CHAPTER VIII

Barthélemy and Méry--M. Éliça Gallay--Méry the draught-player and anatomist--_L'Épître à Sidi Mahmoud_--The Ponthieu library--Soulé--_The Villéliade_--Barthélemy the printer--Méry the improvisator--The _Vœux de la nouvelle année_--The pastiche of _Lucrèce_

At the beginning of the preceding chapter we spoke of poets who were prophets; now let us say a little about poets who fought for their craft. And among these, the most undaunted and persevering were without doubt MM. Barthélemy and Méry, who did the roughest kind of work as sappers, and helped in the toughest assaults in the first line of fighters. Both were Marseillais, but they were hardly acquainted with one another in 1825. M. Méry had never left Marseilles and M. Barthélemy, having left it as a child, had scarcely ever been there again.

M. Barthélemy (whom, if we may, we will call simply Barthélemy for brevity) was educated at the college of Juilly and received there an excellent education in Greek and Latin; he had already composed at Marseilles, after the style of Mathurin Régnier, a satire which had been much talked of, though never printed, when he published an ode to Charles X. at the time of the coronation. It was lost sight of beneath the successes of more famous poetic rivals of the period, even before it became known, and Barthélemy saw his ode pass away unnoticed, although it contained some striking stanzas, among them this one addressed to Camoëns:--

"Et toi, chantre fameux des conquérants de l'Inde, Fier de ton indigence et des lauriers du Pinde, Tu nageais sur les flots de l'abîme irrité, Et du double trépas vainqueur digne d'envie, D'une main tu sauvais ta vie, De l'autre tu sauvais ton immortalité!"

Barthélemy had inherited a certain patrimony from his father, and he lived quietly in the hôtel _Grand-Balcon_ 11 rue Traversière. Méry had also made his début at the age of eighteen, and paid for it by eight months' imprisonment. His début took the form of a pamphlet against M. Éliça Gallay.

When, after twenty-five years have flown by, one stops to look back over one's past life, one is surprised to find how many men and events are completely forgotten that in their time occasioned much stir in the world, remembrance of them being obliterated as soon as equilibrium was restored. M. Éliça Gallay was Inspector of the University.

One day he arrived at Marseilles and gave his usual discourse at the royal college. In this speech was the phrase which follows; we give the sense of it if not exactly the actual words:--

"Messieurs, we are obliged to have two scales of weights and measures. When a pupil is loyal and religious anything can be forgiven him; but if he be a Liberal the greatest severity must be exercised towards him."

The use of these two scales of _weight_ and _measurement_ was much commented upon in the newspapers at the time, and it disgusted Méry to such an extent that he wrote a pamphlet, of a somewhat scathing nature, it would seem, against M. Éliça Gallay; and this pamphlet, as we have said, cost our author eight months' imprisonment. Méry had no means of livelihood in Marseilles, he hated a commercial life, he could write poetry with the greatest facility and he was an adept in the art of draughts-playing. He would not dream of a commercial life, he could not count on poetry, so he resolved to make use of the game which, played as he played it, became an art. Méry left for Paris with the intention of making a living as a draught-player. He was then twenty-one, and he lodged at Madame Caldairon's, 11 rue des Petits-Augustins, with Achille Vaulabelle, author of the _Deux Restaurations_, and began an existence divided between the study of geology under Cuvier and perfecting himself at draughts by playing with the best amateurs at the café _Manoury._ So he played draughts at the café _Manoury_ and studied geology at the Jardin des Plantes. By playing ten sous a game--never more--Méry managed for a year to make an income of ten francs per day. On the other hand, he never missed his lesson in comparative anatomy, and Cuvier had not a more assiduous pupil than he; showing him great friendliness, and predicting that he would make a name in geology. In other ways, too, matters shaped themselves wonderfully to the advantage of the future of our friend from Marseilles. Madame Caldairon, who worshipped him, wanted him to marry a young dressmaker who was very much in the fashion at that time, and whose business, one of the most flourishing in Paris, brought in from twenty-five to thirty thousand francs a year. The marriage was arranged, and Méry was gleefully looking forward to a rosy future, when his young fiancée caught a chill one cold February night in 1826, when she and Méry were obliged to walk across the pont des Arts, as they could not get a cab anywhere, either in the rue Jacob or on the Embankment. The chill developed into pneumonia, she died in three days and Méry was a widower before he had become a husband. He believed himself to be condemned to eternal lamentation; but draughts and geology are powerful consolations, and, without forgetting the poor dear girl, Méry yet found his mind free enough one day to say to Barthélemy--

"My dear fellow, a man who could write satires at the present time would have a fine chance of an opening in politics and in poetry."

"Have you an idea?" asked Barthélemy.

"Yes, certainly."

"What is it?"

"An epistle to Sidi Mahmoud."

You have forgotten who Sidi Mahmoud was, have you not? Well then, I will refresh your memory.

He was the envoy sent by our friend the Bey of Tunis--who was then on not quite such amicable terms with us as he is to-day--to congratulate Charles X. on his accession to the throne. Sidi Mahmoud was received in state on 5 May at the Foreign Office, by M. le Baron de Damas, surrounded by peers, deputies and general officers. When the usher announced the ambassador, everybody rose with the exception of M. de Damas, who, representing the King of France, remained seated and covered. M. de Damas saluted the ambassador with a wave of his hand, and signed to him to be seated. The ambassador then delivered his letters and sat down, and it was left to an Arabian interpreter to translate them. Paris, having nothing special at that moment with which to occupy its attention, gave itself wholly and entirely to Sidi Mahmoud: his thirty years, his fine dark face, his white dolman embroidered in sky-blue silk and fastened with gold hooks, the two shawls that formed his turban and the cashmir robe flung over his shoulder. Méry was perfectly right; Barthélemy saw at once, as he had, that the plan was excellent. Unfortunately he had to go to London.

"Compose your epistle alone," he said to Méry, "and on my return we will talk again about the satire."

Barthélemy left for London, and Méry composed his epistle. When the epistle was composed, the worst part of his task was not over, for the question now was how to get it published.

Méry took his epistle to Ponthieu, who declared that nobody was reading poetry then! Méry naturally retorted by pointing to the twenty editions of Casimir Delavigne, to the fifteen editions of Béranger, to the twelve editions of Lamartine, to the ten editions of Victor Hugo; at each name Méry uttered, Ponthieu said--

"Oh! M. Casimir Delavigne, that is a different matter! Oh! M. Béranger, that is a different matter! Oh! M. Victor Hugo, that is a different matter! Oh! M. Lamartine, that is a different matter!"

Or, to translate it into the language of a publisher--

"My dear sir, all those gentlemen of whom you remind me are celebrated and possess talent, while you have neither of these qualifications."

Méry beat a retreat, his epistle in his hand, feeling defeated, repulsed, routed.

He had heard of another printer named Bérand; but, unfortunately, this man held views, he was a supporter of the Government. Méry decided to show him his ode as a piece of poetry written in M. de Villèle's honour. The printer's business instincts would do the rest.

Méry had made no mistake. The printer read the epistle to Sidi Mahmoud, quite approved of it and offered to print it on condition he should repay his own costs out of the proceeds of the first copies sold. They printed two thousand copies, and the two thousand disappeared in less than a week.

Meanwhile, Barthélemy had returned from London. On reaching Paris, he heard of the success of the epistle, and, taking time by the forelock, he composed another epistle entitled _Adieux à Sidi Mahmoud_, which was almost as popular as the first. Méry and Barthélemy had at that time an intimate friend who was one of the leading powers on the _Nain jaune_. His name was Soulé, and he had just been sentenced to two months' imprisonment for an article on St. Domingo. Soulé had no inclination to spend his two months in prison, and, as he and Barthélemy happened to be very much alike in looks, sufficiently so for him to be able to use Barthélemy's passport, it was lent him; he set out for London, from London took passage to the United States, and he is to-day the foremost lawyer in New Orleans, where he is making an income of a hundred thousand francs per annum. Meanwhile, Méry was writing alone his epistle to M. de Villèle. These publications being in opposition to the Government, and full of satirical humour and the spirit of the hour, caught the public taste, and met with great success. Two more poets had now inscribed their names amongst those of the votaries of the poetic muse. And, as they were running on similar lines, they decided to combine and publish their works under the joint title of _Villéliade._ In the end it ran through fifteen editions. But when the _Villéliade_ was finished there still remained, as in the case of the _Épître à Sidi Mahmoud_, the great question as to what publisher would be bold enough to publish it. Publishers had three dangers to fear: fine, imprisonment or withdrawal of their licenses. The monarchy of 1826 did not treat such conduct as a trifling matter any more than does the Republic of 1852. Méry and Barthélemy went round to every publisher of their acquaintance offering their poem; one and all made as though they would accept it at first, but handed the MS. back after reading a verse or two, shook their heads and said--

"Let who will publish your poem, it certainly shall not be I!"

The two collaborators picked up their manuscript and went forth to make a fresh attempt on another publisher, with the same result. When they had exhausted the list of well-known publishing firms, they began to approach printers with whom they had had dealings. Printers were in the same situation as publishers, and were afraid of fine, imprisonment and the withdrawal of their licenses, just in the same way: they refused.

It is sad work to be left with five or six thousand lines of poetry on one's hands. And such lines! Lines which, a month later, the whole of France was to know by heart. Méry proposed to make a last attempt with a totally unknown printer. It was a desperate remedy, but desperate remedies sometimes save a patient's life. They opened the _almanack de la librairie_, to find the name of a printer which, from the succession of letters in his name, its signification, or its sound, might give some hope either to the eyes or the ears of the two poets. There was a printer called Auguste Barthélemy, who lived at No. 10 rue des Grands-Augustins. The name struck the two authors as auguring good luck to them. They took up their MS. and went to M. Barthélemy's. They found a tall young man, with an intelligent face, a firm but pleasing expression and an honest, kindly air about him. They laid their difficulties before him.

"Your work, then, is antagonistic to the Government?" he asked.

"Yes, monsieur."

"Is it very strong?"

"Too strong, it would seem."

"And there is risk in printing it?"

"So we are told."

"All right I will print your work and run the risk...."

The two poets both held out their hands to M. Barthélemy, who reciprocated their greeting.

Ten days later the _Villéliade_, for which he had advanced the cost of printing, paper, binding, etc., made its appearance, and, as we have said, ran through fifteen editions! This printer, who favoured the Opposition in the time of the Bourbons and also under Louis-Philippe, was our good and brave friend Auguste Barthélemy, since representative for Eure-et-Loir, both to the _Constituante_ and to the _Législative._ He was obliged to flee the country after 2 December, and he stayed five months in Brussels; now, having returned to France and having refused to take oath as _conseiller général_ he lives in his château of Lévéville, a league from Chartres. Let us hasten to state that it was not out of his savings as a printer that he bought this château; no, alas! his commercial loyalty, of which we have just had an instance, cost him, on the contrary, something like a hundred and fifty to two hundred thousand francs! That is the history of the _Villéliade._ I have only to add that in the notes to the Sixth Song of the _Énéide_ Barthélemy stated that the poem was written by Méry alone.

I did not know Barthélemy well; I scarcely met him more than once or twice in my life; but I knew Méry very well. He has been, he is and he always will be, probably, one of my closest friends. And I can easily count the number of these friends: I have had but two or three at the most; I might, perhaps, say four. You see, therefore, that, however small my house, even supposing I had a house, it would never be filled.

Nothing was stranger than the physical and moral differences between Méry and Barthélemy. Barthélemy was exceptionally tall, Méry of ordinary stature; Barthélemy was as cold as ice, while Méry was as hot as fire; Barthélemy was self-contained and quiet, Méry loquacious and as open as the day; Barthélemy lacked wit in conversation, while Méry poured forth a perfect cascade of smart sayings, a shower of sparks, a display of fireworks. Méry--and here I give up comparison--knew everything, or almost everything, it is possible for a man to know. He knew Greek like Plato, Rome like Vitruvius, India like Herodotus; he spoke Latin like Cicero, Italian like Dante, English like Lord Palmerston. Passionately fond of music, he was once arguing with Rossini, and he said to the composer of _Moses_ and _William Tell_--

"Stay! you need say no more, you know nothing whatever about music!"

"True enough," replied Rossini.

Even the most highly gifted of men have their good and their bad days, their moments of heaviness and of gaiety. Méry was never tired, Méry was never barren. When, by chance, he did not talk, it was not that he was resting, but simply because he was listening; it was never because he was tired, it was simply that he held his tongue. If you wanted Méry to hold forth, you had just to put a match to his wick and set him on fire, and off he would go. And if you let him have free play and did not interfere with him, no matter whether the conversation were upon ethics, or literature, or politics, or travels, on Socrates or M. Cousin, Homer or M. Viennet, Napoleon or the president, Herodotus or M. Cottu, you would have the most extraordinary improvisation you ever heard. Then--still more incredible!--added to all this, he never said anything slanderous, or bitter, or carping, about a friend! If Méry had but once held the tips of a man's fingers in his clasp, the rest of the body was sacred in his eyes. And, indeed, what is it that makes men wicked? Envy! But what is there for Méry to be envious about? He is as learned as Nodier; as much a poet as all the rest of us put together; he is as idle as Figaro, as witty as--as Méry; a very fine position, it seems to me, in the literary world. As for Méry's aptitude, it became proverbial. I will give two examples of it. One evening, it was 31 December, a group of us were discussing this facile gift, and some literary Saint Thomas, whose name I forget, called it in question. Méry retorted by suggesting that he should be supplied with a certain number of _bouts-rimés_, which he undertook to complete instantly. We set our heads together, and by a supreme effort of imagination we put together the following rhymes:--

"Choufleur, Trouble, Souffleur, Rouble.

Clairon, Dune, Perron, Lune.

Fusil, Coude, Grésil, Boude.

Nacarat, Conque, Baccarat, Quelconque.

Argo, Jongle, Camargo, Ongle."

In less time than it had taken us to find the rhymes Méry composed the following verses:--

VŒUX DE LA NOUVELLE ANNÉE

"A tous nos Curtius je souhaite un choufleur; A nos législateurs, des séances sans trouble; A l'acteur en défaut, un excellent souffleur; Aux Français en Russie, un grand dédain du rouble.

A Buloz, le retour de Mars et de Clairon; Aux marins, le bonheur de vivre sur la dune; A la Sainte-Chapelle, un gothique perron; A l'apôtre Journet, l'amitié de la lune.

Au soldat citoyen, l'abandon du fusil; A l'écrivain public, un coussin pour son coude; A moi, l'hiver sans froid, sans neige et sans grésil; Un soleil qui jamais dans un ciel gris ne boude.

Au Juif errant, un banc de velours nacarat; A l'Arabe au désert, des eaux à pleine conque; Au joueur, un essaim de neuf au baccarat; A l'homme qui s'ennuie, une douleur quelconque.

A Leverrier, un point dans le signe d' Argo; Au tigre du Bengale, un Anglais dans la jongle; Aux danseuses du jour, les pieds de Camargo; A l'auteur qu'on attaque, une griffe pour ongle!"

Another evening, at the house of Madame de Girardin there was a heated discussion on Ponsard's _Lucrèce._ The Academy, spiteful and driven to bay, was, just because of its malice, obliged to simulate some show of good feeling. So, although it was not acquainted with a single word of _Lucrèce_, the Academy puffed it up, praised it, extolled it to the skies. The work became the adopted daughter of all those impotent beings who, having never begot offspring, are reduced to pet the children of others; it was, in short, a work which was going to compete with _Marion Delorme_ and _Lucrèce Borgia_, the _Maréchale d'Ancre_ and _Chatterton_, _Anthony_ and _Mademoiselle de Belle-Isle._ So there was mirth at the palais Mazarin.

Whilst waiting for the appearance of the _chef-d'œuvre_, we aired our own views on the subject. I was acquainted with and had heard _Lucrèce._ I knew that it was an estimable tragedy of the schoolboy type, conscientiously put together by its author, who, perhaps slightly ignorant of the Roman eras, seemed to me to have confused the Rome of the kings with that of the emperors, Sextus Tarquin with Caligula, Tully with Messalina; but, nevertheless, I maintained that the work, devoid though it was of imagination and dramatic power, deserved a hearing because of its style, when Méry said--

"I mean to write a _Lucrèce_, and to get it played before Ponsard's _Lucrèce_ itself appears. It is advertised for the 25th of the month; it is now the 14th--it will not be played till the 30th. There is more than time enough to compose two thousand lines, to get them read, distributed, rehearsed and played."

"How long will it take you to complete your tragedy?" I said to Méry.

"Why! four hundred lines an act, five acts in five days---"

"So, to-morrow night you can give us the first Act?"

"To-morrow night, yes."

We arranged to meet again the next evening, not in the least counting on the first Act of Méry's _Lucrèce_. Next day we were all at the appointed place, punctual to the minute. We turned ourselves into an audience to listen to his reading. A glass of water was brought to Méry. He sat down at the table, and we made a circle round about. He drew his manuscript from his pocket, coughed, just moistened his lips with the water and read the following scenes.

He had not finished the Act because he had been interrupted, but as we entered the _salle à manger_ he offered to finish what was wanting before the end of the evening.

LUCRÈCE

_TRAGÉDIE_

SCÈNE PREMIÈRE

La maison de l'aruspice Faustus, c'est-à-dire une vaste treille à mi-côte du mont Quirinal. A gauche, la façade d'une maison en briques rouges; devant la porte, un autel supportant un dieu pénate en argile; au pied du Quirinal, dans un fond lumineux, le Champ de Mars bordé par le Tibre

FAUSTUS, _seul, à l'autel de ses dieux_

Dieu pénate d'argile, ô mon dieu domestique! Un jour, tu seras d'or, sous un riche portique, Tel que Rome en prepare à nos dieux immortels Et le sang des taureaux rougira tes autels. Mais, aujourd'hui, reçois avec un œil propice La prière et le don du pieux aruspice; Ces fruits qu'une vestale a cueillis, ce matin, Dans le verger du temple, au pied de l'Aventin, Et ce lait pur qui vient de la haute colline Où, la nuit, on entend une voix sibylline, Quand le berger craintif suspend aux verts rameaux La flûte qu'un dieu fit avec sept chalumeaux. L'aube sur le Soracte annonce sa lumière; Si j'apporte déjà mon offrande première, C'est qu'une grande voix a retenti dans l'air; C'est que la foudre, à gauche, a grondé sans éclair, Et que, dans cette nuit sombre et mystérieuse, A gémi l'oiseau noir aux branches de l'yeuse. O dieu lare! dis-moi quel forfait odieux Doit punir aujourd'hui la colère des dieux, Afin que le flamine et la blanche vestale Ouvrent du temple saint la porte orientale, Et qu'au maître des dieux, dans les rayons naissants, Montent avec le jour la prière et l'encens.

SCÈNE II

FAUSTUS, BRUTUS, _en tunique de couleur brune, comme un laboureur suburbain_

BRUTUS

Que les dieux te soient doux, vieillard, et que Cybèle Jamais dans tes jardins n'ait un sillon rebelle! La fatigue m'oppresse; à l'étoile du soir, Hier, je vins à la ville ...

FAUSTUS

Ici, tu peux t'asseoir. Modeste est ma maison, étroite est son enceinte. Mais j'y vénère encor l'hospitalité sainte, Et j'apaise toujours la faim de l'indigent, Comme si mon dieu lare était d'or ou d'argent.

BRUTUS

Je le sais.

FAUSTUS

Quelle rive, étranger, t'a vu naître?

BRUTUS

Quand les dieux parleront, je me ferai connaître. Ma mère est de Capène; elle m'accoutuma, Tout enfant, à servir les grands dieux de Numa. Du haut du Quirinal, on voit ma bergerie Sous le bois saint aimé de la nymphe Égérie, Et jamais le loup fauve, autour de ma maison, Ne souilla de ses dents une molle toison.

FAUSTUS

Et quel secret dessein à la ville t'amène?

BRUTUS

La liberté!... Jadis Rome était son domaine, Lorsque les rois pasteurs, sur le coteau voisin, Pauvres, se couronnaient de pampre et de raisin; Lorsque le vieux Évandre arrivait dans la plaine, Pour présider aux jeux, sous un sayon de laine, Et que partout le Tibre admirait sur ses bords Des vertus au dedans et du chaume au dehors ... Mais ces temps sont bien loin! Tout dégénère et tombe Le puissant Romulus doit frémir dans sa tombe, En écoutant passer sur son marbre divin Des rois ivres d'orgueil, de luxure et de vin!

FAUSTUS

Jeune homme, la sagesse a parlé par ta bouche. Ton regard est serein; ta voix rude me touche. Non, tu n'es pas de ceux qui vont à nous, rampant Sous l'herbe des jardins, comme fait le serpent; Infâmes délateurs qui touchent un salaire En révélant au roi la plainte populaire, Et livrent au bourreau, sous l'arbre du chemin, Tout citoyen encor fier du nom de Romain ...

BRUTUS

Prêtre, écoute ton fils.--Tu te souviens, sans doute, D'un nom sacré, d'un nom que le tyran redoute, D'un nom qui flamboyait sur le front d'un mortel, Comme un feu de Cybèle allumé sur l'autel, De Brutus?

FAUSTUS

Sa mémoire est-elle ensevelie? Ce nom est-il de ceux que le Romain oublie? Il vivra tant qu'un prêtre en tunique de lin Dira l'hymme de Rome au dieu capitolin! Je l'ai connu! J'ai vu s'incliner, comme l'herbe, Ce héros sous le fer de Tarquin le Superbe!.. Il est mort! Morts aussi tous ses nobles parents, Hécatombe de gloire immolée aux tyrans!

BRUTUS

Prêtre, il lui reste un fils.

FAUSTUS

Je le sais: corps sans âme! Noble front que le ciel a privé de sa flamme! Ombre errante qui va demander sa raison Au sang liquide encore au seuil de sa maison!

BRUTUS

C'est un faux bruit: sa main à la vengeance est prête; Minerve a conservé sa raison dans sa tête. Son père lui légua son visage, sa voix, Sa vertu ...

FAUSTUS, _s'écriant_

Dieux, je veux l'embrasser!

BRUTUS

Tu le vois.

FAUSTUS

Oh!... _(Serrant Brutus dans ses bras)_ Les dieux quelquefois jettent sur la paupière Un voile, comme ils font aux images de pierre; La vieillesse est aveugle! Oh! je te reconnais! Je rentre dans la vie ... Oui, mon fils, je renais! O dieu lare, pourquoi ton funèbre présage? Oui, voilà bien son pas, son regard, son visage, Son maintien de héros, son geste triomphant! Brutus, mort sous mes yeux, revit en son enfant! Mes pleurs réjouiront ma paupière ridée!... Dis, quel heurteux distin t'a conduit?

BRUTUS

Une idée. Le temps est précieux; le premier rayon d'or Luit sur le fronton blanc de Jupiter Stator. Il faut agir! Apprends que, dans Rome, j'épie Les cyniques projets de cette race impie, Et qu'elle nous prépare un crime de l'enfer, Rêvé par l'Euménide en sa couche de fer. La ville de nos dieux par le crime est gardée; Le sénat dort; Tarquin fait le siège d'Ardée; La justice se voile et marche d'un pas lent; Sextus règne au palais! Sextus!... un insolent! Entouré nuit et jour de ses amis infâmes, Braves comme Ixion pour insulter les femmes! Ne laissant, sous le chaume ou le lambris doré, Dans une alcôve en deuil, qu'un lit déshonoré! Ce matin, éveillé, l'aube luisant à peine, J'ai vu Sextus assis sous la porte Capène. Il parlait, l'imprudent! et ne se doutait pas Du fantôme éternel qui brûle tous ses pas! Donc, j'ai su qu'il attend que Rome tout entière S'éveille, et qu'un esclave apporte sa litière. Je ne puis en douter: un obscène souci, Avant le grand soleil, doit le conduire ici.

FAUSTUS

Ici?

BRUTUS

Dans ta maison quel dieu jaloux amène, Par ce sentier désert, une dame romaine?

FAUSTUS

Une seule ... elle vient aux heures du matin.

BRUTUS

Quel est son nom?

FAUSTUS

L'hymen l'unit à Collatin.

BRUTUS

Lucrèce!... Dieux, le lys de notre gynécée! Sainte pudeur, défends ta fille menacée!

FAUSTUS

Son époux est absent, et, quand le jour a lui, Elle vient consulter les augures pour lui.

BRUTUS

Oh! qu'aujourd'hui des dieux la puissance immortelle L'écarte!

FAUSTUS

Un bruit de pas!...

BRUTUS

Sainte pudeur! c'est elle!...

Now we certainly wanted our joke, but we did not wish to commit a murder; and to have played this piece at the Théâtre-Français or at the Porte-Saint-Martin, before M. Ponsard's _Lucrèce_, would assuredly have killed the latter. Méry, therefore, pulled himself up half-way through the first Act.

One last word about 1828.

At this period, Méry lived at 29 rue du Harlay, in the same rooms with Carrel. Their evening gatherings generally consisted of Rabbe, Raffenel and Reboul.

Of these five friends, who were well-nigh inseparable, four were carried off cruelly in the prime of their life. Rabbe, by a terrible disease that brought him to his grave as disfigured as though his features had been gnawed by a tiger. Carrel and Reboul were killed in duels, the one at Saint-Mandé, the other at Martinique. Raffenel was blown to pieces on the Acropolis by a Turkish cannon-ball.