CHAPTER IV

Fresh trials of newspaper editors--The _Mouton enragé_--Fontan--Harel's witticism concerning him--The _Fils de l'Homme_ before the Police Court--The author pleads his cause in verse--M. Guillebert's prose--Prison charges at Sainte-Pélagie--Embarrassment of the Duc d'Orléans about a historical portrait--The two usurpations

We left the Government busy imprisoning Béranger for nine months, about the close of the year 1828; we now find it in July 1829 prosecuting the _Corsaire_ at the Police Court, and sentencing M. Vremiot, its manager, to fifteen days' imprisonment and to a fine of 300 francs, for an article entitled _Sottise des deux parts._ The same month it prosecuted Fontan for an article in the _Album_ called the _Mouton enragé_; and Barthélemy for his poem _Fils de l'Homme._ As both these trials made a great sensation, and as it was the general opinion that, by making it unpopular, they took part in the fall of the Government, we will go into the matter more fully.

On 20 June 1829, Fontan, who had had a tragedy called _Perkin Warbeck_ acted at the Odéon a year or two before, published in the old _Album_, edited by Magallon, an article entitled the _Mouton enragé._ The Public Minister believed this article was meant as an insult to the person of the king and referred the matter to the Police Court.

The following passages are those particularly specified in the accusation:--

"Picture to your imaginations, a pretty white sheep, combed, curled and washed every morning; with goggle-eyes, long ears, spindle-shanked legs, the lower jaw (or, in other words, the lower lip) heavy and hanging down; in short, a true Berry sheep. He walks at the head of the flock of which he is pretty nearly the monarch; an immense meadow is his pasture-land and that of his fellow-sheep; some of the acres of this meadow devolved upon him by right. And here grew the tenderest grass, and he waxed fat upon it, which delighted his soul! What a nice thing it is to inherit an estate! Our sheep is called Robin; he responds with gracious salutations to the compliments paid him; and shows his teeth as evidence of his pleasure. In spite of his gentle appearance, he can be disagreeable when roused; he can then bite like any other animal. I have been told that a ewe which was related to him bit him every time she met him, because she considered he did not govern his flock with sufficient despotism. I tell you this under the seal of secrecy,--poor Robin-Mouton is mad! His madness is not apparent; on the contrary, he strives his utmost to conceal it; if he feels a fit approaching, and a longing to satisfy an evil thought, he takes good care to look first to see if anybody is watching him; for Mouton-Robin knows the lot that is destined for animals touched with this malady--he lives in dread of bullets does our Robin-Mouton! And besides, he is conscious of his weakness. If only he were a bull, ah! how he would use his horns! he would soon let you see. How he would insist upon his prerogatives among the sheep-folk of his acquaintance! He might possibly even be brave enough to declare war against a neighbouring flock. But, alas! he comes of a stock that is not very fond of fighting, and however alluring the amenities of conquest may be to him, he arrives at the bitter conclusion that he has but the blood of a sheep running through his veins. This fatal idea makes him desperate.--Never mind, Robin, you have not much to complain of; all you have to do is to lead a luxurious life of idleness. What have you to do from morning to night? Nothing. You eat, you drink, and you sleep: your sheep faithfully carry out your commands and satisfy your smallest caprices; they leap to do your bidding; what more can you desire? Believe what I tell you and do not attempt to quit your state of animal tranquillity; crush these vast ideas of glory, which are too great for that narrow brain of yours; vegetate in the same way your fathers have vegetated before you; Heaven made you a sheep, die a sheep! I tell you frankly you would be quite a charming quadruped if, _in petto_, you were only sane!"

Fontan was condemned to ten years' imprisonment and a fine of 10,000 francs. The sentence was rather too severe, and it caused a great outcry. It will be admitted that the article was not good enough to deserve this severe treatment. The result was to raise Fontan to the height of a martyr. And Fontan, who was of an energetic and headstrong character, made no attempt to justify himself before his judges.

"Messieurs," he said simply, "whether or not I intended my article to bear the interpretation you put upon it, I have the right of withholding any explanation of the subject; I allow no man to examine the inner sanctuary of my conscience. I wished to write an article about a mad sheep and I did it; that is the only explanation I ought or desire to give you."

I used to know Fontan very well at M. Villenave's house--he was a great friend of Théodore--an unpolished sort of man, who nevertheless did not lack some poetic feeling. He was unclean to the point of cynicism, and less aristocratic than Schaunard in the _Vie de bohème_; instead of having one pipe for continual smoking and a finer one when he went out, he had but one cutty pipe which never left his mouth, which smelt vilely when alight and between his teeth, but which smelt far worse when it was extinguished and in his pocket.

This condemnation made Fontan's name notorious. I believe the revolution of July found him at Poissy. He reappeared amidst a certain measure of popularity, but it was only the transient popularity of persecution.

Harel, who was the manager of the Odéon, quickly conceived the notion of turning this popularity to account by asking Fontan to write a play for him. Fontan complied, and wrote _Jeanne la Folle_, but it was a failure, or, at any rate, only a partial success. Harel came up to me after the representation and said--

"Unmistakably I have been deceived in Fontan. There is more of the prison about him than of talent!"

This was, unfortunately, true. Poor Fontan died quite young and left nothing remarkable behind him; he published a volume of poetry and saw two or three dramas or tragedies put on the stage.

Barthélemy's sentence was less severe; he had three months' imprisonment and was fined 1000 francs.

We will give the reasons that led to his trial. We have already entertained our readers with the débuts of Barthélemy and Méry. They are aware how these two poets came together and how the _Villéliade_, the _Peyronnéide_, the _Corbiéréide_ and a host of other pieces were concocted which kept public attention spell-bound for a couple of years. The most important of these poems was _Napoléon en Égypte_. It took tremendously, and ran into ten editions in less than six months' time.

Méry, who had pined for sunshine, had gone to find warmth and sea breezes, those two opposing elements which are, however, admirably combined at Marseilles. Barthélemy, left alone, conceived the idea of going to Vienna to offer a copy of a poem to the young Duke of Reichstadt, wherein his father figured as the hero. To use Benjamin Constant's words, as the father had been _allowed_ to die of political cancer, so the son was by way of being _allowed_ to die of a disease of the chest. A charming dancer and a beautiful archduchess were the two strange doctors that Austria deputed to follow the progress of the prince's malady, which, three years later, became simply a matter of history.

Barthélemy's journey was, of course, useless: he was not allowed to approach the prince, and he brought back his poem without having been suffered to offer it to him. But Barthélemy's Odyssey had furnished him with the subject of a new poem entitled the _Fils de l'Homme,_ and this was the poem that was denounced by the law. Barthélemy proclaimed beforehand his intention of defending himself in verse. Of course, such a proclamation as this filled the Police Court where this poetical trial was to be held, from eight o'clock in the morning. Barthélemy kept his word. Here are some of the lines of that singular pleading which is without precedent the annals of justice.

"Messieurs," he began,--

"Voilà donc mon délit! sur un faible poëme La critique en simarre appelle l'anathème; Et ces vers, ennemis de la France et du roi, Témoins accusateurs, se dressent contre moi! Hélas! durant les nuits dont la paix me conseille, Quand je forçais mes yeux à soutenir la veille, Et que seul, aux lueurs de deux mourants flambeaux, De ce pénible écrit j'assemblais les lambeaux, Qui m'eût dit que cette œuvre, en naissant étouffée, D'un greffe criminel déplorable trophée, Appellerait un jour sur ces bancs ennemis Ma muse, vierge encor des arrêts de Thémis? Peut-être ai-je failli; mais, crédule victime, Moi-même, j'ai bien pu m'aveugler sur mon crime, Puisque des magistrats, vieux au métier des lois M'ont jugé non coupable une première fois. Aussi, je l'avoûrai, la foudre inattendue, Du haut du firmament à mes pieds descendue, D'une moindre stupeur eût frappé mon esprit, Que le soir si funeste à mon livre proscrit Où d'un pouvoir jaloux les sombres émissaires Se montraient en écharpe à mes pâles libraires, Et, craignant d'ajourner leur gloire au lendemain, Cherchaient _le Fils de l'homme_, un mandat à la main. Toutefois, je rends grâce au hasard tutélaire Qui, sauvant un ami de mes torts solidaire, Sur moi seul de la loi suspend l'arrêt fatal. Triste plus que moi-même, au rivage natal Il attend aujourd'hui l'heure de la justice. S'il eût été présent, il serait mon complice. Éternels compagnons dans les mêmes travaux, Forts de notre union, frères et non rivaux, Jusqu'ici, dans l'arène à nos forces permise, Nos deux noms enlacés n'eurent qu'une devise, Et jamais l'un de nous, reniant son appui, N'eût voulu d'un laurier qui n'eût été qu'à lui. Trois ans, on entendit notre voix populaire Harceler les géants assis au ministère; Trois ans, sur les élus du conseil souverain Nos bras ont agité le fouet alexandrin; Et jamais l'ennemi, froissé de nos victoires, N'arrêta nos élans par des réquisitoires. Mais, dès le jour vengeur où, captive longtemps, La foudre du Château gronda sur les titans, Suspendant tout à coup ses longues philippiques, Notre muse plus fière, osant des chants épiques, Évoqua du milieu des sables africains Les soldats hasardeux des temps républicains, Et montra réunis en faisceau militaire, Les drapeaux lumineux du Thabor et du Caire; De nos cœurs citoyens là fut le dernier cri; Notre muse se tut, et, tandis que Méry Allait sous le soleil de la vieille Phocée Ressusciter un corps usé par la pensée, 'J'osai, vers le Danube égarant mon essor, A la cour de Pyrrhus chercher le fils d'Hector.' Je portais avec soin, dans mes humbles tablettes, Ces dons qu'aux pieds des rois déposent les poëtes, Et, poëte, j'allais pour redire à son fils L'histoire d'un soldat, aux plaines de Memphis. Voilà tout le complot d'un long pèlerinage. Un pouvoir soupçonneux repoussa mon hommage, Et, moi, loin d'un argus que rien n'avait fléchi, Je repassai le Rhin, imprudemment franchi."

The above was his defence as regarded facts. When he had defended its theme Barthélemy went on to its form; he complained of the method of interpretation which judges of all times have pushed to extremes, so that they persecute whether under the elder or the younger branch of the Bourbons, whether under M. Cavaignac or under M. Louis-Bonaparte; he said--

"Pourtant, voilà mon crime! Un songe, une élégie Me condamne moi-même à mon apologie! Partout, sur ce vélin, je frissonne de voir Des vers séditieux soulignés d'un trait noir; Le doigt accusateur laisse partout sa trace, Et je suis criminel jusque dans ma préface; Ah! du moins, il fallait, moins prompt à me juger Pour me juger, tout lire et tout interroger; Il fallait, surmontant les ennuis de l'ouvrage, Jusqu'au dernier feuillet forcer votre courage, Et, traversant mon livre un scalpel à la main, Avancer hardiment jusqu'au bout du chemin. Certes, si comme vous on dépeçait un livre, Combien peu d'écrivains seraient dignes de vivre! Qu'on pourrait aisément trouver de noirs desseins Jusque dans l'Évangile et les ouvrages saints! Ma prose est toujours prête à disculper ma muse; La note me défend quand le texte m'accuse; D'un tissu régulier pourquoi rompre le fil? De quel droit venez-vous, annotateur subtil, Dédaignant mon histoire, attaquer mon poëme, Prendre comme mon tout la moitié de moi-même, Et, fort de ma pensée arrêtée au milieu, Diviser contre moi l'indivisible aveu? Mais j'ose plus encor, fort de mon innocence, Armé du texte seul, j'accepte la défense; Seulement, n'allez pas, envenimant mes vers, D'un sens clair et précis extraire un sens pervers! Gardez-vous de chercher, trop savant interprète, Sous ma lucide phrase une énigme secrète! Ainsi, quand vous lirez: 'qu'à mes yeux éblouis, La gloire a dérobé les fils de saint Louis; Qu'aveuglément soumis aux droits de la puissance, Je ne me doutais pas, dans mon adolescence, Que l'héritier des lys, exilé de Mittau, Régnait chez les Anglais dans un humble château, Et que, depuis vingt ans, sa bonté paternelle! Rédigeait pour son peuple une charte éternelle!' Lisez de bonne foi comme chacun me lit. Pourquoi vous tourmenter à flairer un délit, A tourner ma franchise en coupable ironie, A voir un seul côté de mon double génie? Voulez-vous donc me lire aux lueurs du fanal Dont la sainte _Gazette_ escorte son journal, Et, serrant vos deux mains à nuire intéressées, Exprimer du poison en tordant mes pensées?"

Those are certainly the well-turned lines of a very clever versifier if not of a great poet. At Athens, before the Areopagitica where Æschylus pleaded his cause, M. Barthélemy would have been acquitted! But what could he expect? We are not Athenians, and our judges are by no means archons.

The poet proceeded, nevertheless, although it was easy to read, in the frowning faces of the judges, their want of sympathy with the defence of the accused.

Again let us listen to Barthélemy:--

"Jusqu'ici, l'on m'a vu, d'un tranquille visage, Conquérir pour ma cause un facile avantage. J'ai vengé sans effort, dans mon livre semés, Quelques vers, quelques mots par Thémis décimés. Redoublons de courage: un grand effort nous reste; Abordons sans pâlir ce passage funeste, De l'un à l'autre bout chargé de sombres croix! Là, sapant par mes vœux le palais de nos rois, Ébranlant de l'État la base légitime, D'un sang usurpateur j'appelle le régime, J'invoque la Discorde aux bras ensanglantés! Est-il vrai? Suis-je donc si coupable?... Écoutez! 'Il sait donc désormais, il n'a plus à connaître Ce qu'il est, ce qu'il fut et ce qu'il pouvait être. Oh! que tu dois souvent te dire et repasser Dans quel large avenir tu devais te lancer! Combien dans ton berceau fut court ton premier rêve Doublement protégé par le droit et le glaive, Des peuples rassurés espoir consolateur, Petit-fils d'un César, et fils d'un empereur, Légataire du monde, en naissant roi de Rome, Tu n'es plus aujourdhui rien que le _fils de l'homme!_ Pourtant, quel fils de roi contre ce nom obscur N'échangerait son titre et son sceptre futur? Mais quoi! content d'un nom qui vaut un diadème, Ne veux-tu rien, un jour, conquérir par toi-même? La nuit, quand douze fois ta pendule a frémi, Qu'aucun bruit ne sort plus du palais endormi, Et que, seul au milieu d'un appartement vide, Tu veilles, obsédé par ta pensée avide, Sans doute que parfois sur ton sort à venir Un démon familier te vient entretenir. Oui, tant que ton aïeul, sur ton adolescence, De sa noble tutelle étendra la puissance, Les jaloux archiducs, comprimant leur orgueil, Du vieillard tout-puissant imiteront l'accueil; Mais qui peut garantir cette paix fraternelle? Peut-être en ce moment la mort lève son aile; Tôt ou tard, au milieu de ses gardes hongrois, Elle mettra la faulx sur le doyen des rois. Alors, il sera temps d'expliquer ce problème D'un sort mystérieux ignoré de toi-même. Fils de Napoléon, petit-fils de François, Entre deux avenirs il faudra faire un choix. Puisses-tu, dominé par le sang de ta mère, Bannir de ta pensée une vaine chimère, Et de l'ambition éteindre le flambeau! Le destin qui te reste est encore assez beau; Les rois ont grandement consolé ton jeune âge; Le duché de Reichstadt est un riche apanage, Et tu pourras, un jour, colonel allemand, Conduire à la parade un noble régiment! Qu'à ce but désormais ton jeune cœur aspire; Borne là tes désirs, ta gloire et ton empire. Des règnes imprévus ne gardons plus l'espoir, Ce qu'on vit une fois ne doit plus se revoir!'"

Not so, O poet! We shall never see again what we have seen; the phantom child which you have invoked from its premature grave was only to be seen by history as a pale spectre held up to view in a dim poetic distance, as Astyanax or Britannicus; the days that have been we shall know no more. But the future was reserving a still more extraordinary vision for us, which was to confirm the words Dr. Schlegel said to me in 1838: "History has been invented to prove the futility of the examples she sets before us."

Meanwhile Barthélemy was being sentenced to three months' imprisonment and a fine of 1000 francs, in spite of, or perhaps because of, his pleading. But if the prisoner had not done with Justice, neither had Justice done with the prisoner. Barthélemy was hardly inside the prison before he received the following letter from M. Guillebert, Registrar:--

"PARIS, 6 _May_ 1830

"MONSIEUR,--I had the honour of asking you in my letter of 22 March last, to settle the fines and expenses which you were sentenced to pay by order of the Royal Court on 7 January last, amounting to:--

_Invoice_

francs

Fine.. 1,000 00

Ten per cent.. 100 00

Legal expenses and appeal ditto.. 81 45

Total, 1,181 45

"I repeat my request, as I made a mistake in my first application, for 1208 francs 95 centimes. I beg you to discharge these payments by the 10th instant, to avoid the putting into execution of legal methods according to Article 52 of the _Code pénal._

"I have the honour to remain

"GUILLEBERT, _Registrar"_

And M. Guillebert, who would have been as polite to any prisoner but would, undoubtedly, not have been so punctilious with him if he had not been a poet, had the complaisance to put that 52nd Article of the _Code pénal_, to which he alluded so delicately, in a postscript. This is the article which, I suppose, has remained unaltered under the government of King Louis-Philippe I., and under that of M. Bonaparte:--

_Article_ 52

"Distraining for fines, restitutions, damages and interest, and for costs, can be enforced by means of imprisonment."

To this letter Barthélemy replied, on 9 May 1830, by an epistle entitled _La Bourse ou la Prison._ But in comparison with Fontan and Magallon, Barthélemy had nothing to complain of: he was lodged in a palace. The palace was rent free, but he gives us the tariff for the cost of furnishing it:--

francs

Ordinary bed, two mattresses, sheets, one blanket and bolster . . . . . . 4 50

For every extra blanket. . . . . 6 50

One pillow . . . . . 9 50

One chair. . . . . . 6 50

One table...... 6 50

Total, 33 50

And it was by these actions that the Government was alienating itself from the people by the scandalous trials of Carbonneau, Pleignies and Tolleron successively; from the army by the executions of Bories, Raoul, Goubin and Pommier; from the high military aristocracy by the assassination of Brune, Ramel, Ney and Mouton-Duverney; from the middle classes by the dissolution of the National Guard; and was alienating a race far more dangerous still, namely poets, journalists and men of letters, by the sentences which struck successively such men as Paul-Louis Courier, Cauchois-Lemaire, Magallon, Béranger, Fontan and Barthélemy.

Now, a Government which has the people, the army, the middle classes and literature opposed to it is in a very bad way, and this Government was therefore in a very bad way on 31 July 1829, on which day it pronounced its sentence on Barthélemy; exactly a year later, to the day, it was defunct.

Finally, an anecdote I am just about to relate will prove that I partially foresaw the trend of coming events. My new position in the library of the Duc d'Orléans (a post which, as I have already pointed out to my readers, was more honorary than lucrative) possessed the great advantage to me of affording me an immense office, where I could carry on my literary and historical researches nearly as well as, and far more comfortably than, in the Bibliothèque royale. So I was more regular in my attendance than either of my two confrères, Vatout and Casimir Delavigne. Accordingly, one day, when the Duc d'Orléans came in, humming a tune from one of the masses--a habit of his when he was in a good temper, which, I must say, he nearly always was--he remarked:

"So! are you by yourself, M. Dumas?"

"Yes, monseigneur."

The Duc d'Orléans took two or three turns round the library, still continuing his singing. Then he went on, a moment later--

"Neither Vatout, nor Casimir, nor Tallencourt?..."

"MM. Vatout and Casimir have not come, monseigneur, and Tallencourt has gone out."

Twice again he perambulated round the library, still humming to himself. He evidently wished to enter into conversation, so I ventured to ask him--

"Does monseigneur want anything I can do in the absence of the other gentlemen?"

"No; I wanted to show Vatout an historic portrait and to ask his opinion."

"Unhappily, as monseigneur needs advice, I am afraid I am no substitute for M. Vatout."

"Come with me, nevertheless," said the duke.

I bowed and followed the prince from the library to the picture gallery.

Upon an easel rested a portrait that had just been brought back from the framer; it was waiting for the name of the original to be painted on the frame. It was a portrait of the emperor, painted by Manzaisse. To find, in 1829, a portrait of the emperor in the palace of the first prince of the blood royal was such a novel species of boldness that I could do nothing but wonder at it.

"What do you think of that portrait?" asked the Duc d'Orléans.

"I am "not very fond of the paintings of M. Mauzaisse, monseigneur."

"Ah, true, I forgot you were a romanticist in painting and in literature. You admire the painting of M. Delacroix?"

"Yes, monseigneur; also of M. Delacroix, M. Scheffer, M. Granet, M. Decamps, M. Boulanger, M. Eugène Devéria--oh! we allow a wide margin!"

"Excellent! I am aware you know all about these gentlemen--but that is not to my present purpose. This is a portrait which I have just had painted for my gallery; and there is nothing wanting, as you see, except the insertion of the name. Ought I to put _Bonaparte?_ It would look like affectation only to recognise the First Consul. Ought I to put _Napoléon?_ It would seem an affectation to call him emperor; that was the point on which I wished to consult Vatout."

"But," I replied, "it seems a very simple matter to me; put _Napoléon Bonaparte_, monseigneur."

"Yes; but that still implies the emperor.... Napoleon, if my memory serves me correctly, was unjust to your family and you have no love for him, I believe."

"Monseigneur, I must confess that where that great man is concerned I share Madame Turenne's opinion of him, that of admiration."

"He was a great man; but there were two terrible blots on his character--one was a crime, the other a fault--his assassination of the Duc d'Enghien, and his marriage with Marie-Louise."

"Does monseigneur pardon his usurpation?"

"I did not say so."

"Monseigneur knows the _Médecin malgré lui?_"

"Yes, I admire it immensely."

"Well, in the _Médecin malgré lui_ Sganarille remarks that there are fagots _and_ fagots."

"Meaning, I presume ...?"

"That there are usurpations and usurpations."

"Bah!"

"Yes, monseigneur."

"I do not understand your meaning."

"I mean to say--and you who are so fair-minded, monseigneur, will readily understand me--that there is a usurpation which substitutes one dynasty for another dynasty by the instrumentality of violence, breaking up all the roots of the old dynasty throughout the country, all the interests connected with it, leaving raw open wounds for long enough among the aristocracy and the middle and lower classes, which are slow to heal; and there is the usurpation which purely and simply substitutes one man for another, a green bough for a withered branch, and popularity for unpopularity--that is what I mean, monseigneur, by my two usurpations."

The Duc d'Orléans laughingly lifted up his hand, as though to stop me; but he let me finish, all the same.

"M. Dumas," he said to me, "that is a somewhat subtle question, and one which, if you must have it answered, should be referred to a council and not to a prince of the blood. However, you are right about the portrait; I will put _Napoléon Bonaparte_."

I bowed and withdrew to the library.

The duke remained in the picture gallery lost in thought.