 
* Largilliere exclaimed : •' Ah, my lord, I shall go and 
leai-n to paint at London !" — " And I," said Voltaire, 
" shall go there to learn to think." 

II. 

A HUNDRED yeai-s ago, the Anglomania was the 
fashionable disease. Men lived in France, walked 
about in Italy, loved in Spain, thought in England. 
The word "Englishman" was equivalent to philos- 
opher. Our last marquises, therefore, all made the 
tour to England, to learn there to think — "about 
horses 1" said Louis XV., who was a man of wit — 
" among kings." 

La Tour made his entrance into society with a 
great prestige; he styled himself an Englishman, 
made a great noise with his gold and his philosophy, 
had talent and a good form.- Voltaire had hardly 



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LA TOUR AND MIGNABD. 319 

time to recommend him, so sudden was the growtli 
of the new-comer's reputation. 

Mignard was the first in France to paint women, 
not as thej were, but as they would be ; it was the 
triumph of the falsehood of art. La Tour soon at- 
tained a still higher triumph : he painted women as 
they were and as they would be. Pastel gave him 
all the lilies, all the mses, all the smiles. It was the 
truth, for all that — but the truth as seen by the poet 
or the lover; the truth as seen by tlie painter under 
the ray of poetry or of love. What splendor ! what 
transparency! what light! When the spectator en- 
tered the gallery of La Tour, he asked himself at first, 
at the sight of these admirable forms which seemed 
detached from an ideal gallery, if it was the studio of 
a painter or of a fairy ; but he almost instantaneously 
recognised a human accent in all these charming 
heads. It was the fairy work of art, and not that 
of the Orientals. Mignard is merely a false good 
painter with his brushes ; La Tour, with his crayons, 
is a serious painter, who attains effect, color, and 
character. 

No one can doubt the variety of the human form ; 
it is a harpsichord which accords with all sentiments 
and all ideas. You have seen more than one flash 
of intellect on the face of a fool ; I have seen more 
than one expression of folly in the face of a man of 
talent. The face is the window to which all the pas- 
sions of sonl and body come for breath. "Give 



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820 LA TOTJB. 

ine," said D'Agueseeau, " two lines of a man's writing, 
and I will hang him." For my part, I would say : 
"Show me a man's face for two hours, and I will 
write the history of his passions." 

The great portrait-painter is he who makes the 
liarpsichord vocal, who seizes the moment when the 
face is lit up by a fine thought as the window is by 
a ray of the sun. There is no face which has not its 
moment of beauty. Ugliness itself has, so to speak, 
its souvenirs of a world where all is beauty. " When 
one remembers," said madame du Deffant to La 
Tour before her circle of wits " and sensible women," 
"when one reflects that you have succeeded in 
making something passably pretty out of madame 
du Chatelet, one must admit before such a metamor- 
phosis the magic of painting ; for it is, for all that, 
the portrait of madame du Chdtelet." — " Yes," said 
La Tour, " and I confess to you, madame, that I like 
my portrait of the marchioness better than the one 
which you have painted in your style." — "They are 
both likenesses." — " Kecall yours to me." — " Kepre- 
sent to yourself a large and dry-looking woman, a 
school-mistress without hips ; a narrow breast, and on 
it a little map of the world which is lost in space, 
great arms too short for her passions, feet like a 
crane, a head like an owl, a peaked nose, two little 
sea-green and grass-green eyes, complexion dark and 
red, month wide and scantily fnmished with teeth. 
There you have the picture of tlie beautiful Emilie, 



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NATURE AND ART. 821 

without speaking of the frame — trinkets, jewels, 
powder, and glass. You know that she wants to be 
beautiful in spite of nature and fortune. You know 
that she has not always a shift to her back." — , 
"Come, come," said Madame G^offrin, "we are 
getting into private matters." 

La Tour asked for paper and pencils. While the 
conversation was continued on the virtues of the 
beautiful Emilie, he attempted to recall this face, 
frightful under analysis, but charming from its spirit 
and expression. The portrait soon passed from hand 
to hand. Everybody recognised the mistress of 
Voltaire. " And yet," said La Tour, " everybody 
has also recognised her under the sympathetic pen- 
cil of madame du Deffant. Here is the reason : in 
the most primitive form of nature there is art. There 
is not a forest, a mountain, a river, which has not a 
tone of mysterious poetry : I do not speak of flowers, 
which are purely matters of art. The fruits them- 
selves are masterpieces of form and color. Can you 
imagine anything more perfect than a bunch of 
grapes or a peach? It is not, therefore, astonishing 
that women, who are the coquetry of creation, should 
be a compound of nature and art, but one in which 
art has the advantage of nature. Paul Potter con- 
fessed that the cows, to some extent, struck attitudes 
before him. He, Paul Potter, simple-minded even 
to sublimity, and even to stupidity! The women 
do not strike attitudes only before the painter and 
14^ 



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LA TOUR- 

the world, but before tbemselves. Thus, with an ill- 
formed mouth and lack-lustre ejes, they succeed, by 
the grace of their smile and the charm of their glance, 
in correcting nature. Madame du Ch&telet is, you 
say, a schoolmistress ; a schoolmistress if you will, 
but she teaches Love to read." 

Every one said the painter was in the right. 

The studio of La Tour was the most resorted to of 
all the studios of the eighteenth century. People 
came to it from the court. The marechal de Saxe, 
met the prince of Conti there; Helvetius discussed 
there with Jean-Jacques Rousseau. La Tour went 
too largely into philosophy and politics. He had 
studied all the systems which have governed thoughts 
and nations from Plato to Cromwell, from Jesus 
Christ to Fenelon. He believed firmly, like all the 
encyclopedists, that Fmnce would, like England, 
have her revolution. More than once at Versailles, 
while painting Louis XV., or while painting a prin- 
cess in the presence of the king, he allowed himself 
to give some indirect advice, some hints which were 
dangerous to give. It is La Tour who led the way 
for Louis the XV., to make the only good saying 
which history has recorded of him. " Sire," said he, 
in praising the policy of England to him, " we have 
no marine !" — " And those of Vernet, Monsieur La 
Tour!" replied the king, thus sending the paintei 
back to his pastels, with much wit and dignity. 
Louis XV., however, liked La Tour, and was gener- 



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HIS GENEROSITY. 323 

ally willing to acknowledge with him, that France 
would pass through a social regeneration. " But 
after me the deluge !" the king always remarked in 
winding up these conversations. 

The painter one day passed in review all the 
iUustrious captains of the last reigns. He paused at 
the marechal de Saxe ; Louis XV. recalled his vic- 
tories and his heroism. 

" And when one thinks, sire, that the mai^chal de 
Saxe, after so many glorious days, has naught left but 
to drag tlirough days of wretchedness ! While he 
fought for his king and his country, he let his fortune 
go as it pleased Heaven, or rather his rascally agents 
who have ruined him." 

" You might say that the marechal has been ruined 
by the keepers of his privy purse." 

"Tlie fact remains, that the poor marechal has 
nothing left but his sword, and that he came to me 
yesterday, to borrow a crown. Your majesty has 
offered me a pension of two thousand livres ; I have 
thought it my duty to refuse, since I have more money 
than I need ; but I beg you to grant this pension to 
the marechal de Saxe. Only, instead of two thou- 
sand, give him two hundred thousand livres. 

This time the advice of the pastel-painter was fol- 
lowed. The old marechal was enabled to pay his 
creditoi-s, and repurchase the diamonds, which had 
disappeared from the hilt of hs sword. Under the last 
monarchy and under the republic there were not 



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324 LA TOUR. 

many of those noble hearts to be found, who refuse 
pensions as an insult, when they are earning their 
bread, but who ask them for their friends. 

For more than fifty years, La Tour had free en- 
trance at the court of France.* He was always well 
received at Versailles, whether the queen was called 
Maria Leczinska, madame de Pompadour, madame 
du Barry, or Marie Antoinette. In the salons of 
Paris and Versailles he had the reputation of a good 
talker. He was listened to like Chamfort and Riva- 
rol. If there be any curious inquirer of these times, 
who sighs for those guilty and charming times of the 
reign of Marie Antoinette, when the ambitious had 
no other care than to sup in gay and fine company, 
I should propose to him to follow La Tour to the resi- 
dence of madame de Coigny, madame de Grammont, 
or some other celebrated hotel — hotel Rambouillet, 
minuB the jprecievses and the jargon — we shall find 
in a circle around the fireplace, three or four beau- 
ties — ^people were always beautiful then, either by 
their wit, their gayety, their gallantry, or in fine by 
their beauty, which was after all the simplest and 
best means; we should meet scattered about the 
salon, some wits like Rivarol and Rulhieres, an abb6 
and a marquis. They would begin by talking poli- 
tics — that is to say, to talk about the court. It was 

* He was however the courtier of no one. " My talent is my 
o^n," said he. He would never consent to finish the portrait of the 
king's two sisters, because they had k«'pt him waiting. 



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A MODEL SERMON. 825 

tlie politics of Cythera. Madame de Coigny would 
make a signal with her fan to Chamfort; madaiiie 
de Grammont would call Rulhieres ; Rivarol would 
be already seated alongside of madame de Vaudreuil. 
— " What is talked about at Versailles ?"— " About 
the abb6 Maury who, under pretext of preaching the 
gospel there, has been giving the king lessons in 
political economy, and some advice in regard to 
foreign and domestic diplomacy. ' It is a pity,' said 
his majesty in coming out of church ; ' if the abb6 
Maury had said a little to us about religion, he would 
have spoken about everything.'" 

rivabOl. I thought that the king had never said 
Anything. 

MADAME DE VAUDREUIL. Rulhicres is pcusive. 

RULHIERES. I am afraid of falling in love. 

MADAME DE ORAMMONT. Lovc is like epidemic dis* 
eases, the more one is afraid of it, the more is one 
exposed to it. 

RIVAROL. And I, for my part, ask but one thing 
from the neighboring echoes : it is to fall in love. 

LA TOUR. Take care, monsieur de Rivarol, the 
commerce of men with women, resembles that which 
the Europeans carry on in India; it is a warlike one. 
You are no longer at the present day in the age of 
heroism. 

MADAME DE COIGNY. M. de Rivarol has contended 
too long behind the scenes at the opera, against the 
Bacchantes who have a price, only because they sell 



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326 LA TOITE. 

themselves. There is a chonis-singer tliere, who can 
find those to buy her, and who could find no one to 
give herself to. 

RiVABOL {with an impertinent emphasis). I have 
quitted the opera-girls, because I found as much 
falsehood among them, as among the honest women. 

MADAME DE GRAMMONT {with a GUnniflff STTlile). — 

That was at the time of jour marriage, after so much 
living flame, smoke has followed. 

CHAMFORT. Rivarol was a philosopher who aban- 
doned romance for history ; but he returned forth- 
with to romance. Divorce is so natural, that in many 
houses it sleeps every night, between the husband 
and wife. 

MADAME DE VAUDREUiL. M. dc Rivarol has doubt- 
less suffered the misfortune of being too much loved. 
He who is loved t(X> much, loves no more. As soon 
as the balance inclines, all is lost. 

THE MARQUIS. And what is the saddest, is, that it 
is with the sentiments of the heart as with benefits. 
When we no longer hope to be able to repay them, 
we fall into ingratitude. 

MADAME DE coiONY. Every benefit which is not 
dear to the heart, is odious. It is a holy relic, or a 
bone of a dead man ; we must either enshrine it, or 
tread it under our feet. 

RIVAROL. It seems to me that you are very quietly 
calumniating me. My whole crime is that of having 
married one woman, and run away with another, 



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A HUSBAND OF THE XVIIITH CKNTUEY. 327 

without leaving the fii-st the means of subsistence. 
What is certain, is, that the academy have given 
her a prize for virtue, for the sole object of displeas- 
ing myself It is therefore to me that she owes it. 
But do not recall to me, that I have been the husband 
of my wife. 

THE MARQUIS. One of the best reasons that a man 
can have for never marrying, is, that he is not com- 
pletely the dupe of a woman, except when she is his 
own. 

CHAMFORT. The Condition of a husband has this 
that is odious, the husband who has the most wit, 
may be a superfluity eveiywhere, even in his own 
house, tiresome without opening his mouth, and sl\> 
pear ridiculous in uttering the simplest thing. 

RULHiERES. No, I am not afraid of love, it is a 
faiiy story, which conducts us always, like the little 
children, to the enchanted castle. But I am afraid 
of the women. Madame de S dishonored her- 
self for a lover, whom she has ceased to love, be- 
cause he removed his powder badly. 

THE MARQUIS. Madame de F lost her name 

and her fortune for the chevalier de M ; now you 

know that she quitted the chevalier abruptly one day 
when he had put his stockings on, wrong side out. 

CHAMFORT. In lovc, the most foolish are the most 
wise; the surest way to reason on this delicate point 
is to cease to reason. 

THE ABBE. Hc who wrotc the Praise of Folly 



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LA TOUR. 

wa8 a great philosopher. In love all is false, all Is 
true. It is the only subject on which one can not 
utter an absurdity, even in the confessional. 

MADAME DE coiQNY. Chamfort then lost his time 
when he wrote maxims on love? 

CHAMFORT. Oh, licavcns, yes I but besides that, 
maxims, though they were those of La Rochefoncault, 
are in the conduct of life what routine is in the art; 
with them there can be nothing adventurous, nothing 
unforeseen, none of these charnnng follies — 

MADAME DE GRAMMONT. Which are nothing perhaps 
but wisdom disguised. 

LA TOUR. However, if pleasure depends upon il- 
lusion, happiness reposes on truth. Does it not ap- 
pear to you, that the man who is happy in illusion, 
has his fortune only in fluctuating stocks, while he 
who is happy in truth, has his in real estate? 

MADAME DE COIQNY. And liow about hailstorms ? 
and fire? and inundation? and taxes? and famine? 
and the farmer's wife? and the farmer's children ? 

THE ABBE. This is patient and passive happiness. 
It reminds me of the Indian proverb : It is better to 
be seated, than standing, to be lying down than 
seated, but it is better to be dead than either. 

LA TOUR. When the ancients represented happi- 
ness crowned with olive-leaves, they were thinking 
of the happiness which sleeps in a tomb. Those who 
destroy their passions, as a violent man kills his 
hoi*6e, not being able to manage him, are madmen 



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LA TOUB AN HISTORIAN. 329 

who do not comprehend that life has its furious joys 
as death has its peaceful ones. 

CHAMFORT. For my part, I subscribe to the prov- 
erb, and I say, " Who quits the game, wins it." 

MADAME DE GRAMMONT. Bccausc you Uvc by recol- 
lection, because you are still a lover, by thinking 
that you have been one. It is useless for a man to 
withdraw himself from the world, we always live by 
life and not by death. 

MADAME DB VAUDREUiL. I begin to think, that no 
one among us is in love, except the abb6, for we have 
this evening talked only of love. 

MADAME DE coiGNY. We Wanted to talk politics. 

CHAMFORT. Conversations resemble journeys on 
the water; we withdraw from the land almost with- 
out being sensible of it ; we do not perceive that we 
have quitted the shore, until we are far away from it. 

Every one who bore a glorious name, no matter by 
what title, from the regency to the revolution, was 
painted by La Tour ; men of the court, men of the 
church, men of the sword, men of letters, women of 
society, women of the theatre, virtue of every de- 
gree, all passed through the studio of this charming 
painter, who was the true historian of the eighteenth 
century. 

He had retired to Auteuil ; he wished to die there ; 
but at eighty he became homesick. He had not for- 
gotten his good city of Saint-Quentin. He had 
founded there a gratuitous school of design. Born 



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330 LA TOUR. 

charitable and a republican, he was desirous that he 
slionld not be remembered for his talents, but for his 
beneficence. At Saint-Quentin, the poor little chil- 
dren, the women lying-in without a home, the aged 
without shelter, repeated his name with gratitude. 
He had placed more than a hundred thousand francs 
at the disposition of the major of the city, for these 
works of charity. He had poured into the treasury, 
fifty thousand francs for the foundation of a school of 
design. When spoken to of his benevolence, he re- 
plied like Jean-Jacques Eousseau : " One has done 
nothing, when anything remains to be done." 

He left for Saint-Quentin. " I wish," said he to 
Gluck, " to go and press to my heart, the violin of 
ray father, for, as the Germans say, he has left his 
soul there." 

He was received at Saint-Quentin, the republican 
city, as Louis XIV. would not have been. The 
twenty-fii-st of June, 1784, his arrival was announced 
there; this day is historical. Here, among other 
accounts, is one of a witness of the festival, M. de 
Bucelly d'Estr^es, who, scarcely ten yeai-s ago, read 
it at the academy of Saint-Quentin : " The entire 
population quitted their occupations, everything wore 
a holyday air, the young girls crowned themselves 
with flowers, the city cannon roared, the city chimes 
made the air resound with its joyous peals. The an- 
cient street of La Yignette was choked up, every 
one strore to be the fii-st to greet him. The munici 



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THE OLD VIOLIN. 331 

pal body with the mayor, the tnie elect of the people, 
'offered to La Tour the tribute of the public gratitude, 
a crown of oak-leaves. La Tour, who had refused a 
royal order, accepts with teai-s this civic crown. I 
etiP recall all the emotion and all the joy of this fes- 
tival. There was enthusiasm ! there was patriotism! 
The entire city, from the Hotel de Yille to the hum- 
ble window of the workman, was illuminated in the 
evening." They danced and fraternized as under 
the revolution ; for Saint-Quentin is a sister of Paris, 
who has no need to receive the revolutionary word 
of command. 

When La Tour found himself alone with his aged 
brother, he asked him where his father's violin was. 
The brother burst out laughing — a stout provincial 
who had never taken a violin seriously. However, 
at the entreaty of La Tour, he went and drew it from 
an old oaken press, where it was, as it were, buried, 
with a single string and a broken bow. 

La Tour took the relic religiously, kneeled, and 
pressed it to his heart. " Ah ! my brother, be as- 
sured, if I was homesick, it was somewhat on account 
of this violin. When I was twenty — " 

He returned to his youth with rapture, like a 
traveller longing for the shade, who passes by a ver- 
dant wood. 

He lived some seasons more at Saint-Quentin. He 
died there on the eve of the revolution, aged eighty- 
four years. The canon Duplaquet wrote on his 



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LA TOUB. 

tomb : " A good citizen — a just cmd cultivated mind, 
an upright and generous hea/rt^'^ winding up with 
thirty-two lines in tombstone style, which was thirty- 
one lines too much. ^' Here lies La Tov/r /" net a 
word more, for this name recalls a man and an 
artist 



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rnr whims of the makohioness. 

A COMEDY IN ONE ACT. 
EuMdfor the first time at the Odeon, May 1% 1844 



CHARACTERa 

THE MARQUIS DE VERMAND. 
THE CHEVALIER DE VERSAC. 
NICHOLAS, the VUlage Fiddler. 
THE MARCHIONESa 
MARIANNE. 

1783. 

The scene is laid at the ch&teau de Verraand, in Normandy. — The 
stage presents a park. — On the right a summer-house, on the left a 
wall, partly concealed by shrubbery. 



SCENE I. 

^ AS the curtain rises, the sound of a bag-pipe is heard. — After having 
played, Nicholas enters from a thicket at a stealthy pace, in a very 
picturesquely-arranged dress.) 

NICHOLAS. How 18 this ! my music does not at- 
tract her here? — So this is the castle of beauty and 
the Beast. — ^I don't wish to mention any namea. 
"What a mysterious ch&teau ! Marianne has bcconi© 
invisible in it. It was worth the trouble trulyj of 

/ 

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334 THE WHIMS OF THK MARCHIONESS. 

spoiling a fine hedge and my velvet breeches ! I 
have lost my time since morning, moaning with my 
bag-pipes. I presented myself more than twenty 
times at the door, but it seems that here it is not the 
custom to pass by that way. I met a puppy of a 
valet-de-chambre, who said to me : " Stop there, 
Nicholas !" If I knew which was Marianne's win- 
dow! They say that there is a short cat tne.e. — I 
wrote to her; did she read my letter? Who knows 
but that she has forgotten me ? She has become a 
sort of grand lady at the chateau. Oh, no ! no ! 
Nicholas is not so soon forgotten. If I could only 
clasp her waist, and have a talk between four lips ! 
But who is coming down there ? Phew ! it's the 
marchioness. These poor bushes! my poor velvet 
breeches ! {He takes to jUght cmd clamhera over 
the walls of the park.) 



SCENE n. 

(Enter the marchioness de Vermand, with a fan in her hand. She 
is dressed in a hoop-petticoat^ and all the extravagance of tJH* 
period.) 

MARCHIONESS. Ycs, whims. Like and not like. — 
Not wish what one knows, and not know what one 
wishes. That is what they call caprice. There are 
people whom we suppoi-t only, to make them support 
our caprices. Oh, good heavens ! if we folks, whom 
nobody contradicts, could not contradict oureelves a 



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SCENE SECOND. 335 

Utile how stupid it would be ! My whim is the rose 
which I pull to pieces, the lover whom I will not ac- 
cept, the play which is presented me, the one which 
I make, the one I would like to make, a rival, per- 
haps even a husband ; for ray part, when my own is 
not at hand — {She walks up and down abstractedly^ 
But, since I have returned to the chateau, all kinds 
of whims are forbidden to me. I must content ray- 
self with being happy. (After a sigh^ and in a 
languid tone:) That is very amusing! I am tired 
of happiness; it eems to me as if I were eating milk- 
soup all the time. Destiny is obstinately bent on 
weaving my days of silk. If the thread were moist- 
ened with some teara, it would be well ! — Will not 
the chevalier be here before eight o'clock ? Ah 1 
monsieur de Veraac! you neglect me — for it is al- 
ready half-past seven. For a month that he has been 
staying with us, we see nothing of him. What are 
we to do this evening ? We are not at Paris ! Ma- 
rianne does not come. If I had that little romance, 
No Tomorrow ! The title is delicious. I would 
make the chevalier read it, to see whether he had 
days without to-morrows. Alas ! reduced to read 
romances, when all the world about me is making 
them! Ah! grandmother had much more sense! 
But the abbes and the rnousquetaires are disappear- 
ing : adieu to the little romances. Of what use are 
screens now-a-days ? and oratories ? unless to pray iu: 
Where do I stand with the chevalier? An Innocent 



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336 THE WHIMS OF THE MARCHIONESS. 

affection which will do no great damage to the neart, 
an eclogue, a pastoral, a real page out of Watteau. 
But if the chevalier was always there I — But the in- 
grate goes oflf elsewhere. 

SCENE III. 

THE MARCHIONESS AND MARIANNE. 

THE MARCHIONESS. Thank Heaven ! here you are 
at last ! Well, that romance ? — ^Make haste. 

MARIANNE {indoUntly). Monsieur the chevalier 
has told me that d pretty girl does not lose by wait- 
ing; so I waited, madame. 

THE MARCHIONESS {matching the hook with impa- 
tience). Yes, truly, she has wit. Most decidedly, 
Marianne, you are not like an ordinary person, you 
have the look of one of Marivaux's sovhrettes. 

MARIANNE. A Bovhrette ! But madame the mar- 
chioness told my godmother I should be something 
better than that. 

THE MARCHIONESS {opening the volume). How is 
this I I asked for No To-m^orrow^ and here is the Sor- 
rows of the Heart. I have enough of that myself. 
{Throwing down the volume.) That will do for the 
waiting-room. lam going to the fishpond ; send the 
visiters to me — even my husband. {Aside) There 
are days when the mind and heart have so little to 
do I 



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SCENE FOURTH. 887 

SCENE IV, 

MARIANNE (olone). That will do for the walting- 
r(»oin \ but I do not belong to the waiting-room for 
my part. {Picking up the hook,) These princesses 
are so insolent! all that they disdain, is good for ns; 
80, that to hear them talk, if we have virtue, it is just 
because they do not want it themselves. {She read^.) 
"I have been to Lucinda, she is with the count de 
Trois-Etoiles ; she looked as charming as possible, 
and I have fallen desperately in love with her." 
Well 1 these lovers do not stand still. Nicholas him- 
. self did not move so rapidly ; But I have much need 
to read that! {Throwing down the hook in the 
style of the marchioness.) It will do for the waiting- 
room. {She draws from her hosom a letter of Nicho- 
las and reads :) 

" Mamselle Marianne : — 

"It is all settled, I am to marry you; the sooner 
the better. My father has handed me over his fiddle, 
and his bag-pipes ; but before contributing to the 
amusement of others, I should like to contribute to 
yours and mine. With the mere thought of it, my 
heart is fiddling. 1 oflTer you a lot which is happy 
enough : Nicholas and all his music ! We have luid 
gnod fortune, and there is no time to lose. I must 
speak to you this evening close by, so expect to see 
me come in by the window or the chimney; all 
roads lead to Kome. A lovei with a good will, 

Vol. I.— 15 



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338 THE WHIMO OF THE MARCHIONESS. 

always finds a road, and I am a resolute man for mj 
part. "War is war, love is love ! I shall not be sucli 
a fool as to try the door, for all those dogs of valets 
who surround you, say to me : 'Stop there, Nicho- 
las, you can't pass!'— I, I always pass; remember 
that Marianne. Signed Nicholas." 

{Resuming in a thoughtful tone). Yes, I do re- 
member. Ah! Monsieur Nicholas, you want to 
marry me : I ask nothing better ; for I am beginning 
to be heartily weary of the ch&teau. It is a real 
epidemic ; by weaiying herself, madame the marchio- 
ness, wearies others. A joint stool is better than a 
sofa ; milking a cow does not spoil one's hands : at 
Trianon they do nothing else. 

SCENE V. 

MARIANNE, NICHOLAS {on the WoU). 
(An air on the bag-pipe is heard.) 

MARIANNE. It is he in truth, it is he whom I love, 
that brave Nicholas. That air goes direct to my heart. 
Madame has gone, and there is monsieur corning. 
These fashionable couples look as if they were all the 
time playing puss in a corner. If Nicholas could 
only be of the party. 

NICHOLAS. Heie I am ; stretch out your anns, 1 
have something to tell you. 

MARIANNE. Can you not ta^k from the top of the 
wal^ ? 



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SOENE SIXTH. 339 

NICHOLAS. No, for lovers, speeches are made with 
the eyes. 

MABiANNE. Are you near-sighted ? 

NICHOLAS. Yes. 

MAEiANNE. So much the better, in housekeeping, 
short sight is the best. Be off. 

NICHOLAS. I will come back. 

MARIANNE. Yes, after dark. 

NICHOLAS. Send me a kiss, Marianne ; pray send 
me a kiss I Ah, it runs like fire. 

SCENE VI. 

MARIANNE, M. DE VERMAND, NICHOLAS {OU the WOlT), 

THE MARQUIS (entering). Ah! how Normandy 
abounds in pretty girls I Find me a marchioness 
worth such a one as that. She is very pretty, most 
decidedly. {He seizes MaHomne^s arm) 

MARIANNE. Ah ! you frightened me, monsieur. 

THE MARQUIS. lYaith I was very far from intend- 
ing to make you afraid. When a person sees or 
hears you, he only thinks of making — ^love to you. 

MARIANNE (with dignity). You sing every day 
the same song to me ; but as they say, it is nothing 
but singing. Madame is in the park, monsieur. 

THE MARQUIS. I undei^stand very well ; you want 
to send me to walk with her. 

MARIANNE. Madame said that she would be there 
even for you. 



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340 THE WHIMS OF THE MARCHIONESS. 

THE MARQUIS. See how badly formed this age is : 
marriage is no longer anything but a jest ; one has a 
wife for love — of Heaven. One must resign himself 
to acting like everybody else. {Rotting himself a 
little.) What a pretty girl you are, Marianne ! What 
matter if my wife is at the end of the park, when you 
are here I Ah ! Marianne, what a roguish look, what 
eyes ! one might call them the doors of hell. Tour 
mouth is a rose-bush ; who are all those roses for, 
you little rogue ? {He attempts to emhrace Marir 
omne^s neck^ sTie turns aside quickly,) Ah I have at 
last turned your head, a womau^s head is made to be 
turned. 

MARIANNE. i3ut, moHsicur, it is rather yours that 
is turned. 

THE MAJtQuis. I shall losc it at the very least. 
What a rebellious mouth ! and what a pretty neck- 
lace of pearls in that mouth 1 If you want a necklace, 
you have only to say the word. {Aside.) That is 
taking a good tum, as in Za Folle Joumee. But T, 
for my part, will not be served like Count Almaviva. 
{He again seizes Marianne^ s arm) 

MARIANNE. Havc doue ! You are going too far, 
monsieur. If it was madame, all very well, she could 
answer you ; but for my part, I do not know what to 
tell you, except that you are rumpling my dress for 
nothing. 

THE MARQUIS {oside). Hum ! since we have ex- 
iled virtue, she has taken flight to the kitchen. 



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SCENE SEVENTH. 341 

There is nothing to be gained any longer by descend- 
ing. After all, my wife is prettier than that girl. 
{Alovd) So, so, Marianne, you stand on your vir- 
tue : light dresses are in season. 

MAsiANNE. It is all I have, monsieur, and I hold 
on to it. It is little, but it is well put on. {Sheper» 
ceives Nicholds^ who raises his head above the wall. 
She utters a cry) Ah ! 

THE MAK<iuis. What's the matter, Marianne ? 

MARIANNE. It was that stupid fellow who scared 
rae. 

(A Taletrde-chambre enters and presents the Mereure de JF^anee to 
th i marquisw) 

THE MABQUis {opening the journal.) Ah ! here is 
a charade ! Zounds, that is something serious ! I 
must go and study this, for they will be talking 
about it to-morrow at the chateau. I will go to my 
study. {lie withdraws gravely.) 

SCENE VU. 

MARIANNE, THE MARCHIONESS. 

THE MARCHIONESS {re-entering hy another path). 
Well, Marianne, so nobody came ? 

MARIANNE. To aniusc you, madame, I almost 
wanted to send monsieur the marquis to you. 

THE MARCHIONESS. What are you saying, Man 
anne ? It is plain that you are easily amused. 

MARIANNE {pettishly playing with her aprorC). 



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342 THE WHIMS OF THE MAECHIONESS. 

Monsieur the marquis preferred to keep me com 
pany ; I have the vapors still. 

THE MARCHIONESS. Vapors ! Here are fine airs ! 

MARIANNE. It is Qot with me, madame, that you 
should be angry. 

THE MARCHIONESS. Oh ! dou't justify yourself, I 
am not jealous of anybody, and you understand 
very well — 

MARIANNE {(zside), I do not understand at all. 

THE MARCHIONESS. Mousieur de Verraand simply 
wished to see the depths of your heart. 

MARIANNE. But moQsieur the marquis saw noth* 
ing there, I fancy. 

THE MARCHIONESS {oside). Can it be possible? 
I want to have the last word. Besides, this is a re- 
source against ennui, for this is the beginning of a 
comedy. Am I going to find a pretext for my 
whims ? {Aloud.) Listen, Marianne, I will permit 
you to laugh a little with monsieur de Vermand, it 
will amuse me. 

MARIANNE. But, madamc, do you know whether 
I will permit myself to do so? {Aside.) And 
Nicholas ! 

THE MARCHIONESS. Comc, dou't let US have so 
many airs. A great matter, truly, to smile at pretty 
speeches ! Do not be uneasy, your virtue will not 
be in danger. 

MARIANNE. Madame speaks of it very leisurely. 

THE MARCHIONESS. Dou't arguc, but do as I tell 



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SCKNE SEVENTH. 343 

you. Monsieur de Vermand will soon pass by this 
arbor ; be as coquettish as possible, and try all your 
charms upon him. 

MARIA.NNE {wUh simpUeity and cunning). But, 
jnadame, I am not learned in such matters. {Aside,) 
And frankly {turning toward the audience)^ between 
ourselves, I have no need to be. 

THE MABCHioNESS. The fool ! Docs not every one 
know such things without learning them ? — at least it 
appeal's to me — We let ourselves alone, and we go 
of our own accord. 

MARIANNE. But how shall I make up with mon- 
sieur the marquis ? I am very sure that he is out of 
humor with me. 

THE MARCHIONESS. Comc, I will givc you a lesson. 
Monsieur de Vermand passes close by you, you look 
at him out of the corner of your eye ; if he goes on, 
you will stop him by your voice. 

MARIANNE. But wliat shall I say to him ? for one 
can not speak without saying something. 

THE MARCHIONESS. Child 1 On the contj-ary we 
talk all the time without saying anything. Woman's 
great wit is shown in saying so many things with- 
out speaking. 

MARIANNE. Ah ! thcu spcecli goes for nothing ? 

THE MARCHIONESS. If mousicur de Vermand does 
not stop, you will address him in a troubled voice^ 
without knowing what you are saying. 

MARIANNE. Just 80. I will Say to him : "Mon- 



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344 THE WHIMS OF THE MABCHIONESS. 

sieur the marquis, how did we staud a little while 
ago ? You kept saying to me, that my mouth was a 
rosebush ; you asked me who all these roses were 
f4)r. Something was also said about a necklace." 

THE MARCHIONESS. What Marianne ? monsieur de 
Vermand said this to you ! It is impossible. See 
what fools these men are ! Gentil-Bernard conld not 
have spoken better : " Your mouth is a rose-bush." 
Oh ! it is divine. Monsieur de Vermand never had 
the wit to say as much to me. But I think he is 
coming. {Edging up to Ma/rianne.) It is all arranged, 
you know your pai-t very well. (Aside.) Ah ! mon- 
sieur de Vermand ! so her mouth is a rose-bush. 
Take care, there will be thorns there for you. {Alotid.) 
Play your part well, Marianne. Don't go too far, you 
know — only up to a certain point. 

MABiANNE. I dou't kuow anything at all about it, 
madame. Up to what point? 

THE MARCHIONESS. Grant him an interview, nothing 
more. Besides I shall be there in the pavilion. I 
am not jealous at all : only curious, {She enters the 
pavilion and draws to the door,) 

MARIANNE. A fiuo Bubjoct for curiosity ! 



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SCENE EIGHTH. 845 



SCENE VUI. 

(Marianne sings. The Marquis passes close to her without listening 
to the song.) 

THE MABQuis. I shall shiiie to-morrow, for I have 
got bold of the charade. Two hours' study more 
and — 

MA.BIANNE {ofUT homng in vain played off her 
glances^ aside). Come I must engage him in conver- 
sation. {Aloud.) You have a great deal of wit, 
monsieur ; I am soriy for it. 

THE MABQUIS. What do you say, Marianne? 

MABiANKE {with a charming smile). I say, mon- 
sieur, that it is well not to have much to do with wit, 
for wit is destructive to feeling. You are going to 
say that my wit will never destroy my feelings. It 
is all the same to me ; when one has a heart, one 
laughs at all else. 

THE MABQUIS. Where did you get that philosophic 
prattle from ? 

MABiANNE. I havc been to a good school. By the 
by, monsieur, we did not get through with our affair 
a little while ago. We were — 

THE MABQUIS {oside). Eh ! It appears that one can 
get along rapidly with her. Jean-Jacques says that 
we must attack women in front ; Voltaire says on 
one side — for my part, I say by turning one's back 
to them. {He pretends to he going away) 
15* 

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846 THE WHDIS OF THE MABCHIONESS. 

MARIANNE. Have I in my turn scared yon, 
monsieur? 

THE MARQUIS {returning). It is your virtue which 
scares me. I am like the children, I am afraid of 
shadows. Ah, come, I love yon to madness, what do 
you say to that? 

MARIANNE {storttnff hcck). Have done, monsieur. 

THE MARQUIS {who hos not toucTied her). I am 
going to begin. {He take% her hand.) What a 
pretty little duchess you would make. Who ever 
saw such a roguish mouth. Love is lodged in it. 

MARIANNE. What stuff ! I don't understand any 
of it. We get along much better than that in our 
village. (Aside.) When Nicholas wants a kiss, he 
takes it, reserving to himself the privilege of asking 
me — ^for another. Poor Nicholas ! 

THE MARQUIS. What are you mumbling there ? 

MARIANNE. I was sayiug, monsieur, that I did not 
understand you, and that you made me lose my laboi*. 

THE MARQUIS. You make me lose my time. Listen, 
Marianne. I love you to madness — but the mar- 
chioness might interrupt us. 

MARIANNE. Make yourself easy, monsieur, ma- 
dame is away by the hedge. 

THE MARQUIS. Ah you Toguc, if I had you there i 

MARIANNE. What good would that do ? No good 
I fancy. What would you tell me there ? The an- 
swer to your charade. 



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SCENE EIGHTH. 34:1 

(Night is coming on.) 

THE MABQUis. Ycs, just 80 ; there is an enigma to 
make out ; I have a thousand charming things to tell 
you. See night is coming on; the marchioness will 
go into the pavilion, to play on the harpsichord with 
the chevalier. Go down by the hedge, I will follow 
you soon, and we will not stay long ; besides, an en- 
igma is soon explained. 

MARIANNE. And you think theli, monsieur, that 
I will go to the rendezvous ? 

THE MARQUIS. I am surc you will. No one who 
is so pretty, is cruel. 

MARIANNE. Dou't tru^t to that, sir. 

THE MARQUIS. In a quarter of an hour. It seems 
to me, as if I see you there already. {He attempts 
to embrace her^ she slips out of his arms) This is 
a lucky day : I have found an adventure, and I will 
find the answer to a charade. I think I will go to 
iny library. It seems to me that I saw a book there 
the other day, called The Key to Enigmas^ Charades^ 
and Riddles ! 

MARIANNE ij^eft oloTie). What am I to gain from 
all this ? Provided that Nicholas holds on well, I 
will take care of the rest. 



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848 THE WHIMS OF THE MABCHI0KES8. 

SCENE IX. 

MARIANNB, THB MABCHI0NK8S. 

THE MARCHIONESS {coming out of the pamlion). So, 
80, wait for me this evening^ under the great chea- 
nutrt/rees. Is it a dream ? Am I at the play? Truly 
these husbands have bad taste. I could weep with 
rage. Ah! women are right when they listen to 
their hearts ! If the chevalier was here I Patience ! 
— he will come. — Mananne give me your cap and 
your neckerchief at once. 

MARIANNE. So I am already at the end of my 
part. (Slyly.) If you still wish, madame, I will go 
myself to the first rendezvous. 

THE MARCHIONESS {taking Marianne^s cap). You 
don't know what you are talking about. Make haste 
and arrange my hair, like yours. That's it, Mari- 
anne. There are moments when one is tempted — 
quicker, Marianne. Ah ! the president's wife had 
good i-eason to speak ill of men ; alas I she spoke ill 
of women, too. Marianne, you will go into the pavil- 
ion and play away on the harpsicord. You will re- 
main there without a light. In a word, arrange it so 
that monsieur de Vermand will imagine that it is I. 

MARIANNE. But, if mousicur the chevalier de Ver- 
sac conies ? 

THE MARCHIONESS. Tell him it is not I. 

MARIANNE {slyly). Why so, madame ? 

THE MARCHIONESS {e mharvassed) . Because — be- 



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BOENE NINTH. 349 

cause it is not right to deceive any one. {She puts 
on Marianne's neckerchiefs I am going to learn 
line tilings down there by the hedge. Will the night 
be dark? If he should recognise me — ^so much the 
worse for both. 

MARIANNE. Under the hedge there is no occasion 
for recognition. 

THE MARCHIONESS. Good, I begin to get into 
shape. This is really a pretty chapter of romance. 
It is a little too much like the Ma/rriage of Figaro ; 
but patience, the denouement. ... It is growing 
darker, how I tremble ! My heart beats at a pretty 
rate. Do I look as if I was youraelf, Marianne ? I 
have no time to go and look at myself. 

MARIANNE. Completely, madame ; so much so that 
I should be deceived myself. It seems to me as if I 
were looking in the glass. {Roguishly ^ It is sur- 
prising how a small cap becomes you. But I am 
troubled, for my part. Monsieur the marquis will 
not like my having deceived him, or rather his not 
having deceived me. 

THE MARCHIONESS. Dou't bc afraid, he wanted a 
kiss ; he will bite his lips. That's all. 

MARiANNB. As madamc pleases. 

THE MARCHIONESS. Is the marquis already at the 
hedge? 

MARIANNE. He is Up there in the library, with a 
book in his hand. 

THE MARCHIONESS. Then I will go forthwith tc 



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850 THE WHIMS OF THE MABOHIONESS. 

the rendezvous. I should prefer waiting fur liim 
Do you make haste to make a noise on the harj^si- 
chord. {She withdraws on tiptoe) 

MAEiANNE. A pleasant journey to you, madarae. 
{Alone,) Ah well, I make a very good marchioness. 
They say that it is the dress which makes the monk ; 
for my part, I say it is the monk which makes the 
dress. 

SCENE X. 

MARIANNE, THE CHEVALIEE DE TERSAC. 

THE CHEVALIER {odvancing slowly). Good day, 
lovely Marianne. How do you happen to have such 
a bewildered look ? 

MARIANNE. A sccrct ! silcucc ! I will tell you 
nothing — ask me nothing. 

THE CHEVALIER. A sccrct lu a pretty mouth like 
yours is a secret no longer. Look you, Marianne — 
there is but one thing that can be trusted to a woman 
without danger, and that is, to tell her that she is 
pretty.. 

MARIANNE. A fine secret, truly! Everybody 
knows it. 

THE CHEVALIER. Ah wcU ! ycs, WO may tell a 
woman what everybody knows. So, what is your 
secret ? 

MARIANNE. I shall take care not to tell you. 

THE CHEVALIER {in a cautious tone). I shall take 
care not to insist. 



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SCENE TENTH. 351 

MARIANNE. Only think — what was I going to do 1 

THE CHEVALIER. Oh, don't saj anything? 

MARIANNE. Onlj think, that the new piece — I 
don't know what 

THE CHEVALIER. The Marriage of Figaro? 

MARIANNE. That is it ; that plaj^ has turned mad- 
arae the marchioness's head. We play it this evening. 

THE CHEVALIER. I do Hot Understand. 

MARIANNE. It is simplc enough. Monsieur the 
marquis made an appointment with me by the 
hedge. You know that he is very much taken with 
the Norman girls. • Madame Uie marchioness has 
taken part of my dress and gone in my place. That 
is why I am so poorly equipped. 

THE CHEVALIER. And the marqiiis ? 

MARIANNE. He is going to join madame directly, 
fancying that he will find me. Who will be finely 
caught, I ask you ? 

THE CHEVALIER. What impertinence ! But I am 
not deceived : there is Vermand coming. {He strikes 
his forehead.) Adieu ! I will hide myself under 
these trees; do not say that you have seen me. 
Marianne. 

MARIANNE. You kuow how discrcct I am. {Sht 
e7\ters the pa/viUon) 



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852 THE WHIMS OF THE MARCH IONKS8. 

SCENE XI. 

THE MARQUIS {oloiie), 

THE MARQins. It is singular {shaking the dust 
out of an old hook) \ I thought I took the Key of 
Enigmas^ and here I have got the Key of Dreamis. 
I would rather dream wide awake with Marianne. 
But is it all in good faith % She is making game of 
me, perhaps. These women are strange creatures 
when the devil gets hold of them, and he is always 
meddling among them. Oh, age of pervereity and 
inconstancy! I have a great mind to keep out of 
the way. Such are men, when they are on the point 
of attaining their object, they almost always stop 
short. Bah ! fire bums in all winds ; the weather- 
cock turns to the four cardinal points; and what 
is the heart but a weathercock on fire ? {He per- 
ceives the chevalier coming toward him) 

SCENE XIT. 

THE MARQUIS, THE CHEVALIER. 

THE MARQUIS {oside). He has chosen his time op- 
portunely I Love is strewn thick with obstacles. I 
will go down to the hedge ; he can chat at his ease 
with the marchioness. {He is about to depart.) 

THE CHEVALIER. Marquis, I salute you. 

THE MARQUIS. My dear friend, the marchioness 
i^ in there singing, I believe. Go and sing with her. 



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SCENE TWELFTH. 353 

As regards myself, an affair of the gravest impor 
tance — 

THE CHEVALIER. But, first of all, give me a mo- 
ment. {Aside) He wants to go there, but I do not 
want him to. Does he fancy that he is the hus- 
band of his wife? {Alovd.) A most unhsard-of 
discovery ! {Aside) What shall I tell him? 

THE MARQUIS. You cau tell me that by and-by. 

THE CHEVALIER. Eight away. It is something 
marvellous. A charade which I have found in the 
Mercure, 

THE MARQUIS. Well ! do you know the answer. 

THE CHEVALIER. Suppose wc scarch for it to- 
gether .... 

THE MARQUIS {making off). I will go seek for it 
elsewhere. 

THE CHEVALIER {koMiug Kim hack). At least tell 
me what devil carrieti you off in this style? 

THE MARQcis. It is the devil of love, ray dear 
fellow. But pray do not detain me any longer. 

THE CHEVALIER {feigning surprise and indignar 
tion). How! you whom I thought so worthy of 
your wife, my poor friend? what a mournful aber- 
ration ! Ton don't know whither you are going, 
unfortunate man ! 

THE MARQUIS. All ha! whence have you come 
yourself? My dear fellow, the philosophers will be 
your ruin, if tliey have not been so already. It is 
very fine for you to play the philosopher, O Socrates 



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354 THE WHIMS OF THE MARCHIONESS. 

of the bedchamber, tricked out in all the gewgawe 
of frivolity ! 

THE CHEVALIER. A wife 80 beautiful and so wor- 
thy of better homage. To wander out of one's road 
in gayety of heart, when one has such a travelling 
coiupanion ! It was well enough twenty years ago, 
when the angels of the chapels were merely super- 
annuated Cupids. Now-a-days we must leave to the 
vulgar the last echoes of the regency. Dubarry 
weai-s haircloth. 

THE MARQUIS. I am struck with amazement. Do 
you till your land like Helvetius and the duke of 
Choiseul ? Does success no longer attend you, O 
philosopher of the side scenes? Is there a love-fast 
and vigil today? Are you going to marry? Are 
you at work on the Encyclopedia? 

THE CHEVALIER. All tliis is ill timed ; I wish to 
prevent you .... 

THE MARQUIS. And I am innneent enough to stop 
for your trifling talk. 

THE CHEVALIER {stUl Iwldinu OH to Mm). Ouce 
for all, you shall not proceed further in your wicked 
action. If you persist, I will call madame de Ver- 
mand. 

THE MARQUIS. How violcut he is! The poor girl 
will catch cold down there. 

THE CHKVALiER. Ko matter for that, I sliall go 
and tell her. Where is she? I undei-stand such 
matters. The name is nothing — Vermand or Ver- 



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SCENE TWELFTH. 355 

«ac, it is no matter at the present tinao which of the 
two. But what sort of virtue has the Ijidy ? 

THE MABQuis. All virtues are eqi:ial in the night- 
time. 

THE CHEVALIER. In what chapter are you with her? 

THE MARQUIS. In the tirst ; but the romance doeb 
not promise to be a long one. {Aside,) My wife 
is somewhat taken with him. "What a good trick it 
would be to send him down there ! What confusion 
that would get the cards in ! 

THE CHEVALIER. Do you Want smelling-salts? 
will there be any fainting ? Where is the rendez- 
vous? at a window? Must yon take a ladder? 

THE MARQUIS {talking to himself). The mist dis- 
appears ; yes, reason returns to me. W^hy should 
we copy our predecessors? It is your affair — you 
who have no chains and nothing to risk. Well, 
then, go down to the end of the park, and call gen- 
tly Marianne, for it is she. L. pretty girl ! I am a 
fool. You will preach her a sermon. In fine, my 
dear fellow, act as for me. 

THE CHEVALIER. I will act as for myself. She is 
the Norman girl whom everybody thinks so pretty ! 
I was very confident that your piece of good luck 
was a princess in a little cap. What matters it? 
Beauty is not plebeian, especially since madame do 
Pompadour has founded the dynasty of the petticoats. 

THE MARQUIS. Hold ! I should decidedly prefer 
to conduct my own affairs myself. 



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356 THE WHIMS OF THE MARCHIONESS. 

TH55 CHEVALIER (darting toward the hedge). I am 
your attornej. (A struggle helnjoeen the raarqxm 
and the che holier ^ in which the latter gains the ad- 
vantage. It fjr(y*xs darker.) 

SCENifi XIIT. 

THE MARQUIS, aftertoard marianke. In truth I am 
shockingly stupid. Come, come, my heart, be cahn ; 
your time is past, marriage has breathed over you. 
The prettiest girl in the world 1 Ah, if I had only 
snatched a profane kiss alongside of her little golden 
croSs! — Don't let us say anything more about it, I 
am a fool. But of what use is wit now-a-days? 
Men no longer speak, they think ! I have come fifty 
years too late; this age becomes old and reasoning; 
there is no use of powdaring, it still shows its white 
hairs. But, from what I hear, the marchioness is 
playing on the harpsichord in defiance of all ears. 
{He goes to the pavilion) Zulme, who is this dev- 
il's music for? 

MARIANNE (counterfeiting the voice of the Tnar^ 
chioness). For you, monsieur. 

THE MARQUIS (oside). By-thc-by, I must send her 
down by the hedge. That will be sport. She will 
see her chevalier, her dear chevalier there, playing 
the butterfly around Marianne. All this turns out 
marvellously for me. {He calls.) Zulm6 ! Zulme, 
go down to the edge of the fishpond ; some one is 
waiting for you under the hedge. 



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SCENE FOURTEENTH. 867 

MARIANNE {somewhot indigucmt^ aside). I don't 
understand it at all. So, this is the way he keeps 
the appointment I granted him. 

THE MARQUIS. MarchioHcss, do you know where 
the chevalier is ? 

MARIANNE {sUjpping aside in tlie dark). He will 
not come this evening. 

THE MARQUIS. Where are you flying to, my turtle- 
dove? {He pursues Marianne without catching 
her.) 

MARIANNE (dside). All this turns out so well, that 
here I am, caught at the rendezvous. Poor Nicolas I 

THE MARQUIS. It is astouishiug how I love you 
to night, marchioness ! 

MARIANNE; I am sorry for it; since you have wait- 
ed until to-night, you can well wait until to-morrow. 

THE MARQUIS. I ucvcr lovcd you so much, my 
dove. But you are taking flight. {Marianne enters, 
the pavilion y the marquis fancies that he is pur- 
suing her through the park) 

SCENE XTV. 

NICOLAS {appears straddling on tlie wall). The 
devil? A man is not at ease on horeeback on this 
wall, without any stirrups except trellis-slats, which 
will bear no weight. — I thought I heard Marianne's 
voice. If she would only come on this side, we should 
have fine times. Only see what love is capable 



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358 THE WHIMS OF THE MARCHIONESS. 

of! — And what is love ? A thread, of which Heaven 
holds one end, and gives us the other to twist over. 
I said Heaven, but it is the devil. — And women I — 
Who will tell me what a woman is? A bush of 
thorns which entices us by its flowere, and the more 
one plucks, the more one is pricked. {Feeling a 
thorn) Ah! are there women, then, at my feet? 
I ceitainly hear a noise. {He listens) They are 
Fpeaking softly. 

SCENE XV. 

THE CHKVALiKR and the MARCHIONESS enter J nicolas 
on the wall. 

THE CHEVALIER. Fair Marianne. 

NICOLAS {wriggling about on the wall). What's 
that ? It is about Marianne ! — Am I deceived ? — If 
I am deceived, I will not be beaten. Let us see. 
{He listens) 

THE MARCHIONESS {imitating Marianne). This is 
very ill, monsieur the marquis. — {Aside) It is cer- 
tainly the chevalier; there is no use of his counter- 
feiting the manner and voice of my husband. What 
strange comedy is going on ? I must play my part 
well. 

THE CHEVALIER. I swear to you — {Aside) If I rec- 
ognise her I am a fool ; since she wishes to pass for 
Marianne, let us take her for Marianne. {Alotcd.) 
In fine, my pretty Nonnnn, let us return to our start- 



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SCENE FIFTEENTH. 85S 

ing-point. Since yon have made an appointment 
with me at the hedge, it is not right to repulse me. 
Where do you get tins savage virtue? it ia only tit 
for fools (he tries to seize her^ she escapes) and for 
great ladies who think that they owe it to their an- 
cesfi)r8 ; but between us philosophei-s who have no 
longer any prejudices, and ladies' maids who never 
had any, virtue is an ill-cut gai^j.'^nt which injures 
the shape. {He catches hold of the marchioness) 

NICOLAS. Well ! ^cl he going to lay hands upon 
that garment? 

THE MARCHIONESS. How havc you the heart, mon- 
sieur, to leave madame the marchioness for me? 

THE CHEVALIER. She is my wife, Marianne ; wh^t 
would you have me say to my wife ? 

THE MARCHIONESS. And what if she were not your 
wife? 

THE CHEVALIER. That is uot the present question. 
She is handsome, but you ai*e a thousand times still 
more beautiful. 

THE MARCHIONESS. The iusolcut fellow I {She 
gives the chevalier a good slap.) 

THE CHEVALIER (oside). The deuce ! That was ihe 
slap of a woman of thirty. — {Aloud.) That was a 
shot; but in love as in war. Ah ! but why this vio- 
lent caress? What have I done, or what have I not 
done? 

THE MARCHIONESS {aside). It is because I arc 
jealous of inyself 



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&60 THE WHIMS OF THK MABCHIONESS. 

NICOLAS. I am here at the play : I see very well ^ 
that I shall be obliged to take a part. 

THE OHEVALDEB. Listen, lovely Marianne : a kiss, 
one single kiss. I don't count that which I stole ; it 
is only Normans like you who count. Shall I not? 
A kiss taken and given, that is all I ask of your*sav- 
age virtue. 

THE MABCHioMii^s. A kiss taken and given! It 
seems that you are learned in these matters. — 
(Aside.) A kiss? in reality, it :» the only pledge 
which I desire of the affection I entertain for him. 
A single one ; let us go no farther I But why not 
grant him that ? 

THE CHEVALIER. What the mischief are you dream- 
ing about ? 

THE MARCHIONESS. I am consulting my heart. 

THE CHEVALIER. Wcll, wliat docs your heart say 
about it? Take care I it is a Korman. 

NICOLAS. That is jjust what I was going to say. 

THE MARCHioiiiiSs. Well, monsicur, if I can trust 
my heart, I will let you take a kiss, and I will give 
you another, but on certain rigorous conditions. 

THE CHEVALIER. Providcd that there are two 
kisses, I swear. 

THE MARCHIONESS. It is uot worth the trouble. 
These are my conditions {slowly and in a tremu- 
lous voice). Yon will take the fii'st, thinking — 
i^ark it well! thinking — of madame the marchion- 



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SOKNK FIFfEENTH. 361 

688. {A pause,) The other you will take thinking 
of whoever you please — of me, for example. 

THE CHEVALIER. With all my heart! {8a/ying 
this^ he leans toward the marchioness a/nd tenderly 
embraces yher.) That is what I call plucking a 
rose. 

THE MARCHIONESS. That poor raadame the mar- 
chioness ! 

NICOLAS. This is passing the limits ; but I will 
wait a second. {Se descends to the park and ap- 
proaches slowly.) 

THE MARCHIONESS. Did you Tcally think of ma- 
dame the marchioness? 

THE CHEVALIER. As much as if I had embraced 
her hereelf. 

THE MARCHIONESS {astdc). After all, of what use 
are the chevalier's lips, when I have, day and night, 
those of the marquis ? Love is always love : what 
matter who is the lover? How happy I am not to 
have disclosed this episode of my life ! There is one 
thing that is better than Master Cupid with his su- 
perannuated arrows ; and that is my son asleep in 
his cradle. 

THE CHEVALIER (asidc). After all, why should I 
seek adventures in that quarter? Is not my own 
mistress worth more than another man's wife ? Van- 
ity of vanities, all is but vanity in love ! A great 
prize, truly, to count one woman the more! — the 
wife of another, who wilj be no longer bis, ^nd will 

Vol. L — 16 

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363 THE ¥rHlM8 OF THE MAROHIOWi238. 

not be mine 1 By-the-by, I liave tlie right to begin 
again. And this time, as it is Marianne whom I 
embrace, it must be in my arms. 

THE MABOHioNKSS. Come, let all be said and 
done 1 {The chevalier opens his arms to clasp the 
fnarchioness / hut^ at that moment^ Nicolas rushes 
up and seizes vaadame de Vermand^ who gives a 
shriek^ 

NiooLAs. Ah, you rogue you ! is that the way yon 
keep appointments! — Well, I love you, I pardon 
you, and I will carry you off. {He gives the mar- 
chioness a vigorous hug) Now for you. {He 
threatens the chevalier^ at the same time hreakin^ 
off a stick. The chevalier and the ma/rchioness 
withdraw on one side.) 

SCENE XVI. 

ALL THE CHARACrrKRS. 

(The marquis enters surprised at bearing Nicolas's voice. The cheva- 
lier and the marchioness remain at a distance.) 

NICOLAS. Where the plague has he gone to? It 
was labor lost to get a stick. 

THE MARQUIS. Wlio is this clown after. 

NICOLAS. Good I I have found him again. {He 
seizes the marquis^ whom he takes for the chevalier^ 
and heats him) 

THE CHEVALIER Capital ! The marquis ought to 
be satisfied now. 



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SCENE SIXTEBNTH. 863 

^ MARIANNE {running up with a candle at the criei 
of the marquis. She throws herself on Nicolaf^ 
and disarms him,) Nicolas, you don't know what 
you are . . . saying. 

THE MARQUIS. A Singular style of expressing 
one's self I You villain, I will have you hung I 

NioouLs. So there are two Mariannes here ? 

MARIANNE {pointing to herself). Here is the 
real one. 

THE CHEVALIER {in a poTTtpous tone). Tou see,' 
mafquis, under the control of healthy doctrines, in 
the presence of the grave duties which the social 
law imposes on yon, it does not become tho strong 
man, the philosopher, the sage, to suffer himself to 
be led away by his passions, and much less by his 
whims, for ... . 

THE MARQUIS. What rigmarole ! I do not under- 
stand you, but you are right. — Whims? the mar- 
chioness has so many, that I thought she might pass 
over in me a little .... 

NICOLAS. He is not dainty-mouthed ! 

THE MARCHIONESS. Tou scc that your whims 
are still more dangerous to yourself than mine 
would be. 

THE CHEVALIER {to the mo/Tchioness). And ours, 
marchioness ? 

THE MARCHIONESS. Ours, chcvalicr? Let us speak 
no more about it, for a whim which lasts is likely tc 
become a passion. The great passions are rare. — 1 



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364 THK WHIMS OF THE MARCHIONESS. 

do not believe in them — except ours, marqnis, for 
yon are corrected — are you not? — effectually. 

THE MARQUIS. I have at least had a caution 1 

THE MARCHIONESS. The hcro of the piece is Nico- 
las — I feel all rumpled yet. 

MARiAifNE {indignant). All rumpled ! 

THE MARCHIONESS. Nicolas, I wish to go to youF 
wedding. 

NICOLAS. Marianne says that she does not wish 
to marry. 

THE MARCHIONESS. Dou't bclieve a word of it. 
In love, when a woman says " I do not wish tOy^ 
she no longer knows what she says. 



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A ROMANCE ON 
THE BANKS OF THE LIGNON. 



In 1672, Madame Desboulieres, already Burnamed 
the tenth Muse, quitted with her two daughters, the 
■flowery meads of the hcmks of the Seine^ to go, as 
she herself said, to rejoin Monsieur Deshouli^res. 
Monsieur Deshouli^res was in Guienne, superintend- 
ing the fortifications under the orders of Louvois ; 
Madame Deshoulieres went to Dauphine. Thus for 
three fine yeare they made a pleasant family. Ma- 
dame Deshoulieres was celebrated for her beauty as 
for her wit. With her thirty-eight years, she was 
through her grace and wit, yet young. She left upon 
her path Celadons without number ; but fortunately 
tor Monsieur Deshoulieres, everything ended with 
sheep. 

The mesdemoiselles Deshoulieres, Madeleine and 
Bribri, were pretty girls from seventeen to eighteen 
years of age, cradled in the innocent sheepfolds of 



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366 THE BANKS OF THE LIONON. 

their mother ; they believed in all the poetiy with 
which bacolic rhymes adorned the country. They 
imagined they saw on their journey, shepherds 
crowned with roses, playing upon the bagpipe, and 
naiads and shepherdesses dancing upon the verdant 
shores. The whole three disembarked upon the 
shores of the Lignon, in April, at the ch&teau of Ma- 
dame d'lJrtis. The season though somewhat rainy, 
had superb mornings. Therefore our travellei*s rose 
early to trample the grass, yet tremulous with the 
steps of Asti'aea, that limpid stream, the mirror of the 
shepherdess, those thickets still resounding with the 
complaints of Celadon. During one of the firet 
promenades, Madeleine Dcshouli^res, impatient to 
see one of thie idyls versified by her mother, asked 
ingenuously if they would not meet a single shep- 
herd on the banks of the Lignon. Madame Deshou- 
lieres had but a moment previous spied a peasant 
and a cow-girl, who were playing at the diverting 
game oi pied de hceuf ^ she endeavored to describo 
this pretty picture : therefore she replied to Made- 
leine in vei'se. 

"They are perfectly right, in saying that the pic- 
tures of nature are more beautiful in the distance. Is 
it possible, to believe that that is a sheperdess, a 
shepherdess of Lignon ?" 

The cow-girl, was simply a poor little peasant, 
badly combed, badly shaped, with marvellously 
spread hands, winking eyes, and endless mouth. 



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J 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 367 

The shepherd was a fair match for the shepherdess ; 
there was, however, upon his round face, an indefi- 
nable expression of naivete and happiness, the ex- 
pansive stupidity so delightful to Parisian eyes. 
Madame Deslioulieres, who always saw through the 
prism of Honor6 D'XJrfe, poetically continued her 
picture. 

"The occupation you are engaged in, is very 
pretty, is it not, my child?" said Madeleine to the 
little peasant. 

" Oh, no, my handsome young lady : I do not earn 
the water that I drink : and, moreover, in the even- 
ing, I have a good beating thrown into the bargain." 

"And you?" resumed Madeleine turning to the 
shepherd who retreated blushing. 

" As for me," said he, stammering a little, " it is 
quite another affair : I am boarded and lodged ; but 
I eat black bread, and my lodging is such as Provi- 
dence provides." 

" He is not so stupid," said Bribri. "Where are 
the sheep then ?" 

" There is no longer any flock," said the young 
herdsman. 

" What!" said Madeleine, with vexation and cha- 
grin, " I shall not see the pretty lambs bleating and 
bounding on the banks of the Lignon ? O Cela- 
don, what will thy shade say ?" 

In her capacity of bucolic poetess, Madame Des- 
houlieres took good care not to look or listen. She 



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368 THE BANKS OF THE LIGNOlif. 

saw only the loves of Astrsea, she beard only the 
Bongs of the old romance. 

On their return to the eh&teau, Madeleine and 
Bribri complained, that they had seen neither flock 
nor shepherdess. 

" Do yon care for those things ?" said Madame 
d'Urtis smiling. 

" Much," said Bribri ; " we hoped to live here the 
life of shepherdesses ; I have brought a full rustic 
equipment." 

" As for me," said Madeleine, " I have twenty ells 
of rose-colored riband, and twenty ells of blue riband 
to adorn my crook and my sheep." 

" Well, my fair beauties, there are a dozen of sheep 
browsing at the end of the park ; take them with full 
liberty to roam the fields ; go and lead them under 
the alder-trees, in the large park." 

Madeleine and Bribri leaped with joy, while their 
mother was painfully seeking for a rhyme, without 
thinking of the eclogue which was preparing. They 
hardly took time to breakfast. "They attired them- 
selves in a coquettish dress," wrote Madame Des- 
houlieres to Mascaron, " they cut themselves a crook 
in the park, and adorned it with ribands. Made- 
leine was for the blue riband, Bribri for the rose-col- 
ored. Oh I what pretty little shepherdesses I They 
spent more than an hour, in finding a name to suit 
them ; at last, Madeleine was for Amaranthe, Bribri 
for Daphne. It is a new baptism, in which they dis 



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SHEPHERDESSES IN SILK. 369 

pensed with your assistance. I have just seen them 
through the trees, gliding lightly along the stream of 
love.. Poor shepherdesses, take good care of the 
wolves." 

Thus then, in the afternoon of the same day, Made- 
leine and Bribri, that is, Amaranthe and Daphne, in 
gray silk skirts, satin waists, their hair in ringlets, 
and a crook in their hands, were leading through the 
fields the twelve sheep of the ch&teau d'Urtis. The 
flock which was very hungry that day, was veiy ca- 
pricious and very intractable. The two shepherdesses 
took all the pains in the world to keep them in the 
right road : it was a charming concert of shrill cries, 
clear burets of.laugliter, bleatings and songs. Happy 
girls I they inhaled happiness from the soul of nature. 
They ran wildly along, they threw themselves upon 
the fragrant grass, they looked at themselves in the 
limpid watere of the Lignon, they gathered the prim- 
roses by the handful. The flock lost nothing by this ; 
from time to time the cunningest sheep, seeing him- 
self guarded by such frolicksome shepherdesses, wil- 
lingly devoted himself to some cora in the neigh- 
borhood. 

" That is yours," said Amaranthe. — " It is yours," 
said Daphne. They agreed to make a division, to 
adorn one set with blue collars, and the other with 
rose-colored collars. Every animal had his name : 
Meliboeus, Jeannot, Robin, Blanchette, and so 
on. 

16* 



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370 THE BANKS OF THE LIGNON. 

At sansot, the shepherdesses brought back theii 
little flock, passing by tlie stream on their way ; Ma- 
dame Deshoulieres wept with joy. 

" Ah ! my dear girls," she said to them, as she 
kissed them upon the forehead, ^Mt is you who have 
made an eclogue, and not I." 

"In fact," said Madame d'Urtis, seating herself 
beneath the willows on the banks, " there is nothing 
wanting to the picture." 

" There is a dog wanting," said Daphne. 

" A wolf rather," murmured the fair Amaranthe 
blushing. 

II. 

Not far from the ch&teau d'Urtis, the old manor- 
house of Langevy raised it6 pointed turrets above 
the surrounding groves. There M. de Langevy, his 
old mother, and his young son, lived in great retire- 
ment fix)m the world. M. de Langevy had struggled 
against all the storms, and all the disappointments of 
life, and he was reposing in the silence of solitude, 
regretting his wife and his youth, his good sword 
and his adventures. His son. Hector Henri de Lan- 
gevy, had studied with the Jesuits of Lyons, until the 
age of eighteen ; but accustomed to his grandmoth- 
er's fondness, he had returned three or four yeare 
since, resolved to live with his family, careless of the 
warlike glories that had excited the ambition of his 
father. M. de Langevy, while he condemned this 



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A MIGHTY HUNTER. 371 

mode of life, which he thought unsuited to youth, 
left Hector free ; he only obliged him to hunt, wish 
ing, as he said, that his descendant should not lose 
all the prerogatives of war. Hutiting afforded little 
amusement to Hector ; though it might have done 
80, if he could have hunted without that heavy gun 
of his grandfather's, which frightened him, but did 
not frighten the game. This formidable hunter, after 
walking about for six months, could not hear the 
sound of a partridge's wings without trembling. Do 
not suppose tliat Hector lost his time: he wandered 
in bright and smiling dreams, he abeady saw the 
dawn of love breaking in the horizon! He was in 
the happy days of that golden age when the heart yet 
trembles only with hope, when the soul rather in de- 
light than in intoxication, flits like tlie booty-seeking 
bee, from the flower to the star, from the shade to 
the sunshine, from the murmuring fountain to the 
cooing dove, from the warbling grove to the sighing 
woman ; but Hector still sought in vain the sighing 
woman, in the almost deserted walks of Le Forez. At 
the chateau de Langevy, there was only a house- 
keeper, past her prime, and a chubby-cheeked ser- 
vant-girl, unworthy of a heart that expands upon the 
banks of the Lignon. He made great calculations 
upon a young Parisian cousin, who was to pass the 
gay season with his father. In tlie meantime, he 
walked about witli his gun upon his shoulder, happy 
in his hopes, happy in the spring-time, happy on ac- 



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372 THE BANKS OF lUK LIONON. 

count of notbing, as the poor creatures of God are in 
some brigbt days of youth. 

You guess what happened. One day that l>e was 
walking slowly along, according to his custom, lost 
in his imaginary world, be came near falling into tbe 
Lignon. As be always went straight forward, with 
out regarding the bedges and the fences, he founo 
bimselfupon tbe edge of the stream, with bis foot 
raised, in tlie act of advancing. He remained thus 
ill great confusion, with bis mouth open, for some 
seconds. On tbe other side of tbe Lignon, in tbe 
fields belonging to the ch&teau d'Urtis, ho bad sud- 
denly seen, as if by enchantment, our two channing 
shepherdesses, who were looking at him out of the 
cornel's of their eyes. He blushed up to bis eai-s, 
while he asked biuiself, whether be ought to advance 
or retreat. To depart, would be awkward ; yet he 
could not throw himself into the water, in order to 
save hisbonor; and besides, when on the other side, 
would he dare to approach the two shepherdesses ? 
He probably adopted the wisest course : he seated 
himself among the reeds, laid down his gun, and 
looked at tbe sheep feeding. At twenty, love comes 
as swiftly as an arrow ; Hector suddenly felt that be 
was desperately in love with one of the shep- 
herdefises. He did not know which, but what did 
that matter? — be was in love. If he bad been twenty 
years older, be would have adored them both at 
01 '.-e ; it would have been almost as wise. 



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TWO SIDES OF A STREAM. 373 

Amaranthe and Daphne, however, had bhished in 
their turn ; they hung their heads languish ingly and 
said nothing further. At last, Amaranthe, the most 
frolicsome and lively, resumed her prattle and her 
gayety. 

" Do you see, Bribri, or rather Daphne ? it is a 
fabulous god ; it is Narcissus looking at his image." 

^' Say rather that it is yom* image he is looking 
at," said Daphne still blushing. 

" It is Pan sighing among the reeds, waiting for 
you to be metamorphosed into a flute, my poor 
Daphne." 

" You are wrong, sister, it is Endymion pursuing 
the shepherdess Amaranthe." 

" At the rate he goes, he will pursue her for a 
long time. If he were not so much of a rustic, he 
would be quite good-looking, with his long brown 
hair. Do you know that he has been there for 
nearly an hour ; he will take root like the hama- 
dryads." 

"Poor fellow!" murmured Daphne artlessly, "he 
seems to be quite lonely down there by himself." 

" He will come to us — it is plain enough ; we will 
give him a crook and a hat adorned with flowers." 

" Very true, we need a shepherd," said Daphne, 
with a charming smile of innocence. " Oh, no !" 
she added instantly, " it is, in fact, quite fortunate 
there is a stream between us." 



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37:^ THE BANKS OF THE LIGNON. 

" I hope that he will at last find a bridge to cross 
tlie stream of love^ 

!N^ow, at that moment, more than ever, Hector 
was thinking of crossing the si/ream of love / he in- 
haled, with a charm until then miknown, the intoxi- 
cating perfume of the violet and the primrose, the 
reeds and the wet grass. While he sought with his 
eyes for some means of crossing, he saw an old 
willow half overturned into the stream ; with a little 
boldness and agility, it was a pleasant and poetical 
bridge. Hector was willing to make the attempt : 
he rose resolutely and went straight to the willow 
without faltering; but, when he reached it, he could 
not help thinking, that in that place and at that sea- 
son, the stream was rather deep. At last he clam- 
bered up the trunk, reached the end of an inclining 
branch, and landed safely in the meadow of the cha- 
teau d'Urtis. He had but one road to follow, and 
that was to go straight to the shepherdesses. He 
advanced boldly, overcoming as he best could his 
childish timidity. He approached the first sheep 
of the flock with insidious caresses; after which, 
finding himself at a few steps from Amaranthe, he 
bowed with an uneasy smile. 

" Mademoiselle . . . ." 

He was suddenly interrupted by a soft, clear voice^ 

" There is no mademoiselle here ; there is the shep- 
herdess Daphne, and the shepheixless Amaranthe." 

Hector, who had a con)pliment on his lips for the 



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NIMBOD ABACK. 375 

beautiful young lady who kept the sheep, knew not 
what to say to the shepherdesses. He bowed a 
second time. 

" Beautiful . Amaranthe and beautiful Daphne, 
condescend to permit an humble mortal to tread 
the turf of your fields." 

"That is not bad," murmured the satirical Amar 
ranthe with a sarcastic smile. 

Daphne, more charitable and more touched by 
the hunter's gallantry, replied to him, as she hung 
down her head : " Yes, sir, it is only for you to tread 
this grass as you pass . . . ." 

" We will even do the honors of our house," con- 
tinued Amaranthe ; " we offer your lordship a seat 
on the grass." 

"I am too happy to throw myself at your feet," 
exclaimed Hector, kneeling. 

But he had chosen his place badly; he broke 
Daphne's crook beneath his knee. 

" Good Heaven ! my poor crook !" said she with a 
sigh. 

"I am in despair," said Hector; "I will go and 
cut you another down there among the ash trees; 
but this was probably dear to you, it came from a 
shepherd, perhaps — why did I say a shepherd? — a 
prince, rather, for you youreelves are princesses or 
fairies." 

"We are simply shepherdesses," replied Ama- 
ranthe. 



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376 THE BANKS OF TlIK LUNON. 

"You are simply beautiful ladies iVoiu Paris, taking 
the country air at the chateau d'Urtis. Heaven be 
praised ! for, in my walks in the valley, I shall see 
you in the distance, if I dare not see you nearer; I 
shall see you appear through the trees like enchan- 
tresses." 

"Yes, we are Parisians, but for ever retired from 
the world and its deceitful clamors." 

Amaranthe pronounced these last words in a 
rather declamatory tone. 

" You begin early," said Hector, smiling ; " you 
liave then good reason to complain of the world." 

"That is our secret, monsieur Imnter. But do 
you, too, live like a young hermit?" 

" As for me, beautiful Amaranthe, I have always 
dreamed with delight of the life of the shepherds, 
but I confess that I had no faith in pretty shepherd- 
esses. Since I have met you, I will plunge deeper 
into my joyful reveries. Ah 1 why can I not keep 
the sheep with you?" 

The two young ladies did not at first know what 
to answer; the wolf was getting into the sheepfold 
rather fast. Daphne, at last, replied : — 

" Our flock is very small, and it is very poorly 
guarded at that." 

" What a happiness for me to become Daphnis, to 
sing to you a lay of love or a song of May, to gather 
bouquets and weave crowns for you !" 

" Let us say no more about it," said Amaranthe 



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THE CAPTURED HUNTER. 377 

rendered somewhat uneasy by the sndden ardor of 
Daphnis ; " the sun is setting, we will return to the 
park. Farewell, sir," she added, as she rose to 
depart. 

" Farewell, Daphnis," murmured the tender Daph- 
ne, with emotion. 

Hector dared not follow them ; he remained for 
more than a quarter of an hour standing in the field, 
with his eye fixed fii-st upon them, and then upon 
the gate of the park d'Urtis. His heart was beating 
violently, his whole soul was flying after the shep- 
herdesses.* "'Farewell, Daphnis,' Daphne said to 
me; I still hear that sweet farewell. How pretty 
she is ! how pretty they are ! Amaranthe has the 
most grace, but Daphne is the most touching. What 
beautiful eyesl what white hands! what a sweet 
smile ! And that charming costume, so simple and 
coquettish ! that white waist which I dared not look 
upon ! that silk skirt which could not hide the tips 
of those pretty, delicate feetl It is Diana — it is 
Venus — it is an enchantment — I shall go mad. 
Ah ! cousin, you should have come sooner !" 

The sun had sunk to rest in a bed of purple 
clouds ; the nightingale was pouring forth its pearly 
notes; the foliage of May was trembling in the 
breeze of spring that spread abroad the intoxicating 
perfume of the fields ; the bee, as he returned to his 
hive, was humming joyfully ; the grasshopper was 
dancing to the first night-songs of the cricket. At 



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378 THE BANKS OF THE LIGNON. 

the bottom of the valley, the yoang herdsman min- 
gled his clear voice in the rural concei-t ; the frogs 
sent forth their melancholy strains on the banks of 
the Lignon, which were sweftly telling, beneath the 
mysterions reeds, of the plaints of Celadon and sighs 
of Asti-sea. It was all songs, murmurs, perfumes, 
and amorous hymns. Hector had not room enough 
in his heart for all these joys of nature. "To-mor- 
row," said he, as he kissed Daphne's broken crook, 
" to-morrow I will return." 



III. 

The next day. Hector wandered in the morning 
along the banks of the Lignon, with a newly-cut 
crook in his hand. He looked every moment towai-d 
the gate of the park d'Urtis, hoping to see the grace- 
ful apparitions of the day before. At last, about 
noon, a lamb darted through the gate and bounded 
gayly over the field, and eleven other animals of 
the flock followed at the same pace, to the ringing 
laughter of Aniaranthe. Daphne did not laugh. 
As she passed the gate, she cast a side glance tow- 
ard the stream: "As I guessed," she murmured, 
"Daphnis has returned." Now Daphnis, unable to 
restrain his joy, was advancing to meet the two 
shepherdesses, when he was suddenly stopped on 
his way by Madame Deshoulieres and Madame 
d'Urtis. When they returned home the day before, 



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TWO TOO MANY. 879 

Amarantbe had, to the great chagrin of Daphne, 
told how a young hunter had met them — not like a 
hunter asking his way, but like a hunter who makes 
his own way into the hearts of others. Madame 
d'Urtis had no doubt it was young De Langevy. 
As Amaranthe had added that she was quite sure, 
in spite of all that Daphne could say, that he would 
return the next day, every one wished to be of the 
party. Hector would have willingly retreated ; two 
women might be all very well — but four ! Never- 
theless he stood his ground, he awaited them with 
firnmess, and saluted the ladies like a resolute youth. 
They returned him three graceful salutations ; Daph- 
ne alone passed on without bowing, which seemed 
to him to augur well. : Not knowing very well how 
to condmence the conversation, and as he was, be- 
sides, losing his self-possession, he ventured to offer his 
crook to Daphne. As she had no crook and no reason 
to refuse, she took it with a trembling hand, at the 
same time looking at Madame Deshoulieres. 

" I broke yours yesterday, charming Daphne ; but 
it is not lost, however; I will make precious relics of 
it." 

"Monsieur de Langevy," said Madame d'Urtis 
pleasantly, " since you are so kind as to guard the 
sheep with these young ladies, come with them in an 
hour, and take lunch at the chdteau." 

" I will go whenever you wish," said Hector pre- 
cipitately. 



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380 THK BANKS OP THE LIGNON. 

" It is settled," replied Madame d'Urtis ; " I will 
return at once, to have the butter churned and the 
cheese prepared ; a very simple luncheon, but a 
luncheon of friends." 

" In a word, a shepherdess's luncheon," said 
Madame Deshoulieres. 

Daphne had slowly wandered off, thoughtlessly, 
pressing the crook to her heart; she approached the 
bank, led on by some vague, mysterious sentiment, 
that longed for solitude. A young lamb, the prettiest 
and whitest of the flock, already accustomed to her 
gentle caresses, had followed her like a faithful dog, 
and she glided her hand over him, as she turned 
back toward her mother. She saw with some sur- 
prise, Madame Deshoulieres and Hector talking to- 
gether like old friends, while Madame d'Urtis and 
Amaranthe were chasing each other wildly toward 
the park. She sat down on the fresh grass of the 
bank, opposite the reeds where she had seen Hector 
the day before. As she saw she was quite alone, at 
least for a moment, she ventured to look at the crook. 
It was a branch of ash, of good size, adorned with a 
bouquet and a bunch of ribands, rather badly made. 
As Daphne was about to improve it, she saw with 
affright, a note hidden in the bouquet. What should 
she do with this note? — read it? But that was dan- 
gerous, her confessor did not order it, and her mother 
was at hand, who might surprise her. Not to read 
it, was a much simpler course; did she not almost 



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881 

know what the note said ? Besides, what good would 
it do to know ? Not to read it, was then the wisest 
plan ; you guess that she read it ; you would have 
done as she did, madam. It was not a vulvar note 
in prose, as you may see : — 

"to the shepherdess daphne. 

"The fairest day of all the May 
Was yet the happiest I have known; 
What hopes I cherished on that day — 
The brightest of the month of May I 
*Twa3 then yoa stole my heart away : 
If you that heart will deign to own, 
The fairest day of all the May 
Will be the happiest 1 have known. 

" The Shepherd Daphnis." 

Surely Daphne would not have pardoned Hector, 
if he had written in prose, but in verse — it was 
merely a poetical license. Far from tearing the note 
and throwing it away, she folded it up, and gently 
slipped it into her pretty white satin bosom, a wo- 
man's most charming rag-basket, as Boufflers used to 
say. For the first time in her life, she discovered an 
unspeakable charm in seeing the waves of the brook 
flow by, skimmed over by the skipping fly-catchers 
and the coquettish dragon-fly. But suddenly be- 
holding the forms of Madame Deshoulieres and 
Hector, she turned pale, like a culprit caught in the 
act. 

" Well, my daughter, how thoughtful you sit 
there on the edge of the water, forgetful of youi 



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THE BANKS OF THK LTGNON. 

wandering slieep ! Monsieur de Langevy, you who 
liave given her a crook, lead her back to her sheepu 
As for me, I am going to write an epistle to my 
bishop." 

Madame Deshoulieres walked off a short distance 
repeating to herself in a low voice : — 

*' From famous Lignon^s silver stream, 
I know not what to write ; 
The airs of this bright region seem 
All fraught with wild delight, 
Since the late shepherd Celadon 
The fair Astrsea loved, 
And, all his soul by grief undone, 
Along its borders roved/* 

Madame Deslioulieres was not severe in regard to 
love, provided, however, that love had all the exter- 
nals of gallantry and delicacy, as at the hotel Eambou- 
illet ; so she rhymed her epistle without disturbing 
herself about her daughter ; she only spoke a word 
from time to time, to remind her that she was pres- 
ent. Daphne, who scarcely answered a word to 
Hector, eagerly replied at length to her mother ; it 
is true, she knew not what she was saying. 

The shepherdess Daphne, or rather Bribri Des- 
houlieres, was, as has been seen, pretty, artless, and 
tender; pretty, with a character of unspeakable gen- 
tleness in her features, artless as young girls are, that 
is to say, with some little diabolical malice; tender 
with that sweet smile which opens the heart at the 
same time, as the lips. What was most striking 



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BETTER THAN LOVE. 38? 

about ber at tbe first glance, was a light veil of sad- 
ness, a fatal presentiment which rendered her still 
more touching. Her sister was prettier perhaps, she 
bad more full-blown roses in her cheeks, more seduc- 
tive grace, more amiable coquetry ; but if the eyes 
were for Amaranthe, the heart was for Daphne, and 
as the eyes become the slaves of the heait, Daphne 
triumphed. Thus Hector, in his amorous transport, 
had at first seen only Amaranthe, and yet when 
once at a distance from the two sistere, he chiefly 
thought of Daphne. 

IV. 

The bell of the chateau announced tbe luncheon ; 
Hector oflfered his arm to Madame Deshoulieres, 
Daphne called her sheep, and they returned through 
the park, where they met Madame d'Urtis and Ama- 
ranthe. The collation was to the taste of every one, 
both by its gayety and by its viands. Fii-st course: 
an omelet aujambon ; entree: cakes and fresh but- 
ter; second coui-se: a magnificent cream cheese; 
dessert: meringues and sweetmeats. I take all these 
details from the correspondence of Madame Des- 
houli^res; may those pardon me who have never 
lunched. 

At night-fall. Hector quitted the company with 
many regrets, but he had no time to lose even in 
such good company ; he had two leagues to travel, 



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884 THE BANKS OF THE LIGNON. 

without moonlight and over cross-roads, still broken 
np by the heavy equinoctial rains. 

The next day, Hector returned to the chateau 
d'Urtis, passing through the field on his way. When 
he was near the willow, which served as a bridge to 
the stream, he was astonished at seeing in the fields 
neither the shepherdesses nor the flock. He passed 
the bridge, thinking that it was a bad omen, but 
hardly had he reached the other bank, when he 
caught sight of some sheep scattered about at the 
end of the fields. He went rapidly toward them, 
rather uneasy, at seeing neither Amaranthe nor 
Daphne ; as he approached, he soon saw his beloved 
shepherdess, sadly bending over the Lignon, which 
in that place, fell noisily in little cascades. The ten- 
der Daphne had suiTOunded with her pretty arms 
the trunk of a young willow, which held her grace- 
fully above the cascade, and sheltered her with its 
fragrant shade. She was abandoning her soul to 
those cloudy reveries, of which the thread, joined in 
a thousand places, is the work of joy that hopes, and 
sadness that fears. She did not see Hector approach ; 
at the sight of him, she was sui*prised as if she had 
started from a dream. 

" Are you alone ?" said Hector, coming up to 
her. 

She hastened to reply, that her sister was coming 
to join her. The two lovere kept silence for some 
seconds, casting side glances at each other, and not 



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THE SHEEP AND THE LOVER. 8?fl 

daring to speak, as if they feared the sound of their 
own words in the solitude. 

" It appears to me," said Hector trembling, " that 
there is some sad idea coursing through your mind." 

" It is true," replied Daphne. " Mamma has re- 
ceived news of M. Deshoulieres ; he will pass 
through Avignon in a day or two, and we are going 
to depart, to meet him on his way." 

*' Depart!" exclaimed Hector turning pale. 

" Yes ; I who was so happy here in these fields, 
with these sheep that I love so much !" 

As she spoke of the sheep, Daphne looked at 
Hector. 

" What prevents your remaining ? Madame Des- 
houlieres will come for you by -and -by." 

" By-and-by I my grief would be still greater. I 
wish to go or to remain always." 

At these words. Hector threw himself upon his 
knees, seized Daphne's hands, kissed them passion- 
ately, and said to her, as he turned upon her his 
eyes moist with love: "Ah! yes, always, always! 
You know. Daphne, I love you, I wish to tell so all 
my life." * 

Daphne, yielding to her heart, allowed her hands 
V'. be kissed, without thinking of defending herself. 

** Alas ! I can not always keep the sheep. What 
wUl become of the poor shepherdess ?" 

" Am I not your shepherd ? am I not Daphnis ?" 

Vol. I.— 17 



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880 THS BAl!nCS 0» THE LIONON. 

said Hector with greater ardor ; "confide in nie, >n 
my heart, in my sonl. This hand shall never qn'it 
yours ; we will live the same life, under the same 
sunshine, and the same cloud, in the desert or in a 
palace. But with you, will not the poorest hut be a 
palace ? Listen, my dear Daphne ; there is a cot- 
tage half a league from here, the Chaumi^re-des- 
Vignes, inhabited by the sister of my nurse, where 
we may live in all the charming mystery of love." 

" Never ! never !" exclaimed Daphne. 

She withdrew her hands from those of her lover, 
she retired some steps and began to weep. Hector, 
still upon his knees, drew himself toward the ash- 
trees where she had stopped ; he spoke of love with 
passion, he supplicated with teal's ; he was so elo- 
quent, that poor Daphne, too weak to resist long 
these emotions of a first love, at once diabolical and 
angelic, which have led astray and intoxicated us all, 
said to him, all pale and terrified: — 

" Yes, I confide in you and Heaven. Let what 
will happen ; but is it my fault if I love you V^ 

A tender embrace followed these words. Evening 
had come, and the sun, hidden behind the clouds of 
the horizon, gave but a pale light ; the young herds- 
man was driving home the cows and the turkeys 
whose gobble disturbed the harmony of the grove. 
The sheep of the chateau were gradually taking tbeil' 
way to the brook. 

"See," said Daphne, as she parted her disordered 



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THE WOMAN PEEPS OUT. 887 

hair from her brow ; " see my poor sheep pointing 
out to me the road to follow." 

" On the contrarj^," said Hector, " the ungrateful 
animals are departing peaceably without you." 

" But I am afraid 1 How can I deceive my 
mother? she will die of grief." 

'^ She will make verses and that will be the end of 
it." 

" I will write to her, that not being able to resist 
my heart, I have departed without giving hernoticC) 
to the convent of St. Mary Magdalen, of which they 
were speaking yesterday." 

Thus the fair and pure Daphne, so candid and so 
artless, found heiself all at once ingenious in evil; so 
true is it, that at the bottom of the most amiable 
heart, there is found a little grain of depmvity. 

" Yes, yes," replied Hector, " you will write to 
Madame Deshouli^res, that you have taken refuge in 
the convent ; she will set out for Avignon, we will 
remain alone under this beautiful sky, and in this 
beautiful country, happy as the singing-bird, free as 
the wind of the mountain." 

And, as he said this, Hector drew Daphne along. 
They had arrived at the end of the field, before a 
slight bridge of boards, covered with moss and float- 
ing gi-ass. Daphne refused to cross ; she already 
had feelings of remorse, and a presentiment that, the 
bridge once crossed, it would be all over with her 
simplicity of neart. Nevertheless she crossed. But 



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888 THR BANKS OF THE LIONON. 

let those women who have not crossed, cast the fii«t 
stone at her. 

After half an hour's walk, often interrnpted by a 
glance or a kiss, they arrived at the Chaumi^re-des- 
Vignes. The good old woman was weeding ontthe 
peas in her garden ; she had intmsted the care of her 
house to a large gray cat, who was asleep in the door- 
way. Daphne looked lovingly at this dwelling ; it 
was an agreeable solitude, approached by a narrow 
path bordered by elders, and carpeted with fragrant 
grass. They passed througli an enclosure, planted 
with some magnificent vines, twined about the trunk 
of the pear-tree, and the branches of the elm. Tlie 
Lignon, by a graceful curve, flowed within two steps 
of this enclosure. 

" At least," said Daphne, *' if I am sad, I will go 
and shed my tears in my beloved stream." 

"Will you find time to weep?" said Hector pres- 
sing her hand ; " here all our days will be happy. 
Look at that window, half-hidden by the ivy and the 
virgin-vine ; there you will inhale life every moming 
when you wake. Look down there at that green ai- 
bor : there we will talk every evening of our past and 
future happiness. Our life will be lovely and sweet 
as a ray of sunshine that passes over roses." 

They had entered the cottage. It was anything but 
a palace; but beneath those worm-eaten rafters, 
within the shelter of those dilapidated walls, before 
that humble hearth, poverty gayly smiled upon yor 



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LOVE AND A COTTAGE. 889 

with its primitive simplicity, while offering you a 
stool. Daphne at fii-st felt somewhat strange upon 
those bare flag-stones, as she inhaled the rustic odor 
of tlie Iiearth where the supper was cooking, of the 
pantry where the cheese was drying, and the safe 
where the brown bread was moulding ; but thanks to 
love which has the power of metamorphosis, which 
spreads over everything its magic rays, Daphne was 
pleased with the cottage, the furniture, and the rustic 
perfume. 

The good old woman, on returning from the gar- 
den, was much surprised at the sight of Hector and 
Daplme. 

" What a pretty sister you have there. Monsieur 
Hector !" 

"Listen, Babet; since your daughter's marriage, 
the little chamber up-stairs is almost abandoned ; 
mademoiselle will pass some days in that chamber ; 
but you will say nothing about it — it is a mystery." 

" As you please. Monsieur Hector ; I shall be very 
glad to see my daughter's chamber so well occupied. 
The bed is not a bad one, the bed-clothes are of 
linen, but they are well acquainted with the wash- 
tub and the hedge." 

"What would you have?" replied Hector, "all 
the luxury is without, and it is Providence that de- 
frays the expense of it." 

"You will sup with me, my handsome lady," 
added the old woman ; " my dishes are pewter, but 



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890 THE BANKS OF THK LIGNON. 

my vegetables and fruit have a quality that comes 
from the blessing of Heaven." 

Thereupon the good old Babet set the table, and 
served up the supper. Hector bid Daphne an affec- 
tionate farewell, kissed her hand twenty times, and 
departed, promising to return the next day at sunrise. 



Daphxoe slept poorly in her little chamber. She 
was restless, she thought of her mother, and she was 
terrified at her love. At daybreak she opened 
her window, and as she beheld the first light of 
dawn, the trees glistening with dew, as she listened 
to the moniing-bird, who was trying his notes, and 
skipping from branch to branch, her hostess's cock 
who was noisily crowing over yesterday's conquests, 
she regained a little serenity in her heart; her youth- 
ful and adventurous love appeared to her with new 
attractions. The path of the sinner is at first sown 
with roses, which afterward wither beneath tears : 
Paphne was only at the beginning of the road. 

As she gayly drove from her mind the evil dreams 
of the night, she suddenly canght sight of Hector in 
the hedge of vines and hawthorns. 

"Yon are punctual," she cried to him, "you come 
with the sun." 

" How beautiful you are this morning. Daphne !" 
said Hector with a glance of love and an enamored 
smile. 



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BOMANOE OF PEASAlTr LIFE. 391 

Jibe looked ».t lierself absently and seeing tha'; she 
was only half-clad, she threw hei-self into the bed. 

" What shall I do ?" she said ; " I can not always 
wear a silk skirt and a satin waist." 

She dressed herself however, as the day before, 
trusting to destiny for the morrow. Hector brought 
the necessary materials for writing to Madame Des- 
lioulieres, and Daphne wrote an affectionate letter of 
farewell. 

'' That will do," said Hector; "I have a peasant 
here who will deliver it ; and as for me, I will re- 
turn this afternoon to the field of the chateau d'Urtis, 
as if nothing had happened : they will never suspect 
that I have seen you. Your mother sets out this 
evening, you say : to-morrow, then, we shall have 
nothing more to fear." 

The lovers gayly breakfasted together in the liitle 
chamber. Daphne herself had prepared thehciiey, 
the fruits and the cheese, and she herself had been 
to the spring with the broken pitcher belonging to 
the cottage. 

*' You see, sir," said she, as she sat down to t!; a 
table, " that I have all the accomplishments of a 
peasant." 

'' And all the grace of a duchess," said Hector. 

At two o'clock he went toward the chateau d'Urtis, 
and as, after waiting awhile, he saw no cne in tie 
field, he approached the park, pushed the gate opeji 
and followed the main walk oa far as the gardeii 



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392 THE BANKS OF THE LIGNON. 

steps. Madame Deslioulieres perceived him, and 
hastened to meet him. 

" My daughter, sir," she said in great agitation ; 
" have you not seen ray daughter?" 

" I hoped to see her here," replied Hector vpith 
well-acted surprise. 

" She is gone, sir, gone to some convent or other, 
gone like a crazy girl, disguised as a shepherdess. 
Wretched girl ! what a night we have passed ! what 
trouble ! what anxiety ! what tears 1 and I must de- 
part thus without being able to follow her." 

Hector still artlessly feigned surprise; he even 
feigned sorrow, he offered his services, and spoke of 
running after the fugitive ; at last, in spite of all her 
accustomed penetration, Madame Deshoulieres had 
not the least idea, that Hector knew where her 
daughter was. After having bowed to Madame 
d'Urtis and Amaranthe, he departed, flattering him- 
self, that he was a youth who gave promise of suc- 
cess m the manoeuvres of love. 

He returned to Daphne, who had again become 
sad, and consoled her with the picture of a happy 
future. The next day he catue rather later, he was 
more thoughtful than usual, and embraced his pretty 
shepherdess with some constraint. 

"Do you know," she said to him, " that you are 
too gallant? A shepherd who is well taught and 
deeply in love, should awake his shepherdess every 
mcrning with the sound of the bagpipes ; he should 



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A RIPPLE ON THE STREAM. 893 

fill his scrip with bouquets and fruits, gathered in 
the early dew ; he should carve her initials on the 
bark of the tree that ascends to her window, even as 
they are carried upon his heart. But you do nothing 
of all this ; you are content to come like a bed-cham- 
ber gallant, when the clock strikes twelve, and you 
complain that the happy moment does not arrive for 
us. Look, it is I who have gathered flowers and 
fruits. Is not our little chamber beautiful now? 
Hyacinths at the window, roses on the mantelpiece, 
violets everywhere. Ah! if you were only here 
oftenerl" 

They descended to the garden, where the good old 
woman was breakfasting in company with her cat 
and her bees. 

" Come in this direction," said Daphne ; " do you 
see that little corner newly tilled ? well, that is my 
garden. There is nothing much growing there yet, 
but what a charming bower of vines! what a beauti- 
ful and fragrant hedge ! To-morrow there will be a 
bank of turf for us to sit upon. But what is the mat- 
ter with you ? you are so absent-minded, that you are 
not listening to me." 

^' Nothing is the matter with me Daphne, nothing 
in truth ; I love you more and more, that is all." 

" That is no reason why you should be so sad." 

Hector soon departed without confiding to Daphne 
the cause of his uneasiness. 

Now this was the state of affairs at the chateau de 
17* 



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394 THB BANKS OF THE LIGNON. 

Langevy. His cousin, Clotilde had arrived with a 
great aunt, to pass the whole spring there. M. de 
Laiigevj, who did not take a roundabout way to 
accomplish his projects, had already plainly signified 
to his son, that Mademoiselle Clotilde de Langevy, 
their niece and cousin, was a pretty girl, and what 
is more, a rich heiress ; and that he, Hector de Lan- 
gevy, tlie last of his name, and heir of a slender pat/- 
rimony, must hasten, by all fair means, to marry the 
said consin at his own proper rist and peril. Hector 
had at first nobly rebelled as he thought of poor 
Daphne ; but gradually, as he took a closer view of 
the matter, he had discovered, with the aid of her 
fortune, many attractions in his cousin. She was 
pretty, graceful, lively; she hung carelessly upon his 
arm, she had the most channing prattle, in a word, 
were it not for the memory of Daphne, he would have 
fallen madly in love with her. 

As it was necessary to take his cousin out walking 
if he did not wish to appear rude, he remained two 
days withont going to the Ohanmiere-des-Vignes. 
The third day, Clotilde having begged him, in the 
presence of his father, to take her to the banks of the 
Lignon, he dared not refuse. He satisfied himself 
with sending a sigh after Daphne, to calm his suffer- 
ing heart 

From the ch&teau de Langevy, the shortest road 
to the Lignon led directly toward the Ohanmi^re-des- 
Vignes: Hector took g^od care not to take the 



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AN AWKWAliD POSITION. ^95 

BJiortcst road ; lie made a detour of moi-e than half a 
leagne, and led his cousin toward the end of Madame 
d'TJrtis* f eld. While Clotilde was bending the reeds 
and stripping the falling branches of the willow, at 
the same time watching the flow of the celebrated 
stream, Hector occasionally cast a melancholy glance 
upon the deserted fields. 

'• Ah ! good heavens !" suddenly exclaimed Clo- 
tilde, falling upon the bank. 

Her foot had slipped, and she came near falling 
into the water. Hector ran toward her, threw himself 
affectionately at her feet and seized her hands. Soon, 
as she was quite pale and faint, he gently took her 
by the waist, and told her to lean her head upon his 
shoulder. 

" Any one would say it was a naiad surprised by 
a fawn," he murmured as he kissed her hair. 

As he raised his head, he saw poor Daphne upon 
the other bank, half-hidden by the branches of a wil- 
low. To pass away the time, she had come to visit 
again the cradle of her love, to tread once more the 
grass of that charming field, where two days ago — 
two days only — the hours had passed so sweetly by. 
Poor girl! what did she see? what did she hear? As 
a worthy reply to the kisd that Hector gave Clotilde, 
she broke her crook with a noble buret of anger, and 
then, overcome by her despair, she fell upon the 
bank, uttering a plaintive cry. 

At that cry, at the sight of poor Daphne falling in 



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396 THE BANKS OF TUK LIONON. 

a swoon, Hector, quite beside himself, scarcely 
knowing where he was, darted blindly to the other 
side of the stream, transported by love and grief. 
He started and ran wildly toward his sweet shepher- 
dess, quite forgetting Clotilde, who was still speaking 
to him. He raised Daphne in his trembling arms. 

" Daphne ! Daphne !" he cried to her, " return to 
yourself, it is yon I love — you alone !" 

He embraced her tenderly, he wept, he spoke to 
her again. Daphne opened her eyes sadly and shut 
them again, the same moment. 

"No, no," she said, "it is no longer Daphnis, and 
I am no longer Daphne ; it is all over, let me die 
alone." 

" My dear love, my poor Daphne, I love yon, I 
swear it to you from the bottom of my heart ; I did 
not deceive you, you are the only one I love." 

In the meantime, Clotilde had come directly op- 
posite to this affecting picture. 

" Well ! cousin," she cried to Hector ; " must I 
return all alone to the chdteau ?" 

"Go, sir," said Daphne repelling him; "go, you 
are waited for, you are called." 

" But Daphne but cousin " 

" I will listen to you no more, sir ; my moments of 
folly are over ; let us speak of it no more." 

" Cousin," cried Clotilde from her side in a tone 
of raillery, " do you know that this affecting shepher- 
dess scene, is a most agreeable suiprise ? I shall set 



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A PARTING. 397 

it dovi^n to your acconnt. You did not promise me 
this upoD the banks of the Lignon. Tell me, coujsin, 
is it the last chapter oiAsi/ree ?" 

" Cousin, I will join you in a moment, I will tell 
you all, and you will no longer laugh." 

" For Heaven's sake, sir," said Daphne rising, " for 
Heaven's sake, let this sad story be for ever a mystery. 
I do not wish that the weakness of my heart should 
be laughed at. Farewell, sir, let all be forgotten, let 
all be buried." 

Lovely teare flowed down Daphne's cheeks. 

" No, no. Daphne, I will never leave you, I say it 
openly. I will take my cousin back to the chateau, 
and I will return in an hour to wipe away your tears, 
and ask your pardon on my knees. Besides, I am 
not guilty, I take my cousin to witness. Is it not a 
fact, Clotilde, that I did not love you?" 

" Faith, cousin, you have told me that you loved 
me; but as men always say the opposite of what 
they think, I am willing to admit, that you did not 
love me. Do not give yourself any uneasiness on my 
account, I will return alone." 

She departed much offended, but with the calmest 
and most careless expression possible. 

" I will run after her," said Hector, " for she 
would tell my father all. Farewell, Daphne ; in two 
hours I shall be at the Chanmiere-des-Vignes more in 
love than ever." 

" Farewell then," murmured Daphne in a faint 



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THE BANKS OP THE UGNON. 

voice. " Farewell I" she added, as she saw Hector 
depart; ^* farewell! as for me, in two hours, 1 shall 
no longer be at the Chaumiere-des- V ignes.'* 

VI. 

Shb returned to old Babet's cottage. When she 
saw agAUi her little chamber, which she had taken 
so much trouble and so much pleasure in adorning 
with flowei-s and green branches, she bent her head 
in sorrow. " My poor roses," she murmured as she 
breathed the fragrance of the chamber, which was 
even now a fragrance of lov«, " I little thought, when 
I gathered you, that his heart would wither before 
you." 

The good old woman came in. "What! my 
daughter, I see you in teara? Do persons weep at 
eighteen ?" 

Daphne threw herself sobbing into the arms of 
Babet. " He deceived me, he abandoned me for his 
cousin. I am going to depart; you will tell him 

that he has done me great wrong that I am 

wounded by a mortal blow No, no, do not tell 

him that. Tell him that I departed quite resigned, 
pardoning him, and praying to God for him. But I 
shall not have the strength to go without seeing him 
again !" 

Daphne loved Hector with all her heart and all 
her soul ; she had blindly abandoned herself to love. 



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ALMOST A REALITY. 

with the earnest ardor of hopeful youth. Before 
quitting Paris, she had di*eamed that during her 
travels, she would meet some evening in the country, 
in the neighborhood of a chAteau, some young gentle- 
man, who would love her passionately. This dream 
cherished at Paris, had been almost realized in Le 
Forez. Hector was indeed he whom her heart ex- 
pected ; even better, for the dream had been im- 
proved upon by her fancy of playing the shepherdess, 
and by all the unforeseen charms of a rising love. 
She had been delighted and enchanted ; losing her 
heart, she had also lost her better reason ; she had 
followed her lover instead of her mother. 

Hector joined Clotilde, but duringtheir walk, they 
did not dare to speak to each other of the scene in 
the field. Hector augui^d well from his cousin's 
silence ; he hoped she would not say a word about his 
secret love at the ch&teau. Vain hope ! As soon as 
she found an opportunity, the seci'et was spread 
abroad. In the evening, M. de Langevy, seeing her 
more thoughtful than usual, asked her if she had any 
cause of sorrow. 

^' Notliin§ is the matter with me," she said with a 
sigh. 

The uncle insisted. " Clotilde, my dear girl, what 
ails you ? Has the pilgrimage to the banks of the 
Lignon, wrought some evil miracle?" 

^' Yes, uncle." 

" Has my son But where is Hector?" 



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400 THE BANKS OF TIIK UQNON. 

" He has returned on the pilgrimage." 

" What the devil is he going to do dov:ii 
tliero ?" 

^^ He doubtless has his reasons." 

" Truly I Come, niece, do you know anything 
about it?" 

" Nothing whatever, uncle, only " 

" Only f Come, tell me all." 

" I tell you uncle, I know nothing, but I saw Mon- 
sieur Hector's shepherdess." 

" His shepherdess I you are laughing at me, Clo- 
tilde. Do you believe in shepherdesses ?" 

"Yes, uncle, for I saw Monsieur Hector's shep- 
herdess fall down in a swoon, on the bank of the 
stream." 

"Zounds! a shepherdess! Hector smitten by a 
sheplierdess 1" 

" But, uncle, it is a very pretty shepherdess in a 
silk skirt and a satin waist." 

" So, so. But what is this story then ? it must he 
amusing. Let some one bring me my game-bag and 
gun immediately. Do you believe, my good Olo- 
tilde, that that devil of a lad has returned to liis 
shepherdess?" 

" Yes, uncle." 

" Has that shepherdess any sheep?" 

" No, uncle." 

"The devil! the devil ! that is still more danger- 
ous. Did you follow the osier path ?" 



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PAPA ON THE TBAGK. 401 

" Yes, uncle, but I fancy that the happy shep- 
herdess is nearer the village." 

" Very well, I hopo to see them presently." 

M. de Langevy departed murmuring : " Silk skii-ts, 
satin waists ! Ah I my son, I should like to know 
where you get the money, to drees your shepherdesses 
in that style." 

The old baron went directly to the Chauraiere-des- 
Vignes, hoping that Babet might give him some in- 
formation in regard to Hector's prowess. He found 
the old woman in the doorway reposing from the fa- 
tigues of the day. 

" Well, Babet, what news at your place ?" said the 
old baron in a gentle voice. 

" ITothing new," said the old woman, about to rise 
out of respect for her visiter. 

" Sit still, sit still, Babet," said M. do Langevy, 
placing his hand with rustic familiarity on the old 
woman's shoulder. " Stay, here is a bundle of reeds 
and rushes for me to sit upon." 

At that moment, M. de Langevy heard the little 
window up stairs shut. " I have guessed it," thought 
he. "That, perhaps, is the cage of my amorous 
pigeots. Tell me, Babet, have you seen my son this 
week ?" 

" I see him often, baron ; he comes to hunt in my 
close." 

" Ah ha 1 Does he appear to have good sport ?" 

"Tc-day, I received a magnificent hare from him, 



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402 THB BANKS OF THE LIGNON. 

which I did not very well know what to do with ; I 
at last put it on the spit. My poor kitchen was 
much astonished at seeing such a royal morsel." 

" That hare was not for you alone, probably ?" 

"Who should eat it with me? you perhaps, 
baron ? I should be very proud to entertain such a 
guest." 

" Hark ye, Babet, let us speak frankly : I know all 
that is going on ; my son is in love with a certain 
shepherdess, who can not be far from here." 

" I do not know what you mean." 

"You know so well, that you are quite confused. 
But calm youraelf, there is no great harm in all that; 
it is a mere piece of childishness. But tell me some- 
thing of this girl." 

"Ah! baron," exclaimed poorBabet, who thought 
she ought no longer to dissemble, " she is an angel ; 
you shall see — she is an angel." 

" So, so; whence comes this angel, if you please? 
She has not descended from heaven, I fancy." 

" I know nothing more, baron, but I pray to God 
every hour of the day, that you may have no other 
daughter." 

" We shall see, we shall see. Our two lovers are 
up stairs, are they not?" 

" Why should T conceal it from you ? Yes, baron, 
they are up staii-s, loving each other like true children 
of kind Heaven. You can go up, for theins is a lovd 
that never shuts tlie door." 



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AN mOPPORTUNJS ABBIVAL. 403 

M. de Langevy entered the cottage, approached 
the stair-case, and ascended with a light step. He 
stopped half-way at the sight of the lovers gently lean- 
ing upon each other, the one weeping, the other con- 
soling her. The old soldier was almost moved by 
the scene, but reason regained the upper hand. 

"Wondrous well I" he said as he ascended the 
last steps. 

Daphne uttered a cry of surprise and terror. 

" There is no cause to weep," said M. de Langevy, 
" As for you, my son, you shall let me a little way 
into this mystery." 

" I have nothing to say," murmured Hector bit- 
terly. 

Daphne, who had freed hereelf from his arms, had 
fallen fainting upon a chair. 

" Father," added Hector darting toward Daphne, 
" you see that your place is not here." 

" Nor youi-s either, sir," said the baron angrily. 
" What is the meaning of this silliness ? You will re- 
turn to the ch&teau at once, if you do not wish it to 
be closed to you for ever." 

Hector made no reply, he was wholly occupied 
with Daphne. 

" Once agam, sir," said the exasperated baron, 
"consider what you are doing." 

"I do consider," murmured Hector, mising the 
poor girl in his arms. "The chdteau shall be closed 
to me for ever, if you wish it." 



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404 THE BANK- OF THE LIGNON. 

^* Come, sir, none of your vaporing ; do jou retuni 
with me, or do you remain here ?" 

"Listen, father; I will follow yon on account of 
tlie respect I bear you, but I must tell you that I love 
Mademoiselle Deshouli^res, with all the power of my 
heart ; between her and me, it is an affair of life and 
death." 

" Deshoulidres, Deshoulidres — I have heard that 
name before. I knew a M. Deshoulieres during our 
campaigns in Flanders, a gallant man who had a 
handsome wife, but not a sou to his name. Do you 
return with me, sir ?" 

Repelled by Daphne, who begged him to depart, 
Hector followed his father in silence, hoping to soften 
him, and that ho would soon be able to love Daphne, 
with full liberty of heart and mind. M. do Langevy 
bowed to the young lady, wished a good appetite to 
the old woman as he passed out of the cottage, anu 
went upon his way, lecturing his son upon his extrav- 
agant inclinations. Hector made no reply, except 
to turn around at every step to cast a parting glance 
at the little window. 

When Daphne saw Hector disappear amid the 
thick trees on the road-side, she sighed, shed a tea. 
of farewell, and murmured: "I shall see him no 
more." She looked with a mournful eye upon the 
walls of that little chamber, now saddened by the 
darkness of evening, that had contained so many 
bright hopes. She plucked a rose at the window, 



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END OF THE PASTORAL. 405 

sadlj inhaled its fragrance, then tore it in pieces with 
a savage pleasure, and cast its leaves to the wind. 
*' Thus will I do with my love,'* said the poetical 
beauty, "I will cast it to the wind of death." 

She placed the bare stalk in her bosom, and de- 
scended the stairs. 

"Farewell," she said, as she embraced the old 
woman, " farewell. I return with resignation to the 
place I so madly left. If you see Hector again, tell 
him that I loved him well ; but tell him to forget me, 
as I myself shall forget him." 

1a she pronounced taese last words, the poor girl 
turned pale and trembled. 

She departed, and took the road to the ch&teau 
d'Urtis. When she reached the field, her eyes 
rested upon the crook which she had broken in the 
morning ; she picked it up and carried it away, as 
the only memento of Hector. The sun had set, and 
night was gradually coming on like a night of spring ; 
Nature in all her luxury, was spreading abroad a per- 
fume of happiness which was bitter to Daphne. She 
fell upon her knees, and prayed to God, while she 
pressed the crook to her heart. 



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406 THB BANKS OF THE LIGNON. 

VII. 

She did not find hor mother at the ch&teaZc Vit 
Madame d'Urtis received her with great joy. 

"Well, my lost white sheep, have you returned 
then to the fold !" 

" Alas 1" said the poor girl, " yes, I have returned , 
hut more lost than ever ; I departed witL the wildest 
and gayest hopes, and I return all alone. Look, my 
crook is again broken, but this time Sector 'vill not 
reluni to cut me another." 

She cv>nfidcd all to Madame d'Urtis. 

On ills leturn to the chdteau de Laugevy, in the 
presence of his father and Olotilde, Hector remaineJ 
faithful to his heart. He told all that had happened 
with the ardent enthusiasm of love; Olotilde hereelf 
was softened. She entreated M. de Langevy on be- 
half of Hector. 

" Oome, uncle, it is all of no use, passions are not 
destroyed by combating them, as my grandmother 
used to say." 

*i'iibSiou9 pass as quickly as the wind, time 
sweeps out the heart with the end of his wing, as 
your grandmother also used to say. Before a week 
is over. Hector will have forgotten his shepherdess ; 
such is my will." 

" So much the wind bears away, uncle. The heart 
alone has a will, for the will of the heart comes from 
heaven." 



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IX)VE AND WAR. iOl 

" Come, Clotilde, I see you are as unreasonable a6 
the rest." 

" Ah ! uncle, upon this subject, he who is the 
most unreasonable, is, I believe, the most reasonable." 

" I tell you again, before a week is over, Hector 
will have changed the object of his adoration ; you 
know it very well — you have not such pretty eyes 
in vain." 

" Uncle, bo assured, Hector will never love me, 
and besides, I am not at all desirous of succeeding 
another. As mademoiselle de Scudery says, in love 
the happiest queens are those, who create kingdoms 
in unknown countries." 

" You read romances, Clotilde ; so much the worse. 
I will neither talk reason nor unreason witli you an/ 
more about love." 

Hector took his father upon his weak side. 

" Consider, father, that if I married Mademoiselle 
Deshoulieres, I should gloriously follow the career of 
arms. Yon have opened the road to me, and would 
I not be worthily guided by that brave M. Deshou- 
lieres, whom Louvois honors with his friendship?" 

M. de Langevy ended by saying that he would re- 
flect upon the matter, which was saying much in fa- 
vor of the lover. 

The next day at daybreak. Hector was at the 
Chaumiere-des-Vignes. 

" Well," said the old woman as she opened the 
door to him, " she has gone, the dear girl." 



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408 THE BANKS OF THE LIONON. 

" Gone I and you let her go ! But where shall I 
find hei ?" 

He ran to the ch&teau d'Urtis. As he reached the 
d or, ' o saw, with a sad presentiment, a carriage 
laying doT^n the road. He rang the bell with an 
agitated hand. An old servant conducted him to 
Madame d'Urtis, who, contrary to her wont, ap- 
peared to him sad. 

" Ah i it is you, monsieur de Langevy ; you have 
doubtless come to see Mademoiselle Deshoulieres. 
All is ended between you, you will see her no more 
in this world, for in an hour, she will no longer be of 
t^^is world ; she has set out with my maid for the 
convent ^f the Val-Chretien." 

" Gone !" exclaimed Hector, quite overcome. 

" She has left me her farewell for you, in this 
letter." 

Miidame d'Urtis took a note from her basket. 

" ' If he comes here, give him this letter,' she said 
to me." 

Hector took Daphne's note ; he opened it with a 
pale countenance, and read these few lines : — 

" Farewell then, it is no longer Daphne who writes 
you, it is a poor penitent girl, who is going to pray 
to God, for those who suffer. Fortune drives me 
from the world — I am resigned — I am going to 
bury myself alive. I do not complain, for I have had 
a bright dream in this world ; one day of happiness 
has given me a glimpse of heaven. We began the 



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SHE WOULD BE A NUN. 409 

most delightful eclogue in the world ; we could not 
finish it, but bright dreams only end in heaven. 
Farewell." 

"Madame," said Hector kissing the note, "have 
you a horse ?" 

" What do you wish to do ?" 

" I wish to join Mademoiselle Deshoulieres." 

" You may join her, but you can not turn her from 
her course." 

" For Heaven's sake, madame, a horse ; take pity 
on my misfortune." 

Madame d'TJrtis, who had witnessed Daphne's 
sad resolution only with regret, ordered a horse to be 
saddled for Hector. 

" Go," she said to him, " God guide you both !" 

He started at a gallop, and overtook the carriage 
in less than half an hour. 

" Daphne, you shall go no further," he said, as he 
held out his hand to her. 

" You !" exclaimed Daphne with surprise, joy, and 
grief. 

" Yes, I who love you as my true love, and as my 
wife ; my father has at length listened to reason." 

" And I too, I have at length listened to reason, 
and you know where I am going. Leave me in the 
right road. You are rich, I am poor; you love me 
to-day, but who knows if you would love me to-mor- 
row ? As I wrote to you, we have begun a bright 
dream, let us not spoil it by an unhappy end. Let 

Vol. I.— 18 



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410 THK BANKS OF THE LTGNON. 

that dream preserve all its freshness, all its fragrance 
of the month of May, all its venial charm. Our 
crooks are broken, two of our sheep have already 
been killed, and since yesterday, they have been cut- 
ting down the willows in the field. You see plainly 
that our brightest sun has shone. She whom I saw 
yesterday, is to be your wife. (Ah ! how you em- 
bmced her.) Marry her, then, and in your days 
of happiness, if you still walk upon the banks of the 
Lignon, my shade will perhaps appear to you, but 
then I shall smile upon you." 

" Daphne, Daphne, I love you, I will quit you no 
more, I will live or die with you." 



One evening, nearly half a century after, in a hotel 
of the rue Saint-Dominique, where there was a gay 
supper, Gentil-Bernard, who always chronicled the 
news of the day, mentioned the death of an eccentric 
pereon, who had directed that an old broken stick 
should he placed in his coffin. 

" It is M. de Langevy," said Fontenelle. " He 
married, to his great regret, the beautiful Clotilde de 
Langevy, who eloped so scandalously with a guards- 
man. As for M. de Langevy, he had been deeply 
in love with Bribri Deshoulieres ; that broken stick 
was a shepherd's crook, cut, during their amoure, 
upon the banks of the Lignon. The last shepherd is 
dead, gentlemen, we must goto his funeral." 



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THE BKMAIN8 OF THE PASTORAL. 411 

"And Bribri D&lioulieres, what became of her?" 
asked a lady. 

" I have been told that she died very young in a 
convent in the south," replied Fontenelle ; " and it 
is very strange that when they came to bury her, they 
fonnd a crook attached to her hair-cloth shirt." 



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