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PHILOSOPHERS
AND
ACTRESSES.
BY
ARSENE      HOUSSAYE,
AUTHOR OF "MEN AND WOMEN OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY," ET
IN TWO VOLUMES.
ulumtt $irst.
REDFIELD,
110 AND 112 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK.
[Second Edition.  1 85 3.




Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852,
BY J. S. REDFIELD,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for the
Southern District of New York.
STEREOTYPED BY C. C. SAVAGE,
13 Chambers Street, N. Y.




PREFACE.
PHILOSOPHERS and Actresses -all men are philosophers,
all women are actresses: Socrates who studies with Aspasia-Aspasia who rules the world under the name of Pericles; Abelard who gives lessons to Heloise-Heloise
who 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 philosophers, the greater part are 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 names of folly and




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 sandal 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 phantoms of the past.
The air of this melancholy rondo, which throws Gaussin 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 duets,
one in mockery, the other in tears, mount together the endless scale of the gamut, and, at the last note, unite, embrace, 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
days, when we live so fast, without thought of the passing
breeze, the bright sky, or the invisible world that sings of
the infinite, we should gild-though it were only by
Ruolz's process-the ladder of the passions, that ascends
from man to God.




CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
THE HOUSE!F SCARRON....................... P  AGE    9
VOLTAIRE......................................... 29
VOLTAIRE AND MLLE. DE LIVRY..............-......  109
THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO,........................     134
MADEMOISELLE GAUSSIN............................ 176
JACQUES CALLOT............................          192
RAOUL AND GABRIELLE..................-.... 252
THE HUNDRED AND ONE PICTURES OF TARDIF, THE
FRIEND OF GILLOTI............................. 276
MADEMOISELLE DE MARIVAUX.............-.             292
LA  TOUR.......................................... 307
THE WHIMS OF THE MARCHIONESS.................. 333
A ROMANCE ON THE BANKS OF THE LIGNON............. 365








PHILOSOPHERS AND ACTRESSES.
THE HOUSE OF SCARRON.
THE age of Louis 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 years
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
philosophers, 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 Iistory. That man was Napoleon. I prefer 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 Conde, Malebranche and Pascal, Corneille and Moliere, Poussin
and Lesueur, Mansard and Perrault. I have not
1*




10           THE HOUSE OF SCARRON.
named all the gods; for example Puget, La Fontaine,
and Lully. And the demi-gods 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 he loves. The dead are not those who
have ceased to live. Who can doubt the immortality
of the soul, when we ourselves feel within us, as it
were, the 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 the passage of the Theatre-Frangais. 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 the academy?
There are even some figures, some of women, who
have only transmitted the remembrance of their
beauty, and who are the adoration of future ages.
Who has not been in love, more or less, with the
Fornarina, with Violante, with madame de la Valliere, or with the marchioness de Pompadour? Does
she whom you pursue at the 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 the heroine of a romance? Is she a Saint
Theresa? Is she one of the favorites in the seraglio
of Versailles? Is she a queen of France and of




AGRIPPA D'AUBIGNE.           11
Navarre? She had some partisans; her enemies
have never been counted. I acknowledge, that, on
beholding her portrait engraved by Mercuri, I am
a partisan; but this portrait after Petitot, is it a
portrait fiom 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 sumptuous 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.
You are not acquainted, I imagine, with Agrippa
d'Aubigne, the grandfather of madame de 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:'iMy son, you must not spare
your head, when I am gone, in avenging those glorious leaders; if you spare yourself, you shall have
my curse.'  Behold, in what a sturdy school those




12           THE HOUSE OF SCARRON.
men studied who paved the way to the age of Louis
XIV. We recur to the Mfeemoirs of D'Aubigne,
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'Aubigne wrote beneath this portrait:L 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 him 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 corruption 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'Aubigne, being urged to take some
nourishment, said to his wife: " lMy 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 indescribable something that invigorates the heart. We
might readily believe ourselves to be in a forest of
vigorous and venerable oaks, beneath an azure sky.




THE MEMOIRS OF AGRIPPA.         13
The national forest is, at the present day, nearly
fallen; there are some few stunted trees scattered at
wide intervals among some rustling copsewood,
under a stormy sky. In the seventeenth century
men were more deeply rooted in their virtues or in
their vices - a more generous sap circulated. For example, find me, at the present day, a rude integrity,
such as that of Agrippa d'Aubigne, or a bold, headstrong vice, like that of his son, Constant d'Aubigne,
the father of madame de Maintenon. This Constant
d'Aubigne was a rogue, marvellously-well practised in
all the seven capital sins! Moliere and Rembrandt
alone would have dared to have handled such an
exaggerated personage; read this fragment from the
iMemoirs 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 first given himself up to gaming and to drunkenness, ended by ruining himself
completely among prostitutes in the low Dutch taverns. He married afterward a miserable woman,
whom he finally killed. Wishing to remove him
fiom 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




14          THE HOUSE OF SCARRON.
tom.  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 protestant, as he supposed, for his son had abjured his
religion secretly in order not to awaken suspicion,
and that he might play the traitor more at his ease.
Maillezais soon became, under the command of Constant d'Aubigne, " a public gaming place, thronged
with prostitutes, and a shop of counterfeiters and
passers 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, Francoise
d'Aubigne, the marchioness of Maintenon, was born
in the prison of Niort, 1635. Constant d'Anbigne
always succeeded in reaching a plank of safety in
his shipwrecks. Thus, 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, lie was still brave and
gallant. He wasted the fortune of his second wife,




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 deVillette,
sister to Constant d'Aubigne, 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 Margay. The little
Francoise had the same nurse as her own daughter.
Poor Madame d'Aubigne believed herself cursed of
God and man, since even in the prison where she
prayed and mended her husband's stockings, Constant d'Aubigne was coining counterfeit money. She
wrote to madame de Villette with a deep feeling of
wretchedness and abasement: "I fear much that
my miserable little one gives you a great deal of
trouble; may God give her grace to prove her gratitude." Strange contrast between the cradle and the
tomb; she, who was born in prison and lived on
charity, was to die the wife of Louis XIV. If that
had been told to the mother-the poor mother who
had not even a drop of milk for her offspring!
Franuoise d'Aubigne never forgot the truly maternal care of her aunt; she said at a later day,
when they wished to make her abjure Calvinism,
"I will believe all you wish, provided I am not




16           THE HOUSE OF SCARRON.
obliged to believe that my aunt Villette will be
damned."
Another word about her father. He was released
and went with the mother and her children to Martinique. 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'Aubigne, whom the severe
lessons of adversity could not convert to the good.
Romance had already interleaved its improbable
pages with the life of Franqoise d'Aubigne. 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 supposition that she was dead; when her mother gave
her the farewell kiss, she stretched out her arms and
opened her eyes. This is not all: the vessel in
which she sailed was attacked by pirates. I say
nothing about the fortune-tellers 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 Franqoise
d'Aubigne, was again received by madame de Villette, who had remained in the protestant faith, as




APPRENTICED QUEEN.           17
much 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'Aubigne, received an order
from the court to withdraw Fran9oise from the motherly care of madame de Vallette. Fran9oise wept
profusely; the chateau of Marray 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 morning, " with a shade over her face to save her complexion, 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 verses
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




18          THE HOUSE OF SCARRON.
stop there. She placed Frangoise by force in a convent of the Ursalines at Niort, whence mademoiselle
d'Aubigne was soon discharged, madame de Neuillant refusing to pay the board of a huguenot. 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 immediately turned my back upon it; as often as she placed
me there, I did the same, fully persuaded that it was
idolatry to worship Jesus Christ in the host."  Madame 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 promised me an Agnus."   At the Ursalines 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'Aubigne, who married Louis
XIV. -has humorously protested against the visible
greatness of the world, by its invisible greatnessagainst birth by intellect - against the pretentious and
affected hotel, by the humble abode enlightened with
the freedom of thought. Voiture at the hotel Ram



FRANIOISE D'AUBIGNE.          19
bouillet enveloped himself in the swaddling-clothes
of tradition; Scarron at his humble fireside, seated
between Marion de Lorme and Ninon, laughed somewhat 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 Scarron, were /Menage, Pelisson, Scudery, Benserade,
Sarrazin- his neighbor- Marigny, Legrais, SaintAmand. Many of these poets were neither sufficiently
famous, nor sufficiently well dressed to present themselves at the hotel Rambouillet. Such were about
all the canaille that visited the house of the cripple;
but, at the same time, there were to be seen at his
fireside, or at his table, marechal d'Albret, the duke
de Vivonne, the marquis de Sevigne, the count de
Grammont, Coligny, Mortemart, Beautru, La Sabliere,
and twenty other men of the best company. The
women, of course, 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 fifteen made her appearance. "' She was already beautiful, but timid, and she began to weep as she entered,
being embarrassed in consequence of the shortness of
her dress."  She had just arrived fiom the provinces




20          THE HOUSE OF SCARRON.
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 off that
evening for her especial benefit. It might be seen,
from the beginning that, with her, the head triumphed over the heart.
Madame d'Aubigne returned to Poitou with her
daughter.  She died there soon after. Frangoise
d'Aubign6 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 Nenillant,
who, although her relative, left her through avarice
quite destitute," says Tallemant des  6eaux. Decidedly the preface to the life of Frangoise d'Aubigne was not inviting.
She had left at Paris, besides Scarron, a sympathizing soul in mademoiselle de Saint Hermant. She
wrote to her from Kiort: " 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." Frangoise d'Aubigne had mistaken the door on her arrival at Paris;




A SCHOOL FOR WIT.          21
it was the hotel Rambouillet that she should have
entered.
Scarron saw this letter, he answered it: " Mademoiselle, I was far from suspecting that the young
girl that I beheld in my house six months ago, with
a dress that was too short, and who wept, I hardly
know why, was as clever as she had the appearance 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 first letter of a gallant character that Frangoise
d'Aubigne received. It is clear that she commenced
with Scarron as she ended with Louis XIV.
She fell in with some others by the way; for example, at the very beginning, the chevalier de Mere,
who pretended to bestow cleverness upon women.
Madame de Lesdiguieres, it is well known, remarked to him, " I wish to be witty."-" Well! madame, you shall be," he answered. But he gave
neither wit nor love.  Frangoise d'Aubigne allowed him to believe that she listened to his lessons, and that she studied "his wretched style," as
madame de Sevigne called it; but her real master
was Plutarch.
She returned to Paris with madame de Neuillant,
who, both proud and jealous of her beauty, introduced 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



22          THE HOUSE OF SCARRON.
ulation 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 born 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 marriage that should unite her
and Scarron, would be one of mind. The marriage
took place in the spring of 1652. "When the contract was being drawn up, Scarron declared that he
acknowledged, as the property of the bride, an income of four louis, two large, rebellious eyes, a very
beautifil bust, a beautiful pair of hands, and a great
deal of intellect."  The notary asked him, what settlement he made upon her. "Immortality," he replied; "the names of the wives of kings die with
them, but that of the wife of Searron 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




AN INTELLECTUAL MARRIAGE.        23
will teach her a great deal," Scarron had said, but
he was mistaken. To that house, fiequented by a
society somewhat perverted, she brought virtuebut the virtue of seventeen, and that smiled gracefully. 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 course of conduct 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 savante, 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 Scarron 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,
another story still, for there is no roast to-day.'"
Scarron was no richer for his marriage. It often




24          THE HOUSE OF SCARRON.
happened that there was no roast.  Ie did not
the less desire to live like a lord. IIe assumed,
even like Scudery, the air of a patron of the arts.
A letter of Poussin informs us, that during the tempest of the Fronde, this great artist painted two pictures ordered by Scarron-a Fete de Bacchus, and a
Fete de I'Amour. Mignard was a friend of the family.
Scarron ordered some pictures of him also. IHe
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 acquainted with. "We only know her as an old woman," says monsieur de Noailles; " we always picture her to ourselves, in her robe offeuiliemorte and
sombre head-dress, looking severe and religious;
ruling the court that had become serious like herself."  Mignard painted her as a Saint Frangoise,
noble and dignified, but sombre and sorrowful, without a ray of her youth to lighten up the melancholy
face. It is like the Voltaire of the painters and the
sculptors, who is a queer old man, burthened 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 harvested 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;




A DOUBTFUL POINT.           25
"Nothing can be compared to her without injustice.
Slhe was tall and of a beautiful figure, but her size
was not of the kind that repels. She did not affect
the beautiful, but was infinitely so. Her mind was
formed expressly for her beauty."
MIadame 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 slie might
wish." Afterward Scarron himself kept her by the
side of his bed. She was confirmed more and more
in her virtue, well understanding 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 Scarron and
Louis XIV., there was some connecting link, Villarceaux, 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 Villarceaux." Well, Villarceaux was
a dangerous person to have so close by, he who succeeded in keeping Ninon in the country for three
entire years-for three entire years!
VOT..- 2




26           THE HOUSE OF SCARRON.
Aggravating circumstance! adame Scarron was
a great deal with Ninon. I am well aware it was
more the society of the mind than the person that
she frequented-as with her husband; but the
mind has also its days of culpable curiosity; the
mind likes to test the Leart, and it likes to test it
by experience. Madame Scarron, seeing Ninon,
sought and cherished in the beatu monde, after an experience of more than twenty years of amorous folly,
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 us continue. Let us
admit, since she has said so at a later period to lier
brother, that she has never been married. Let us
believe her when she writes: " My heart is fiee,
wishes always to be so, and always will be."
I should prefer that Saint Frangoise 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
Theresa; 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 himself, and there was no further question about




PALMY DAYS OF LOUIS XIV.        27
him.*  "Upon his tomb," 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 already
ascended the throne. Louis XIV., who believed
that all the passions of France beat in his heart, was
soon to say: "I -am the state," for he saw everywhere about him courage and genius. It was during
his palmy days that he conducted, at full speed, mademoiselle de Montpensier to tle Luxembourg, passing
the guard and remarking to mademoiselle: "How
happy I should be if the robbers should attack us."
Thle widow of Scarron did not belong to those palmy
days. When she reached Louis XIV., the horses of
the king no longer took their bits in their teeth. Let
us not follow her further. To some she appears to
mount, mount, mount always; to us, to descend from
the height of her beauty and her intellect. Moreover, all the world knows the history of madame de
Maintenon, old and a devotee, for it is the history of
France. In her youth she had lightened with a smile
the grief of Scarron; when old, she covered the royal
dignity with a severe mask.
* Here is this touching epitaph worthy of the antique:"Passer-by! let your step be light,
Or else, ye may disturb my rest,
For this is the only night
That sleep, poor Searron e'er has blest."




28           TIE HOUSE OF SCARRON.
Louis XIV. thought to perpetuate his youth like
all those who have been young in earnest. In him
there were always two beings: the demigod descended fiom Olympus, and the gentleman eager for
adventure.
In these later times, Louis XIV. has been too severely 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 glory of Alexander. In the same way the historian may get as
angry as he pleases about the dancing of Louis XIV.,
lie can never blot out a single one of his conquests. 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 remember those gods of Olympus who did not disdain
the joyous festivals of the intellect.




VOLTAIRE.
I.
To write the history of the life and works of Vol
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 rumors of the revolution, and do we not see his
influence even in the reign of Bonaparte? And,
during the seventy years which he held the pen, do
we not see him in every horizon? You meet him at
every step in the history of this strange century, at
the theatre, at the academy, in exile, lodged with the
king of Prussia; at Versailles, where lie is merely a
courtier of madame de Pompadour; at Ferney, where
he is the king of the intellectual world. Where he
is not, his spirit is ever present. Ask of Fr'ron, 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 Ferney than
about the court of France? If any one here below




30                 VOLTAIRE.
ever made himself a kingdom 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 confusing voices still sing his praises or proclaim his
errors. To the one, he is a worthy brother of La Fontaine and Racine; to the other, the gloomy precursor of Marat and Babeeuf. Both deceive themselves;
Voltaire did not succeed La Fontaine and Racine,
did not suckle Marat and Babcenf; he represented
by dint of reason and raillery the spirit of his age.
It would be vain to seek in his works for the effeminate grace of Racine, and the Gallic naivet6 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 Babceuf, or that greater fool
who called himself Marat. It is well to follow the
track of a wit, Lut tG go beyond the visible trace
is to go at hazard, to wander away, to lose one's
self.
In every age some man llas 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 ideas of his times; collecting the various sounds made about him, he subdues them by his voice, he reproduces them by his




A GODFATHER.               31
eloquence, he is the most listened to. In the 18th
century, this man was Voltaire, for the ideas of Voltaire were in germ in the minds of all thinkers.
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 the hazards and destinies
of his life. Let us follow Voltaire step by step in
the various paths wlhich he took fiom 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 assurance, I go whither I
will?
FRANCOIS MARIE AROUET DE VOLTAIRE was born
February 20th, 1694, at Chatenay, near Paris. Iis
father, Francois Arouet, had been a notary at the
Chatelet; his mother, Marguerite d'Aumart, was
descended from a noble family of Poitou. lie 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 Chlteauneuf, a fiiend of his
mother and a lover of Ninon de l'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;




32                 VOLTAIRE.
Ninon asked him one day about the child.  "My
dear," he answered, "my godson had a double baptism, but there is not any apparent effect therefrom, he
is scarcely three years old and he knows all the Jfoisade 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 that the child of such
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 destined 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 waters with a tear? Did he ever raise himself high enough to steal from celestial shores that




SOCIETY OF THE XVIIITH CENTURY.     33
rose of love whose perfume the poets scatter here
below?
The court had become superannuated and superstitious, like the king.  Madame de Maintenon
wished to enchain France with her boxwood rosaries; 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 elegant orgies, against the pretentious austerity of the
court.  As they were delicate debauchees, gayly
irreligious, graceful blasphemers, witty disorganizers; 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 admitted 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 godfather, he had found among the Jesuits a good odor
of Christian candor; but once in this school of licentious 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 company as a poet. He took the bearing of a nobleman. What was wanting to him for the part? IIe
c~-~




34:                VOLTAIRE.
had wit, person, money-he 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 d6bfit in the
circle of the voluptuaries, he said to the prince of
Conti, who had read verses to him: " Monseigneur,
you will be a great poet, I must get the king to give
you a pension." In the midst of mundane dissipations he did not lose sight of the poetical horizon.
He sketched the tragedy of CEdipus, and wrote an
ode for the competition before the French Academy. In the eighteenth century, the tragedy and the
poem for the prize were, so to speak, the antechamber of poetry; it is necessary 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 had too much boldness of mind. It must be said
that the subject of the competition, was the decoration of the choir of Notre Dame. A religious subject, and before the academy! that would be something to surprise everybody nowadays.
Meanwhile his father thought that he was ruined
on hearing that he made verses and went into good
society. The poor man was at the same time tormented by the obstinate Jansenism of his eldest son;
he often said, " I have two fools for sons, one in verse
and one in prose." IHe exiled the fool in verse to
the Hague, to the French embassy. The embassador, the marquis of Chateanneuf, was not so easy to




PIMPETTE DU NOYER.            35
get along with as his younger brother, the abbe de
Chateauneuf. He strove 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 smitten 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
him to return to France. Voltaire left, endeavoring 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, wrote a libel
against Voltaire, and held Pimpette under surveillance.
Fame seldom permits the painters to give us the
portraits of the poets before tire's ravages have
passed over their faces. The painter represents Homer 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




36                 VOLTAIRE.
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 moralist has said,' we
do not know a man of former times well, but when
we possess at least two portraits of him." In thinking of Voltaire, the first 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 piercing look. It is because the Voltaire of the painters
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 glory, 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 La Ilenriade!  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 mademoiselle 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




MADAME DU NOYER.             37
not know him 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
suffering, of anger, or of error?
II.
CELEBRITY greeted Voltaire in his early years.
Iis life may be written by looking through the
memoirs and compilations of the times. As early
as 1718, Voltaire, who still called himself Aronet,
occupies thirty pages in the " Lettres Galantes" of
madame du Noyer. First there is a Parisian letter, several lines of which I will reproduce: "What
astonishes me is that you have not discovered among
the persons in the suite of IM. the marquis de Chateauneuf, a young man who has made a great noise
by his poems; they are actually much sought after,
particularly by those who 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 answers: " 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




38                VOLTAIRE.
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
difficult 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 nmeasures were designedly taken to deprive him 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 Voltaire follow. They are
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 theatre. 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 first
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 Nover is a mischievous woman, and, still worse,




PRISONER OF LOVE.             39
a woman who writes, the embassador, fearing her
anger, hastens to do her justice. He places his page
in arrest, resolving that he shall return to France in
a few days. Until then, the 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 Aronet
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 portrait! he demands his mistress herself. 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 name 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
yourself 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 letters; but, if you love
me, console yourself; recall all your presence of mind,
constrain yourself before madame, your mother, en



40                 VOLTAIRE.
deavor to bring your portrait, and the dread of the
greatest torments will not prevent my 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 Voltaire, 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 mistress." 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 becomes complicated, here is the chapter of the disguises: " If you would change our misfortunes to pleasures, it only depends upon yourself. Send Lisbette
at three o'clock; I will give her a parcel for you, containing a man's dress; you will put it on at her house,
and if you are kind enough to have the goodness to




LOVERS DISGUISES.           41
visit a poor prisoner who adores you, you 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 forget 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 disguise, whereupon the next day this letter of Voltaire'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 first time that you will come
he will give you a marvellous reception. But for
all that, you have an appearance as terrible as amiable, and I fear lest you should have drawn your
sword in the street so that nothing should be wanting to your character of young man. After all,
young man as you are, you are as cautious as a
girl:"At last I have seen thee, dear object of my love,
This very day disguised as cavalier;




42                  VOLTAIRE.
I thought that Venus from above
In Cupid's 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,
Pimpette, for a divinity,
Your virtue is too great, I fear.
"There is never a god who should not take you?or 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 another? 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
had 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. Monday, December 16, 1713, 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




AT PARIS.                43
precious letters where I read my felicity."  Three
days after, he wrote 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, 3l. de Mi * *  and I, in a large
yacht; lie employs himself in writing, eating, drinking, and sleeping, and I, in thinking of you; I see
nothing, and I swear to you that I do not feel sensible that I am in the company 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 to
me always, since I travel but to make you travel
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
Al. L ** * had written a severe letter to my father
against me; that he had sent him the letters which
madame, your mother, had written to him, and in
fine that my father has a lettre 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 resolution 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




44                VOLTAIRE.
not living very unhappily; I fear that you have written 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 his friends, the Jesuits, in persuading them to snatch his mistress from the protestant religion, that is, to tear her from Holland for
the good pleasure of the amorous poet. Ile 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 remain in Holland, I promise you that I shall most
assuredly kill myself at the first news I have thereof. 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 Palis
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 hin, insist above all on the matter of religion; 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 consideration, 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 Mlaubert."
We at last arrive at the catastrophe. You think




PATERNAL RECONCILIATION.        4 
perhaps that Pimpette became a catholic for the
sake of the handsome eyes of Arouet. Alas! Pimpette 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 paternal knees. M. Arouet
pardoned him with tenderness. "But you shall follow the path which your ancestors trod, you shall at
once take your place at M. Alain's."  He was an attorney of the rue Perdue. Will it be believed? Voltaire, already surnamed the familiar of princes, suffered himself to be installed in this old-fashioned
place! He found there a friend, Thiriot; not a
fiiend 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



46                 VOLTAIRE.
tin, another friend of his father; he was to choose
a profession there. At the chateau of Saint Ange,
he found an old man, a passionate admirer of Ienry
IV., who inspired him with the idea and even the
ideas of La Ilenriade. 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, without any reason being given. Now, what was to be
done at the Bastile, except to write verses! Everything conspired against this poor M. Arouet, who
wished that his son's mind should be turned, perforce, to the spirit of the laws. Voltaire had been
sent to the Bastile for a satire which was not his: " 1
have seen these evils, and Iam not yet twenty." IIe
consoled himself for this injustice by singing the
loves and conquests of Henry IV. At the Bastile
he commenced the Henriade and finished (Edipus.
The duke d'Orleans soon restored him to liberty.
The marquis de Noce, the illustrious roue, brought
Voltaire to the palais-royal, on his leaving the Bastile, 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 bystanders,
"Things could n't go worse up above, if they had a
regent to govern them." The marquis de Noce related the mot in introducing Voltaire.'" Monseigneur, here is young Arouet, whom  you have just




THE MARECIHALE DE VILLIERS.      47
taken out of the Bastile, and whom you will send
back there." The marquis knew well to whom he
spoke. The regent laughed to split his sides, and
offered a gratification, whereupon Voltaire said to
him, " I thank your royal 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."
IHe offered CEdipus. Thanks to high influence,
this tragedy was played; thanks to the talents of the
poet it had great success. M. Aronet, dissolved in
tears at the close of the performance, at last gave his
son permission to become a poet; better late than
never. Voltaire was already accustomed to ridicule
everything, even his glory; thus at a representation he appeared on the stage wearing the wig of the
grand priest. The marechal 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 imn 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 shled many tears."-" They will revenge
themselves on others," answered Yoltaire.  The
beautiful eyes revenged themselves on him. He
fellin 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 deigned to re



48                VOLTAIRE.
ceive his rhymes and his sighs, but that was all.
Nevertheless, he was twenty-four years old, was already celebrated; a portrait by Largilliere represents
him to us full of grace and spirit, a mocking mouth,
marked profile, the air of a gentleman, bold forehead, a fine hand ornamented with a fine ruffle. In
truth, the marechale was truly virtuous, to resist
Voltaire under the regency! 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! 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. IIe 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
suffered himself to be consoled by Mademoiselle Lecouvreur, that model of the great actresses.  He
wished to love again on another scene; and accompanied madame de Rupelmonde to Holland. While
passing through Brussels, he visited J. B. Rousseau.
They embraced as brethren in poetry, but unfortunately for fiiendship, they read verses to one another.
J. B. Rousseau commenced; Voltaire, after having
heard his " Ode to Posteriity," said with a smile,' My
friend, that is a letter which will never reach its ad



HIS WIT.                49
dress."  And saying this, lie took a manuscript and
read to the exiled poet an epistle to madame de
Rnpelmonde. J. B. Rousseau, 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 speak,
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 landscape, 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 heart. Who
would not like to see this youth of Voltaire's thoughtful occasionally?  Did he never look on the sky
with a reverent thought? Did Nature never show
him a corner of her robe? His mistress, no matter
which one, did she never shed a tear, a tear of tenderness 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 enemies with! You know that he was
always on the battle-field of thought, almost alone
on his own side. A man does not defend himself
by his heart.
VOL. 1.-3




50                VOLTAIRE.
III.
VOITAIRE, desirous of publishing the IIenr'iade, assembled at the house of the president de laisons a
circle of curious literary men selected from the fashionable world. They were so severe on him that he
lost patience and threw his manuscript into the fire.
It cost the president ITainault a fine pair of ruffles to
save the poem from the flames. The poet was reconciled to looking at his manuscript again  While he
was retouching it with a more confident hand, the
abbe Desfontaines, it is not known fiom what copy,
had the poem printed under the title of The League.
The famished abb6 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 Voltaire 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 embellishing and reanimating the errors of semi-pelagianism, set to work to have the privilege of printing
refused him. To counteract these cabals, Voltaire
dedicated his poem to the king, but tlhe king would
not accept the dedication. From that day, war was
declared. Until then, Voltaire had been irreligious
only after the amia'ble and careless fashion of his
masters, the abb6 de Chateauneuf and the ablbe de
Chauliel. Ie was no longer content with laughing




FIRST 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 themselves 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 up the defence of the church against him.
How could Voltaire be quiet? With the most grateful remembrances of the Jesuits, could Voltaire humiliate himself before the majesty of the abbe Desfontaines, 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 recompensed 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 which
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 unceremonious fashion, an opinion of the chevalier de
Rohan-Chabot.  As wit and sense were on Voltaire's side, the chevalier said, with a proud, disdainful 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 yours." The next day but
one after, as Voltaire was dining again at the duke de




52                 VOLTAIRE.
Sully's, lie 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 carriage; 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 off,
cried out, " That's enough!" Were not these words
the most cutting insult? Voltaire indignantly returned to the hotel, related his fatal adventure, and
entreated the duke de Sully to aid him in his revenge. The duke refused. " Very well," said Voltaire, " let the outrage fall upon yourselves." Thereupon he went directly home and erased the name
of Sully from the Henriade. 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 contemptuous 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
excellency, and a declaration of love to his mistress.




IN ENGLAND.              53
Voltaire was taken to the Bastile during the night.
Less than that would give a man a taste for democracy. Thus, at thirty, Voltaire 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 permitted
to leave, but " by the gate of exile." Ite went to
England, the country of the liberty of the mind and
of the pen. Scarce at London, the remembrance of
the outrage forced him to return secretly to Paris, in
the hope of at last meeting his adversary face to
face. On the point of being discovered, he returned
to London without being revenged. " At least glo.y
shall avenge me; this name which he wished to
degrade, shall shine eternally in the face of his
own."
In England, Voltaire suffered himself to be led
away by the philosophy of Shaftesblry, 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




54                 VOLTAIRE.
sought 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 courtiers, the courtiers the slaves of
the king and his mistress, and the king and his mistress the slaves of the Jesuits. "He swore," says
Condorcet, "to render himself, by the mere power
of his genius, the benefactor of an entire people, by
snatching them fiom their errors."  Condorcet, ennobled the design of Voltaire, 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 Hcnriacde, without the favors of the abbe Desfontaines. This edition, published at an immense price, was the commencement
of Voltaire's fortune. The entire English court had
subscribed, without doubt, on account of the dedication to the queen. " It is a part of my destiny, like
that of my hero, to be protected by a queen of England."  Voltaire passed three years in England; he
studied there the poets and philosophers, conceived
the tragedy of Brmtzus, sketched out the Lettres Azglaises, and took notes for the Hiistory of Charles XIL
from the recital of a servant of this adventurous monarch. lie returned to Paris secretly, but resolved to
return to the Bastile rather than not see his country
again. Hie hid himself in a remote f)ubourg, saw a




A SPECULATOR.              55
few faithful friends, and set to work to become rich in
order to become strong. When a poet pursues fortune, he is no easier repulsed than another. Fortune
loves people of wit, almost as much as she does fools.
Voltaire, in less than three years, 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 Ilenriade in tile 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. IHe 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 reunited 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 face 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




56                 VOLTAIRE.
that in this noble profession, there is not a single
bankruptcy to record.
Voltaire began to live at Paris without disquietude,
when Mademoiselle Lecouvreur died, whom he lhad
tenderly loved. As burial was refused to this illustrious actress, the indignant poet wrote that
elegy on the occasion, which breathes all the English
hardihood. The priests, who, by acts of the parliaments, 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 Rouen, under the name and with the retinue
of an English nobleman. IIe there had the IIistoire
de charles XII, and the lettres Anglaises privately
printed. When the storm had blown over, he returned to Paris, resolved to again attempt the perilous victories of the stage, hoping that the spectators, once on his side, would defend him against
fanaticism.  I-e had Bruttus played without any
very great difficulty. 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 pbrilliant."-" I will immediately reperuse your pastorals," answered Voltaire.




EFFECT' OF A JOKE.            57
I-e had almost finished La 3fort de Csar; 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 fiom a defeat, shut himself up,
seized the subject of Zaire, finished the tragedy in
eighteen days, and had it represented the same season. 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 tender 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
lMarianne 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 parterre to a mot of Yendome: " Es tu content,
Coucy?-COozUi-couci.' —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; f6ted 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
39




5S                 VOLTAIRE.
and the faro-table, where he gallantly lost some
twelve thousand livres in an evening.
While ruminating in the morning on his pillow,
he constructed the " Tenp2e d  u Gout."  As he allowed himself, according to his custom, to be right
in his judgments on the poets of the past and present
century, he excited innumerable literary animiosities
against himself; for in literature, 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,
was threatened with a lettre de cachet if he did not
exile himself of his own accord. HIe understood then
better than ever these words of the Norman Fontenelle, " If I had my hands full of truths, I should
take care not to open them.'" He concealed himself
at a lady-fiiend's near the palais-royal.
Tempests of all sorts broke over him. An infidel
bookseller circulated an edition of the Lettres Anglaises, which had become lettres Philosophiqes.
Voltaire 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 reverend father Girard; people let themselves be crucified out of love of God, as if God could accept this
impious parody of a divine mystery. "I shall return soon to Paris," Voltaire had said on leaving,
"for the Jesuits make the most of their respite."




RETIURNS TO PARTS.          559
IHe returned soon in fact, and, becoming gradually
emboldened, suffered the Eptre a lUranie 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 abb6
de Clhalieu'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 elsewhere, he published La Mort de Uesar. 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 the
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 after
by statesmen and noblemen, fiom   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 lettre 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 _Pcelle, the keeper of the seals




60                 VOLTAIRE.
threatened the poet with a new lettre de cachet, if
he 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 retired to a chateau with a fair mistress, resolved to
live like Adam after the fall-that is to say, to devour in solitude the fruit of science and the fiuit of
love, the bitterness of the one making endurable the
bitterness of the other.
Madame du Chatelet was, in the eighteenth century, the free liver par excellence; like certain
dames of our days, she had dispensed with the restraints 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 burning for tumult and eclat. Madame du Chatelet
was no better catholic than Voltaire; she had
gayly placed on her escutcheon the profane sentence




MADAME TIU CIIATELET.         61
of the poet, " Iappiness is the aim, ie who acquires it has gained his salvation."  Like Voltaire,
she had a passion for science and petits soupers, for
the fine arts and gaming, for philosophy and fine
clothes. They saw one another-they loved one
another. M. du Chatelet 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 entirely 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 Chatelet, who already knew Latin, set to work to learn
three or four living languages. She translated Newton, 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 savant as his mistress. The
Academy of Sciences had proposed as the subject of a
prize essay, the nature and propagation of fire. Voltaire 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




62                7VOLTAIRE.
defended Newton against Leibnitz, madame du Chatelet 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 behold 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
Armida? 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 iht- as lovers fight.
Voltaire, Voltaire though he was, always ended
by yielding; the storm over, they wept like children. M. du Chatelet came to the rescue, and reconciled 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, B  rope, and L'Enfant
Prodigue, are the fruits of his retreat. It was also
at Cirey that he finished the Discours sur Vl'Iomme,
and La JPucelle. His retreat, besides, was anything
but calm and quiet, for besides the charming wrath
of madame du Chatelet, he had to undergo persecutions without number. Cirey did not always shelter
him from his enemies. IHe was twice forced to pass




J,(OVEI, l'PIILOSOPIY, AND LAW.  68)
into the Low Countries. Persecution had at last become 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 scattered everywhere, either for attack or for defence. The
enemy whom Voltaire most dreaded was oblivion.
Iis ordinary journey at that time was from Cirey
to Flanders. Madame du Cla'telet, "the nymph of
Cirey," the blonde Emilie, that learned 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 fiom  seven to eight
years to examine the case; it was therefore necessary 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
Flanders. I-Ie 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
3russels. Madame du Chatelet was often a traveller. They went together to teach the Flemish nobility
the follies of the Parisian world, gaming, suppers,
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




64                 VOLTAIRE.
and fireworks in verse. " See how well I play the
part of a lord;" he exclaims, " I did not dish up a
single verse in my own style."
At Brussels, he expiated on the tomb of JeanBaptiste 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 reconcile himself with a man worthy to be loved. It was
from Brussels 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 revery by the
fields of Paul Potter and the fords of Ruysdael.
IIe 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 phlegmatic hell, far from the divine fire where you are. For
the love of God! bestow on me in charity some
sparks in these stagnant waters where I have caught
cold."
He was never long without visiting "la grande
ccpitale des Bagatelles, to assist in literary brig




VOX POPULI, VOX DEI.          65
andage."  Brigandage! would he content himself at
the present cay with that energetic word? Paris
soon tired him. "This vortex of a world is a hundred-fold more pernicious than those of Descartes."
At Paris, he, however, always sought solitude, sometimes as a poet, sometimes as a man proscribed.
Thus, while Emilie was discussed at the hotel Richelieu, lie isolated himself at the hotel de Brie in the
rue Clocheperche.
Shall I say that Voltaire, after having declared
himself the rival of Homer and of Sophocles, consented, in 1746, to knock, for the third time, at
the door of the academy, to replace the president
Bouhier? Mundane ovations assailed him for several 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 very good grace.
After this triumph, the most beautiful and agreeable he had ever gained, his genius descended to
court intrigues. IIe wanted to have the entree to
Versailles, even if only by the back door. lIe commenced by gaining admission at Etioles, where he
followed madame du Chatelet. Madame de Pompadour 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




66                VOLTAIRE.
he passed with her to politics. With a little patience 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
first audience of the king, he 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 him as a
poet of no consequence.  Voltaire was not discouraged. The prime minister, and the second minister, madame de Pompadour, and the marquis
d'Argenson were on his side; with such high protectors what would he not reach! I-e attained, quite
out of breath, to the place of a gentleman of the chamber, and the appointment of historiographer of France!
This cost him dear. He consented to compose a
ridiculous ballet, the Princesse cde Navarre, for the
Versailles f6tes on the arrival of the Spanish infanta.
lie also composed, besides the poem of Fontenoy,
a heavy inventory of a poetical battle, the Tempole
de la Gloire. What is to be said of this parody of
Metastasio's poem, except that it was outrageously
applauded at Versailles for this good line, " Ckantons le plus grand roi du monde." Intoxicated
with this poor triumph, he endeavored to make himself a courtier.  After the representation, he approached the royal box, and with the unceremonious




THE POPE AND THE DRAMATIST.       67
air of a great poet addressing a king, said to him, " Is
Trajan content2?" 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 become free- again. Thus MI. de Chateaubriand deceives himself, or wishes to deceive us, when he
asserts that Voltaire would have abandoned his
opinions for a place at court. 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. Voltaire was born a freeman; we must interpret his
contradictions in good faith.
A new religious storm being about to burst forth,
Voltaire had Mahomet printed, which had been forbidden to be represented on the stage, and, to ridicule 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 Cirey.
The hosts of the chateau went from time to time
to pay their court to King Stanislaus. Luneville was
then the Versailles of Lorraine: the marquise de
Boufflers 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
courtiers full of grace and wit. Madame du Chatelet, with all her philosophy, allowed herself to be




68                 VOLTAIRE.
taken with the madrigals of Saint-Lambert; madame
du Chatelet 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 Chltelet 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! A friend and a lover,
without counting a husband, was not bad for a philosophical lady, who annotated Leibnitz. She carried
out her philosophy to the end. Voltaire wrote fiomn
Luneville, September 4, 1719, to the comte d'Argental: "Madame du Chatelet, while scribbling at her
Newton to-night, felt ill at ease; she called her
femnme-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 Voltaire wrote as follows to the abbe de Voisenon: " My
dear abbe Greluchon [does not this nickname furnish
a capital portrait of Voisenon?] you must know that
to-night, madame du Chatelet being at her desk ac



PHILOSOPHICAL CONSOLATION.      69
cording to her laudable custom, exclaimed,'VWhy!
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." Ile repented, six
days afterward, of having taken this tone of pleasantry; madame du Chatelet 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 duc de Richelieu, 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
slall, therefore, again behold the chateau which
fiiendship 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 horrible desert to him. Nevertheless the places where
she dwelt were dear to him, he would have a sombre joy in finding again the traces of her sojourn in
Paris. I-e exclaimed that he had not lost a mistress,
but a half of himself, a soul which was sister to his




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 trappist. Is this really the Voltaire 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
he 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.
DUTRNG 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 first was devoted
to playing comedy and suppers; in the second,
Voltaire worked. Jealous at seeing Crebillon tihe
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
Trinmvirat, he had no other object? Singular aim,
to write three tragedies to put King Louis XV.,
madame de Pompadour, and himself, in the wrong.




AT POTSDAM.               71
The king of Prussia and the duchesse du Maine
avenged him 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 verses 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." HIe departed. Frederick received him
better than a king, for, to Frederick, he was the
king of poets and philosophers. He found at Potsdam 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 equipages 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 fiiend 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 Potsdam, 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
eartl, the sweetest, the wisest, the most composed,
and who, thank God! does not make verses. After




72                VOLTAIRE.
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."  Iis adventure with the police of Frankfort, touching'oeuvre depoeshie du roy son maitre,
is well known.
Escaped fiom Frankfort, he went to pass some
days at Mayence, saying that it was to dry his garments, 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,
wllere, moreover, there had circulated an irregular
edition of the Essay on the Manners and Spirit of
Nations, he went to live at Colmar, calling himself,
according to his custom, a bird of passage. Ie
worked there at the Annals of the Empire, with the
assistance of certain persons learned in German
legislation. Learning that a short time before copies
of Bayle'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 become a devotee, but I have made myself a Benedictine," wrote Voltaire. Ie 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.  Tile Lyonnese received him




LES DELICES.               73
withi transports of joy; theyr played his pieces at the
theatre, and serenaded him. It is from Lyons that
this celebrated mnot dates: "It would be well for
every monarchy," he said to Riclhelieu, "to have a
Cromwell once in every fifty years."
From Lyons, Voltaire went to Geneva; on his
arrival the gates were closed, but scarce had he uttered his name, when they were opened wide. He
was desirous of residing at Geneva, but the rigor of
the protestants terrified him as much as the zeal of
the catholics. HIe bought the beautiful country-seat
called les Delices, and lived there in great style,
receiving a great deal of company and performing
comedy. IHe was often seen promenading the park
dressed as an Arab, 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 actors on the road to Les 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, " IIe thinks that he is at a
meeting of the academy."
As he could not live in quiet in spite of his sixtyfour years, in spite of all the showers and tempests
which he had undergone, he did not content himself
with Les De'lices, but bought a magnificent mansion
VOL,..- 4




74                 VOLTAIRE.
at Lausanne with fifteen windows in front, where he
could see from his bed, fifteen leagues of Lake Leman, 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 Ferney, where he erected, after his own
designs, his celebrated chateau. I-e did not forget
either the theatre, or the cabinet of natural history,
or the library, or the picture-gallery. The dependencies 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 dilapidated, 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 passionately 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 lieutenalnt
cirniinel and the procureur du roi, have come to
draw up papers.  I have made everybody walk off
What does monseigneur the bishop of Annecy comlplain of? His God and mine was lodged in a stable,




FERNEY.                 75
and I have lodged him in a temple; the Christ was of
worm-eaten wood, and I have had him gilt like an emperor." This letter was only half impious up to these
lines, " Send me your portrait and that of Madame
Scaliger, I will put themi on my high altar."  Tile
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 lie 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. lie had marshes
drained and waste lands cleared, which he relinquished to tlhe 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 Christian, as an officer 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 confess him, give limn absolution, or administer the communion to him. Yoltaire, not wishing to have the law
laid down to him by a bishop, even in religious mat



76                 VOLTAIRE.
ters, put himself to bed, played the sick man, nmaintained to his physician that lie was about to die; had
himself absolved by a capuchin, demanded the eucharist by way of a viaticum, communicated in his chamber, and had record taken of the fact by a notary. This
sacrilegious action was regarded as a piece of cowardice 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 appointed father temporal of the capuchins in the province of Gex. IHe was even received as a capuchin
in person, and took all the fathers under his protection. He wrote then to the duke de Richelieu, " I
should like much, Inonseigneur, 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 had hoped to become a cardinal on the
faith of the duke de la Valliere, 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 the sword, a gen



JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU.        77
tleman of the long robe or a churchman, a painter like
Vernet, a sculptor like Pigale, or a musician like Gr6try. The ladies came in great numbers during the fine
season. They played comedy every evening at Ferney; 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 il
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 himnself,
with some terror. I-e, 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. Lefianc de Pompignan fell on
the battle-field, riddled with pleasantries; Freron saw
himself taken off on the stage of the th6etre Fran;ais;
twenty others came off hobbling. The desire of revenging himself led away Voltaire, and inspired
him with cynical buffooneries. His bitterness against
J. J. Rousseau is particularly to be deplored. HIe at
once recognised his genius. But it must be confessed
that Jean-Jacques was not always a man who acted
with good taste  When he was beset on account of
his Emile, he responded to Voltaire's offer of an asylum, thus: " I do not like you; you have corrupted my




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 wilful blindness toward his
enemies and toward religion, Voltaire preserved
some claims to the gratitude of humanity. A destitute young girl of the blood of Corneille was recommended to his care. "It is the duty of an old soldier," he said, " to assist the daughter of his general."
IHe invited mademoiselle de Corneille to Ferney,
gave her a Christian education, dowered her with the
proceeds of the Commentaires sur Cor~neille, and
married her to a young gentleman of the neighborhood. 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 combating religion, in defending his reputation, in avenging the victims of human justice. A great number
of his works are dated from Ferney, among others
I'iristoire de VlEmnpire de Russie, I'Hlistoive du
parlement de Paris, Tancrede, L'Ecossaise, and
tales, poems, and letters without number.
Like the poets of the time I love to make my




HIS PORTRAIT AT EIGHTY-FOUR.      79
journey to Ferney. The painters went to Rome, 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, Vannieres who writes.  I bow before Voltaire, who
stretches out his hand without interrupting the conclusion of a sentence. " Perlnit 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 Armenian. His face full of fire peeps out from a gigantic 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 myself 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 tile gran



80                 VOLTAIRE.
deur of the scene, he, little sensible to these marvels,
ridicules in a lively enough manner everything which
comes into his head. He exhibits the wit of Candide
at every step. On turning a corner we meet tlie
reverend father Adam. "Let me introduce Fathel
Adam, who is not the first man of the world."
The worthy man bows and smiles with resignation.
Ile awaits with patience for the first tear of repentance 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 coffee. 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 threatened 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; Voltaire calls for coffee. 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 fill of provincial eloquence; "I salute you,




LIFE AT FEENEY.              81:light of the world,'" says he, with emphasis. Voltaire exclaims, " Madame Denis, bring the snuffers."
After the hour of glory comes the hour for business.
The farmers, the borrowers, the tenants of Ferney,
an entire world supported by Voltaire arrive. I-e
calls for coffee, more coffee, always coffee. IIe shows
himself in turn easy and severe, he receives some
as the father of a family, others as the lord of a village. IHe walks again in the park, sometimes with
a gardening tool in his hand, sometimes with a flower, never with a book. The news fiom Paris arrives
to astonish him; he could do without coffee if he
could recover all his energies. He enters in agitation, writes twenty letters in less than an hour, his
hasty pen saving itself by its wit from its impudenee.
In the evening the guests of the chateau, Marmontel, La Harpe, 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
Ferney, made every exertion to compass a visit to
Paris.  He decided to set out; arrived at Paris,
4*




82                 VOLTAIRE.
February 10, 1778, and alighted 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 him their homage; with
the exception of the courtiers and the 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 corners 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 footsteps; a cry of universal joy, acclamations, clapping
of hands, burst forth from all sides during his progress.  Grimm is so intoxicated with his triumph that
he becomes eloquent over it. " When this honored
old man was seen, so weighed down with years 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.




THE LAUREL CROWN.           83
Voltaire sat near the stage, in the box of the gentlemen of the chamber, between his niece and the marquise 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 applauded with cries of joy. Voltaire immediately removed 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 number of them having descended to the parterre, not
hlaving been able to find better places elsewhere.
It was more than enthusiasm, it was adoration,
in fact worship.  The piece was commenced; it
was played badly; in spite of the actors and the
piece, never was piece more applauded.   Voltaire 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 perhaps, for the first time, public opinion in France was
seen to take possession of its full authority." While
the performers heaped the bust with crowns and




84                 VOLTAIRE.
garlands, Madame Vestris advanced to the fiont of
the stage to address to the divinity of the fete the
verses improvised by the marquis of Saint Marc.
]Vanine was played after this, the bust remaining on
the stage. On leaving the theatre, Voltaire, overpowered by his laurels, breathing only by the consciousness of his glory, thought himself at last relieved
fiom his honors; but all was not finished; the ladies
almost bore him in their arms to his carriage. ITe
wished to get in, they still restrained him. " Torches,
torches, so that everybody may see him."  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 fdte, for the people love men
who are persecuted for their genius, cried with transport, "Vive Voltaire!  Ie 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,
Mfust you suffocate me with roses?
The hour of death lhad however struck. IIe 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
the poet who had charmed, diverted, and delivered
the Old fiom the yoke of prejudice. Tile American




GOD AND LIBERTY.            85
philosopher presented his grandson to him, requesting
hIis benediction for him. " God and Liberty,"' said
he to him- the only benediction befitting the grandson of Franklin. They saw one another aga;n 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 Rousseau, died by poison.
The history of the death of Voltaire is covered by
a cloud, through which the truth but feebly appears.
A cure, 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 years old; I am soon to appear be



86                 VOLTAIRE.
fore God, the creator of all worlds. It is what I shall
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 to
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 inactive love can never be the true love of God, which is
active."  The cure departed, he returned and obtained a very Christian profession of faith from the
dying man; but the cur6 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 Sulpice did not give up, braving the railleries of D'Alembert, 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 cur6 affirms. I more incline
to believe this simple answer reported by other contemporaries, " Let me die in peace."
He died three hours afterward. His deathl was as




TIHE LIVING ASS AND TIHE DEAD LION.   87
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 Ferney; 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, indignant 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 las been avenged by all the reasonable
men of his times. Ferney still attracts philosophic
pilgrims. The king of Prussia ordered a solemn service in the catholic church of Berlin, where the
whole of his academy appeared; and at the head of
his army, 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 Voltaire. A great lady, the marquise de Boufflers, who
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,




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 would have made his delight,
By the kings of to-day, has been spurned from their sight,
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 tile last time.
Twelve years after his death the Pantheon opened
her doors to him triumphantly. At this hour JeanJacques Rousseau and Frangois 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 Ferney. IIe was its soul, its fortune, 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




THE DESK OF A SAGE AND A POET.      89
not go to the Pantheon, a sepulchre without grandeur,
where the explanatory words of a prattling guide disturb the solemn silence of the illustrious dead. If he is
there for God, he is not there for the visiters. IIe is at
Versailles, the true Pantheon of France, painted by
Largilliere, in all his passionate youth and all his sarcastic humor. It is there you should go. A portrait
is more eloquent than a tomb.
Some have said that Voltaire sinned against friendship; they have forgotten to say that friendship had
sinned against him. Do not talk to me of those chance
friends lie had elbowed at the courts of France, the
court of Prussia, or the court of Stanislaus. Friendship knows neither ranks nor titles. She is born in
our youthful days, in the days ofillusions. 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, Cideville, IIelvetius, Thiriot, Formont, d'Argental? does
lie 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 Xlanon's bosom-But you kiss your
desk." And this letter, which is that of a sage, a
poet, and what is worth more, of a fiiend: "It
would be pleasanter to talk to one another, than to




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. Tile 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,
w]lich 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 its 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-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."




A POET S FORTUNE.          91
He says afterward, that friendship comes to him to
console him -, Yes, I pursued her, but I wept,
Because I 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. Voltaire did not throw money out of the window, because 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
metamorphoses evoked by Voltaire, which have intervened in the France of ideas, the arms of this terrible combatant appear to us weak or blunt, to us,
the dreamers of another century; but if by enchant



92                VOLTAIRE.
ment we were to awake under the reign of Louis XV.,
how much we should be astounded at the heroic temerity 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 nation? 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 philosopher 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 thle
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 IIomer and of
Corneille, " I have read this book, by order of monseigneur, 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 JeanJacques, D'Alembert and Diderot, had not, like Homer and Corneille, the approbation and privilege of
the king. If Voltaire shook out illumination from
his hands, it was out of France, in the swamps of




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 TlZe Princess of Xavarre, or The Poem of Fontenoy! But
if Voltaire dared to think, stop! They commenced
by the Bastile, they 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 Russia, assumed 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 Montesquieu: " The will of your ministers may still erect
barricades, but they will never become barriers."
V.
THE universality 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 assembled; Voltaire was mentioned,




94                VOLTAIRE.
all vied in extolling his encyclopedian genius.
" 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 discussed geometry." - "You will, however, admit,"
said an historian, "that he made out badly in history."-A poet rose to proclaim  his opinion." Silence!" said Duclos to him, " it is not your turn
to speak." Duclos might have added: "You, M1.
the jurisconsult, and you M. the geometrician, do
not condemn Voltaire for having given a charm to
the dryest studies, despise not the dazzling light of
this boundless intellect. Voltaire had a fault which
formed a part of his glory: lhe had the eye of an
eagle, he saw  everything, embraced everything,
illuminated everything; he 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, IM.
the poet, bow yourself before a poet, who has said
what lie wished to say.
Nature, who embalms the works of Jean-Jacques,
does not show even an end of her robe in those of Voltaire, it was the academic nature of Boileau, which
inspired the poet of the Henriades: the waters,




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 uprears,
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 would 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 ffenriade, 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?Antoine, governor of my garden of Auteuil, Antoine
directs the yews, and exercises on the hedge the art
of ILa Quintinie. Hereupon is a note by the poet,
to explain this hemistich: Jean de La Quintinie,
director of the fiuit 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




96                 VOLTAIRE.
his time, poetry in the seventeenth century, despised
the striped petticoat of the hamlets and the cowslip,
of the 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 that the
garden of Versailles was alone worthy, thanks to its
yew-trees and its statues, of being sung in heroic
verse. La Fontaine alone, whom nobody listened to,
ventured to sing of the curling smoke of the farmhouse, 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 abbe Greluc hon, Babet the
flower-girl, Floriannet, here are four poets criticised. What is more original or more true than his
remark to Marivaux: "I'le is a man who knows all
the paths which run in the direction of the human
heart, but does not know the straight highway." No
one better than he could throw off an epigram. " Cdipus," exclaimed La Mlotte, "is the finest subject in
the world, I must put it in prose."-" Do so," said Voltaire, " and I will put your Izes in verse."  Speaking of Marmontel and his Poetique: " Like Moses,
he conducts others 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 company were tearing to pieces with some justice, the




HIS TALES.              97
fables of La Motte, while praising those of La Fontaine.' By the way," said Voltaire, " I know a
fable by La Fontaine, which has never been printed."
" How! a fable of La Fontaine! 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
MIotte's; how natural, how graceful!" —" Well, gentlemen," exclaimed Voltaire, "this charming fable
which you all admire, is for all that La Motte's."
Voltaire is almost abandoned by the stage, because,
mnore faithful to the ideas of his age, than to the eternal idea of grandeur and beauty, he made every one
of his tragedies a weapon with which to combat prejudices which have passed away.
This man who 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 serious and deep-thinking muse, who assumes the mask
of folly, only the better to tell the spectator the truth?
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 under a merry mask, he flings truth at us by handfuls; it is Rabelais, it is Montaigne, it is Voltaire..He is to be found not only in these stories, he perVoL. I.- 5




98                 VOLTAIRE.
vades all his works; his sketches even indicate the
powerful hand of a great master; the poorest of his
pamphlets is still worthy of our study. 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 verse and prose, that the style
of Voltaire appears in all its force. At the present
day, when the French language has become a ]abyrinth, 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 beautiful; never have wit and reason travelled better in
company. Nothing is wanting, unless it is the grandeur 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 true French
style. It is Voltaire's own. In these the poet has
imitated none of his predecessors; he has dared to
listen to himself. Unfortunately, in his tragedies,
tradition spoiled almost everything. After Corneille
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




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 charming pages on which his
wit would have so brilliantly gilded the arabesque vagaries 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 thirst; 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 literature, 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
he is not sowing tares with the good grain?
In poetry, in the poetry of Voltaire himself, reason




100                  VOLTAIRE.
is often in the wrong, for reason proscribes enthusiasm and temerity. Now, is there any great poet
without these two majestic failings? Poetry is, before everything else, a dream, so poets dream! Voltaire has just been able to save himself, and then
only by his wit, but 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 You and the ]T/io   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
revery and enthusiasm, she soon resumes her place
in the poetry which argues as it rhymes, in the
poetry which speaks to the ideas while it addresses
the sentiment. Thus is it not reason which predominates in these tragedies, these stories, these epistles
in which Voltaire incessantly attacks prejudices, and
is in quest of truth?
Follow step by step this reason, through all its
fertile paths: in politics it produces the love of country, and the love of liberty; it raises man to his proper
height, it proscribes the last traces of fendality, 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




HIS REASON.             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
he not write to D'Alembert? " Time will make men
distinguish what we thought, fiom 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 the same misfortune as Diomedes, who, before Troy, fancying he
was pursuing 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 everything 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




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-God, the divine enemy of the scribes and
priests?  " He who knew all -,"Has deigned to tell us all in telling us to love."
Does not he whom you call atheist, talk as well as
you do yourself?  In the Discourse on Virtue, 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, Truth from Heaven descends.
" 0 God unknown! 0 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, but 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.
Yes, in his silent hours, when his thoughts led him




HIS CHRISTIANITY.         103
far from the noise of the world, and tore firom him
his 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 attaching 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.
You talk of the sterility of the man who tore down,
not to build up again; he has himself answered this
attack: "I demolish prejudices, 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 resplendent, 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'Maistre? Do we not incessantly see one or the




104                VOLTAIRE.
other in the ardor of truth armed, one with an axe or
a club, the 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; Reason, he will answer. Before Voltaire, 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 darkness, clouds amid rays of light. Philosophy is the fruit
of genius; a cherished yet bitter fruit which God reserves 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 fiom philosophy as others die from love; you, Voltaire, were
insulted even in death!
Philosophers are noble spirits who penetrate boldly
fiom the unknown to the unknown. 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




HIS PRILOSOP1Y.           105
knowing the language which they speak, scarcely
have they stammered out the first word, than they
venture to pronounce the last. Is not this the last
word of the philosophers of the eighteenth century,
love the work of the Creator or love the Creator in
his work, 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, I love the Creator
in his work, and I love the Creator and his work.
He said one or the other, sometimes listening to Spinosa, 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 fiom contradiction to contradiction. He lived somewhat out of the way of philosophic 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 he
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*




106                VOLTAILE.
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 the sentiment of the beautiful and
the good, if not complete, at least elevated enough,
to vivify and ennoble reason.  But the ignorant
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 dangerous 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, far from realizing, his ideas
in politics, has fallen into absurdity while daring to
call himself a Voltairian. Another, but half comprehending, 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 superstition, 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




HIS POSTHUMOUS WORK.          107
himself, to him who said, like Pascal, that true eloquence laughs at eloquence, read and reread his
books, for how many of his lines are axioms! let us
follow the bee to the hive, without disturbing ourselves 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 violently 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 first
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




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 catholics, 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 




VOLTAIRE AND MLLE DE LIVRY.
THE DEVIL'S TEARS.
I.
PREFACE.
IT was a hundred-and-one years ago.
Monsieur de Voltaire one morning had taken by
surprise, the marchioness de Bouffiers, all in tears beneath the old elms of her chateau, where she had
gone with the marquis and the marchioness of
Chatelet.
" Ah, the tears of a Magdalen," said he to madame
de Bouffiers, 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,




110       VOLTAIRE AND MLLE. DE LIVRY.
but injustice; whoever has reached 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 godwho 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."
" You forget the marechale de Villars," said Voltaire, placing his hand on his heart.
"Yes, you have loved; but your love has been
the love of the salon, without storms and without




PONT-DE-VESLE AND MADAME DU DEFFANT.              111
tears, 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 JMen and Women of the Eighteenth Century, I extract the following page; and I may here remark, that I take what is good
wherever I find it:
"What strange contradictions love 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 instinctive 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, appear 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 everywhere-of lavishing it everywhere-we would see that it is an animal as rare, if not as fabulous, as the unicorn. Listen to the following story relative to this subject: -
"The whole eighteenth century for a long time admired, exalted,
the constancy of Pont-de-Vesle for Madame du Deffant. 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 Encyclopedia, and the lords of the court, were so completely vanquished 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:




112         VOLTAIRE AND MLLE. DE LIVRY.
grily;   "without storms! you are not aware then
that madame du Chatelet and myself never passed
a week together without quarrelling?         Ah! I have
no passion!     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 latter. The witnesses of this marvellous constancy and undiscoverable
happiness were dead. Madame du Deffant, blind, was seated at a
distance, within an inner room, in an old worn-out arm-chair: Pontde-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 chimney, 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
pst.'-'And during this long interval....''Not a single rupture.'
-'That is what I have always admired.'-'But, Pont-de-Vesle, has
that not been from the fact of our being at the bottom very indifferent to each other?'''It may well be so, madame.'
"Thus, these two lovers, who had passed fifty years in these lovedeceits, 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 thousand 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 rattling of certain spurs upon the pavement, or to the romances sung in
the moonlight at their windows, while the summer breeze diffuses




THE TEARS OF LOVE.              113
without passion! Only three days ago, if that good
monsieur du Chatelet had not in person put a stop to
it, we would have scratched out each other's eyes."
" I believe, indeed, in your frenzy," said the marchioness, 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 termpests of love, you will believe at least in my tears.
I have never dropped a tear upon the beautiful brown
hair of Pimpette, but how I have wept for mademoiselle de Livry! Ah! marchioness, if you knew how
I loved her! It was the second love, the most terrible, 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 all those from whom, after the
excitement of a soiree, there is borne some reminder, to last throughout the night, and to be dreamed of a long time after.
"It is this inconstancy and these contradictions of love which the
author of the Men and Women of the Eighteenth Century has transferred," &c.




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 l'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 dress of beautiful 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 Voltaire, 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 withdrew 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




THE PREFACE TO TIIE TIIEATRE.    115
mother; but before making my debut, it is necessary
for me to take some lessons.  You are acquainted
with Mademoiselle Lecouvreur."
I interrupted the young girl.
" Mademoiseile Lecouvreur, like all great actresses, only took lessons of her heart. Iowever, 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 lessons. 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 protects the orphan. She had presented herself at the
Comedie Franpaise, for permission to appear, not
knowing all the influence necessary for the purpose.




116       VOLTAIRE AND MILLE. DE LIVRY.
A roguish actor, who knew that I was the oracle of the
place, took it into his head to send the poor girl to
me. Need I tell you, 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 my 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).
" Rue Saint-Andre-des-Arts, where my mother
died, and where I owe more than eighty crowns.
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 hlouse is at your service, remain here, and I will take you to the Comedie
Franqaise;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
verses, 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 twenty-year-old horses."
Madame de Boufflers interrupted Voltaire.




A FRENCH CJESAR.            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 offer
them to mademoiselle de Livry. As you say: he
would have received nothing but gratitude: a dead
flower without perfume.  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 tears.
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
to me since, that it was her virtue alone, that
struggled against me, as if by an instinctive resistance, 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 passion.  The abbe de Bussi, Thiriot, the marquis de
Miimeure, 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




118      VOLTAIRE AND MLLE. DE LIVRY.
gay suppers! The melancholy air that she had at our
first interview, now only returned at occasional intervals, 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 turns 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 Yillars absorbed all my mind. Happy
in having found another madness, when I lost that
one.
III.
WHY 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 rather 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




HOW ONE LOSES HIS MISTRESS.      119
my robe-de-chambre and make my toilet. I sat for
my picture, and I was never wearied, for at each moment she 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 pendant to mine.  But love never allows sufficient time
for a painter to paint the portraits of two lovers. The
portrait of the one is hardly finished, when already
the other has gone.
Mademoiselle de Livry carried off my portrait, before it was hardly finished, to her chamber in the rue
Saint-Andre-des-Arts, for I had ended by paying
what she owed there.
You know the result: Genouville, my dear Genouville, was affected at this unexpected love which gave
token of only ending with our lives; this little rogue,
Genouville, came very assiduously to breakfast with
us. He used to say, that never had wit and beauty
been so well married. There was no end to epithalamiums that he sang in our honor, to the very
day when he left me the privilege of singing an epithalamium 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! my most cherished love! I was
furious, and wanted to draw my sword; but she




120       VOLTAIRE AND MLLE. DE 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 tears,
for in her letter, she said to me such tender, foolish,
cruel, and charming things! I recollect this, for example: " 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: Ifere 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 you, 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 pursued
the figitive, 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 AOURORE DE LIVRY.
" 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 her a long time captive;




AN ACTRESS IN PAWN.         121
she had a passion for comedy; and a fondness for
being carried off: a poor actor, a bastard imitator
of Baron, carried her off from Genouville, and took
her to England, with a company picked up from
almost everywhere. This chance company lodged
in an inn, which had for its sign, L'Ecu de France.
After a delay of six weeks, the actors and actresses
were enabled to exhibit their talent and their persons,
upon a wretched theatre in the city. Mademoiselle
de Livry, who played the parts of Lecouvreur, was the
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 herself 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 said an inn, I should have said a caf6. The house
was divided into two parts quite distinct: on one
side, beer, pipes, and common people; on the other,
coffee, the snuff-box, and gentlefolks, mostly Frenchmen.
Mademoiselle de Livry, be it understood, never
showed herself in either one place or the other. She
VOL. I.-6




12       VOLTAIRE AND MLLE. DE LIVRY.
lived with a great deal of reserve in a chamber
above, waiting for fortune to remove her. Now and
then, however, she passed through the cafe, with the
light step of a fairy, on her return fiom 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 customers, that he had beneath his roof, the pearl of
beautiful girls.
Among his customers, there happened to be the
marquis de Gouvernet, 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 Parabere, 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.
She had taken the bouquet in spite of herself, as if
the 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 abandon the siege, he who had shown such prowess and




STORMING THE CITADEL.         123
such resolution, against the most beautiful tulips of
Harlam.
"I wish to visit her," ssid the marquis de Gouvernet 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 stairs, 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 Hollande
and the Mercure de France. The key was in the
door, the marquis opened it and entered gayly, as if
it were the simplest matter in the world.
" O my God!" exclaimed mademoiselle de Livry, "who is it that enters my room with such a
noise?"
" It is a man," says the marquis.  "There is no
occasion for your recommending yourself 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




124      VOLTAIRE AND MLLE. DE LIVRY.
de Gouvernet, I have travelled over the whole world;
I am not vicious, I have not cut off any heads, except of roses or tulips, and besides, I have suffered
deeply every time that has occurred. Are you fond
of tulips, mademoiselle? But why talk of tulips when
the chocolate is ready? Will you take some chocolate with me, or without me? As you please."
"This man is killing me," said mademoiselle de
Livry, looking toward the innkeeper.
V.
HOW ONE BECOMES A MARCHIONESS.
VOLTAIRE 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 herself.
" Will you read the newspaper to me?" continued
the marquis, " or do you prefer to work at your tapestry with those fairy hands 2"
"Mademoiselle," said the innkeeper, respectfully,
in alow voice to the actress, "he is an original, but
do not be offended, he is an excellent person. He
gave my daughter a hundred guineas on her wedding-day."
In the meantime, the marquis de Gouvernet had




PRIDE AND POVERTY.         125
opened his journal, and swallowed some mouthfuls
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! this fine fellow of an innkeeper may do his best, you still are in want of
everything, and sometimes it happens, from pride,
that you deprive yourself of a meal."
" It is by order of my physician," said mademoiselle de Livry blushing.
"May the devil take you!" said the marquis de
Gouvernet, 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
yourself."
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.




126      VOLTAIRE AND MLLE. DE LIVRY.
" I will marry you," said he at the third interview.
" It is folly," said she with tenderness.
" 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, mademoiselle 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-papers."
VI.
YOU AND THOU.
Madame de Boufflers interrupted Voltaire:" I understand," said she, "the lottery-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?"
" Yes, mademoiselle de Livry possessed a dowry,
and touched with the delicacy of her lover, became
the marchioness de Gouvernet."
* "L'Ecossaise:" Lindam (mademoiselle de Livry), Freeport (the
marquis de Gouvernet).




THE SULTANA OF FLOWERS.         127
Monsieur de Voltaire continued:The rumor of this adventure became current in
Paris and Versailles, in the saloons and the greenrooms; 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 seeing her again.
"She can not have forgotten me," I said to myself; "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 herself
with a good deal of fuss in the rue Saint-Dominique, where monsieur de Gouvernet had a splendid
hotel, but above all, a garden like those in the Arabian 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 been written at her
feet, and from her inspiration.
Not a word in answer. The cruel one had taken
ler title of wife, in downright earnest.
I could not describe to you my rage. I was somewhat disarmed, in learning through madame de Bernieres, who visited her, that the marchioness de Gou



128       VOLTAIRE AND MLLE. DE LIVRY.
vernet had redeemed my portrait, which she had
pledged at Gersaint's, on the Pont Notre-Dame, on
her 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 Iercules, 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 footman 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?"




POETICAL CONSOLATION.           129
Voltaire had 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, interrupted him to repeat it herself.
"There is a masterpiece, monsieur de Yoltaire,
worthy of the antique! If you had written me that
epistle, and I had been the marchioness de Gouvernet,
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 wisdom of the ancients should have inscribed in letters
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 epitaph
upon her heart; as for me, I consoled mine with
singing:-'( Fertur et abducta Lyrnesside tristis Achilles,
Hcemonia curas atteunasse lyra.'*
I did as Achilles."
* Ovid, Tristia, lib. iv.
6*




130      VOLTAIRE AND MLLE. DE LIVRY.
VII.
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 off three
or four cups of coffee; he got into the marquis de
Villette's carriage, and ordered the coachman to drive
him to the hotel Gouvernet.
This time, the doors opened wide; the marchioness 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
years, we die every day, until the last hour when the
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."




YOUTHFUL RECOLLECTIONS.       131
" I thank God! my life has been a romance easy
to read; but yours, what an eloquent and desperate
struggle! You have renewed the war of the Titans."
"Yes, yes, I have unbound Prometheus: my
hands 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 my feet. All!
Phillis, what a spring-like freshness there was upon
your cheeks of twenty years? I never cultivated
peaches at Ferney, without kissing one every year in
your honor.  Ah! 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 marchioness, who no longer saw
before her Voltaire, the strange old man of eighty
winters, but beheld again in imagination, the Voltaire 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 posterity with my seat in the Academy in the bargain,
for a single kiss of the good old times!"




132        VOLTAIRE AND MLLE. DE LIVRY.
VIII.
WHEN WE ARE DEAD.
DID they embrace? Iistory 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 prayers, came in and rudely disturbed the interview of the old lovers.
When Voltaire had gone, this priest frightened the
marchioness, by telling her, that she had just received
Antichrist in her house; she wished to do penance
for this return to forbidden pleasure. She had always 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 longbeloved portrait to his niece, in accordance with the
wish of madame de Gouvernet, who desired to conceal her fears of the Antichrist, beneath an air of
politeness.*
The 30th of May, 1778, Monsieur de Voltaire,
yielded up his soul to God, and mademoiselle de
Livry, marchioness de Gouvernet, also set out for
* This portrait by Largilliere, 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 centuries.
An engraving from the original of this portrait, is prefixed to this
volume.




THE CHURCHI 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, beneath the sky where he had grown old, and where
he had done some good; they were not willing to allow 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 ladyship the marchioness de Gouvernet, was interred
with great pomp, in the church of Saint-Germaindes-Pres.
Did they meet on high, by the side of Him, who
according to Voltaire
"Has deigned to tell us all, in telling us to love?"




THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO.
I.
SUMMARY OF PLATO'S WORK.
IN constructing the imperishable edifice of his republic, Plato has summoned to the task, Lycurgus
and Socrates, laws human and laws divine.
The work of Lycurgus has long been a ruin, because 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 immortal 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 foreheads of the sages of India, Egypt, and Greece.
He desired to survive his country in his ideal




THE MEETING AT THE PIR2EUS.      135
monument, like Phidias in his visible temple. He
has said to posterity: " Behold what was the republic
of Lycurgus, and behold what it would have been
with my laws. Oh! you who shall hearken to me,
when I am no more, realize my dream!"-Now, what
was this dream? how can we portray faithfully this
fiction, whose feet rest on the earth, and whose brow
mounts to the infinite?
Plato believed that the best of governments could
be established, in a community free from 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, Cephalus, Polymarchus his son, Glaucon
and Adimantes, brothers of Plato, Thrasymachus the
sophist, and Clitophon the son of Aristonymps. Plato
speaks under the character of Socrates, out of his desire to perpetuate the name of his master. The scene
of the dialogue is at the Pirseus, in the house of the
old man Cephalus. The first page is vividly painted.
It presents a disposition of the characters full of life
and brilliancy. Let us translate its chief features.
Socrates (that is to say, Plato) goes to the Pirneus
with Glaucon to offer his prayers to Diana, on a festival. As they are returning to the city, Polymarchus and his friends come up to them and forcibly




136        THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO.
detain them. " Do you not know that the torch-light
horse-race takes place to-night, in honor of the goddess; 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 sacrifice. They seat themselves on chairs ranged in a
circle. By the first words uttered, we recognise the
highest school of philosophy. The aged Cephalus
commences with these words: " Socrates, you come
too seldom to the Pirmeus; 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 you 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, happening 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 master.' -Yes, when the violence of the passions is
deadened, we find ourselves delivered from a host of
insane tyrants."




PLATO AND THE, POETS.         137
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 sovereignty 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 without 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 warriors, 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 organized. Plato proscribes in it both opulence and
poverty. The republic is strong, because it is just.




138         THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO.
The citizen is his own master, because the soul governs the body, and the mind rises victorious from invading attacks of the passions.
In the fifth book, the education of women is discussed. 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,
the 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. Philosophers 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 inhabited 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 passions. Those who do not break their chains and seek
invigoration in the open air, are not men, but shadows who dwell in the tomb; such will never be called
to power in the republic of Plato. It is the contemplation of the divine world which instructs men how
to govern the lower world.




HIS IDEAS ON GOVERNMENT.        139
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 haughtiness, avarice, and ignorance -of the rich men 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 first 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 modern times.
The philosopher-king or king-philosopher of Plato, is
supported only by virtue and justice. To govern 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 mysteries 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.




140         TIIE REPUBLIC OF PLATO.
II.
ON OLIGARCHIIY DEMOCRACY, AND TYRANNY.
"WHAT do you understand by oligarchy? It is
the reign of money, it is a form of government in
which the census decides the rank of each citizen, in
which the 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 virtue effaced. 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. Alaw 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 composed 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 yesterday, passed their time in counting their money,
to convince themselves that they would have some* Louis Philippe.




THE REIGN OF 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 intellect, 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 democrat 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. IIe
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 to war, to display his heroism. In a word, this
friend of equality unites in himself all sorts of manners and characters. He inscribes on his standard:
LIBERTY, EQUALITY, VARIETY. He is everything,




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 passions and his caprices, he amuses himself with everything, 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,
subjected to revolutions, no matter how beautiful the
republic may be, after having devoured her first offspring, she will be devoured by her last: for she will
give birth to tyranny. When a democratic state,
pervaded 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 herself to all kinds of license; on the first repression accuses 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, voluntary slaves. Then, through unbridled liberty, men
fall into anarchy, everybody is a magistrate and administers the law, but no one chooses to acknowledge the law.  The old are less heeded than the
young. The son gives advice to his father, the disciple leads the master. Women become men, but
virtue gains nothing by the change; love rests laughingly in the strong arms of violence. Let us forget
nothing, and in the words of Eschylus, let us say every



DEMOCRACY.               143
thing that comes to our lips.  Here Plato seriously
relates how " little dogs are on the same footing as
their masters;" how " donkeys accustomed to walk
with heads erect, and not to inconvenience themselves, 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 but in name, the greenest hand is more listened
to than he is. Now, as men always go from one excess to another, if the sails of the ship are again
spread, it is to run before the wind, from democracy
to tyranny. It is so with everything 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 declaimers, 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 fortune 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 desirous of




144          THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO.
defending themselves; they appeal to the people, but
the others accuse them of wishing to conspire against
the liberties 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 yesterday of being oligarchists, and who were not, become such to-day. The tyrant is, however, born
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
hands into the entrails of his neighbors and fiiends,
when he decimates the state by bloodshed and exile,
when he proposes the abolition of debts and the partition 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 protector of the people, he demands guards to make the
sovereignity of the people respected; the people, always the people, like him who talks continually of
love, and whose heart never beats. " What do the




THE TYRANT.              145
last of the rich men do? They take to themselves
the oracle addressed to Croesus:'He Jfies toward
the river Hermus, 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, prudence, greatness of soul. He plays the opposite part
to that of the physicians, who purge the body by removing 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, despoiled the temples, squandered the public fortunes,
he lays his sacrilegious grasp on the harvest. The
people, who is the father of the tyrant, will support
him and his."
III.
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 creation 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 the poets, " those
VOL. T.-7




146         THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO.
of the present as well as those of the past, do nothing
but set forth fables for the anmusement of the human
race." IIe does not pardon Homer 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 imitation of nature, like his bad disciple Aristotle; his
truth being that of the poets, like the mysterious
realism of Rembrandt.
" IHe 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 suspended like the sword of Damocles, over the germinating 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 culture 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
youth.




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 palace is built by the masons, he will perhaps summon
the decorators and sculptors to enliven the columns
and fagades, 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 fragrance of the turf he prances over, the rural fieshness of the forests of Diana which he traverses; if
Homer relied only on his wisdom to traverse 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 demi-god, he is a poet. Plato admires him,
and forbids him to enter his door. In truth, this radiant and sublime Bohemian of the Olympic centuries, would cause impiety to flourish in the Platonic
church. Is it not he who 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 Homer, those odious and formidable names of Cocytus,




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. Mahomet has gone farther, he has indicated the realization beyond the tomb of all the poetic fancies of
oriental revery. HIe has filled the path to the tomb,
with blossoms and with fragrance.
It is in this style that Plato draws up his 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 represent the discords of Olympus. Let it never be heard
that Juno was put in irons by her son, and Vulcan
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 unworthy 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 ~Eschylus cause Apollo the god of light and truth, to utter
odious lies, for ~Eschylus says by the mouth of Thetis: " Apollo who was present at my marriage, sang




PLATO'S EMENDATIONS OF HOMER.    149
at the feast that I should be a fortunate mother, I
believed that he uttered an oracle and not a falsehood. Yet this god, who sang of my happiness,
and predictedfor 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 death, but a shadow, a vain image deprived of sensation and reason."
It must be admitted with sorrow, that the accusations of Plato (I have brought forward the most terrible), 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 Lamartine the poet, the words of Plato: "If thou comest
among us to cause us to admire thy art, we would
render homage to thee as to a divine being, of ravishing and marvellous power, but we would tell thee,
that our republic is not formed to possess a man like
thee; we would banish thee after having poured per



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 the 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 philosopher 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 themselves 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 tragedies soften men into tears, he permits Homer to come
and defend his cause before the chiefs of the republic, either in an ode, in iambics or a hymn. To permit Homer to come and defend his cause, is to permit
him in a fraternal way to triumph. However, if Homer 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."




HOMER'S DEFENCE.           151
Homer does not prove to the Areopagus that poetry
possesses republican virtues, that it is based on reason and on truth.
" Should we not imitate," says Plato, " the conduct
of lovers who do violence to themselves to tear themselves from their passion, after they have acknowledged 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 enchantments 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, 0 Plato, banish me! 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 Edipus. Have I
not plainly proved, that the people are always the
victims of the madness of kings? I made my appearance 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




152         THE RRPUBLIO OF PLATO.
city, with Poverty as my sole companion, but Poverty
is often the tenth muse. With her I have penetrated
to the 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, 0 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 demobores, or devourers of the people?
"Condemn not my muse, 0 Plato! all those who
have come to her, have drunk of her divine milk.
She has unveiled her bounteous bosom to all the destinies of the country. 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."




PLATO, VERSUS THE CORINTHIANS.             153
V.
ON THE PROSCRIPTION OF COURTESANS.
AFTER having banished the poets, Plato banishes
the courtesans.
In Greece, the courtesans were almost all muses:
Sappho who sang, Lais who personified beauty, Aspasia who inspired Socrates, or who counselled Pericles, Leontium, slave of Epicurus, but redeeming her
heart by her noble love for the beautiful Timarchus.t
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 mothers 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 Socrates, 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 beautifnl
Timarchus, who says to me when I speak to him,'You are so beautiful, O Leontium, that I do not comprehend a word,' has not seduced
me by giving me the most precious of tunics, handfuls of gold, slaves
brought 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*




154         THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO.
in triumph, the statue of love. By this symbol, they
desired to bring together pleasure and wisdom.
Montaigne adopting this religion, has said: "He
who takes from the Muses their amorous imaginations, robs them of their most pleasing attraction and
the noblest subject of their work, and he who would
cause Love to lose commuuion 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 accepted 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 aspire
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
herself attractive, took the girdle of Venus.




THE EDUCATION OF WOMEN.        155
VI.
OF THE COMMUNITY OF WIVES AND CHILDREN.
THE fifth book is the most curious. Plato might
have admitted there the reveries of the poets, when
he judged it fitting " to put the women on the stage,
after having exhibited the men there." I commence
with this comparison. " Do we believe that the females of the dogs, should keep guard like them over
the flock, go to the chase, and do everything in common?" He asks himself, if they 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 practise music and the gymnastics, they must accustom
themselves to the discipline of war; learn to handle
arms and ride on horseback. They will present themselves 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 raillery, but
Plato does not trouble himself about that. He recollects, 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 same condition as a man who has tumbled into




156         THE 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 us 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 republic. 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 wars.
" They will abandon their garments, since virtue will
stand them in their stead." Plato is irritated at
those who make merry at the spectacle of naked women, "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 community 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 particular; the parents will not know their children.
This community will produce a universal 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 marriage. It is the unity of love. Besides, all of fiee
volition; violence is banished from the republic. Venus will give her girdle, but no one will tear off the




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 consequence 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 members." It was possible, it was sublime in the republic 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 together, 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




158          THE REPUBLIC 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 mothers,
but during twenty happy seasons, after they arrive
at the age of twenty; men will not be admitted to
marriage until thirty; 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 bestow 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 prescribed 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




TREATIIMENT OF CHILDREN.       159
brothers and sisters, when the oracle of Apollo shall
so decide. "But," you will say, "how is this, since
the children know neither their fathers nor mothers,
like to the waves of the ocean, which know not from
what mountain-top the rivers 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 forest. There will be in each city, but one nursery foa
all the children. Those who grow up hardy, will be
the hope of the state, those who are sickly and deformed, 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 nursery, 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 community of property, was, that he wished in his republic
neither poverty nor riches-because both give birth




160        THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO.
to the love of novelty; the one by the desire of doing
ill, the other by idleness. Now, the love of novelty engenders 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 desiring neither riches nor poverty. 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 ha3 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
is a stream which flows from the mountains, watering 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.




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? Instead of fixing his eyes on a field which has swallowed up all his strength, which he has watered with
his sweat and his tears-a field ravaged by the leprosy 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 stars of the firmament, 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 Sunium? It is the living spring which falls in a cascade fiom the heights of the Alps, and flows eternally through old Europe.
Plato is a communist: it is impossible to deny it.
lie thought-as did, at a later date, Spence and
Babieuf-that the earth was the farm of the people
as the sky was their light. God, in sending us on




162         THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO.
the earth, has 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 corner 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 formed —the world is old. If you say
that the world is eternally young like life, like nature, you will be answered, that every cradle is stained
by original sizn —that every infant has sucked in
his mother's milk the ardent thirst of possessionthat 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 RACES OF GOLD, SILVER, AND IRON.
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 accustomed to fiction, and that he blushes to commit himself to it, even to symbolize the truth. "I do not
know where to find the boldness and the expressions




DIFFERENT CLASSES OF CITIZENS.   163
of which I have need, to try 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, therefore, regard the earth on which they dwell as their
mother and their nurse, defend her against whosoever 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 brothers, 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,
rbove everything else, as to the metal of which the




164         THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO.
soul of each child is composed. And if their own children 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 republic 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 menthose 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.
VIII.
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




EDUCATION THROUGH ART.         165
religiously over the education of children - the children who gayly bear the future in their hearts. After 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 otherwise, 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 pasturages, 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 artists, 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 salutary impressions through the eye and the ear, that
everything should insensibly lead them from infancy
to imitate and love the beautiful, and establish between 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




166        THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO.
given as it should be given, instead of the contrary
happening when it is neglected? The most beautiful 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 truly a
musician would not, therefore, be able to restrain
himself from loving those in whom he should meet
this harmony."
This page 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 Bossuet, resounding echo of the fathers of the church,
" Wo to the earth! wo to the earth once again! wo
to the earth whence issues so thick a smoke, such
black vapors, 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.




PLATO THE PAINTER OF THE IDEAL.   167
IX.
THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO AN IDEAL REPUBLIC.
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, after 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 the ideal.
IHowever, as everything is possible in this world,
whose destinies set at naught all calculations, why
should we not believe in the realization of the impossible republic? Heraclitus fancied that the sun was
extinguished every night, and relighted every morning. Heraclitus was not treated as a madman, because he spoke of visible appearances: why should
we deny the 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-philosopher 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
now in some country, which distance conceals from




168         THE 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 state, such as ours, when the muse of philosophy
shall there possess the supreme authority."
Philosophy is the queen of intelligences; the republic of Plato is therefore, under 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 IMMORTALITY 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 passions surging in the body, as voluptuousness, a monster whose gaping mouth 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 are




THE WORSHIP OF GOD.           169
afraid of them when excited. " Let us 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 tempest 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 God himself had guided
his hand: IMM:ORTALITY OF TIE SOUL.
And in reality, it is not sufficient to have built an
immortal edifice, destined to shelter perishable creatures, 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 warmth 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. 1.-8




170          THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO.
Apollo, the charge of making the greatest and best
laws of the republic, those which concern the construction of temples, the sacrifices, the worship of 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 natural interpreter, since he has chosen the navel of tile
earth to issue thence his oracles.*
Our soul, says Plato, is immortal. The ophthalmia
is the malady of the eyes; sickness, that of the body;
mildew, that of the wheat; rust, that of iron. Everything visible, carries in itself a principle of corruption, which gradually destroys it; but the soul is a
fire which gradually uudergoes all the attacks of invisible evil, without perishing thereby, because it is
of celestial origin and the bad passions of earth exhaust 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 what 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. _Eschylus says so in his Eumenides.




THE DESTINY OF THE SOUL.         171
heaven, when it springs with a noble effort from the
depth of this foaming sea in which it is plunged, when
it frees itself from the pebbles and shells which attach themselves to it, from the necessity which it is
under of feeding on terrestial things."  Although of
celestial origin, although destined to behold again its
country, the soul according to Plato, sometimes presents itself before the judges, defiled by the flames
of impure fire. HIe 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 first, 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 roads. 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 paradise 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 adventures with groans and tears, excited by the recollection of their own sufferings or the sight of the sufferings of others, the others tell of all the joys, delights, 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




172         THE 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 travelled amid all
the enchantments of the kingdom, or the republic,
of heaven —the souls of the just purified by the
breezes and the warmth of heaven,  must recommence another career and re-enter a mortal body.
The spirit will not choose for them, but each select
for himself. The first soul designated by lot, will
choose its place in the world. "1Ier has seen Orpheus 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 them." The soul of
Tamyris had chosen that of a nightingale, the swans
and nightingales having to undergo the perils of human existence. " I wish to be a lion,' says the soul of
Ajax, " for I remember too well the affront I underwent, 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 horse, 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 corner of the world, far
from court, the rank of the most obscure and simple
peasant, for Ulysses had again learned prudence
while above.
Plato has ended his book with these words: " We
will always walk in the celestial road, we will devote




THE WORLD AT A STAND.          173
ourselves with all our strength to the practice of wisdom and justice. In peace with ourselves and with
the gods, after having won on earth the palm of virtue, 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 thousand years in paths of enchantment."
I close this beautiful book with an emotion of sadness. 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.* Aspasia, who must be counted among the great personages of the age of Pericles, has written, among other
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.




174         TIIE REPUBLIC OF PLATO.
origin; the authority is in the hands of the people,
who intrust the power to the most worthy.  Weakness, poverty, origin, however obscure, are no causes
of exclusion, but the opposite advantages do not conduct to honors.
" Our republic is the unanimous harmony of all orders of citizens. The other cities are composed of
unequal classes of every description; their administration is consequently unequal; it is tyrannical or
oligarchical. Among the men who inhabit them,
some are masters, some slaves, as for us, who are
brothers, and born of a common mother, we know
not these odious distinctions. Equality of origin submits 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 proclairr
LIBERTY, EQUALITY, AND FRATERNITY, before P
and before Christianity, that Aspasia who would -
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 heights 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 Aspasia; it is perhaps to be regretted. If the republic of




THE MISSION OF CHRISTIANITY.   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
humanity has advanced? Is there 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?




MADEMOISELLE GAUSSIN.
MADEMOISELLE GAUSSIN could not boast of her escutcheon, like mademoiselle de Carmargo, who used
to spread out her petticoats, exclaiming: " Thirtysix quarterings!" Here, in a word, is the history of
the birth 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 high 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 the rogue had, to some degree, the attractions
of a gallant cavalier, he turned the heads of a whole
phalanx of kitchen-maids.




A BURGUNDIAN DON JUAN.        177
Baron never once got into his coach, whatever
might be the hour, when going to the theatre, or returning fiom it, without finding near his horses, some
sentimental washer of pots, in an elegiac colloquy
with his rogue of a coachman. " What is the vagabond 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 coachman 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 ComedieFran9aise, 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 others; but
since this rogue has been guilty, he must expiate his
crime. Moreover, there is no need of telling him,
8*




178         MADEMOISELLE GAUSSIN.
that when the wine is poured out we must drink it."
"There are no persons equal to the actors," said
Mademoiselle Lecouvreur, "to make virtue respected: 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 Gaussin, that of Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's kitchen-maid
was Jeanne Pollet; Mademoiselle Gaussin's Christian 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 tableaux parlants, are not, it
is well known, a modern invention; the courtesans of
pagan antiquity, had learned, in the studios of the
painters 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 Venus 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 tableaux anacreontiques; there was so much expression




UNDISGUISED DISGUISE.        179
in her eyes and mouth, she possessed to so high a degree, 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 undulating marble of her bust, or the empurpled snow of
her bosom, that the amazed spectators, 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 somewhat low-necked, that she had never exhibited herself in public.
She passed entirely with full devotion into the
character she represented.
When Mademoiselle Rachel plays fiermione, who
thinks of Mademoiselle Rachel? The actress disappears 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 Bernis, who was a good judge, not
exactly in his quality of cardinal, wrote one day, on
his breviary, in the presence of madame de Pompadour, these two lines:" Of being nude, th' embarrassment
Gives nudity its greatest charm."




180          MADEMOISELLE GAUSSIN.
Mademoiselle Gaussin, did not offer that kind of attraction to the public; she was like the Susannah by
Santerre, who in concealing herself from the elders,
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 Mademoiselle Gaussin concealed herself, in her metamorphosis.
D'Auberval, in his closing discourse, that he addressed to the public, in 1763, recalled the tableaux
Anaceeontiques of Mademoiselle Gaussin. "IHer
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.2'
She commenced, as was usual in her day, with
going the rounds of the provinces; history 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 indiscreet 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 2Sth of April, 1731, when she
made her debut at the Comedie-Frangaise, she knew
thoroughly the science of the heart. She liad been




THE ZAIRE OF VOLTAIRE.         181
in the school of sentiment, of jealousy, of rage: in
her acting, she sounded the gamut of all the passions.
She passed through the infinite joys, the unspeakable 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 tep
years all Paris was in love with her: the people of
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 first page of the golden book of Madeleine Gaussin; he gave her the part of Zaire, which was one
of his best conceptions.
After the representation, Voltaire wrote an epistle,
as follows, to tle tragic actress:"Gaussin, receive this gift of mineReceive 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 fiee and easy style of the graces of his
day.




182          MADEMOISELLE GAUSSIN.
After Zaire, it was Alzire —Second edition, revised, corrected, and enlarged by the madrigal:t"'Twas not to me they homage paid;
You won their love and praise from them,
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 who
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 celebrated tragedy of La Motte that Voltaire wished to
put into verse, that Mademoiselle Gaussin revealed
the impassioned and expressive poetry of her acting. The celebrated line will be recollected:" All Paris, for Ines, had the eyes of Don Pedro."
Madeleine Gaussin having been painted by Tournieres in this affecting part, La Motte had it inscribed
upon the frame in letters of gold.
At her debuts, she was pursued by all that remained
of the roues of the regency, Richelieu, who had paraphrased 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.




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 marechal de Richelieu 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 marechal 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 laugh, my life or
death.                           " BAGNOLE."
Mademoiselle Gaussin read this letter over three
times. " Ie is a madman!" said she. And she rang




184          MADEMOISELLE GAUSSIN.
the bell.  " Jacquelinette!" -" Mademoiselle?"
" What is the meaning of all this 2"
Jacquelinette burst out a-laughing.'"Ah! mademoiselle, he 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-laughing.  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 caf6 Procope to write a second letter
to her.
While he was writing, she went out.  On that
day she acted in L'Oracle. During the interval,
while she was receiving bouquets and compliments
in the green-room, Bagnole, more excited than he
was on the evening before, ran to her and threw himself at her feet, after having overturned Pont de
Vesle in his passage.
There were twenty-five persons 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




ALL FOR LOVE.             185
everywhere."  Mademoiselle tried to escape from
him, but he held her by the arm.
A young man, the marquis d'Imecourt, addressed
him sharply and tried 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, scrutinized 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-Frangaise came up to seize him. He allowed 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 _dapee. 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




186         MADEMOISELLE GAUSSIN.
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 cruel as that. If I
must love you —well, I will love you!"
The poor Bagnole experienced so unexpected a
joy 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
raised the head of Bagnole.
The lacquey took him in his arms and carried him
to the cafe Procope, where mademoiselle Gaussin
herself 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, approached 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."
Bagnole, who had come to, opened his eyes, moist
with joy, upon Mademoiselle Gaussin, who had
kindly bent over him.




THEATRICAL LOVE.           187
"I," said Boissy, "salute passion when it is so
strong and so candid."-" And I," said mademoiselle 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 partake 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 going. Did they know where they were going? But at
the theatre, when it was announced that Madeleine
G-aussin, "suddenly indisposed," would not appear
that night in the part of Lucinde in _I'Oracle, the
audience, naturally roguishly inclined, exclaimed:
" Bagnole! Bagnole!"
Mademoiselle Gaussin returned-they always return! She returned alone; as occurs often when
two set out together. Moreover, Mademoiselle Gaussin 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 ridiculousness 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 without much regret, calculating upon consoling himself
elsewhere, with some other girl in the Latin quarter,
without any stage-play.




188          MADEMOISELLE GAUSSIN.
In spite of her caprices as a stage-queen, Mademoiselle 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 my own folly, and
I laugh at the prudence of others."  She preferred
a golden girdle to a good reputation. A girdle?
did she ever find time to tie it? As for her reputation, hers was the worst on the stage.  The pit
vindicated outraged morality, by giving her an occasional hint.  On the first representation of a
comedy by Destouches, the Force du naturel, 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 courtesan airs, by some touches of true passion, and by
a noble disinterestedness. Take one story out of a
thousand: she loved Helvetius for his beauty and his
renown; one night in the green-room, during an
interlude, Helvetius was then at her side, discussing some point or other of transcendental philosophy; a financier, an old roue of the regency,
very ugly but very rich, approached Mademoiselle
Gaussin, and offered her without further preliminaries, a hundred pistoles if she would go sup with




A PORTRAIT BY A RIVAL.        189
him. " Turcaret, my friend," replied Mademoiselle
Gaussin, with a loud voice, and with an impertinent
toss of the head; " I will give you two hundred pistoles, if you will come to sup with me with that face
there." And she pointed to Helvetius as she said so.
A great deal has been said about the beauty of
Mademoiselle Gaussin. See how Mademoiselle Clairon has painted her: " Mademoiselle Gaussin had
a most beautiful head, a most touching voice; her
ensemble was noble, all her movements had a childlike grace which it was impossible to resist, nor did
she resist it either; but she was always Mademoiselle Gaussin. Zaire and Rodogune were cast in
the same mould; age, condition, situation, scene, all
were of the same form." Mademoiselle Clairon says,
moreover, that Mademoiselle Gaussin had but a
vague instinct of the dramatic art, that she had not,
as she herself had, an intelligent and impassioned
sentiment. She denies her outright the power of forming a true conception of a dramatic piece, whether
tragedy or comedy. Mademoiselle Clairon appears
to me to be joking.  This right of judgment, who
has it? Time, and even then! Monsieur de Voltaire
judged Corneille at a distance of a hundred years;
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
have exhibited her relative position.
There is in the green-room at the Com6die-Fran



190          MADEMOISELLE GAUSSIN.
raise, a portrait of Mademoiselle Gaussin-more or
less authentic. It is a pretty woman with rouge 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,
pass rapidly away, like everything that loves the sun.
The green-room of the Comedie 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 wisdom-from curiosity. The example of Mademoiselle
Gaussin, did not correct at a later day, Mademoiselle Guimard, who ended like her. Now, listen how
Mademoiselle Gaussin ended:Marriage which had appeared to her, for fifty
years like a prejudice, seemed to her all of a sudden
the only plank of safety for eternity. She had so
lively a desire to die with the benefit of the sacrament, "honored like all wives," that not being able
to unite herself to a more distinguished personage,
she married an opera-dancer, she who had lived on
familiar terms with dukes and philosophers, Richelieu or Helvetius! She became then Madame Toalaigo, as robust as one's arm. But it was too late to
be happy, and consequently have many children;
The Sieur Toalaigo, jealous of the past, poor man!
-I would say poor dancer! —beat her for all the




TWO TO A BARGAIN.          191
lovers she had had. Pool woman!-Vanity of vanities! she consoled herself somewhat, when Toalaigo
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 chateau, she met her dear Bagnole, whom
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
herself into his arms, "it was you and not the
others."-" It is true," said Bagnole, growing pale,
" but it is too late for you to rest upon a heart which
no longer beats for you."
She returned to her husband more desolate than
ever.  Toalaigo did her the favor of quitting her,
for the other world. But what was left to her in
this? A pair of eyes to behold the solitude, which
surrounds those women who have lived too much in
the 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
charms, so much genius! She who drove four horses
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!




JACQUES CALLOT.
A CARNAVALESQUE EPIC.
I.
THIE Nature in which we breathe is also our mother; our soul, most fiequently, forms itself in her
image. If we are painters or poets, if God has permitted us to reproduce or to sing of his works, it is
the nature of our native land which forms our first
inspiration. The soul of every man of genius is a
mirror which he carries along his road. We may
be astonished, at first, to find the cradle and the
tomb of Callot amid the smiling scenery which encircles 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 that
splendid gallery of the curiosities of human nature?
In studying the life of Jacques Callot from his infancy, 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




A HAPPY FAMILY.            193
of your historical recollections, at Nancy, near the
old hotel de Marque, a mansion 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 groundfloor is a stone bench for the use of beggars and pilgrims; on the first story above, two windows-that
is to say, two stone crosses-forming each four apertures; on the second floor, two dormer-windows opening 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 Renee Brunehault. At the two dormer-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 prQud 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




194                JACQUES CALLOT.
chance to spin his web; high-backed chairs of carved
oak; gothic tables on twisted feet; a great chimneypiece, 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 earthenware; a handsome Bohemian glass.           At the first
glance, we discover Jean Callot, walking up and
down the better to reflect, in velvet breeches, slashed
and puffed-or Renee Brunehault, seated in the
chimnney-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
Li6geois.   Claude Callot,* father of John and grand* Clauide Callot, whose ancestors had been attached to the dukes
of Burgundy, was ennobled by letters patent of Charles III., bearing date July 30, 1584, after having 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-atarms of Lorraine, had by his wife, Ren6e Brunehault, daughter of
the physician of the dowager duchess Christina of Denmark, among
other children, Jacques Callot, engraver. The coat-of-arms of the
family bore Azure, five stars or, saltire-wise. I have seen it, accompanied by the motto, Scintillant ut astra, which would appear very
ambitious were it not justified by the celebrity of Jacques Callot."Des ~arectz Eloge historique de Jacques Callot.




THE BENJAMIN OF TilE FAMILY.      195
sire of Jacques, was one of the valiant men-of-arms
of lis time. Charles III., duke of Lorraine, in order
to properly recompense his bravery and loyal services, 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 stars or, placed saltire-wise;
for a crest, a mailed right-hand, compone or and
azure, holding a battle-axe, the whole borne and supported by a helmet argent, covered by a mantle of the
metals and colors of the shield. Claude inscribed
on it the motto " Scintillant ut astrc."  He had
married a grand-niece of the maid of Orleans. Jean
Callot, first herald at-arms of Lorraine, married Renee
Brunehault, daughter of the physician of the duchess
Christina of Denmark. Renee was a good, simpleminded 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 tears 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 successor: his elder ones had already taken other paths;
one entered the excise, the other became a lawyer.
Jacques, when eight years old, learned to draw and
color coats-of-arms under the eyes of his father.




196             JACQUES CALLOT.
The passion for drawing took such firm hold of him,
that at school, 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 neighbor's weathercock, and so on with the other letters;
his writing was therefore of the most curious description-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 Iolland. Renee 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 underderstand how a man could pass his whole life, like
the solemn and austere Jean Callot, 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, interrupted by kisses, of the historical singularities of
men of genius. The good woman was marvellously
well acquainted with the curious chapters in the history of the old painters. I love to picture to myself
the mother of Jacques Callot in the costume of Mary
Stuart, ruff, laces, and fardingale, taking his hands
in the chimney-corner, caressing his curls, smiling on
him with a melancholy tenderness, and finally relating 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




ARTISTIC EDUCATION.          197
his lines right and left. When lie 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, dotted with clumps of trees and church-spires, variegated by patches of cultivated land. In rainy seasons 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 foliage, 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, those who most




198              JACQUES CALLOT.
charmed him were always gasconading soldiersballad-singers, opening their mouths larger than the
wooden bowls they presented for charitable offerings —rope-dancers, rehearsing their pantomimesbeggars, 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 marvels of N~otre Dame de Bon Secours.    In 1600,
there were scarcely any other theatres in the provinces than those of the open air: those were, therefore, the palmy days of bear-leaders, fortune-telling
gipsies, clowns, and harlequins dancing on a scaffolding 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 pencil-and, in the quietest manner, sketch some juggler 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 enthusiasm, 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 Callot in
engraving, commenced in the same way.




NATURE IS THE SCHOOLMASTER.     199
something to employ his pencil. Had he 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 first church he found
open, and passed long hours in contemplation before
the sculptures of the altars and tombs, the frescoes
of the chapels, the gothic designs of the pointed windows, the religious pictures of the simple old masters. He went everywhere, where there was anything 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 Flanders 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 morning, 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 first to the gutter to see more at his
ease. He afterward abandoned the gutter for the
chimney: it was like a place in a stage-box. There,




200             JACQUES CALLOT.
without saying a word -the eye fixed, mouth half
open, ear pricked up-he witnessed, when the curtain 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 cassocks, which 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 pasteboard 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 first hung back; but soon, more and
more astonished, he went as far as the side scene.
To obtain pardon for such boldness, he offered one
of the gipsies, the first 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;




A PREDICTION.             201
so I 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.    IIe
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. However, if it amuses you, go on: but it is not your destiny."-" When do you set out for Italy?" asked
Jacques. " In November; for in winter we have no
other hearth 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 destiny 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 you the date of your
death."-" Provided that I can reach forty, like my
9*




202             JACQUES CALLOT.
uncle Brunehault, it is all that I ask of God."  At
this moment, Jacques, seeing his father returning
firom tle 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 first 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, rebellious 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




AN ARTIST DREAM.            203
mass, do not be the last at church, as you always
are."
When Jaques was dressed fiom head to foot, he
muttered with a smile of hope: "This is a dress
which would answer admirably for my journey to
Italy."5 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 splendors 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 dangers of
the pilgrimage, lie reassured himself at the same instant-" Shall I not soon be twelve years 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
church, to pray to God to bless his journey, and to
console his mother; after a while he rose, wiped away
his tears, and took, without turning his head, the
road to Luneville, thinking, in all sincerity, that his
light purse would take him to the end of the world.
We must not deceive ourselves; the love of art was




204            JACQUES 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 and 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 neighborhood; 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 fiesh straw  of the farmhouse, usually in bad
company; he ate without grumbling, from the earthenware of the peasants, black bread, spoon meat or
beans. He never regretted, even in his worst days,
the paternal 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 fiom the point of departure; if he found a skiff on a fish-pond or little




THE JOURNEY.             205
stream, he unfastened the chain unceremoniously,
leaped in, pushed off and rowed until he was out of
breath. When caught, flagrante delicto, his escapade was soon pardoned, on account of his good
looks. Iie thus reached a village near Basle. Although 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 Good 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 gipsies near the church, who were executing a grotesque
dance, to the great wonderment of the villagers assembled in a noisy circle. In order to contemplate
tlhe sight, entirely at his leisure, Jacques perched
himself on the top of a grave-yard wall. IIe saw a




206            JACQUES CALLOT.
score of gipsies of all ages, fiom the grandmother to
the little girl in the cradle, dressed in rags covered
with spangles, some dancing, others playing on the
fife and violin, some telling fortunes, others passing
with forced grimaces, the wooden bowl around the
circle of spectators. 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
night fancy himself witnessing a gay company of
fairies, seeking diversion, 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
them with his eyes, with a smile of love and happiness; 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, tie
two beautiful dancers 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; for soon the two dancers, finding out that
thleir portraits were being taken, desired in their turn
to see if they made a good appearance; they there



ALL ROADS LEAD TO ROME.       207
fore came and leaned over, close to the two ears of
the sketcher, who finding his charming models so
near him, dropped his pencil, " How pretty he is, sister!" 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! to Italy! We are going to
Florence, what a lucky companion if he would join
us! all roads lead to Rome!" —"Yes, lucky companion!" 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 rebellions lips of Jacques; lie
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 very willingly, thinking, 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




208             JACQUES CALLOT.
wagon and' panniers, in charge of two old cripples.
Before supper, Jacques was formally admitted; a
good escort was promised him to Florence, in consideration of the 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 preserved the recollection until his death. The two
pretty gipsy-girls, who were his neighbors at table,
were also desirous of being so on the barn-floor. tHe
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 patriarchal 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 fanciful ringlets, knotted them up or twisted them in
papers. 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,
they 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 corsets and




GIPSY LIFE.              209
petticoats, wash the linens and laces, polish the
spangles, beat out money and work at small jewelry,
necklaces, copper and lead rings, brooches, buckles,
medallions and other ornaments, for the use of peasants. Besides, the life was not worse in the forest
than in the tavern. Three of the gipsies were capital hunters, not a day passed, that they did not bring
to the kitchen in the open 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' feathers for ornaments, for bunches of sorb-berries for necklaces; he gathered wild cherries, strawberries, and gooseberries, for the dessertof the band.
He sketched on the bark of trees. In the night, a
large fire was kindled to scare away fanished visiters; 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 fiom him the scandalous incidents
which were passing around him.
They resumed their route to Italy; walking by
short stages, begging in the villages, pillaging deserted chateaux, leaving everywhere their destructive
traces. Jacques might have said with Pilate, "I




210            JACQUES CALLOT.
wash my hands of it," he however ate very heartily,
and without needing any pressing, of the firuit of the
plunder. One must needs live on something. They
crossed the Alps, always supping at the expense of
the monks. At last, after six weeks of strange and
perilous adventure, Jacques Callot saluted Italy, the
Holy Land of Art. It was time; for the poor child
in spite of the recollections of his mother, which protected him amid the savage horde of gipsies, had
ended by losing himself among these chance comrades, 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 he at
last set foot on that sacred soil. " Italy, Italy," he
exclaimed, raising his arms to heaven. He wept
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; she
is more than my mistress, she is my mother! I go
to drink in the love of art from her breasts, full of
milk."




THE FRUITS OF TRAVEL.          211
III.
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, inscribed with this distich" These wretches naught 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 women are clothed with little save things to come, the
children are wrapped in rags; they 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 other




212            JACQUES CALLOT.
scarcely weaned but sitting bravely behind. At the
tail of the horse 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 feathers,
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 horse, cooking utensils, 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




THE GIPSIES AGAIN.          213
the faces have the true expression of their parts.
The men are savage, maternity gives the women a
gentle air of melancholy, the children are saucy and
frolicsome, the ass and the horses are fearfully
meagre. Callot, like a man of intellect who is engraving history, has taken good care not to bridle the
horses; for in reality, it matters 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 follow the company?
In the second etching of the youthful days of
Jacques Callot, we witness a halt of gipsies at the
first 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 supply of booty, rabbits, pullets, lambs, and lesser plunder. The woman is dismounting fiom her horse;
with her dishevelled locks, her necklace of glassbeads, her striped dress and roguish smile, she presents an agreeable appearance. A well-equipped
gallant, gracefully offers his hand; as a contrast, her
companion is the most splendid-looking rascal imaginable; carbine, sabre, cutlass, nothing is wanting
to his equipment. A monkey, doubtless of the party,
is perched on the back of this redoubtable gipsy.




214            JACQUES 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 dignitaries of the band are strutting with their majestic rags,
and 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 hayloft: do you recognise, almost under the ladder, the
hat and feather of our friend Jacques Callot, sitting
alongside of one of the pretty gipsies  The artist
has been desirous to show that he was present, but
not to display the figure lie 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't
tail, and a well-aimed stick is about to light on the
dog's back. It is a complete drama a la Callot.
The gipsies were going to Florence for the fair
of the Madonna; they did not leave their guest time
euough to visit at his leisure, Milan, Parma, and Bologna; he scarcely glanced at the palaces, the pediments, 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 his presence among the




A PATRON.              215
gipsies, even when 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. HIe 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 wandering 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 answered by signs that he knew nothing of the Italian
tongue. The gentleman, who knew a little bad
French, succeeded in putting himself into more direct 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 moment, these brave gipsies, who had sheltered him and
given him his board and lodging, without initiating




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 officer 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 fiiends, Canta Gallina: " Treat this child
as you would if he were my own; make him worthy of yourself and of me."  Callot was admitted
immediately: he was to find, at the end of his reckoning, 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
tears in his eyes, like a good father of a family.
Jacques, firmly settled on his mule, also shed tears;
but, once on his way, he soon forgot his protector, to




BETWEEN THE CUP AND THE LIP.     217
see only the attractive 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 engrave,
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 ambulatory 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 picture; 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 moment. Some merchants of Nancy, who were quitting 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 master of the donkey who was walking before him: " Oh
ho, Messire Jacques Callot! where are you going to
in that style?" The young traveller understood the
VOL. I.-10




218             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 people 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 Rome before entering it
IV.
CALLOT made various attempts to escape from the
merchants' caravan; but the Nanceans held on to
him well: he was never lost sight of; his mule did
not move unless in the midst of the others; 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 arrived at Nancy after a month of this tedious journeying. 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: he refrained for a while, only on account
of his mother's tears.
As you know, or you guess, Jacques soon set out




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 journey; we merely know that he lived as an adventurer
in poor taverns, often in the company of pilgrims,
actors, vagabonds, and beggars of every description.
He arrived at Turin without many misadventures;
but at Turin he met with one annoying enough-he
met his brother, the attorney,* 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 compelled to return to Nancy, on the requirement of the
attorney, on the crupper of the horse of Dame Justice. What will be still more difficult to believe, is,
that Jacques set out a third time, but with the consent, and tears 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, Marguerite 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 169"7,
Frangoise, who married Hugo de Graffigny. This lady, great-grandniece of Jacques Callot, who died in 1758, is well-known by her
Peruvian Letters, and her comedy of Cenie" (Des Maretz). 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.




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 II. Callot was
fifteen: there was no time to be lost for his studies
at Rome. It would be difficult to describe his enthusiastic 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 Madonna of Raphael. He worked under many masters, but never followed any but himself. By dint
of making light sketches-of representing, like Timanthes, much in small space -he had a vague feeling that his destiny was not to be a painter; moreover, at that time, in spite of the noble attempts of
the Caracci, painting was in its decay. He took
up engraving with the same ardor that he had drawing. He entered the studio of Thomassin, an old
French engraver, who had established himself at
Rome. Engraving was an art still in its cradle;
with the exception of Albert Diirer, Lucas of Leyden, and some German artists, all the engravers had
shrouded themselves in the swaddling-clothes of this
new-comer. Thomassin, with slender enough abilities, had made a fortune at Rome. He engraved
religious subjects-now and then a secular one.
Jacques Callot was of good service to him; young




THE DEVELOPING ARTIST.         221
as he was, he 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 actors, the guitar-players, punchinelloes,
bravoes, and other curiosities of the human species.
He set to work on his tour des JMracles, that great
work, at once light and profound, comic and serious,
more sad than gay. Under Thoinassin, he engraved
in line; but of his works under this master, scarce
any are noted but the Seven iMortal Sins, after a
Florentine painter. The burin was too slow an instrument 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 character to his works. While admiring in the pavement of the duomo of Sienna the incrusted figures
of Duccio, he resolved to suppress henceforth the
shadows of his figures, and seek effect by a simple
line drawn with more or less force.
* He received the criticisms of the master and his comrades gayly.
"It is stated that, while sketching one day in the midst of his young




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 lis revery, in which all the features of the two
impassioned countenances were still living, he beheld, 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 heart
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."t  Thus
the chronicler relates the amours 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 sense, 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, Callot, 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 Curiosites Galantes, sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Amsterdam, 1687, pp. 53-58.




AN ARTIST'S DWELLING.         223
but Venetian mirrors around the chamber of the signora, 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 carpet,
Chinese porcelain, Spanish fans, jewelry of Mogul,
the riches of all countries were assembled in this profane 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
mirrors, 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 handsome 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 gallant description; his velvet doublet letting cascades




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 became enamored of the signora Bianca.  The signora in spite of her pride, was sensible of a weakness
for Callot; she took pleasure in seeing him, in speaking to him, in lighting up his soul, as the chronicler
says, at the flames of her' beautiful 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 contented 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 appeared, the sky was overcast, the storm descended on
Callot's heart: he went farther in his reveries, lie
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, first stolen and
then granted, was the great object of his ardent desires.  How accomplish this?  There are arbors
of myrtle and orange-trees in the garden of the palace; has not the signora a skiff, of the wood of the




FORBIDDEN FRUIT.           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 adventure was a difficult
one, no man ever entered Bianca's chamber, scarcely
was Thomassin himself in his strange adoration, admitted there to kiss her feet on the anniversary 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 chamber, 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 sharp click produced by the key in
the lock. The door opened, his first glance was arrested 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 Callot entered on tiptoe,
knowing none too well what he was going to do, and
trembling lest he should awaken the lady. He ad10*




226             JACQUES CALLOT.
vanced, scarcely breathing, terrified at the silence,
terrified by his love, terrified at beholding on all
sides, in the sombre background of the mirrors, 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 beautiful face of the signora, who was asleep, or, who made
believe to be 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 he behold? Thomassin
himself, with his face half-smiling, halffrowning.
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 providential, 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




AN INCONVENIENT 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? Is it you,
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 fascinated 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 strange," said he with emotion." What is the matter with you?"-" Nothing. This
portrait is a striking likeness. Do not let us say any
more about it; let my heart speak, which is full of
yourself; it is a prettier subject of conversation.""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




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 Thomassin, give us your opinion."
At this solemn moment, the portrait turned aside
to admit the original.-" My 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 tete-a-tete. Pushing back
the arm of the old engraver, who trembled with rage,
he quickly jumped to the door concealed by the portrait, and descended at full speed a secret staircase
which led to a study of Thomassin. From this apartment, Jacques passed into the studio, where he patiently waited for morning. At daybreak, he collected 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 Rome, he underwent a great disenchantment: it seemed to him as if he was flying




PARADISE LOST.           229
without hope 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,
the enchanted cup at which he had scarcely moistened his lips, glowing with the age of twenty, the
palace which he had built on the sand of gold.
" Alas!" 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 campagna, 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 character, and offers us henceforward scarcely anything
but laborious nights, following peaceful days.
V.
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 worse,
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




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
duke, and made known his griefs and his claims to
his highness Cosmo II. The grand duke, who received and protected in a royal manner the artists
of all orders, told Jacques Callot that he congratulated himself that he had been arrested in his states;
that he himself would go through the form of detaining 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 balletscenes, 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 painters, 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.




NOT A PAINTER.            231
lery of the Corsini palace twelve small pictures, representing 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 gallery, 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 warrior dressed in the
Spanish style, with a hat and plume. We discover
the piquant manner of the engraver in this little picture; 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; Callot 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 enthusiastic admirers of Callot have desired, at any cost, to
represent him as a painter; they have found his
works everywhere, have almost declared him more
fertile than Van Ostade. I imagine that we must
rather trust to Vasari, Balduccini, and the abb6
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 suspended by a costly chain. During these ten years,




232             JACQUES CALLOT.
scarce relieved by any glimpses of love, he engraved,
among other subjects worthy of his talent, The Well,
and the Purgatory, the Journey to the Holy Land,
the Maassacre of the Innocents, the Fair of the Imprunetta, the Great 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, unknown afterward even to his imitators. 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 sojourn 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 overtakes and drags along! Poor Callot had no longer
eyes except for engraving; if he left his studio, it




RETURNING HOME.            233
was only for subjects, a beggar, a soldier, some queer
actor in the comedy of life. He did not give himself 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 beautiful 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 copper-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 Renee, 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 himself whether it was possible that his son, the engraver
of bits of buffoonery, could have returned in a carriage. He embraced him gravely, and after the
first 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,




234             JACQUES CALLOT.
Catherine Kuttinger, except that she was a widow
and had a daughter. This must certainly have been
a marriage of policy. Scarce was he married when
he became a great devotee, attended mass every
morning, and passed an hour in prayer every evening. Was it to thank God for having given him a
good wife? Was it to console himself for an unhappy 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
him, it was because a man's character, however extinguished, will now and then emit a spark of its
former self. His burin was henceforward occupied
only with religious or grave subjects.
His talent, as is always the case with original talent, made a noise everywhere; at Paris, at the court
itself, his wonderful fancy-pieces were admired. The
king Louis XIII., about to set out for the siege of La
Rochelle, summoned the Lorraine engraver to his
suite, saying that he alone was worthy of immortalizing 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
how could he go to the mass down there, among all
those soldiers, destitute of faith or law. After the
siege he returned to Paris, to complete the engravings 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




A PUBLISHING FRIEND.         235
some decorators of the palace, decorators sufficiently
remarkable, such as Rubens, Simon Vouet, Poussin,
Philippe de Champagne, and Lesueur.
In spite of these illustrious friends, the protection
of Louis XIII., the thousand attractions of Paris, Callot returned to Nancy as soon as his work was completed. IHe 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 himself with bringing them to light, according to his expression, that is to say, publishing them. Here is
pretty nearly the title of all these engravings. " Tihe
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,
he had been imbued with the paternal traditions.




236             JACQUES CALLOT.
In his leisure hours, he studied with a thoroughly
national religion, the high deeds at arms 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
wars, but especially by the recital of their victories.
Nothing more is wanting to our countly, but a Xenophon." 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, Lorraine was mistress of herself, mistress of her glory,
her labor, and her thoughts. Jacques Callot appeared 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 actions, the body of citizens laborious and intelligent,
the people happy under their light chains; the arts
were worthily represented in painting, music, and engraving; religion was based on the good faith of our
forefathers; industry already raised her manufactures, the laborer blessed the honorable peace.
Nancy, protected by four gigantic bastions, masterpieces of Orphee de Galean, seemed to say to
strangers, by the sculptured ornaments of these bastions: Respect the empire of the arts and of liberty.
Jacques Callot however, had the misfortune to wit



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 blindness; 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 marriage. 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 presence of Louis XIII. in the hope of signing the preliminaries 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.-History and Picture by Guerrier de Damast.




238             JACQUES CALLOT.
made him a prisoner, and extorted from him the order to open the gates of Nancy. The princess of
Phalsbourg, who defended her capital like a heroine,
wished to pay no attention to this despatch of a captive 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,
wept 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 the 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 the conquerors 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 Ruet. 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
Charles: " Jacques Callot is summoned to the pal



THE KING AND THE ARTIST.           239
ace, to appear before the king."-" Well, then I will
go, but without lowering my head." The king received 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 Re and ot
La Rochelle; you will now represent the siege of
Nancy." Callot, who felt himself outraged, raised
his head proudly: "Sire," he answered, " I am    a
native of -Lorraine; I would sooner cut off my
thumb /"
Having said this, Jacques fancied with reason,
that he was to pay dear for his bold answer. The
whole hall was in a hubbub, the courtiers 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 Callot, resolved to protect and defend him, when Louis
XIII., 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
Callot, 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 historical painter and director of festivals, under the dukes Henry and
Charles, decried him; Callot, to revenge himself after his manner,
engraved the portrait of his friend at full length, and sent it to him
with eulogistic verses.




240            JACQUES CALLOT.
This same year, Jacques experienced the attacks
of the malady, which slowly destroyed him. He was
at first desirous to escape from his love of labor; he
resigned the burin, and passed the summer at Villers,
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 orchards. He was contemplating the fantastic images of
his imagination; he was especially watching thendo 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 attributes at work, under his catholic eyes. Callot had
already commenced in his mind, his great work of
the Tegnptation 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 Callot executed this strange work, with a pious veneration for Saint Anthony. Do not regard it as a grotesque work, designed to cause fear or pleasure.




THE TEMPTATION OF ST. ANTHONY.    241
Callot was desirous of representing the triumph of
virtue resisting by the sign of the cross all the attacks of hell. It is a pious work,-composed between
the mass and vespers, by a fanatical but Christian
poet; it is a vast picture with a good design, in
which we find the thought of the evangelist faithfully translated.
The Temnptation of St. Anthony is most certainly
a serious work. Callot, who believed in the devil,
like I-offman, 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 capricious 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 Temptation was derived by him from the perusal of Dante; he read
and re-read the great Italian poet, he kindled his imagination 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 poem, 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 consecrating his last strength to
VOL. I-11




242             JACQUES CALLOT.
the final completion of his immense work, finding
enjoyment only in labor. IHe was a prey to a melancholy without apparent cause; he 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, he wore, for more than a year,
mourning for himself. We must believe that Catherine 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 extinguished soul. He caught up his point again and engraved, with all the fire of his better time, the plate
known as the Little Arbor. Fancy to yourselves,
a company of peasants seated at table, under an arbor 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 vespers, the sun is sinking in the horizon, 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
ourselves, if happiness is in the depths of their flagons, on the lips of their sweethearts, in the cheerfilness of nature. We pause with infinite zest over the




CALLOT BY LASNE.           243
picture, we would take, without being pressed, a seat
at the rustic table, we would throw aside without regret, our little share of vanity, to breathe beneath this
enchanted arbor. Who knows, but that Callot, undeceived as to everything, has written there in dying
his last dream?
Callot died at last, the 25th of March, 1635, aged
forty-two years; lie was buried in the cloister of the Cordeliers; a splendid tomb was raised over him, among
the sepulchres of the family of the dukes of Lorraine, 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 Callot? 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 with
black hair, parted over the forehead, and cut in the
style of the cures 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 Florence around his neck.  Under the portrait, on a
marble tablet, was to be read this epitaph, of a new
sort:



244             JACQUES CALLOT.
TO POSTERITY.
" PASSER-BY, cast your eyes on this inscription, and
thou shalt know how far my course has been advanced; 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 regret of Lorraine, my country, and of all
the rarest spirits of our age, and principally of Catherine 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 by this distich: " Stabit in, ceternurn, nomen et artis opus." A friend of Callot, who did not
understand any of the cordeliers' scrawl, traced




CALLOT IN 1793.             245
under the Latin verses these lines, which are in verse,
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, our pens being substituted
for your pens, in order not to offend these good cordeliers. It costs something to be interred like a
great lord; in 1793, the sans-culottes, thinking they
had to do with a grand duke, mutilated the portrait
and destroyed the tomb. A portion 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 Lorraine, 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 Graffigny, 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? 0 vanity of epitaphs!




246              JACQUES CALLOT.
VI.
THE works of Callot are composed of nearly sixteen 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 Madonna Imprunetta, the Tortures, the Mlassacre of
the Innocents, the fMiseries and Alishaps of War,
scoundrels of every form and fashion, from the impudent bully to the beggar draped in his rags. It
is in this strange gallery that we can study the treasures 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 nothing more than a pastime for his fairy-like hand, and
his rich and vivid imagination.  He often, as in
his Book of Capriccs, in his fancy and grotesque
pieces, suffered his hand to move at random; he
talked with his fiiend, throwing out a witty speech
at the time witli 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 besides an earnest artist, studying incessantly, full of




HIS ETCHINGS,             247
his work, loving the smell of the lamp. IIe had a
passion for creating beggars, 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 fiiend 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 being labored; he thus expresses, without any confusion, the thousand confused incidents of fairs, of
sieges, fields, and spectacles. He needed, to succeed, little space and many characters; for in two
strokes he created a scene, a character, or a physiognomy. 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 picturesque. Salvator Rosa
himself, in his etchings, does not surpass in picturpsqueness the engraver of Lorraine. Callot does




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 charm of one of his engravings, he does not let you go until you have examined and re-examined the half of all his magical
creations.   I say the half, for one could never see
the whole.t
Coming after Albert Diirer, and before Rembrandt,
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 New Testament, the Life of the Virgin, the
Passage of the Red Sea, the Massacre of the Innocents, the Martyrdom 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! 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."
t There was a carver in wood, a worthy bourgeois of Nancy,
Laurent Mennoyse, who produced the greater part of Callot's grotesques 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 fathers. "These little figures," said the
cordelier, F. Husson, a century ago, in his eulogy on Callot, "agreeably replace on the chimney-pieces of Paris, as of Naucy, the manikins 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 s.




DURER AND REMBI.RNDT.          249
graving. Albert Direr 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. Van 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 Direr, that there is between the
divine creator of the School of Athens and the chivalric Flemish portrait-painter.
Rembrandt, who is akin to the great family of
Leonardo da Vinci, Michael Angelo, Raphael, Correggio, Titian, and Rubens, was also, like the artist
of Lorraine, a painter of rags; but, while he is the
high poetry of rags, Callot is often but caprice in
rags. Rembrandt neglects contour for effect, Callot
11



250              JACQUES CALLOT.
neglects effect for contour; one is color in engraving,
the other drawing.  Callot, born at the threshold 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 diversity 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 did not propose 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 pluck 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 sometimes 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.




CALLOT S CARNIVAL.              251
while the scholar loses herself in the pursuit of her
chimeras.  The muse of Jacques Callot was Fancy:
wit, grace, melody- nothing was wanting to this
pretty poet except reason.  Iis Fancy is the lively
gipsy-girl who hides her rags under the air of youth
and gayety.   Iow 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. This eternal picture of human miseries enlivens or saddens only the fancy. His comedy of
fifteen hundred acts is, therefore, neither purely gay
nor purely sad; it stops at the bark, it strikes only
light blows. His finest efforts 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.    Iis 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 artlessness of La Fontaine. This carnival of Callot is, however, dazzling;
it is the complete history of the beautiful Italian
gayety, which emitted its first song with Ariosto,
and whose last peal of laughter echoes in the eighteenth century through the comedies of Gozzi.
FRIEND CALLOT,
PHILOSOPHIC DREAMER, BENEATH THY STRANGE RAGS,
SAD POET, BENEATH THY PEALING LAUGH,
IF I HAVE FAILED IN THY PORTRAIT, TAKE THY SATIRIC PENCIL,
AND WITH AN AVENGING STROKE CRUCIFY ME
AMONG THY MOST FANTASTIC SKETCHES.




RAOUL AND GABRIELLE.
I.
SINCE romance-writers 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 remains 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 perfume some romantic page.
Romance is no longer there. We must give Destiny 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 Voltaire, the shepherdesses of Boucher from the nymphs of Prudhon!
While awaiting this metamorphosis, let us travel in
the past, let us stop for an hour in this tufted romance, where sing the love and poetry of the twelfth




THE TOWER OF COUCY.         253
century, the romance of Raoul and of Gabrielle, a
spontaneous romance, and which is yet, without disparaging 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,but not in the drama
of Du Belloy. I write this upon the high tower of
Coucy, evoking the phantoms of the past.
II.
THE chateau 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 first race, standing erect upon a commanding
throne. It is a ruin 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.




254         RAOUL AND GABRIELLE.
The foundation of the chateau dates from 880. An
archbishop of Rheims laid the first stone. Charles
the Simple was imprisoned there in 929. The history commences by the prison. The chateau passed
from the hands of the count de Vermandois into those
of the counts de Senlis, soon into those of Hlugues,
count de Paris, finally into those of Thibaut, count
de Champagne, but it was upon the stock of the counts
de Vermandois, that was grafted, that powerful
family of the sires de Coucy.  I am neither king,
nor prince, nor duke, nor count; I am the sire de
Coucy. He who had adopted this proud device, aspired to the throne of France; another Coucy disputed the crown with Austria; a third took the title
of sire de Coucy, by the grace of God.
And, in truth, the sires de Coucy were king3 upon
their estates, and sometimes upon those of their
neighbors. Thus Enguerrand the First, in his valiant
or only adventurous excursions, met at Chateau-Porcien, the beautiful countess Sybille, celebrated for
the number of her lovers. She had just married the
lord of Namur, but he had gone to the wars. Enguerrand, without much violence, carried off Sybille
and married her in the sight of God and man, waiting till the other should return from the wars. The
church prepared to launch its sacred thunders, but
it was a sire de Coucy!
The first husband declared war against Enguerrand. It was a war of extermination. They cut off




SETTLING A DIFFICULTY.        255
the feet of the prisoners, and said to themn: "Go,
you are free." The most favored were hung, 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 Marle, "who counted upon
his fingers the crimes of the previous evening" as a
morning prayer.
III.
IT is from the centre of this rude epoch that we
see the figure of Raoul de Coucy detach itself, radiant 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 wars. Raoul de
Ooucy saw at a tourney 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, Raoul spoke to Gabrielle only
by his passionate glances. She appeared not to understand him; however, when she mounted her palfrey at the command of the lord of Fayel, she cast




256          RAOUL AND GABRIELLE.
upon Raoul a look which dazzled and intoxicated him.
On his return to Coucy, Raoul found there a minstrel 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,
lie related to him his celestial vision at the tourney.
The minstrel-like all of his class, fond of adventures-had a fearless predilection for enterprises of
gallantry. He said to Raoul: " If you do not yourself 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, under her husband's nose, the most tender lay that ever
a woman in love listened to.
Raoul consented to take the minstrel for his embassador; but the minstrel set out and did not return, not daring to appear before the eyes of Raoul
after having been badly received at the chateau de
Fayel.
Raoul, in the meantime, emboldened by his passion, determined to go himself and sing the joys and
griefs of his heart at the chateau of Gabrielle. He
mounted his steed and set out in all the charm of
amorous visions.
IIe arrives at the chateau, frightened at the beat



A LOVER OF THE OLDEN TIME.       257
ings of his heart. He was ushered into a large hall
with dark beams, to which were suspended the trophies 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.
Raoul 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 represents Raoul 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. Ile has a silver collar, half hidden by
a long beard and long hair. His hand is raised like
an admiration point before Gabrielle. The chatelaine de Fayel seems waiting for him to explain
himself.
Finally she met his confession half way with these
words, so naively engaging: "Messire de Fayel is
out hunting in the forest since yesterday morning."
Raoul, encouraged, commenced to sing: "My
eyes would never be satiated in gazing at her sweet




258          RAOUL AND GABRIELLE.
and tender countenance, her white hand, her slender
fingers, which make 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 others are united in her."
He did not stop at this strophe: 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.
Raoul, 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 faith you have sworn to me, make somewhat of
a better face of it."-" Alas, I am too much in love."
-"I am not afflicted by your pain, Signor Raoul,
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 think 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 all 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 that all that she could do
for him would be to weep with him, but that she
would never betray her plighted faith.




AN APPOINTMENT.            259
Raoul returned again, always more in love, always
more entreating. He most always found Gabrielle
alone; he left her at the time the sire de Fayel would
return. He often spoke to her of carrying her off
and going to one of his chateaux 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 Raoul
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 chatelaine, by the amorous light of the
moon and stars."-" 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 form 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 door,
heard the noise of the key in the lock. She opened
it; with one hand he seized that of Gabrielle, with
the other he seized the key. " Since I have so well




260         RAOUL AND GABRIELLE.
that of your heart, why shall I not have that of your
chateau?"
An entire season passed with them in nocturnal
meetings. Never had the moon, with her melancholy 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 moreto tourneys, nor to the castellans' 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 allowed 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."
Raoul 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 betrayed," he cried, " to me, my cutlass!" IHehad recognised the sire de Fayel.
There was a violent combat. The sire de Fayel
had a reinforcement, but Raoul fought to see Gabrielle again. But if Gabrielle had not entered the




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 coarse
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 Raoul de Coucy come there? Is it that he
is suddenly smitten with the miller's wife?
Since six weeks, what has become of Gabrielle?
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 Coucy?" —' 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 fiom
dying from ennui; give me some amusement. Then
why should I not accompany you to the chase?"




262         RAOUL AND GABRIELLE.
The sire de Fayel, loved his wife like all the Sganarelles 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 inform the sire de Coucy, that she would be on
Sunday at the mill of Gue. This explains the metalnorphosis of Raoul. But how will she go to the mill
of Gue, 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 benedictioh she begs the sire de Fayel to mount his horse,
and accompany her to the valley, to go listen to the
songs of the reapers.
She draws him toward the ford, by the mill, telling him, that she has never felt so happy as in this
ride. On reaching the ford, she urged her horse on,
and threw herself 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 with you, in this pitiable state 2"'"I am more dead than alive. But do I not hear the
noise of the mill? Carry me there, and go to the
chateau and bring me other clothes."
The jealous sire de Fayel carried his wife to the
mill. Raoul 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




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 return to the chateau.
The historian has not related word for word, all
the pretty scenes of this comedy. This mill has been
for the two lovers, a garden of Armida. 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 enniuyed at no longer making flour. And
moreover, that which 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 nest, that they were happy




264          RAOUL AND GABRIELLE.
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 peachdown 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; nevertheless, 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 fiom the chase, he will 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 bed."
Gabrielle was fond of adventures, she took the
maid's petticoat, and went to admit Raoul. If the
husband awoke, what mattered it?




A PILGRIM OF LOVE.           265
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 boxwood in his hands, presented himself at the chateau,
and asked for hospitality.
The sire de Fayel was at supper with the lady of
the chateau; 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 stars.""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 Jerusalem."-"-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 ceremony. I only ask in return,
VOL. I.-12




266           RAOUL AND GABRIELLE.
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 perfume of his faith, 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 the pilgrim's orisons,
set out every morning for the chase, and did not appear 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. "' You 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
unnecessary 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




END OF THE NINE DAYS.         267
kennel three large dogs, who were permitted to enter
the halls of the chateau, and who were wilding leaping
about, or yelping for their share of the booty.
The pilgrim  approached Gabrielle. "Farewell,
my love, farewell my heart, farewell my joy, for I
perceive that we are at the end of the nine days' devotion." -" To-morrow only," said Gabrielle in a supplicating 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 tomorrow?"
Raoul 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 Raoul 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 heart,
" until the day when my lips shall have burned them
VII.
RAOUL departed for the Holy Land. They saw
each other once more to say  farewell;" and she
gave him a true-love knot of silk, very beautiful
and well made, and 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




268         RAOULL AND GABRIELLE.
he swore to wear until his last sigh. HIow many tears
and how many kisses at that last farewell, for the
Holy Land was far from France in the middle ages!
This is Raoul's song of farewell:" Lovers, it is to you I tell my grief. I must go
beyond the sea, I 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
heard 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, springing 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, Raoul 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 t.ows that comes from the




THE POETRY OF LOVE.           269
land where dwells the lady whom I love, I turn my
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 farl?"
But he wished to live for the Holy Cross. Gabrielle 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 necklace, nor a ring of fine gold, but his shirt, to set her
on fire. That verb embraiscier (to set on fire) is paradise and hell. Francesca de Rimini experienced
nothing so passionate in the poem of Dante.




270           RAOUL AND GABRIELLE.
Raoul, after he had sent his shirt to Gabrielle, sent
her his heart.
For two years he braved every danger in Syria:
he was wounded deeply in the side by an envenomed dart at the siege of Acre. The king of England took him respectfilly in his arms and gave him
the kiss of hope. But the dart was poisoned; Raoul
understood that he had but a few days to live. He
stretched out his arms toward France: "France!
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 sisters. 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




A LOVER'S HEART.           271
each other again —it is the way to heaven. I await
you in God 2"
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 expired, raising 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 returned to France with that precious testament. As
he passed through Brindes, he left there the body
of Raoul, that it might be splendidly interred.
VIII.
THE chateau de Fayel was still a prison to Gabrielle. The sire de Fayel was unwilling to pardon her.
If Raoul had set out for the Holy Land, it was because Gabrielle had prevailed upon her husband to
join the crusade; but the latter, having found out that
Raoul had gone, remained behind. He had constituted himself the judge and jailer of his wife. When
he went to the hunt, he carried away all the keys at
his girdle.
Vainly had Raoul's squire attempted to penetrate
into the chateau de Fayel; it was like the castle of
the Sleeping Beauty.




272          RAOUL AND GABRIELLE.
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 witlh
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 Raoul.
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 funeeral message. He re-entered the chateau, 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 Raoul was served up
for Gabrielle, who thus ate the heart of the chatelain Raoul, her lover.  When she had eaten, the
lord asked her: "  ady, have you eaten of a pleasant dish?"  She answered that she had eaten
heartily. " Therefore did I have it prepared," replied the lord of the chateau, "for that dish which
you loved so well, know that you have sapped off the
heart of Raoul de Coucy."
As he shid thlese words. the sire de Fayel, threw




EFFECTS OF EATING A EEART.      273
upon the table, the open casket which contained the
letter. Gabrielle turned 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 vengeance to the height of your soul. I complain not.
It is true I loved that dish well, for I 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."
"Thereupon, 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 instead 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.
12*




274           RAOUL AND GABRIELLE.
IX.
THE poems of Raoul de Coucy, like those of Gabrielle 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 passion more. Is not the whole poem of her heart contained in these three stanzas?"Within an orchard,'neath the hawthorn's shade
A lady held her lover to her heart,
Until the dawn should come upon the hill.
Oh God! my God! 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 I'll be to thee.
Oh God! 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 verses but possesses poetry and feeling. Among the great poets, is there
one who would disavow these three stanzas? The
poetry and the lovers of the twelfth century were




WOMAN.                 275
disfigured at the Opera-comique, at the 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 appear in the chateaux. The heart of the lady is the
feudal lord, 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 orgies. 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.




THE HUNDRED AND ONE PICTURES OF
TARDIF, THE FRIEND OF GILLOT.
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
Largilli6re, of Watteau, and of Audran, but especially of Gillot. His criticisms went right 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 brush. Watteau himself, who laughed at criticism, said, when laying down his brush before a
newly-finished Fete Galante, "There is a masterpiece; if Tardif were here, I would sign it." Tardif
had one of the finest cabinet collections in Parisrue Git-le-Cceur, No. 1. The mar6chal de Boufflers,
aware of his secretary's passion, gave him every year,
as a new-year's gift, a picture from the hand of a
master. Tardif himself, out of his patrimonial fortune, had purchased pictures fiom his friends, the




A CIIEAP HOUSEHOLD.           277
living painters, and by his friends, the dead ones.
So renowned was his cabinet, that one day the duke
of Orleans went to visit it with Noce, which succeeded in turning Tardif's head. Nevertheless, if
the worthy man had been guilty but of this one extravagance-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 pictures; Tardif got rid of his servants.  " Go, my
friends, he said, " into tile world, where money circulates; henceforward my household must consist
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 heart, 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 anniversaries, summon Watteau and Audran to make
merry with him, amidst the melodious gurgling of
the bottles.




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 stairs. " Watteau
and Audran, well and good," said Tardif; "but,
Gillot! the barrel of the Danaides!"
Before he had finished the words, the old wineloving painter had seized a bottle and pressed it tenderly 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 there is no great matter for
dinner."
They went in. 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."
Tardif, however, munched his bread with good appetite while gazing around him at his dear pictures.
-" 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 myself to my Paul Veronese; when my spirits or appetite are bad, I will nibble your gay ltttle masterpieces, friend Gillot." —c Well said," cried Gillot,
filling his glass. " If all these masterpieces were




A TABLEAUX VIVANT.          279
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 yourself 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 yourself 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 fishwoman, 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 fiveand-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
worst of the collection.
Tardif, old though he was, became accustomed to
this picture, as to the others; and as it was voluptuous in drawing and in color, it often happened with




280    HUNDRED AND ONE PICTURES OF TARDIF.
this, as with the other pictures, that he would enthusiastically 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 Ragois, the grammarian-who had
been a frequent visiter at the hotel de Boufflers when
Tardif. was the marechal's secretary- the reverend
Father Dequet, a Jesuit, celebrated in those days,
and procurator of the novitiate of the faubourg SaintGermain. Tardif, who remarked this holy man hovering about him, would fain have departed, in obedience to a vague presentiment; but, before he could
do so, the reverend father got abbe le Ragois to present him to Tardif. " Monsieur," said Father Dequet, " 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 profane enjoyment I allow myself"
Tardif, who disliked visiters, and did not greatly
esteem Jesuits, did not, however, dare to shut his
door on Father Dequet. IHe came two days after,
accompanied by abbe le Ragois. He praised everything, the Magdalens as well as the Virgins, the Bacchantes as well as the Magdalens, with an expansive
enthusiasm which intoxicated the old amateur.-" I




A FISHER OF MEN.           281
own to you," said he to Father Dequet, " that I am
not exactly prepossessed in favor of the Jesuits.
Your morality is far from being that of the gospel;
your manner of interpreting the Scriptures is very
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 ecstasies, 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 discreet, 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 brothers of
him who suffers. You will no longer have to fear
being plundered -a picture you know, is carried off




282    HUNDRED AND ONE PICTURES OF TARDIF.
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,
hesitatingly replied. "If I know the number so accurately, 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 hours, 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 picturedealer's on the bridge of Notre Dame?"
Tardif bounded like a wounded deer; the shot had
hit the mark. "Gersaint!" exclaimed he, "a scoundrel who prevented Watteau from selling me his
finest Fete Galante, Cythecra 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."-" JMon Dieu! it was Father Ra



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 fiom the Novitiate."-"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 Ragois, 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 my beloved sanctuary."
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 apartment, 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



284  HUNDRED AND ONE PICTURES OF TARDIF.
sight, the ravens have flown across your path-my
songs were well worth any that they sing you.""'Tis true," said poor Tardif to himself, " 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 be had
any heirs. "Yes," was the reply, "I have heirsa brother and a sister: my brother has some property; 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 dispersed?.-" Never!" cried Tardif.-" Simple man,"
continued the Jesuit, "what do you suppose your
nephews and grand-nephews will do with your pictures?"" "You are right. The Burgundians love
color, but only in their wine."-" Yes, my poor Tardif, they will sell your pictures to the highest bidder. Some will go to your enemy Gersaint; others
to some 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 Banquet by Veronese-who knows whether it will not be exposed
for sale upon the quays?"




CLOSING THE NET.          285
Tardif had become pale as death. "You torture
me," said he to the Jesuit, clasping his hands together. In his turn, he made the circuit of the cabinet, gazing despairingly on his pictures. "Do you
know," said he on a sudden, turning to Father Dequet, "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 threshold, 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.




286  HUNDRED AND ONE PICTURES OF TARDIF.
When Tardif had drunk, he expressed his gratitude,
but in so 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 assiduously by the sick man's pillow, striving to subjugate the now enfeebled mind which had so long
repelled his caresses. What he said to the dying
man, none ever knew. What is certain is, that at
the end of the two hours, Father Dequet was in possession of the following eloquent lines, in Tardif's
handwriting:"I give all my pictures to tlhe Novitiate of the
Jesuits, in consideration of my friend Father Dequet,
who is at liberty to take them away at once.
" TARDIF.
"PARIs, 20th 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
had 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.




AN APOSTOLIC DRAUGHT.         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 pronation thi  fntn this impiety, this sacrilege, committed 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 themselves in an old madman secluded fiom 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 interference.
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 fiightened at
the stillness around him. He asked himself if he




288  HUNDRED AND ONEi PICTURES OF TARDIF.
were already in the tomb.  He hurried into his
cabinet.
Seeing the walls bare, he shouted, "Thieves!"
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 oysters and drank her health.
When Tardif called her, she left her chair and
went under his window. "MSake haste!" cried Tardif, "don't you see I am dying? and if that were
all-but they have stolen my pictures!" The oyster-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 herself. When the sick man
opened his eyes, there she was with her eternal smile.
She had sent for a physician, who soon made his appearance, 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!" This was all the explanation that
could be got from Tardif.
Gillot came in. At sight of his friend, poor Tardif seemed visited by a gleam of intelligence. " Ah,
my dear Gillot! why have you been so long without




A SUCCESSOR OF THE APOSTLES.    289
comillg to see me  There is still more than one bottle waiting for us in the cellar, bedded in the dust,
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 him that he would recover. "I am no doctor, my 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 physician, and one for Death, should he make his appearance."-" Well spoken!" cried the fishwife" only you forget that I am here." Tardif smiled
his pleasant smile, as in his good days. But suddenly he grew deadly pale. "My pictures! my
pictures! my pictures! You have stolen my pictures!" lie 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 previous evening, when he was already dying, Father Dequet came to take away the remainder of the pictures. The fishwife undertook to receive him in a
manner worthy of the vestry-room and the fish-market. Gillot, though saddened, by the approaching
death of his friend Tardif, could not help taking
pleasure in the honest woman's vivid and picturesque
VOL. T.-13




290    HUNDRED AND ONE PICTURES OF TARDIF.
eloquence. Father Dequet, who would fain have
pushed aside the fishwife, to reach the sick bed, or
rather the picture-gallery, was sharply repulsed. Then
was the commencement of a difficult struggle for the
reverend father, for the fishwife placed in front her formidable charms, which ought to shock a holy Jesuit.
Ie 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 proceedings against the Jesuits, for the recovery of the pictures, being persuaded that so respectable a body,
would never dare defend such an action. "If you
recover your pictures," said the fishwife, "you will
give me one by my fiiend, Gillot, which represents
an incantation, and I will consider myself well paid,
for my care of your brother."-" For me," said Gillot, " 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 Riche, the parliament advocate who
collected the pleadings in all the curious trials of the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.*
* This edition, dated 1776, was published at Amsterdam, by
Marc-Michel Rey. The affair of the hundred and one pictures occupies twenty-seven pages - 445 to 470.




DEFEAT OF THE JESUITS.        291
" After three audiences, of two hours each, the
reverend Jesuit fathers of the Novitiate, were condemned to restore the pictures, and to pay the value
of those which they alleged to be lost. The judgment 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 demoiselle Marie Anne Vatout, fishwife, who were considered to be the best advocates of the heirs."
The pictures reverted to the heirs, who had a
sale of them, which made some noise at the time.
What has become of those masterpieces, so cherished by Tardif, the light of his eyes and the joy of
his heart  IHave they made the tour of the world?
It is the history of the affiliation, 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 wordsCOLLECTION TARDIF. Poor man! If he knew that
his joys and sorrows have been appreciated-more
than a hundred years after his death!




MLLE. DE MARIVAUX.
THE PRAISE OF FOLLY.
I.
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 oracle
of her circle; he was compelled to follow her everywhere, even to the country. She often took him to
her estate of Bez in Burgundy.
Although madame de Bez was still attractive, as
some women are under their autumnal sun, Marivaux had never regarded her, except as a companion.
Madame de Bez on her side, provided that she could
discuss for three or four hours a day, some still undecided points, in the metaphysics of the heart, fancied she had not wasted her time. It will be understood, that persons so accomplished in the phil sophy
of love, never thought of loving each other.




FEMALE CURIOSITY.           293
In 1721, during the summer, Marivaux was at the
chateau de Bez; the mistress of the place had collected around her certain Parisians and provincials;
the chateau was very animated; madame de Bez
and Marivaux had not lost their habit of disputing
on 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 madame 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 condition? 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, before the end of the world."
" Come, the science of the heart belongs only to




294       MADEMOISELLE DE MARIVAUX.
woman. You men have an idea, that you possess
delicacy, and you plan modes of tenderness. A woman 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 paralytic. Whereas,
the heart of a woman imparts its own impulse to itself; it starts off at a word spoken, at a word not
spoken. The vocation of a woman is to drive the
most sensible man mad. On the other hand, a woman is always a child; people amuse her with fairy
tales. It must be confessed, monsieur de Marivaux,
that we have passed many seasons without understanding one another. There would be a much simpler 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 blushing 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




A PORTRAIT.              295
being beautiful, is a very pleasing brunette; she has a
certain style of face, the features of which have a certain indescribable irregularity, which are all the more
pleasing for not being regularly beautiful. I have always called such physiognomies agreeable fancies of
nature, which never amuse the eyes but at the expense 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 pleasure, 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 physiognomies of which I speak raise no disquiet; nothing
at first can be more familiar; their charm acts without display, it gives the heart no warning, and one
is thoroughly surprised to find one's self in love without 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 understanding. Julie, who
had not the key to this artificial language, made no
answer; she cast down her eyes and blushed. Marivaux 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. Ile soon found nothing
to say himself, so far did his words appear to him to




296        MADEMOISELLE DE MARIVAUX.
be below his thoughts. For the first time in his life,
his heart was seriously troubled. During the whole
week he lived for Julie, without daring to say anything 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 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 Mademoiselle Julie."
"Come," said madame de Bez, " one must never
despair; I will go and ask Mademoiselle Julie for
you in marriage."
The same day, madame de Bez, knowing that
Marivaux and Mademoiselle Julie were alone in the
saloon, was desirous, out of love for philosophy, to




JULIE.               297
know what was the language 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 become too stupid to say more." lie 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 attorney 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 consent of the mother and daughter to the marriage,
which Marivaux proposed. The ceremony was performed at the chateau. Once married, Marivaux returned 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
13*




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 content 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 philosopher 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 centenarian 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 chateau. Mademoiselle de Marivaux was like the women imagined
by her father, more beautiful in expression than in feature, in complexion than in contour. Her blue eyes
and black hair had a sweet and charming effect.
The marquis d'Argens speaks of a portrait of her,




LIFE AT TWENTY.            299
painted by Largilliere, of which he greatly admired
the sparkling beauty and delicate fieshness. She was
a reed which was to bend at the first contrary wind.
While mademoiselle de Marivaux was thus walking to and fro, her father, seated on the terrace near
madame de Bez, was pursuing his philosophic disputations. 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 there; for it is God who gives it to
you. 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 resounds in the mountain: yes, life is beautiful; I see
it as it smiles upon me in the trees and in the flowers; 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.




300       MADEMOISELLE DE MAKIVAUX.
Madame de Bez, while passing all her time in declaiming against human vanities, had all the prejudices 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 entirely different point of view. We shall thus see
how madame de Bez and Marivaux, who passed for
sages, made their children happy, after having forgotten to make themselves so.
In the evening, on returning from the chase, M.
Guillaume de Bez, a young man of twenty, who had
not yet spoiled, by airs of quality, his frank and engaging though somewhat rustic manners, was approaching the chateau through the park. Mademoiselle 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.
Just a little while ago, in order to return in the direction of the park, 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 Marivaux. "I recollected," he continued, "as I entered
the wood, that we last year passed a whole morning




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 Guillaume de
Bez called him away a little distance; mademoiselle
gave him a parting nod and withdrew. She returned to the chateau, went to her room, and began
to cry. " Ite does not love me," said she, pensively;
" he had to return to the woods and see the strawberries 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 strawberries, and breathed on it with a sadness full of charm.
" However," continued she, drying her tears, " 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 fatigued the young people; Marivaux and madame
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 Guillaume found themselves alone, the young man asked
his mother if mademoiselle de Marivaux was to remain much longer at the chateau.
"l Her father is expected at the academy to attend
a reception."




302       MADEMOISELLE DE MARIVAUX.
" And he wishes to take his daughter with him?"
"Doubtless; besides, the season is nearly over."
"She will not go, for, since I must tell 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 al out.  She went straight to the
chamber of mademoiselle de Marivaux.
" My dear child, Guillaume loves you; it is a piece
of folly; you are about returning to Paris, but, bebfre
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 Marivaux, 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.
"Your father has not, then, informed you that he
wished to shelter you, in this blessed refuge, from
all the dangers of the world? The duke d'Orleans
is to pay your portion."
" My portion!" murmured the young girl in a stifled voice. " Yes, madame, 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



TIIE PARTING.            303
ing her window, she saw Guillaume setting out on
horseback.
" Where is he going?" she asked herself, pressing
hler hand on her heart.
At the turn of the road he looked back and perceived the young girl. He made her a graceful
motion of the hand.
" Alas!" said she, "it is perhaps a signal of farewell." 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 return the next day; but, the next day, madame de
l3ez went and joined him with the news that M. de
Marivaux and mademoiselle de Marivaux had started 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 vexation. Madame de Bez, who understood 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:




304       MADEMOISELLE DE MARIVAUX.
he adored mademoiselle de Marivaux; but hunting
is so good for restless minds.
When he returned to Paris, six weeks after, mademoiselle de Marivaux was at the convent du Thresor. He wished to see her; he attempted to carry
her off. He had not even the consolation of knowing whether his thoroughly impassioned letters 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 first visit to the convent, "how solitude and prayer 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 sacrifices. 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 melancholy joy.
"I am going to take the veil," she said to him
one day; "I feel myself equal to the act; I shall




A LIVING DEATH.            305
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 him 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 herself on that charming head, which she
should have crowned with roses less pale. The bell
rang. Mademoiselle de Marivaux threw herself into
her father's arms.-" I am going to die," she said
with calmness; "adieu, my mother awaits me."
Marivaux, who never understood 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 congratulations 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 ComedieItalienne.
"You weep, Marivaux."
"Yes, but I have just accomplished a good work,
I have saved my daughter from the perils of this




306       MADEMOISELLE DE MARIVAUX.
world; at this very moment she is devoted to
heaven."'What an idea!"
"You know that I had no portion to give her."
"Was she not pretty? Ah! Marivaux, is liberty,
then, nothing, 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
branches 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 entreaties, resigned himself to marrying, unwillingly, mademoiselle 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 reflection that his daughter had died in peace of heart
and in the love of God.




LA TOUR.
I.
THE portrait-painter who has best succeeded in,
withdrawing my mind from the hubbub of the present time, by the radiant smile of the past, is La Tour
-La Tour who painted all the pretty women, and
grave philosophers 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 first 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, Madame de Parabere, Louis XV., Madame de Pompadour, Madame Dubarry, Louis XVI., Marie Antoinette-without counting the reign of Voltaire, who is
the true sovereign of the eighteenth century, if it is
understood as closing with the revolution.
La Tour was born at Saint-Quentin, the capital of
the Vermandois, a laborious and intelligent city, which




308               LA TOUR.
has given Ramus 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 collegiate church. 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 sentiment, less impulse, but more gayety, and more freedom 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 eighteen. A pastel of Rosalba, drew fiom him the revealing cry of Correggio. He never had any other
master than this magic vision. He was desirous of
going to Venice, 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




ARTISTIC VIEW OF THE WORLD.      309
he set out to discover a New World?"-"  As you
please; for my part, the universe is bounded by my
door-sill; but I have too much philosophy to condemn you to a prison, though it were in the house of
your birth, 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 intellect, 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 airs, are not worth a
little strain of old Lully, played in the evening at
my window, on my poor violin, before my wild gillyflower, 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 become rich there, everybody will acknowledge my
talent, I shall be first painter to the king; but, perhaps 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.




310                LA TOUR.
Rheims, thanks to the coronations of the kings, cultivated luxury; the flower of luxury is Art. There
was an entire company of painters at Rheims, some
paid by the churches and convents, others by families who wished portraits.  From Saint-Quentin to
Rheirns 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
Rheims to try his powers: there, after some portraits,
as 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. IIe had
seen a picture by Rubens and he went to Flanders.
On arriving at Cambray, 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. Ile 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 manners, and fashionable conversation. Eight days after his arrival at Cambray, 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 English embassador
delighted with his pastels and charmed with his rep



AN ARTISTIC COURTSHIP.        311
artees, offered at once to take him to London, to his
own mansion, where his family should be the painter's as well. He was to set out 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 posthumous daughter of a Don Juan, in search of adventures. 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 then, that she loved him. La
Tour had no doubt of this conquest. She listened
to him at first 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 coquetry, she permnitted him to paint her. She found herself so beautiful in La Tour's pastel, that she was a little less
cruel to him. For his part, he who finished a portrait in three sittings, was three weeks retouching her
hands.  The husband was not always on hand.




312               LA TOUR.
Squire as he was, he dabbled a little in commerce,
citing in excuse the nobility of Venice. He preserved the virtue of his wife, by dint of money and
love, as others do by dint of love and intellect. La
Tour became so much emboldened, that he was desirous to carry off the lady.
"No,? said she to him, casting down her eyes, " it
is I who will carry 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 himself 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 inform himl 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. IHe thought that the night would be
stormy.
"After all," 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




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 Cambray sing his victory and echo the beating of his
heart. 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 considerations. 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 the 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 appears to illuminate this page of romance,
which, at a later period, Fragonard wrote for the
gallery of La Guimard. Ah! but the lady is beautiful in her elegant dishabille, with her locks falling in cascades on the embrowned marble of her
shoulder! La Tour already attains the balustrade
of the little balcony: another ascending movement
of the robust Flemish girl, and he is at the ideal
VOL. I.-14




314               LA TOUR.
paradise of adventure-seekers; but the movement
is in a contrary direction. He descends again in
spite of himself, and behold him six feet from Paradise. It is truly life and its ascensions! As soon
as we touch the skies, we go down again before we
hlave drunk of the aroma in which the angels revel.
" 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 yourself, 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.-" Whoever 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
this 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.




A NIGHIT IN A BASKET.         315
" Here I am," said he, " taking a lesson on free-will.
After all, man is the toy 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
howeverinformed the husband thathe intended to pull
his house down if he did not give orders for his deliverance. The husband reopened the window, and
charitably informed hire, 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
fiom the wind, and the elegies of the cats in the gutters.  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.




316               LA TOUR.
" Bastien, do you not see some one up there holding his sword in that vegetable basket "-" Is it carnival now, in the middle of July?"-"It is Don
Quixote fighting with the windmills."
On rousing himself, La Tour saw with fiight his
delicate position. The laughter of the peasants attracted the attention of the neighbors; there was a
general hurrah all along the street. All the ragmuffins 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 canopy 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 recommendation from the English embassador.  Fame
and fortune awaited him in this capita], where Reynolds, "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




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 herself to avenge
La Tour. The night was so beautiful! "If, after
all,' she said to herself, " he had cleared the balustrade, and I had fallen swooning into his arms!"
Returning 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 whether 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




318                LA TOUR.
gold, not doubting his star. On arriving at Paris,
he gave out that he was an English painter travelling
for amusement. He presented himself at the studio
of Largilliere, one day, when Voltaire was sitting.
La Tour, who had studied at London all the philosophical 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!" 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
learn to paint at London!"-" And I," said Voltaire,
" shall go there to learn to think."
II.
A HUNDRED years 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 philosopher. Our last marquises, therefore, all made the
tour to England, to learn there to think-" about
horses!" 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




LA TOUR AND MIGNARD.          319
time to recommend him, so sudden was the growth
of the new-comer's reputation.
Mignard was the first in France to paint women,
not as they were, but as they would be; it was the
triumph of the falsehood of art.  La Tour soon attained a still higher triumph: he painted women as
they were and as they would be. Pastel gave him
all the lilies, all the roses, 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 the painter under
the ray of poetry or of love. What splendor! what
transparency! what light! When the spectator entered 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 passions of soul and body come for breath.  "Give




320                LA TOUR.
me," said D'Aguesseau, " 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
harpsichord 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 metamorphosis the magic of painting; for it is, for all that,
the portrait of madame du Chatelet." —" 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." —" Recall yours to me."-" Represent 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 firnished with teeth.
There you leave the picture of the beautiful Emilie,




NATURE AND ART.            321
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."" Cone, come," said Madame Geoffrin, "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 pencil 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 themselves 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 confessed 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*




322                LA TOUR.
the world, but before themselves. Thus, with an illformed mouth and lack-lustre eyes, they succeed, by
the grace of their smile and the charm of their glance,
in correcting nature. Madame du Chatelet 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; ielvetius discussed
there with Jean-Jacques Rousseau.  La Tour went
too largely into philosophy and politics. IIe 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 France would, like England,
have her revolution. More than once at Versailles,
while painting Louis XV., or while painting a princess 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 painter
back to his pastels, with much wit and dignity.
Louis XV., however, liked La Tour, and was gener



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
illustrious captains of the last reigns. He paused at
the marechal de Saxe; Louis XV. recalled his victories and his heroism.
" And when one thinks, sire, that the marechal de
Saxe, after so many glorious days, has naught left but
to drag through 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."
"The 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 thousand, give him two hundred thousand livres.
This time the advice of the pastel-painter was followed. The old marlchal was enabled to pay his
creditors, and repurchase the diamonds, which had
disappeared from the hilt of his sword. Under the last
monarchy and under the republic there were not




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 entrance 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 Rivarol. 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 ambitions had
no other care than to sup in gay and fine company,
I should propose to him to follow La Tour to the residence of madame de Coignv, madame de Grammont,
or some other celebrated hotel-hotel Ramnbouillet,
minus the precieuses and the jargon —we shall find
in a circle around the fireplace, three or four beauties-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 lRulhieres, an abbe
and a marquis. They would begin by talking politics-that is to say, to talk about the court. It was
* He was however the courtier of no one. "My talent is my
own," said he. He would never consent to finish the portrait of the
king's two sisters, because they had kept him waiting.




A MODEL SERMON.            325
the politics of Cythera. Madame de Coigny would
make a signal with her fan to Chainfort; madame
de Grammont would call Rulhieres; Rivarol would
be already seated alongside of madame de Vaudreuil.
-"' What is talked about at Versailles?"-" About
the abbe Mlaury 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 abbe
Maury had said a little to us about religion, he would
have spoken about everything."'
RIVAROL. I thought that the king had never said
anything.
MADAME DE VAUDREUIL. Rulhieres is pensive.
UTLHIERES. I am afraid of falling in love.
MADAME DE GRAMMONT. Love is like epidemic diseases, 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 whlo have a price, only because they sell




326                LA TOUR.
themselves. There is a chorus-singer there, who car
find those to buy her, and who could find no one tc
give herself to.
RIVAROL (with an impertinent emnphLasis). I have
quitted the opera-girls, because I found as much
falsehood among them, as among the honest women.
MADAME DE GRAMMONT (with a cunning smile).That was at the time of your marriage, after so much
living flame, smoke has followed.
CHAMFORT. Rivarol was a philosopher who abandoned romance for history; but he returned forthwith to romance. Divorce is so natural, that in many
houses it sleeps every night, between the husband
and wife.
MADAME DE VAUDREUIL. M. de Rivarol has doubtless suffered the misfortune of being too much loved.
He who is loved too 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 COIGNY. 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,




A HUSBAND OF THE XVIIITI CENTURY.   327
without leaving the first the means of subsistence.
WVhat is certain, is, that the academy have given
her a prize for virtue, for the sole object of displeasing 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 completely 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 everywhere, even in his own
house, tiresome without opening his mouth, and appear ridiculous in uttering the simplest thing.
RULHIERES. No, I am not afraid of love, it is a
fairy story, which conducts us always, like the little
children, to the enchanted castle. But I am afraid
of the women. Madame de S —     dishonored herself for a lover, whom she has ceased to love, because he removed his powder badly.
THE MARQUIS. Madame de F —       lost her name
and her fortune for the chevalier de M —-; now you
]now that she quitted the chevalier abruptly one day
when he had put his stockings on, wrong side out.
CHAMFORT. In love, the most foolish are the most
wise; the surest way to reason on this delicate point
is to cease to reason.
THE ABBE. He who wrote the Praise of Folly




328               LA TOUR.
was 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 COIGNY. Chamfort then lost his time
when he wrote maxims on love 
CHAMFORT.  Oh, heavens, yes! but besides that,
maxims, though they were those of La Rochefoucault,
are in the conduct of life what routine is in the art;
with them there can be nothing adventurous, nothing
unforeseen, none of these charming folliesMADAME DE GRAMMONT. Which are nothing perhaps
but wisdom disguised.
LA TOUR. However, if pleasure depends upon illusion, happiness reposes on truth. Does it not appear 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 COIGNY. And how about hail-storms?
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 happiness 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
horse, not being able to manage him, are madmen




LA TOUR 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 proverb, and I say, " Who quits the game, wins it."
MADAME DE GRAMMONT. Because you live by recollection, 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 DE VAUDREUIL. I begin to think, that no
one among us is in love, except the abbe, 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 without 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 degree, 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 forgotten his good city of Saint-Quentin.  He had
founded there a gratuitous school of design. Born




330                LA TOUR.
charitable and a republican, he was desirous that he
should not be remembered for his talents, but for his
beneficence. At Saint-Quentin, the poor little children, the women lying-in without a home, the aged
without sheltel, repeated his name with gratitude.
I-e had placed more than a hundred thousand francs
at the disposition of the mayor of the city, for these
works of charity. He had poured into the treasury,
fifty thousand fiancs for the foundation of a school of
design. When spoken to of his benevolence, he replied like Jean-Jacques Rousseau: " 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
my 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-first 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'Estr6es, who, scarcely ten years 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 ancient street of La Vignette was choked up, every
one strove to be the first to greet him. The munici



THE OLD VIOLIN.            331
pal body with the mayor, the true 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 tears this civic crown. I
still recall all the emotion and all the joy of this festival. There was enthusiasm! there was patriotism!
The entire city, from the Hotel de Ville to the humble window of the workman, was illuminated in the
evening." They danced and fiaternized 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 assured, 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 verdant wood.
He lived some seasons more at Saint-Quentin. He
died there on the eve of the revolution, aged eightyfour years.  The canon Duplaqlet wrote on his




332                LA TOUR.
tomb: " A good citizen-a just and cultivated mind,
an upright and generous heart," winding up with
thirty-two lines in tombstone style, which was thirtyone lines too much.  "i Here lies La Tour!" not a
word more, for this name recalls a man and an
artist.




THE WHIMS OF THE MARCHIONESS.
A COMEDY IN ONE ACT.
Hissedfor thefirst time at the Odeon, May 12, 1844.
CHARACTERS.
THE MARQUIS DE VERMAND.
THE CHEVALIER DE VERSAC.
NICHOLAS, the Village Fiddler.
THE MARCHIONESS.
MARIANNE.
1783.
The scene is laid at the chateau de Vermand, 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 is this! my music does not attract her here?-So this is the castle of Beauty and
the Beast.-I don't wish to mention any names.
What a mysterious chateau! Marianne has become
invisible in it. It was worth the trouble truly, of




334      THE WHIMS OF THE 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 window! They say that there is a short cut there.-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 flight and clambers over
the walls of the park.)
SCENE II.
(Enter the marchioness de Vermand, with a fan in her hand. She
is dressed in a hoop-petticoat, and all the extravagance of the
period.)
MARCHIONESS. Yes, 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 support only, to make them support
our caprices. Oh, good heavens! if we folks, whom
nobody contradicts, could not contradict ourselves a




SCENE SECOND.             335
little how stupid it would be! My whim is the rose
which I pull to pieces, the lover whom I will not accept, the play which is presented me, the one which
I make, the one I would like to make, a rival, perhaps even a husband; for my 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 myself with being happy. (After a sigh, and in a
languid tone:) That is very amusing! I am tired
of happiness; it seems to me as if I were eating milksoup all the time. Destiny is obstinately bent on
weaving my days of silk. If the thread were moistened with some tears, it would be well!-Will not
the chevalier be here before eight o'clock?  Ah!
monsieur de Versac! you neglect me-for it is already 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! Marianne does not come. If I had that little romance,
NVo To-mnorrow! 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 mrousquetaires are disappearing: adieu to the little romances. Of what use are
screens now-a-days? and oratories? unless to pray in.
Where do I stand with the chevalier? An innocent




336      THE WHIMS OF THE MARCHIONESS.
affection which will do no great damage to the heart,
an eclogue, a pastoral, a real page out of Watteau.
But if the chevalier was always there!-But the ingrate goes off elsewhere.
SCENE III.
THE MARCHIONESS AND MARIANNE.
THE MARCHIONESS. Thank Heaven! here you are
at last! Well, that romance?-Make haste.
MARIANNE (indolently).  Monsieur the chevalier
has told me that a pretty girl does not lose by waiting; so I waited, madame.
THE MARCHIONESS (snatching the book with impatience). Yes, truly, she has wit. Most decidedly,
Marianne, you are not like an ordinary person, you
have the look of one of Marivaux's soubrettes.
MARIANNE. A soubrette! But madame the marchioness told my godmother I should be something
better than that.
THE MARCHIONESS (opening the volume). How is
this! I asked for No To-morrow, and here is the Sorrows of the Heart. I have enough of that myself.
(Throwing down the volume.) That will do for the
waiting-room. I am 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!




SCENE FOURTH.             337
SCENE IV,
MARIANNE (alone). That will do for the waitingroom! but I do not belong to the waiting-room for
my part. (Picking7 qp the book.) These princesses
are so insolent! all that they disdain, is good for us;
so, that to hear them talk, if we have virtue, it is just
because they do not want it themselves. (She reads.)
" 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! these lovels do not stand still. Nicholas himself did not move so rapidly; But I have much need
to read that! (Throwing down the book in the
style of the marchioness.) It will do for the waitingroom. (She dcrawsfrom lher bosom a letter of Nicholas 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. I offer you a lot which is happy
enough: Nicholas and all his music! We have had
good 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 Rome. A lover with a good will,
VOL. I.-15




338      THE WHIMS OF THE MARCHIONESS.
always finds a road, and I am a resolute man for my
part. War is war, love is love! I shall not be such
a fool as to try the door, for all those dogs of valets
who surround you, say to me:'Stop there, Nicholas, you can't pass!'-I, I always pass; remember
that Marianne.     Signed         NICHOLAS."
(Resuzming in a thoughtful tone). Yes, I do remember.   Ah! Monsieur Nicholas, you want to
marry me: I ask nothing better; for I am beginning
to be heartily weary of the chateau. It is a real
epidemic; by wearying herself, madame the marchioness, 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 oall).
(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 coming.
These fashionable couples look as if they were all the
time playing puss in a corner. If Nicholas could
only be of the party.
NICIOLAS. Here I am; stretch out your arms, I
have something to tell you.
MARIANNE. Can you not talk from the top of the
wall?




SCENE SIXTH.            339
NICHOLAS. N'o, for lovers, speeches are made with
the eyes.
MARIANNE. Are you near-sighted 
NICHOLAS. Yes.
MARIANNE. 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! Ah, it runs like fire.
SCENE VI.
MARIANNE, M. DE VERMAND, NICHOLAS (on the wall).
THE MARQUIS (entering).  Ah! how Normandy
abounds in pretty girls! Find me a marchioness
worth such a one as that. She is very pretty, most
decidedly. (Be seizes ]Z[arianne's arm.)
MARIANNE. Ah! you frightened me, monsieur.
THE MARQUIS. I'faith I was very far from intending 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 understand very well; you want
to send me to walk with her.
MARIANNE. Madame said that she would be there
even for you.




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. (Rousing 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! Ah! Marianne, what a roguish look, wlhat
eyes! one might call them the doors of hell. Your
mouth is a rose-bush; who are all those roses for,
you little rogue?  (He attempts to embrace.7arianne's neck, she turns aside quickly.) Ah I have at
last turned your head, a woman's head is made to be
turned.
MARIANNE. But, monsieur, it is rather yours that
is turned.
THE MARQUIS. I shall lose it at the very least.
What a rebellious mouth! and what a pretty necklace of pearls in that mouth! If you want a necklace,
you have only to say the word. (Aside.) That is
taking a good turn, as in La Folle Journee. But I,
for my part, will not be served like Count Almaviva.
(iHe again seizes 2farianne's arm.)
MARIANNE. Have done! 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 (aside).  Hum! since we have exiled virtue, she has taken flight to the kitchen.




SCENE SEVENTH.             341
There is nothing to be gained any longer by descending. After all, my wife is prettier than that girl.
(Aloud.) So, so, Marianne, you stand on your virtue: light dresses are in season.
MARIANNE. It is all I have, monsieur, and I hold
on to it. It is little, but it is well put on. (She per.
ceives Nicholas, who raises his head above the wall.
She utters a cry.) Ah!
THE MARQUIS. What's the matter, Marianne?
MARIANNE. It was that stupid fellow who scared
me.
(A valet-de-chambre enters and presents the Mercure de France to
the marquis.)
THE MARQUIS (opening the journal.) All! 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. (He withdraws gravely.)
SCENE VII.
MARIANNE, THE MARCHIONESS.
THE MARCHIONESS (re-entering by another path).
Well, Marianne, so nobody came?
MARIANNE.   To amuse you, madame, I almost
wanted to send monsieur the marquis to you.
THE MARCHIONESS.  What are you saying, Marianne? It is plain that you are easily amused.
MARIANNE (pettishly playing with her apron).




342      THE WHIMS OF THE MARCHIONESS.
Monsieur the marquis preferred to keep me company; I have the vapors still.
THE MARCHIONESS. Vapors! Here are fine airs!
MARIANNE. It is not with me, madame, that you
should be angry.
THE MARCHIONESS. Oh! don't justify yourself, I
am not jealous of anybody, and you understand
very wellMARIANNE  (aside).  I do not understand at all.
THE MARCHIONESS. Monsieur de Vermand simply
wished to see the depths of your heart.
MARIANNE. But monsieur the marquis saw nothing there, I fancy.
THE MARCHIONESS (aside).  Can it be possible?
I want to have the last word. Besides, this is a resource 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, madame, do you know whether
I will permit myself to do so? (Aside.)  And
Nicholas!
THE MARCHIONESS.  Come, don'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 MARCTIIONESS. Don't argue, but do as I tell




SCENE SEVENTH.            343
you. Monsieur de Vermand will soon pass by this
arbor; be as coquettish as possible, and try all your
charms upon him.
MARIANNE (with simplicity and cunning). But,
madame, I am not learned in such matters. (Aside.)
And frankly (turning toward the audience), between
ourselves, I have no need to be.
TIE MARCHIoNESS. The fool! Does not every one
know such things without learning them?-at least it
appears to me —We let ourselves alone, and we go
of our own accord.
MARIANNE. But how shall I make up with monsieur the marquis? I am very sure that he is out of
humor with me.
THE MARCHIONESS. Come, I will give 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 what shall I say to him? for one
can not speak without saying something.
THE MARCIIONESS. Child! On the contrary we
talk all the time without saying anything. Woman's
great wit is shown in saying so many things without speaking.
MARIANNE. All! then speech goes for nothing?
THE MARCHIONESS. If monsieur de Vermand does
not stop, you will address him in a troubled voice,
without knowing what you are saying.
MARIANNE. Just so. I will say to him: " Mon



344        THE WHIMS OF THE MARCHIONESS.
sieur the marquis, how did we stand a little while
ago? You kept saying to me, that my mouth was a
rose-bush; you asked me who all these roses were
for. 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 could 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 M-arianne.) It is all arranged,
you know your part very well. (Aside.) Ah! ionsieur de Vermand! so her mouth is a rose-bush.
Take care, there will be thorns there for you. (Aloud.)
Play your part well, Marianne. Don't go too far, you
know-only up to a certain point.
MARIANNE. I don't know 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 fine subject for curiosity!




SCENE. EIGHTH.            345
SCENE VIII.
(Marianne sings. The Marquis passes close to her without listening
to the song.)
THE MARQUIS. I shall shine to-morrow, for I have
got hold of the charade. Two hours' study more
andMARIANNE (after having in vain played off her
glances, aside). Come I must engage him in conversation. (Aloud.) You have a great deal of wit,
monsieur; I am sorry for it.
THE MARQUIS. What do you say, Marianne?
MARIANNE (with a charming smile). I say, monsieur, 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 MARQUIS. Where did you get that philosophic
prattle from?
MARIANNE. I have been to a good school. By the
by, monsieur, we did not get through with our affair
a little while ago. We were -
THE MARQUIS (aside). 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.)
1.N



346       THE WHIMS OF THE MARCHIONESS.
MARIANNE.  HIave I in my turn scared you,
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 you to madness, what do
you say to that?
MARIANNE (starting back). Have done, monsieur.
THE MARQUIS (who has not touched her). I am
going to begin. (ITe takes 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 saying, monsieur, that I did not
understand you, and that you made me lose my labor.
THE MARQUIS. You make me lose my time. Listen,
Marianne. I love you to madness-but the marchioness might interrupt us.
MARIANNE.  Make yourself easy, monsieur, madame is away by the hedge.
THE MARQUIS. Ah you rogue, if I had you there!
MARIANNE. What good would that do? No good
I fancy. What would you tell me there? The answer to your charade.




SCENE EIGHTH.             347
(Night is coming on.)
THE MARQUIS. Yes, just so; 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 enigma is soon explained.
MARIANNE. And you think then, monsieur, that
I will go to the rendezvous?
THE MARQUIS. I am sure you will. No one who
is so pretty, is cruel.
MARIANNE. Don't trust 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
my library. It seems to me that I saw a book there
the other day, called The Key to Enigmas, Charades,
and Riddles!
MARIANNE (left alone). What am I to gain fiom
all this? Provided that Nicholas holds on well, I
will take care of the rest.




348        TIIE WHIMS OF THE MARCHIONESS.
SCENE IX.
MARIANNE, THE MARCHIONESS.
THE MARCHIONESS (coming out of the pavilion). So,
so, waitfor me this evening, under the great chesnut-trees. 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! Patience!
-he will come.-Marianne 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 iYTarianne's cap). You
don't know what you are talking about. Make haste
and arrange my hair, like yours.  That's it, Marianne.  There are moments when one is tempted -
quicker, Marianne. Ah! the president's wife had
good reason to speak ill of men; alas! she spoke ill
of women, too. Marianne, you will go into the pavilion and play away on the harpsicord. You will remain there without a light. In a word, arrange it so
that monsieur de Vermand will imagine that it is I.
MARIANNE. But, if monsieur the chevalier de Versac comes?
THE MARCHIONESS. Tell him it is not I.
MARIANNE (slyly). Why so, madame?
THEI MARCHIONESS (embarracssed).  Because —be



SCENE NINTH.             340
cause it is not right to deceive any one. (She zputs
on 2Mfarianne's neckerchief.) I am going to learn
fine things 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 Marriage 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 yourself, Marianne? I
have no time to go and look at myself.
MARsIANNE. 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 surprising 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. Don't be afraid, he wanted a
kiss; he will bite his lips. That's all.
MARIANNE. As madame 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 to




350     THE WHIMS OF THE MARCIIIONESS.
the rendezvous. I should prefer waiting for him.
Do you make haste to make a noise on the harpsichord. (She withdraws on tiptoe.)
MARIANNE. A pleasant journey to you, madame.
(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 CHEVALIER DE VERSAC.
THE CHEVALIER (advancing slowly). Good day,
lovely Marianne. How do you happen to have such
a bewildered look?
MARIANNE. A secret! silence! I will tell you
nothing- ask me nothing.
THE CHEVALIER. A secret in a pretty mouth like
yours is a secret no longer. Look you, Mariannethere 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 well! yes, we 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.




SCENE TENTH.            351
MARIANNE. Only think-what was I going to do 
THE CHEVALIER. Oh, don't say anything?
MARIANNE. Only think, that the new piece-I
don't know what.....
THE CHEVALIER. The Marriage of Figaro?
MARIANNE. That is it; that play has turned madame the marchioness's head. We play it this evening.
TIE CHEVALIER. I do not understand.
MARIANNE. It is simple 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 the marchioness has
taken part of my dress and gone in my place. That
is why I am so poorly equipped.
THE CHEVALIER. And the marquis?
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 know how discreet I am. (She
enters the pavilion.)




352     THE WHIMS OF THE MARCHIONESS.
SCENE XI.
THE MARQUIS (alone).
THE MARQUIS. It is singular (shaking the dust
out of an old book); I thought I took the Key of
Enigmas, and here I have got the Key of Dreams.
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 perversity 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 burns in all winds; the weathercock turns to the four cardinal points; and what
is the heart but a weathercock on fire? (lHe perceives the chevalier coming toward him.)
SCENE XII.
THE MARQUIS, THE CHEVALIER.
THE MARQUIS (aside). He has chosen his time opportunely! 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
is in there singing, T believe. Go and sing with her.




SCENE TWELFTH.            353
As regards myself, an affair of the gravest importance
THE CHEVALIER. But, first of all, give me a moment. (Aside.) He wants to go there, but I do not
want him to. Does he fancy that he is the husband of his wife? (Aloud.) A most unheard-of
discovery! (Aside.) What shall I tell him?
THE MARQUIS. You can tell me that by-and-by.
THE CHEVALIER. Right away. It is something
marvellous. A charade which I have found in the
jferczre.
THE MARQUIS. Well! do you know the answer.
THE CHEVALIER. Suppose we search for it together....
THE MARQUIS (making off). I will go seek for it
elsewhere.
THE CHEVALIER (holding him back). At least tell
me what devil carries you off in this style?
THE MARQUIS. It is the devil of love, my dear
fellow. But pray do not detain me any longer.
THE CHEVALIER (feigning surprise and indignation).  How! you whom I thought so worthy of
your wife, my poor friend? what a mournful aberration! You 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 they have not been so already. It is
very fine for you to play the philosopher, 0 Socrates




354     THE WHIMS OF THE MARCHIONESS.
of the bedchamber, tricked out in all the gewgaws
of frivolity!
THE CHEVALIER. A wife so beautiful and so worthy of better homage. To wander out of one's road
in gayety of heart, when one has such a travelling
companion! It was well enough twenty years ago,
when the angels of the chapels were merely superannuated Cupids. Now-a-days we must leave to the
vulgar the last echoes of the regency.  Dubarry
wears 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, 0
philosopher of the side scenes? Is there a love-fast
and vigil to-day? Are you going to marry? Are
you at work on the Encyclopedia?
THE CHEVALIER. All this is ill-timed; I wish to
prevent you....
THE MARQUIS. And I am innocent enough to stop
for your trifling talk.
THE CHEVALIER (still holding on to him). Once
for all, you shall not proceed further in your wicked
action. If you persist, I will call madame de Vermand.
THE MARQUIS. How violent he is! The poor girl
will catch cold down there.
THE CHEVALIER. No matter for that, I shall go
and tell her. Where is she? I understand such
matters. The name is nothing — ermand or Ver



SCENE TWELFTH.            355
sac, it is no matter at the present time which of the
two. But what sort of virtue has the lady?
THE MARQUIS. All virtues are equal in the nighttime.
THE CHEVALIER. In what chapter are you with her?
THE MARQUIS. In the first; but the romance does
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!
TIE CHEVALIER.   Do you want smelling-salts?
will there be any fainting? Where is the rendezvous? at a window? Must you take a ladder?
THE MARQUIS (talking to himself). The mist disappears; yes, reason returns to me. Why 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 gently Marianne, for it is she. A 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 de
Pompadour has founded the dynasty of the petticoats.
THE MARQUIS. Hold! I should decidedly prefer
to conduct my own affairs myself.




356     THE WHIMS OF THE MARCHIONESS.
THE CHEVALIER (darting toward the hedge). I am
your attorney.  (A struggle between the marquis
and the chevalier, in which the latter gains the advantage. It grows darker.)
SCENE XIII.
THE MARQUIS, afterward MARIANNE. In truth I am
shockingly stupid. Come, come, my heart, be calm;
your time is past, marriage has breathed over you.
The prettiest girl in the world! 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 powdering, 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 devil's music for?
MARIANNE (counterfeiting the voice of the marchioness). For you, monsieur.
THE MARQUIS (aside). By-the-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. (Te calls.) Zulme! Zulme,
go down to the edge of the fishpond; some one is
waiting for you under the hedge.




SCENE FOURTEENTH.           357
MARIANNE (somewhat indignant, aside). I don't
understand it at all. So, this is the way he keeps
the appointment I granted him.
THE MARQUIS. Marchioness, do you know where
the chevalier is?
MARIANNE (slippt)ing aside in the dark). He will
not come this evening.
THE MARQUIS. Where are you flying to, my turtledove?  (He purszues ifarianne wit holt catching
her.)
MARIANNE (aside). All this turns out so well, that
here I am, caught at the rendezvous. Poor Nicolas!
THE MARQUIS. It is astonishing how I love you
to-night, rnarchioness!
MARIANNE. I am sorry for it; since you have waited until to-night, you can well wait until to-morrow.
THE MARQUIS. I never loved you so much, my
dove. But you are taking flight. (Mclarianne enters
the pavilion; the marquis fancies that he is pursuing her through the park.)
SCENE XIV.
NICOLAS (appears straddling on the wall). The
devil? A man is not at ease on horseback 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




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!Who will tell me what a woman is? A bush of
thorns which entices us by its flowers, and the more
one plucks, the more one is pricked. (Feeling a
thorn.) Ah! are there women, then, at my feet?
I certainly hear a noise. (He listens.) They are
speaking softly.
SCENE XV.
THE CHEVALIER and the MARCHIONESS enter; 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 certainly the chevalier; there is no use of his counterfeiting 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 recognise her I am a fool; since she wishes to pass for
Marianne, let us take her for Marianne. (Aloud.)
In fine, my pretty Norman, let us return to our start



SCENE FIFTEENTH.           359
ing-point. Since you have made an appointment
with me at the hedge, it is not right to repulse me.
Where do you get this savage virtue? it is only fit
for fools (he tries to seize her, she escapes) and for
great ladies who think that they owe it to their ancestors; but between us philosophers who have no
longer any prejudices, and ladies' maids who never
had any, virtue is an ill-cut garment which injures
the shape. (He catches hold of the marchioness.)
NICOLAS. Well! is he going to lay hands upon
that garment?
THE MARCHIONESS. How have you the heart, monsieur, to leave madame the marchioness for me?
THE CHIEVALIER. She is my wife, Marianne; what
would you have me say to my wife?
THE MkARCHIONESS. And what if she were not your
wife?
THE CIEVALIER. That is not the present question.
She is handsome, but you are a thousand times still
more beautiful.
THE MARCHIONESS. The insolent fellow!  (She
gives the chevalier a good slap.)
TIHE CHEVALIER (aside). The deuce! That was the
slap of a woman of thirty. —(Aloud.) That was a
shot; but in love as in war. Ah! but why this violent caress? What have I done, or what have I not
done?
THE MARCHIONESS (aside).  It is because I am
jealous of myself.




360     THE WHIMS OF THE MARCHIONESS.
NICOLAS. I am here at the play: I see very well
that I shall be obliged to take a part.
THE CHEVALIER. 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 savage virtue.
THE MARCHIONESS. A kiss taken and given! It
seems that you are learned in these matters.(Aside.) A kiss? in reality, it is the only pledge
which I desire of the affection I entertain for him.
A single one; let us go no farther! But why not
grant him that?
THE CHEVALIER. What the mischief are you dreaming about?
THE MARCHIONESS. I am consulting my heart.
THE CHEVALIER. Well, what does your heart say
about it? Take care! it is a Norman.
NICOLAS. That is just what I was going to say.
THE MARCIIIONESS. Well, monsieur, 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.  Provided that there are two
kisses, I swear.
THE MARCHIONESS. It is not worth the trouble.
These are my conditions (slowly and in a tremulous voice).  You will take the first, thinkingmark it well! thinking-of madame the marchion



SCENE FIIFTEENTI.          361
ess. (A 2pcse.) The other you will take thinking
of whoever you please-of me, for example.
THE CHEVALIER. With all my heart! (Saying
this, he leans toward the marchioness and tenderly
embraces her.)  That is what I call plucking a
rose.
THE MARCIIIONESS. That poor madame the marchioness!
NICOLAS. This is passing the limits; but I will
wait a second. (Ile descends to the park and approaches slowly.)
THE MARCHIIONESS. Did you really think of madame the marchioness?
TIHE CHEVALIER. As much as if I had embraced
her herself.
THE MACIIIONESSS (aside). 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 superannuated arrows; and that is my son asleep in
his cradle.
TIlE CTIEVALIE  (aside). 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 will be no longer his, and will
VOLt..-16




362      THE WHIMS OF THE MARCHIONESS.
not be mine! By-the-by, I have the right to begin
again. And this time, as it is Marianne whom I
embrace, it must be in my arms.
THE MARCHIONESS.   Come, let all be said and
done! (The chevalier opens his arms to clasp the
marchioness; but, at that moment, Nicolas rushes
up and seizes madame de Vermaud, who gives a
shriek.)
NICoLAS. Ah, you rogue you! is that the way you
keep appointments!-Well, I love you, I pardon
you, and I will carry you off. (lie gives the mar-.hioness a vigorous hug.)   Now   for you.  (He
threatens the chevalier, at the same time breaking
off a stick.  The chevalier and the marchioness
withdraw on one side.)
SCENE XVI.
ALL TIIE CHARACTERS.
(The marquis enters surprised at hearing Nicolas's voice. The chevalier 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. Who is this clown after.
NICOLAS. Good! I have found him again. (He
seizes the marquis, whom he takesfor the chevalier,
and beats him.)
THE CHEVALIER Capital! The marquis ought to
be satisfied now.




SCENE SIXTEENTH.           363
MARIANNE (running up with a candle at the cries
of the marquis. She throws herself on Nicolas
and disarms him.) Nicolas, you don't know what
you are... saying.
THE MARQUIS. A singular style of expressing
one's self! You villain, I will have you hung!
NICOLAS. So there are two Mariannes here 
MARIANNE (pointing to herself). Here is the
real one.
THE CHEVALIER (in a pompous tone). You see,
marquis, under the control of healthy doctrines, in
the presence of the grave duties which the social
law imposes on you, it does not become the 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 understand you, but you are right.-Whims? the marchioness has so many, that I thought she might pass
over in me a little....
NICOLAS. He is not dainty-mouthed!
THE MARCHIONESS. You see that your whims
are still more dangerous to yourself than mine
would be.
THE CHEVALIER (to the marchioness). And ours,
marchioness?
THE MARCHIONESS. Ours, chevalier? Let us speak
no more about it, for a whim which lasts is likely to
become a passion. The great passions are rare. -I




364     THE WHIMS OF TIIE MARCHIONESS.
do not believe in them-except ours, marquis, for
you are corrected - are you not?-effectually.
TIHE MARQUIS. I have at least had a caution!
TIE MARCHIONESS. The hero of the piece is Nicolas-I feel all rumpled yet.
MARIANNE (indignant). All rumpled!
TIE MARCHIONESS. Nicolas, I wish to go to your
wedding.
NICOLAS. Marianne says that she does not wish
to marry.
THE MARCIIIONESS. Don't believe a word of it.
In love, when a woman says "" Ido not wish to,"
she no longer knows what she says.




A ROMANCE ON
THE BANKS OF TIIE             LIGNON.
I.
IN 1672, Madame Deshoulieres, al ready surnamed
the tenth ltMuse, quitted with her two daughters, the
flowery neads of the banks of the Seine, to go, as
she herself said, to rejoin Monsieur Desloulieres.
Monsieur Deshoulieres was in Guienne, superintending the fortifications under the orders of Louvois;
Madame Deshoulieres went to Dauphine. Thus for
three fine years they made a pleasant family.  Madame 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
for 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




366        THE BANKS OF THE LIGNON.
their mother; they believed in all the poetry with
which bucolic 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 chateau of Madame d'Urtis. The season though somewhat rainy,
had superb mornings. Therefore our travellers rose
early to trample the grass, yet tremulous with the
steps of Astrsea, that limpid stream, the mirror of the
shepherdess, those thickets still resounding with the
complaints of Celadon. During one of the first
promenades, Madeleine Deshoulieres, impatient to
see one of the idyls versified by her mother, asked
ingenuously if they would not meet a single shepherd on the banks of the Lignon. Madame Deshoulieres had but a moment previous spied a peasant
and a cow-girl, who were playing at the diverting
game of pied de lcauf; she endeavored to describe
this pretty picture: therefore she replied to Madeleine in verse.
" They are perfectly right, in saying that the pictures 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.




ROMANCE AND REALITY.         367
The shepherd was a fair match for the shepherdess;
there was, however, upon his round face, an indefinable expression of naivete and happiness, the expansive stupidity so delightful to Parisian eyes.
Madame Deshoulieres, who always saw through the
prism of Honore D'Urf6, 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 evening, 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 Providence 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 chagrin, " I shall not see the pretty lambs bleating and
bounding on the banks of the Lignon? O Celadon, what will thy shade say?"
In her capacity of bucolic poetess, Madame Deshoulieres took good care not to look or listen. She




368        THE BANKS OF THE LIGNON.
saw only the loves of Astraea, she heard only the
songs of the old romance.
On their return to the chateau, Madeleine and
B]ribri complained, that they had seen neither flock
nor shepherdess.
" Do you care for those things?" said M/adame
d'Urtis smiling.
Much," said 3Bribri; " we hoped to live here the
life of shepherdesses; I have brought a full rustic
equipment."
As for me,"' said Madeleine, " 1 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 themselves in a coquettish dress," wrote Madame Deshoulieres to Mascaron, " they cut themselves a crook
in the park, and adorned it with ribands. Madeleine was for the blue riband, Bribri for the rose-colored. Oh! what pretty little shepherdesses! They
spent more than an hour, in finding a name to suit
them; at last, Madeleine was for Amaranthe, Bribri
for Daplhne. It is a new baptism, in which they dis




SIIEI'HERDESSES 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, Madeleine 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 chateau d'Urtis. The
flock which was very hungry that day, was very capricious 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 bursts of laughter, bleatings and songs. Happy
girls! 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 waters of the Lignon, they gathered the primroses by the handful. The flock lost nothing by this;
from time to time the cunningest sheep, seeing himself guarded by such frolicksome shepherdesses, willingly devoted himself to some corn in the neighborhood.
" 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:
Meliboces, Jeannot, Robin, Blanchette, and so
on.
16*




370        TIlE BANKS OF THE LIGNON.
At sunset, the shepherdesses brought back their
little flock, passing by the stream on their way; Madame Deshoulieres wept with joy.
" Al! my dear girls," she said to them, as she
kissed them upon the forehead, "it 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 chateau d'Urtis, the old manorhouse of Langevy raised its pointed turrets above
the surrounding groves. There M1. de Langevy, his
old mother, and his young son, lived in great retirement from 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 Langevy, had studied with the Jesuits of Lyons, until the
age of eighteen; but accustomed to his grandmother's fondness, he had returned three or four years
since, resolved to live with his family, careless of the
warlike glories that had excited the ambition of his
father. M. de Langevy, while lie condemned this




A MIGHTY HUNTER.           371
mode of life, which he thought unsuited to youth,
left Hector free; he only obliged him to hunt, wishing, as he said, that his descendant should not lose
all the prerogatives of war. Hunting afforded little
amusement to I-ector; though it might have done
so, if he could have hunted without that heavy gun
of his grandfather's, which fiightened him, but did
not fiighten 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 that Hector lost his time: he wandered
in bright and smiling dreams, he already 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 delight than in intoxication, flits like the 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 housekeeper, past her prime, and a chubby-cheeked servant-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 the meantime, he
walked about with his gun upon his shoulder, happy
in his hopes, happy in the spring-time, happy on ac



372        Til BANKS OF THE LIGNON.
count of nothing, as the poor creatures of God are in
some bright cays of youth.
You guess what happened. One day that he was
walking slowly along, according to his custom, lost
in his imaginary world, he came near falling into the
Lignon. As he always went straight forward, withl
out regarding the hedges and the fences, he founn
himself upon the edge of the stream, with his foot
raised, in tie act of advancing.  He remained thus
in great confusion, with his mouth open, for some
seconds. On the other side of the Lignon, in the
fields belonging to the chateau d'Urtis, he had suddenly seen, as if by enchantment, our two charming
shepherdesses, who were looking at him out of the
corners of their eyes. IHe blushed up to his ears,
while he asked himself, whether he ought to advance
or retreat. To depart, would be awkward; yet he
could not throw himself into the water, in order to
save his honor; 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 the sheep feeding. At twenty, love comes
as swiftly as an arrow; Hector suddenly felt that he
was desperately in love with one of the shepherdesses. Ile did not know which, but what did
that matter — he was in love. If he had been twenty
years older, he would have adored them both at
once; it would have been almost as wise.




TWO SIDES OF A STREAM.        373
Amaranthe and Daphne, however, had blushed in
their turn; they hung their heads languishingly and
said nothing further. At last, Amaranthe, the most
fiolicsome and lively, resumed her prattle and her
gayety.
" Do you see, B3ribri, or rather Daphne? it is a
fabulous god; it is Narcissus looking at his image."
" Say rather that it is your 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 lie has been there for
nearly an hour; he will take root like the hainadryads."
"Poor fellow!" murmured Daphne artlessly, " ie
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."




37-i      TTHE BANKS OF THlE LIGNON.
I hope that he will at last find a bridge to cross
the stream of love."
Now, at that moment, more than ever, Hector
was thinking of crossing the stream of love; he inhaled, with a charm until then unknown, the intoxicating 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 season, the stream was rather deep. At last he clambered up the trunk, reached the end of an inclining
branch, and landed safely in the meadow of the chateau 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 shepherdess Daphne, and the shepherdess Amaranthe."
Hector, who had a compliment on his lips for the




NIMROD 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 Amaranthe 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," continued 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 yourselves are princesses or
fairies."
"We are simply shepherdesses," replied Amaranthe.




3'76'THE BANKS OF THE LIGNON.
"You are simply beautiful ladies from 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
slhall see you appear through the trees like enchantresses."
" 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
have then good reason to complain of the world."
"That is our secret, monsieur hunter. 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 shepherdesses. Since I have met you, I will plunge deeper
into my joyful reveries. Ah! 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:"1Our 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,




THE CAPTURED HUNTER.         377
rendered somewhat uneasy by the sudden 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 Daphne, with emotion.
IIector dared not follow them; he remained for
more than a quarter of an hour standing in the field,
with his eye fixed first upon them, and then upon
the gate of the park d'Urtis. His heart was beating
violently, his whole soul was flying after the shepherdesses.  "' 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 eyes! 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 feet! 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




378        THE BANKS OF THE LIGNON.
the bottom of the valley, the young herdsman mingled his clear voice in the rural concert; the frogs
sent forth their melancholy strains on the banks of
the Lignon, which were sweetly telling, beneath the
mysterious reeds, of the plaints of Celadon and sighs
of Astraea. It was all songs, murmurs, perfumes,
and amorous hymns. Hector had not room enough
in his heart for all these joys of nature. " To-morrow," 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 toward
the gate of the park d'Urtis, hoping to see the graceful 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 Amaranthe. Daphne did not laugh.
As she passed the gate, she cast a side glance toward the stream: "As I guessed," she murmured,
I"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,




TWO TOO MANY.             379
Amaranthe 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  Nevertheless he stood his ground, he awaited them with
firmness, and saluted the ladies like a resolute youth.
They returned him three graceful salutations; Daphne alone passed on without bowing, which seemed
to him to augur well. Not knowing very well how
to commence the conversation, and as he was, besides, 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 chateau."
" I will go whenever you wish," said Hector precipitately.




380        THE BANKS OF 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 lamnb, 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 surprise, Madame Deshouli6res and IHector talking together like old friends, while AMadame 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 -Iector
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 dangerous, 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




CUPID'S LE:TrTE-BAG.          381
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 vulgar note
in prose, as you may see:"TO THE SHEPHERDESS DAPHNE.
"The fairest day of all the May
Was yet the happiest 1 have known;
What hopes I cherished on that dayThe brightest of the month of May!'Twas then you stole my heart away:
If you that heart will deign to own,
The fairest day of all the May
Will be the happiest I 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 woman's most charming rag-basket, as Bonfflers 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 beholding the forms of Madame Deshoulirees 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 your




382         THE BANKS OF THE LIGNON.
wandering sheep! Monsieur de Langevy, you who
have given her a crook, lead her back to her sheep.
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 Astrea loved,
And, all his soul by grief undone,
Along its borders roved."
Madame Deshoulieres was not severe in regard to
love, provided, however, that love had all the externals of gallantry and delicacy, as at the h6tel Rambouillet; 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 present. 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 Deshoulieres, was, as has been seen, pretty, artless, and
tender; pretty, with a character of unspeakable gentleness 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




BETTER THAN LOVE.           383
about her at the first glance, was a light veil of sadness, a fatal presentiment which rendered her still
more touching. Her sister was prettier perhaps, she
had more full-blown roses in her cheeks, more seductive 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 heart, Daphne
triumphed. Thus Hector, in his amorous transport,
had at first seen only Amaranthe, and yet when
once at a distance from the two sisters, he chiefly
thought of Daphne.
IV.
THE bell of the chateau announced the luncheon;
Hector offered his arm to Madame Deshoulieres,
Daphne called her sheep, and they returned through
the park, where they met Madame d'Urtis and Amaranthe. The collation was to the taste of every one,
both by its gayety and by its viands. First course:
an omelet au jambon; entree: cakes and fresh butter; second course: a magnificent cream cheese;
dessert: meringues and sweetmeats. I take all these
details from the correspondence of Madame Deshoulieres; 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,




384        THE BANKS OF THE LIGNON.
without moonlight and over cross-roads, still broken
up 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. IHe 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 tender Daphne had surrounded with her pretty arms
the trunk of a young willow, which held her gracefully 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 surprised as if she had
started fiom a dream.
"Are you alone?" said Hector, coming up to
her.
Slie hastened to reply, that her sister was coming
to join her. The two lovers kept silence for some
seconds, casting side-glances at each other, and not




THE SHEEP AND THE LOVER.        385
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 received 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 Deshoulieres will come for you by-and-by."
" By-and-by! 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 passionately, 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
to be kissed, without thinking of defending herself.
" Alas! I can not always keep the sheep. What
will become of the poor shepherdess?"
"Am I not your shepherd? am I not Daphnis?"
VOL. 1.-1




386       THE BANKS OF THE LIGNON.
said Hector with greater ardor; " confide in me, in
my heart, in my soul. This hand shall never quit
yours; we will live the same life, under the same
sunshine, and the same cloud, in the desert or in a
palace. Buit with you, will not the poorest hut be a
palace?  Listen, my dear Daphne; there is a cottage half a league from here, the Chaumiere-desYignes, 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 ashtrees where she had stopped; he spoke of love with
passion, he supplicated with tears; he was so eloquent, 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:"1 Yes, I confide in you and Heaven. Let what
will happen; but is it my fault if I love you?"
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 herdsman was driving home the cows and the turkeys
whose gobble disturbed the harmony of the grove.
The sheep of the chateau were gradually taking their
way to the brook.
"See," said Daphne, as she parted her disordered




THE WOMAN PEEPS OUT.         387
hair from her brow; "see my poor sheep pointing
out to me the road to follow."
" On the contrary," said Hector, " the ungrateful
animals are departing peaceably without you."
"But I am   afraid! 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 her notice,
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 herself 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 depravity.
"Yes, yes," replied Hector, "you will write to
Madame Deshoulieres, 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 floating grass. 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 heart. Nevertheless she crossed. But




388         THE BANKS OF THE I.IGNON.
let those women who have not crossed, cast the first
stone at her.
After half an hour's walk, often interrupted by a
glance or a kiss, they arrived at the Chaumiere-desVignes. The good old woman was weeding out the
peas in her garden; she had intrusted the care of her
house to a large gray cat, who was asleep in the doorway. 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 through an enclosure, planted
with some magnificent vines, twined about the trunk
of the pear-tree, and the branches of the elm. The
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 pressing 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 morning
when you wake. Look down there at that green arbor: 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 you




LOVE AND A COTTAGE.          389
with its primitive simplicity, while offering you a,
stool. Daphne at first felt somewhat strange upon
those bare flag-stones, as she inhaled the rustic odor
of the hearth 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 garden, was much surprised at the sight of Hector and
Daphne.
" 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 washtub and the hedge."
" What would you have?" replied Hector, " all
the luxury is without, and it is Providence that defrays the expense of it."
"You will sup with me, my handsome lady,"
added the old woman; " my dishes are pewter, but




390       THE BANKS OF THE 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. Hectorbid Daphne an affectionate farewell, kissed her hand twenty times, and
departed, promising to return the next day at sunrise.
V.
DAPHNE 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 morning-bird, who was trying his notes, and
skipping fiom branch to branch, her hostess's cock
who was noisily crowing over yesterday's conquests,
she regained a little serenity in her heart; her youthful 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:
Daphne was only at the beginning of the road.
As she gayly drove from her mind the evil dreams
of the night, she suddenly caught sight of Hector in
the hedge of vines and hawthorns.
"You 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.




ROMANCE OF PEASANT LIFE.        391
She looked at herself absently and seeing that she
was only half-clad, she threw herself 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 Deshoulieres, 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 return 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 little
chamber. Daphne herself had prepared the honey,
the fiuits 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 the
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 one in the
field, he approached the park, pushed the gate open
and followed the main walk as far as the garden




392       THE BANKS OF THE LIGNON.
steps. Madame Deshoulieres perceived him, and
hastened to meet him.
" My daughter, sir," she said in great agitation;
"have you not seen my daughter?"
"I hoped to see her here,' replied Hector with
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! and I must depart 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 himself, that he was a youth who gave promise of success in the manceuvres 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 came 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
morning with the sound of the bagpipes; he should




A RIPPLE ON THE STREAM.       393
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-chamber 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
oftener!"
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 beautiful and fragrant hedge! To-morrow there will be a
bank of turf for us to sit upon. But what is the matter 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 




394       THE BANKS OF THE LIGNON.
Langevy. His cousin, Clotilde had arrived with a
great aunt, to pass the whole spring there. M. de
Langevy, 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 Langevy, the last of his name, and heir of a slender patrimony, must hasten, by all fair means, to marry the
said cousin at his own proper risk 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 charming 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 without going to the Chaumiere-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 suffering heart.
From the chateau de Langevy, the shortest road
to the Lignon led directly toward the Chaumiere-desVignes: Hector took good care not to take the




AN AWKWARD POSITION.           395
shortest road; he made a detour of more than half a
league, and led his cousin toward the end of Madame
d'Urtis' field. While Clotilde was bending tlie 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 Clotilde, 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 willow. 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 agotwo 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 kiss that Hector gave Clotilde,
she broke her crook with a noble burst 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




396        THE BANKS OF THE LIGNON.
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 shepherdess, 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 you 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 you, 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 opposite to this affecting picture.
"Well! cousin," she cried to Hector; " must I
return all alone to the chateau?"
" 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 shepherdess-scene, is a most agreeable surprise? T shall set




A PARTING.              397
it down to your account. You did not promise me
this upon the banks of the Lignon. Tell me, cousin,
is it the last chapter of Astree?"
" 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 tears 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 2"
" 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 Chaumiere-des-Vignes more in
love than ever."
"Farewell then," mnrrnurre Daphne in a faint




398        THE BANKS OF THE LIGNON.
voice.'Farewell!!" she added, as she saw Hector
depart; " farewell! as for me, in two hours, I shall
no longer be at the Chaumiere-des-Vignes."
VI.
SHE returned to old Babet's cottage. When she
saw again her little chamber, which she had taken
so much trouble and so much pleasure in adorning
with flowers 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 love, " 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 tears? 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,




ALMOST A tEALITY.           399
with the earnest ardor of hopeful youth.  Before
quitting Paris, she had dreamed that during her
travels, she would meet some evening in the country,
in the neighborhood of a chateau, some young gentleman, who would love her passionately. This dream
cherished at Paris, had been almost realized in Le
Forez. Hector was indeed he whom her heart expected; even better, for the dream had been improved 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 during their walk, they
did not dare to speak to each other of the scene in
the field. Hector augured well from his cousin's
silence; he hoped she would not say a word about his
secret love at the chateau. Vain hope! As soon as
she found an opportunity, the secret was spread
abroad. In the evening, M. de Langevy, seeing her
more thoughtful than usual, asked her if she had any
cause of sorrow.
" Nothing 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?"




400        THE BANKS OF THE LIGNON.
" He has returned on the pilgrimage."
"What the devil is he going to do down
there?"
" He doubtless has his reasons."
"Truly! Come, niece, do you know anything
about it?"
" Nothing whatever, uncle, only......
" Only? Come, tell me all."
" I tell you uncle, I know nothing, but I saw Monsieur Hector's shepherdess."
" His shepherdess! you are laughing at me, Clotilde. Do you believe in shepherdesses.?"
"Yes, uncle, for I saw Monsieur Hector's shepherdess fall down in a swoon, on the bank of the
stream."
" Zounds! a shepherdess! Hector smitten by a
shepherdess!"
" 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 be
amusing. Let some one bring me my game-bag and
gun immediately. Do you believe, my good Clotilde, that that devil of a lad has returned to his
shepherdess?"
"Yes, uncle."
"Has that shepherdess any sheep?"
" No, uncle."
" The devil! the devil! that is still more dangerous. Did you follow the osier path?"




PAPA ON THE TRACK.           401
"Yes, uncle, but I fancy that the happy shepherdess is nearer the village."
" Very well, I hope to see them presently."
M. de Langevy departed murmuring: " Silk skirts,
satin waists! Ah! my son, I should like to know
where you get the money, to dress your shepherdesses
in that style."
The old baron went directly to the Chaumiere-desVignes, hoping that Babet might give him some information in regard to Hector's prowess. He found
the old woman in the doorway reposing from the fatigues of the day.
" Well, Babet, what news at your place?" said the
old baron in a gentle voice.
" Nothing new," said the old woman, about to rise
out of respect for her visiter.
Sit still, sit still, Babet," said M. de 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
pigeons. Tell me, Babet, have you seen my son this
week 2"
"I see him often, baron; he comes to hunt in my
close."
" Ah ha! Does he appear to have good sport?"
"To-day, I received a magnificent hare from him,




402        THE 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 fiankly: 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 yourself, there is no great harm in all that;
it is a mere piece of childishness. But tell me something of this girl."
"Ah! baron," exclaimed poor Babet, 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 I conceal it fiom you? Yes, baron,
they are up stairs, loving each other like true children
of kind Heaven. You can go up, for theirs is a love
that never shuts the door."




AN INOPPORTUNE ARRIVAL.        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 leaning upon each other, the one weeping, the other consoling her. The old soldier was almost moved by
the scene, but reason regained the upper hand.' Wondrous well!" 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 bitterly.
Daphne, who had freed herself from his arms, had
fallen fainting upon a chair.
"Father," added Hector darting toward Daphne,' you see that your place is not here."
" Nor yours either, sir," said the baron angrily.
" What is the meaning of this silliness? You will return to the chateau 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 again, sir," said the exasperated baron,
" consider what you are doing."
"I do consider," murmured Hector, raising the
poor girl in his arms. " The chateau shall be closed
to me for ever, if you wish it."




404       THE BANKS OF THE LIGNON.
" Come, sir, none of your vaporing; do you return
with me, or do you remain here?"
"Listen, father; I will follow you on account of
the respect I bear you, but I must tell you that I love
Mademoiselle Deshoulieres, with all the power of my
heart; between her and me, it is an affair of life and
death."
" Deshoulieres, Deshoulieres -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 a"
Repelled by Daphne, who begged him to depart,
Hector followed his father in silence, hoping to soften
him, and that he would soon be able to love Daphne,
with full liberty of heart and mind. M. de Langevy
bowed to the young lady, wished a good appetite to
the old woman as he passed out of the cottage, and
went upon his way, lecturing his son upon his extravagant 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 tear
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,




END OF THE PASTORAL.         405
sadly 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 descended 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."
As she pronounced these last words, the poor girl
turned pale and trembled.
She departed, and took the road to the chateau
d'Urtis. When she reached the field, her eves
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 perfume of happiness which was bitter to Daphne. She
fell upon her knees, and prayed to God, while she
pressed the crook to her heart.




406        THE BANKS OF THE LIGNON.
VII.
SHE did not find her mother at the chateau, but
Madame d'Urtis received her with great joy.
"Well, my lost white sheep, have you returned
then to the fold?"
" Alas!" said the poor girl, " yes, I have returned,
but more lost than ever; I departed with the wildest
and gayest hopes, and I return all alone. Look, my
crook is again broken, but this time Hector will not
return to cut me another."
Shle confided all to Madame d'Urtis.
On his return to the chateau de Langevy, in the
presence of his father and Clotilde, Hector remained
faithful to his heart. He told all that had happened
with the ardent enthusiasm of love; Clotilde herself
was softened. She entreated M. de Langevy on behalf of Hector.
" Come, uncle, it is all of no use, passions are not
destroyed by combating them, as my grandmother
used to say."
"Passions 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."




LOVE AND WAR.             407
"Come, Clotilde, I see you are as unreasonable as
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, HIector
will have changed the object of his adoration; you
know it very well-you have not such pretty eyes
in vain."
" Uncle, be 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 with you any
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. You have opened the road to me, and would
I not be worthily guided by that brave M. Deshoulieres, whom Louvois honors with his friendship?"
M. de Langevy ended by saying that he would reflect upon the matter, which was saying much in favor of the lover.
The next day at daybreak, Hector was at the
Chalnmiere-des-Vignes.
"Well," said the old woman as she opened the
door to him, " she has gone, the dear girl."
door to him,  D 




408        THE BANKS OF THE LIGNON.
" Gone! and you let her go! But where shall I
find her?"
He ran to the chateau d'Urtis. As he reached the
door, he saw, with a sad presentiment, a carriage
flying down the road. He rang the bell with an
agitated hand. An old servant conducted him to
Madame d'Urtis, who, contrary to her wont, appeared to him sad.
" Ah! 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
this world; she has set out with my maid for the
convent of the Val-Chretien."
" Gone!" exclaimed Hector, quite overcome.
"SShe has left me her farewell for you, in this
letter."
Madame 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




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'Urtis, 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-morrow? As I wrote to you, we have begun a brigLt
dream, let us not spoil it by an unhappy end. Let
VOL. I.-18




410       TIE BANKS OF THE LIGNON.
that dream preserve all its freshness, all its fragrance
of the month of May, all its vernal charm. Our
crooks are broken, two of our sheep have already
been killed, and since yesterday, they have been cutting 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 embraced 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 h6tel
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
person, 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 guardsman. 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 amours,
upon the banks of the Lignon. The last shepherd is
dead, gentlemen, we must go to his funeral."




THE REMAINS OF THE PASTORAL.     411
"And Bribri Deshoulieres, 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
found a crook attached to her hair-cloth shirt."
END OF VOL. I.








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scholars. and one of the most finished writers of the day, and this production is but the
frolic of his genius in play-time'"-Courier and Enquirer.
" We do not know to whom belongs this nom de plume, but he is certainly a humecrist
of no comm(an uowrr."-Providence Journal.




REDFIELD'S NEW       AND   POPULAR     PUBLICATIONS.
POETICAL WORKS OF FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.
New and only Complete Edition, containing several New Poems,
together with many now first collected. One vol., 12mo., price
one dollar.
"Hallecl is one of the brightest stars in our American literature, and his name is
Ike a household word wherever the English language is spoken."-Albany Express.
"There are few poems to be found, in any language, that surpass, in beauty of
thought and structure, some of these."-Boston Commonwealth.
" To the numerous admirers of Mr. Halleck, this will be a welcome book; for it is a
characteristic desire in human nature to have the productions of our favorite authors
in an elegant and substantial form."-Christian Freeman.
" Mr. Halleck never appeared in a better dress, and few poets ever deserved a better
one." —Christian Intelligencer.
THE STUDY OF WORDS.
By Archdeacon R. C. TRENCI.            One vol., 12mo., price 75 cts.
"l e discourses in a truly learned and lively manner upon the original unity of lan.
guage, and the origin, derivation, and history of words, with their morality and separate spheres of meaning."-Eveninlg I- st
"' This is a noble tribute to the divin. faculty of speech. Popularly written, for use
as lectures, exact in its learning, and.oetic in its vision, it is a book at once for the
scholar and the general reader."-New Ibrk Evangelist.
"It is one of the most striking and original publications of the day, with nothing of
hardness, dullness, or dryness about it, but altogether fresh, lively, and entertaining."
-Boston Evening Trave!ier.
BRONCHITIS, AND KINDRED DISEASES.
In language adapted to common readers.         By W. W. HALL, I. D.
One vol., 12 mo, price $1.00Q
"It is written in a plain, direct, common-sense style, and is free from the quackery
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( It is full of hints on the nature of the vital organs, and does away with much super.
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~ This work gives some valuable instruction in regard to food and hygienic influences." —Nashs a Oasis.
KNIGHTS OF ENGLAND, FRANCE, AND SCOTLAND.
By H.ENRY WILLIAM        HERBERT.      One vol., 12mo., price $1.25.
4 They are partly the romance of history and partly fiction, forming, when blended,
portraitures, valuable from the correct drawing of the times they illustrate, and interest.
ing from their romance."-Albany Knickerbocker.
" They are spirit-stirring productions, which will be read and admired by all who
are pleased with historical tales written in a vigorous, bold, and dashing style."-Boston
Journal.
(These legends of love and chivalry contain some of the finest tales which the
graphic and powerful pen of Herbert has yet given to the lighter literature of the day."
-Detroit Free Press.




REDFIELDS NEW         AND   POPULAR     PUBLICATIONl
LYRA, AND OTHER POEMS.
By ALICE CAREY. In one volume, 12mo, cloth, price 75 cts.
" Whether poetry be defined as the rhythmical creation of beauty, as passion or elo
quence in harmonious numbers, or as thought and feeling manifested by processes of
the imagination, Alice Carey is incontestably and incomparably the first living American
poetess-fresh, indigenous, national-rich beyond precedent in suitable and sensuous imagery-of the finest and highest qualities of feeling, and such powers of creation as the
Almighty has seen fit to bestow but rarely or in far-separated countries."-Bost. Trans.
The genuine inspiration of poetic feeling,... replete with tenderness and beauty,
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country." —New York Journal of Commerce.
Alice Carey's book is full of beautiful thoughts; there is draught after draught of,
pure pleasure for the lover of sweet, tender fancies, and imagery which captivates
while it enforces truth." —New York Courier and Inquirer.
"',yra and other Poems,' just published by Redfield, attracts everywhere, a remarkable degree of attention. A dozen of the leading journals, and many eminent critics,
have pronounced the authoress the greatest poetess living."-New York Mirror.
LILLIAN, AND OTHER POEMS.
By WINTHROP MACKWORTH             PRAED.     Now    first Collected.   One
Volume 12mo. Price One Dollar.
" A timely publication is this volume. A more charming companion (in the shape of
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"They are amusing sketches, gay and sprightly in their character, exhibiting great
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" There is a brilliant play of fancy in' Lillian,' and a moving tenderness in' Josephine,'
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edition of his works."-Albany Express.
" As a writer of vers de societe he is pronounced to be without an equal among English authors."-Syracuse Daily Journal.
"T The author of this volume was one of the most fluent and versatile English poets that
have shone in the literary world within the last century. His versification is astonishIngly easy and airy, and his imagery not less wonderfully graceful and aerial."-Albany
State Register.
THE CAVALIERS OF ENGLAND;
Or, the Times of the Revolutions of 1642 and 1688. By HENRY
WILLIAM     HERBERT.      One vol., 12mo., price $1.25.
" They are graphic stories, and in the highest degree attractive to the imagination as
well as instructive, and can not fail to be popular."-Commercial.
" These tales are written in the popular author's best style, and give us a vivid and
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"His narrative is always full of great interest; his descriptive powers are of an uncommon order; the romance of history loses nothing at his hands; he paints with the
power, vigor, and effect of a master."-The Times.
" They bring the past days of old England vividly before the reader, and impress upon
the mind with indelible force, the living images of the puritans as well as the cavaliers,
whose earnest character and noble deeds lend such a lively interest to the legends of
the times in which they lived and fought, loved and hated, prayed and revelled."-N1-/
ark Daly.




CONTEMPORARY BIOGRAPHY.
MEN OF THE TIME,
OR SKETCHES OF LIVING NOTABLES,
AUTHORS           ENGINEERS           PHILANTHROPISTS
ARCHITECTS        JOURNALISTS         PREACHERS
ARTISTS           MINISTERS           SAVANS
COMPOSERS         MONARCHS            STATESMEN
DEMAGOGUES        NOVELISTS           TIAVELLERS
DIVINES           POLITICIANS         VOYAGERS
DRAMATISTS        POETS               WARRIORS
tn One Vol., 12mo, containit          nearly Nine Hundred Biographical SctclChes-PRICE $1.50.
"I am glad to learn that you ar:c pubiishing this work. It is precisely that kind of
Information that every public and intelligent man desires to see, especially in reference
to the distinguished men of Europe, but which I have found it extremely difficult to
obtain."-Extractfrom a Letter of the President of the United States to the publisher.' In its practical usefulness this work will supply a most important desideratum."Courier 4y Elq7nirer.
"It forms a valuable manual for reference, especially in the American department,
which we can not well do without; we commend it to the attention of our' reading
public.' "-Tribune.
"Just the book we have desired a hundred times, brief, statistical and biographical
sketches of men now living. in Europe and America."-New York Observer.
"It is a book of reference which every newspaper reader should have at his elbowas indispensable as a map or a dictionary-and from which the best-informed will derive instruction and pleasure."-Evangelist.
"This book therefore fills a place in literature; and once published, we do not seo
how any one could do without it." —Albany Express.
" It is evidently compiled with great care and labor, and every possible means seems
to have been used to secure the highest degree of correctness. It contains a great deal
of valuable information, and is admirable as a book of reference."-Albany Argus.
"' It is, to our notion, the most valuable collection of contemporary biographies yet
made in this or any other country. The author acknowledges that its compilation was
a'labor of care and responsibility.' We believe him, and we give him credit for hav
in, executed that labor after a fashion that will command general and lasting approval."-Sunzday Times, and Noah's Weekly Mlessenger.
" This is one of the most valuable works lately issued-valuable not only for general
reading and study, but as a book of reference. It is certainly the fullest collection of
contemporary Biographies yet miade in this country."-Troy Daily Times.
" This is emphatically a book worthy of the name, and will secure an extended popularity."-Detroit Daily Advertiser.
"A book of reference unequalled in either value or interest. It is indeed a grand supplement and appendix to the modern histories, to the reviews, to the daily newspapers
-a book which a man anxious to be regarded as intelligent and well-informed, can no
more do without than a churchman can do without his prayer book, a sailor his navigator, or a Wall street man his almanac and interest tables."-New York Day Book.
"The volume once known will be found indispensable, and will prove a constant
cource of information to readers at large." —N. Y. Reveille.; For a book of reference, this volume will recommend itself as an invaluable companion in the library, office, and studio."-Northern Budget.
"It is a living breathing epitome of the day, a directory to that wide phantasmagoria
we call the world." — Wall Street Jourlnal.
",We know of no more valuable book to authors, editors, statemen, and all who
would be'up with the time,' than this."-Spirit of the Times.
"' Men of all nations, creeds and parties, appear to be treated in a kindly spirit. The
work will be found a useful supplement to the ordinary biographical dictionaries."Commercial Advertiser.
" The value of such a work can scarcely be over-estimated. To the statesman and
philanthropist, as well as the scholar and business man, it will be found of great convenience as a reference book, and must soon be considered as indispensable to a library
a Webster's Dictionary."-Lockport Courier.