CHAPTER X

Léopoldine--The opinions of the son of the Vendéenne--The Delon conspiracy--Hugo offers Delon shelter--Louis XVIII. bestows a pension of twelve hundred francs on the author of the _Odes et Ballades_--The poet at the office of the director-general des postes--How he learns the existence of the _cabinet noir_--He is made a chevalier of the Légion d'honneur--Beauchesne--_Bug-Jargal_--The Ambassador of Austria's soirée--_Ode à la Colonne_--_Cromwell_--How _Marion Delorme_ was written

In 1824, at the same time as the appearance of a fresh volume of Odes, delightful little Léopoldine was born, whose death he witnessed later under such sad circumstances in front of the château de Villequier, drowned with her husband, on a fine day, by a sudden gust of wind. It was a cruel stroke of destiny, perhaps intended to prove the temper of the father's heart, which was to be severely tried during the days of civil strife that were in preparation for him. All these Odes bore the impress of Royalist opinions. The young man, scarcely past childhood, was the son of his Vendéenne mother, that saintly woman who saved the lives of nineteen priests in the civil war of 1793. General Hugo's friends, who held what were called at that time "Liberal opinions," without openly belonging to the Opposition, were yet often concerned at these ultra-monarchical tendencies; but the general shook his head and answered them smilingly.

"Leave things to time," he said. "The boy holds his mother's opinions; the man will hold his father's."

Here is a statement of the poet himself, which sets forth the promise made by his father, not only to a friend, but to France, to the future and to the whole world:--

"_December_ 1820

"The callow youths who succeed nowadays to political ideas are in a strange predicament: our fathers are generally Bonapartists and our mothers Royalists. Our fathers only see in Napoleon the man who bestowed epaulettes upon them; our mothers only see in Bonaparte the man who took their sons away from them. Our fathers see in the Revolution the grandest result that the genius of a National Assembly could produce; the Empire, the greatest thing that the genius of a man could devise.

"To our mothers, the Revolution only meant the guillotine, and the Empire a sword. We children who were born under the Consulate have all been brought up at our mothers' knees,--our fathers were in camp,--and since they were often deprived of their husbands and brothers through the vagaries of the conquering Man, they riveted their hopes on us, young schoolboys of eight and ten years of age, and their gentle motherly eyes would fill with tears at the thought that by 1820 we should be eighteen, and by 1825 be either colonels, or else killed. The acclamation that greeted Louis XVIII. in 1814 was the delighted cry of our mothers. There are very few adolescents of our generation but have sucked in, with their mothers' milk, a hatred of the two periods of violent upheaval which preceded the Restoration. Robespierre was the bogey that frightened the children of 1803; and Bonaparte the bogey that terrified the children of 1815. I was lately strongly upholding my Vendéen opinions in my father's presence. He listened to me in silence, then he turned to General L----, who was with him, and remarked, 'Leave things to time: the child holds his mother's opinions; the man will follow his father's.' This prophecy set me to thinking. Whatever the case may be, and even admitting that, up to a certain point, experience modifies the impressions that we receive during our early years, _the honest-minded man is sure not to be led astray if he submits all these modifications to the severe criticism of his conscience. A good conscience kept ever awake saves him from all the devious pitfalls wherein his honesty might go astray._ In the Middle Ages people believed that any liquid in which a sapphire had rested was a preservative against plague, carbuncles, leprosy and every kind of disease. Jean-Baptiste de Rocoles said, 'Conscience is a similar sapphire!'"

These few lines completely explain Victor's political conduct at different periods of his life. Meantime, the Royalist opinions which he revealed in his beautiful verses to those who looked upon such opinions as heresy were absolved by good deeds.

Let us mention a fact that will also serve to show the poet's life from an original aspect. In 1822 the Berton conspiracy burst forth, and all eyes were turned towards Saumur. Among the conspirators,--besides Berton, who died bravely, and Café, who opened his veins like a hero of old with a scrap of broken glass,--was a young man called Delon. I had caught occasional glimpses of this young man at the house of M. Deviolaine, to whom he was related, either carrying little Victor on his shoulder or jumping the future poet up and down on his knees. He was the son of an old officer who had served under General Hugo's orders. In the famous trial of the Chauffeurs this officer was the captain _rapporteur_; in the equally famous trial of Malet he was major _rapporteur_, and, in both trials, without making any distinction between the accused, he had pronounced sentence of death on them. So General la Horie, Victor's godfather, of whom mention has been already made, was shot by Delon's orders. It was a strange coincidence that the son of the man who had pronounced sentence of death on others for conspiracy, should be doomed to death for the same cause! Since the day on which Major Delon had delivered sentence on General la Horie, instead of declining to adjudicate in the case, there had been a complete rupture between the Hugo and Delon family.

But although intercourse between the fathers was broken off, there had not been any rupture between the children. Victor lived then at No. 10 rue de Mézières. One morning he read in the papers the terrible story of the conspiracy of Saumur. Nearly all those concerned were arrested, with the exception of Delon, who had escaped. Very soon, childish recollections, strong and indelible, rose to the poet's mind; he seized his writing materials and, forgetting the family hatreds and the difference of opinion, he wrote to Madame Delon, at Saint-Denis:--

"MADAME,--I learn that your son is proscribed and a fugitive; we hold different opinions, but that is only another reason why he would not be looked for at my house. I shall expect him; at whatever hour of day or night he comes he will be welcome. I am sure that no other place of refuge can be safer for him than the share of my room which I offer him. I live in a house without a porter's lodge, in the rue de Mézières No. 10, on the fifth floor. I will take care that the door shall be kept unlocked day and night.

"Accept my most respectful greetings, dear madame, and believe me, yours, VICTOR HUGO"

When this letter was written, with the guilelessness of a child, the poet entrusted it to the post. To the post! A letter addressed to the mother of a man for whom the whole police force was in search! Well, when it was posted, Victor crept out every night at twilight to explore the neighbourhood, expecting to find Delon in each man who was leaning against a wall. Delon never appeared. But something else appeared, to the immense surprise of the poet, who had not made any move towards it whatever, namely, a pension of 1200 francs which the author of _Odes et Ballades_ received one morning in his small room in the rue de Mézières, the grant being signed by Louis XVIII. It could not have arrived at a more opportune time, for the poet had just married.

On 13 April 1825, Hugo went to the hôtel des Postes to engage three places on the mail coach for himself, his wife and a servant. They were going to Blois. He was anxious to secure these three seats in advance, but, unfortunately, this was not an easy thing: the mail went as far as Bordeaux, and to save places as far as Blois meant risking the emptiness of the seats from Blois to Bordeaux. However, the favour which Victor required could be granted by one man, and that man was M. Roger, the Postmaster-general. M. Roger was by way of being a literary man, he belonged to the Académie and might possibly grant Victor Hugo his desire. So Victor decided to go to the Postmaster-general's house. The usher announced the poet and, at Victor Hugo's name, which at that time was already well known, especially by reason of the ode which had appeared on the death of Louis XVIII. (the ode we have already partly quoted), M. Roger rose and approached the poet with demonstrations of the greatest friendliness. Needless to relate, the request for reserved places on the mail coach to Blois was at once accorded. But M. Roger, having the good fortune to have secured a visit from the poet, would not let him go easily: he made him sit down, and they talked together.

"By the way," M. Roger suddenly burst out in the middle of the conversation, "do you know to what you owe your pension of twelve hundred francs, my dear poet?"

"Why, I probably owe it to my small efforts in literature," Victor answered laughingly.

"Yes, of course," replied the Postmaster-general; "but would you like me to tell you exactly how you got it?"

"Certainly, I should be glad to know, I must confess."

"Do you remember the conspiracy of Saumur?"

"Of course."

"Do you recollect a young man named Delon who compromised himself in that conspiracy?"

"Perfectly well."

"You remember writing to him or, rather, to his mother, offering the outlaw half your room at No. 10 rue de Mézières?"

Victor made no answer this time; he stared at the Postmaster-general with startled eyes, not amazed at the magnificence of the worthy M. Roger, but at his powers of penetration. He had written that letter alone, between his own four walls: he had not told a single soul about it. Not even his own nightcap--that confidant which Louis XI. thought ought to be burned, since it had been the recipient of certain secrets--knew anything about it, seeing he never wore a nightcap.

"Well," continued the Postmaster-general, "that letter was laid before King Louis XVIII., who already knew you as a poet. 'Ah! ah!' said the king, 'he possesses great talents and a good heart ... that young man must be rewarded!' and he ordered a pension of twelve hundred francs to be settled on you."

"But," Victor finally stammered out, "how did my letter get to the notice of King Louis XVIII.?"

The Postmaster-general burst into shouts of Homeric laughter. And, simple-minded though the poet was, at last he understood.

"But," he exclaimed, "what became of the letter?"

"Why, _naturally_, it was replaced in the post."

"And reached its destination?"

"Probably."

"But if Delon had accepted my offer and had come to me, what would have happened?"

"He would have been arrested, tried and probably executed, my dear poet."

"So that my letter would have been regarded as a deathtrap for him; and if he had been arrested, tried and executed ... the pension I have received would have been blood-money! Oh!..."

Victor uttered a cry of horror at what might have happened, clapped his hands to his head and rushed out into the antechamber, where M. Roger followed him, laughing greatly, telling him he had left his hat behind him and saying--

"Remember that the mail coach is entirely at your service, for the day after to-morrow, April 15."

His horror at what might have happened gradually subsided into calmness, and Hugo breathed again when he realised that Delon was in safety in England. But he began to believe in the existence of that famous black cabinet that he had looked on as a fable, and he vowed never again to offer an outlaw shelter through the medium of the ordinary post.

When the day of departure for Blois arrived, he and Madame Hugo and her lady's-maid went to the hôtel des Postes and, just as he was about to enter the coach, an orderly officer, who was very nearly too late, rode up at full gallop and placed a letter in his hand which bore the king's seal. It contained a commission making him a chevalier of the Légion d'honneur, signed by Charles X. Hugo was only twenty-three at the time, and that is an age when such things cause immense delight, especially if they are bestowed graciously. In the general promotion, Hugo and Lamartine had at first been mixed up together in what is popularly termed a _batch_, and King Charles X. had struck off both their names. M. de la Rochefoucauld, who approved of the list and was particularly glad of the inclusion of the two young poets, ventured to inquire of His Majesty why he had cancelled two such celebrated names as theirs?

"Precisely because they are so famous, monsieur," replied Charles X., "in order that they may not be confounded with other names. You must present me with a separate report for MM. Lamartine and Hugo."

The warrant was accompanied by an official letter from M. le Comte Sosthène de la Rochefoucauld and by a friendly letter from his secretary, M. de Beauchesne.

M. de Beauchesne, or rather Beauchesne, was a true guide to M. de la Rochefoucauld in every piece of good work he did, and it should be mentioned that the Director of the Fine Arts, who was greatly taunted by the Opposition papers at that time--I am not referring to political matters--did excellent work in the way of encouraging literary efforts. Let me repeat, however, that Beauchesne was his guide in these matters. Beauchesne was then a charming fellow of twenty-four or twenty-five, and has since developed into a charming poet. So loyal a heart was his that he seemed to have taken for his motto, "_Video nec invideo_"; and, indeed, what more could he have wanted? All who were great called him _brother_, and all who were good called him _friend._ A free and loyal Breton when the true monarchy fell, but Beauchesne remained faithful to its ruins. I shall relate in its proper place how once we very nearly had a duel over politics, and I shall maintain that we were never better friends than then, when we faced each other sword in hand. Dear Beauchesne! He disappeared quite suddenly: it was ten or fifteen years before I saw him again, but one morning he came to see me as though he had only left the previous day, and we embraced heartily. He brought with him a charming tragedy or drama, I forget which now, a phantasy taken from one of our ancient _fabliaux_--the _Épreuves de la belle Griseldis_--which, in all probability, will be read, received, played and applauded at the Théâtre-Français. He had a bewitching little mansion in the bois de Boulogne which he sold. Ivy has no time to grow over the homes of poets. I remember when he had just built his house he sent me his album to write a few lines in, and I wrote these:--

"Beauchesne, vous avez une douce retraite; Moi, je suis sans abri pour les jours de malheur! Que votre beau castel, pour reposer sa tête, Garde dans son grenier, une place au poëte, Qui vous garde en échange une place en son cœur."

I lost sight of Beauchesne a second time. A catastrophe happened to me which left me indifferent, but which most people look upon as a great misfortune. I opened a letter full of tender sympathy. It was from Beauchesne. I did not answer it then; I will answer it to-day. As this is by no means the last time I shall mention dear Beauchesne I will not bid him _adieu_ but _au revoir !_ ...

So Hugo received his brevet of chevalier, and M. de la Rochefoucauld's official letter, with Beauchesne's friendly one, at the same time. He buttoned them all three next to his heart, climbed upon the coach and composed the whole of the ballad of the _Deux Archers_ during the drive between Paris and Blois. When he arrived at Blois he joyfully laid his brevet in his father's hands. The old soldier took off from an ancient coat, that had received the dust of many lands, one of his old decorations that had faced the fire of many battles, and tied it to his son's buttonhole, wiping away a tear--I strongly suspect that every father's eye is capable of that weakness. During this visit to Blois the poet received a private letter from Charles X., inviting him to be present at his coronation at Rheims, and Hugo set out in company with Nodier.

At Rheims he found Lamartine, with whom he became acquainted. They each acknowledged the king's hospitality, Lamartine by his _Chant du sacre_; Hugo by his _Ode à Charles X._

In 1826 _Bug-Jargal_ appeared. Just as _Christine_ had been composed before _Henri III._, so _Bug-Jargal_ had been finished before _Han d'Islande._ I do not know why this chronological transposition was made in the publication.

In 1827 the Austrian Ambassador gave a grand soirée, to which he invited all the most illustrious persons in France, and all the most illustrious persons in France, who are always eager to attend soirées, went to that of the ambassador. The marshals were there among the rest of the people, and a singular thing happened at this particular soirée. At the door of the salon was the customary lackey to announce the names of the visitors who had been deemed worthy of an invitation. When Marshal Soult arrived, the lackey asked him, "What name shall I announce?"

"_The Duc de Dalmatie_," replied the marshal.

"_M. le maréchal Soult_," announced the lackey, who had received his orders.

This might very well have been thought to be a mistake, so the _illustre épée_ (as he had been called since the time of Louis-Philippe, who, probably, did not care to call him the Duc de Dalmatie any more than did the Austrian Ambassador) paid no attention to the matter.

Marshal Mortier came next.

"What name shall I give?" asked the lackey.

"_The Duc de Trévise._"

"_M. le maréchal Mortier_," called out the lackey.

The eyes of the two old comrades of the emperor flashed lightnings of interrogation across at one another; but they did not know what to reply, for it was not yet quite clear what would be the best course to take.

Marshal Marmont came third.

"What name shall I announce?" asked the lackey.

"_The Duc de Raguse._"

"_M. le maréchal Marmont_," announced the lackey.

This time there could not be any mistake about it; so the two first arrivals joined the third and told him of their difficulty. But they all three decided to wait a while longer.

The Duc de Reggio, the Duc de Tarente and all the other dukes of the Imperial creation came, one after another, and, although they all gave their ducal titles, they were only announced by their family names.

The insult was open and patent, and offered publicly, and yet the insulted men silently withdrew, to nurse the insult they had endured. Not one of them thought of striking the insulter. But a poet was ready to demand redress and to obtain it on their behalf! Three days after this insult had been offered to the whole of the army, in the person of its chiefs, the _Ode à la Colonne_ appeared.

ODE À LA COLONNE

"O monument vengeur, trophée indélébile! Bronze qui, tournoyant sur ta base immobile, Sembles porter au ciel ta gloire et ton néant, Et de tout ce qu'a fait une main colossale, Seul es resté debout! ruine triomphale De l'édifice du géant!

Débris du grand empire et de la grande armée, Colonne d'où si haut parle la renommée! Je t'aime; l'étranger t'admire avec effroi, J'aime tes vieux héros sculptés par la victoire, Et tous ces fantômes de gloire Qui se pressent autour de toi.

J'aime à voir sur tes flancs, colonne étincelante! Revivre ces soldats qu'en leur onde sanglante Ont roulés le Danube, et le Rhin, et le Pô; Tu mets, comme un guerrier, le pied sur ta conquête, J'aime ton piédestal d'armures et ta tête, Dont le panache est un drapeau.

Au bronze de Henri, mon orgueil te marie. J'aime à vous voir tous deux, honneur de la patrie, Immortels, dominant nos troubles passagers, Sortir, signes jumeaux d'amour et de colère, Lui, de l'épargne populaire, Toi, des arsenaux étrangers.

Que de fois, tu le sais, quand la nuit sous ses voiles Fait fuir la blanche lune, ou trembler les étoiles, Je viens, triste, évoquer tes fastes devant moi, Et d'un œil enflammé, dévorant ton histoire, Prendre, convive obscur, ma part de tant de gloire Comme un pâtre au banquet d'un roi!

Que de fois j'ai cru voir, ô colonne française! Ton airain ennemi rugir dans la fournaise; Que de fois, ranimant des combattants épars, Heurtant sur tes parois leurs armees dérouillées, J'ai ressuscité ces mêlées Qui s'assiègent de toutes parts!

Jamais, ô monument! même ivres de leur nombre, Les étrangers sans peur, n'ont passé sur ton ombre; Leurs pas n'ébranlent point ton bronze souverain, Quand le sort une fois les poussa vers nos rives; Ils n'osaient étaler leurs parades oisives Devant tes batailles d'airain.

Mais, quoi! n'entend-je point, avec de sourds murmures, De ta base à ton front bruire les armures? Colonne! il m'a semblé qu'éblouissant mes yeux, Tes bataillons cuivrés cherchaient à redescendre; Que tes demi-dieux, noirs d'une héroïque cendre, Interrompaient soudain leur marche vers les cieux.

Leurs voix mêlaient des noms à leur vieille devise: TARENTE, REGGIO, DALMATIE ET TRÉVISE, Et leurs aigles, sortant de leur puissant sommeil, Suivaient d'un bec ardent cette aigle à double tête Dont l'œil, ami de l'ombre où son essor s'arrête, Se baisse à leur regard comme au feu de soleil.

Qu'est-ce donc, et pourquoi, bronze envie de Rome, Vois-je tes légions frémir comme un seul homme? Quel impossible outrage à ta hauteur atteint? Qui donc a réveillé ces ombres immortelles, Ces aigles qui, battant ta base de leurs ailes, Dans leur ongle captif pressent leur foudre éteint?

Je comprends: l'étranger, qui nous croit sans mémoire, Veut, feuillet par feuillet, déchirer notre histoire, Écrite avec du sang, à la pointe du fer ... Ose-t-il, imprudent, heurter tant de trophées? De ce bronze, forgé de foudres étouffées, Chaque étincelle est un éclair.

Est-ce Napoléon qu'il frappe en notre armée? Veut-il, de cette gloire en tant lieux semée, Disputer l'héritage à nos vieux généraux? Pour un fardeau pareil il a la main débile: L'empire d'Alexandre et les armes d'Achille Ne se partagent qu'aux héros.

Mais non; l'Autrichien, dans sa fierté qu'il dompte, Est content si leurs noms ne disent que sa honte; Il fait de sa défaite un titre à nos guerriers, Et, craignant des vainqueurs moins que des feudataires, Ils pardonne aux fleurons de nos ducs militaires, Si ne sont que des lauriers.

Bronze! il n'a donc jamais, fier pour une victoire, Subi de tes splendeurs l'aspect expiatoire? D'où vient tant de courage à cet audacieux? Croit-il impunément toucher à nos annales? Et comment donc lit-il ces pages triomphales Que tu déroules dans les cieux?

Est-ce un langage obscur à ses regards timides? Eh! qu'il s'en fasse instruire au pied des Pyramides, A Vienne, au vieux Kremlin, au morne Escurial; Qu'il en parle à ces rois, cour dorée et nombreuse, Qui naguère peuplaient, d'une tente poudreuse, Le vestibule impérial!

A quoi pense-t-il donc, l'étranger qui nous brave? N'avions nous pas hier l'Europe pour esclave? Nous, subir de son joug l'indigne talion! Non, au champ du combat nous pouvons reparaître. On nous a mutilés, mais le temps a peut-être Fait croître l'ongle du lion....

De quel droit viennent-ils découronner nos gloires? Les Bourbons ont toujours adopté des victoires; Nos rois t'ont défendu d'un ennemi tremblant, O trophée! A leur pieds tes palmes se déposent; Et si tes quatre aigles reposent, C'est à l'ombre du drapeau blanc.

Quoi! le globe est ému de volcans électriques, Derrière l'Océan grondent les Amériques, Stamboul rugit, Hellé remonte aux jours anciens; Lisbonne se débat aux mains de l'Angleterre; Seul, le vieux peuple franc s'indigne que la terre Tremble a d'autres pas que les siens.

Prenez garde, étrangers! nous ne savons que faire; La paix nous berce en vain dans son oisive sphère, L'arène de la guerre a pour nous tant d'attrait! Nous froissons dans nos mains, hélas! inoccupées. Des lyres à défaut d'épées; Nous chantons comme on combattrait.

Prenez garde! la France, où grandit un autre âge, N'est pas si morte encor, qu'elle souffre un outrage; Les partis pour un temps voileront leur drapeau. Contre une injure, ici, tout grandi, tout se lève, Tout s'arme, et la Vendée aiguisera son glaive Sur la pierre de Waterloo.

Vous dérobez des noms! Quoi donc, faut-il qu'on aille Lever sur tous vos champs des titres de bataille? Faut-il, quittant ces noms par la valeur trouvés, Pour nos gloires chez vous chercher d'autres baptèmes; Sur l'airain de vos canons mêmes Ne sont-ils point assez gravés?

L'étranger briserait le blason de la France! On verrait, enhardi par notre indifférence. Sur nos fiers écussons tomber son vil marteau! Ah! comme ce Romain qui remuait la terre, Vous portez, ô Français, et la paix et la guerre Dans les plis de votre manteau!

Votre aile en ce moment touche, à sa fantaisie, L'Afrique par Cadix et par Moscou l'Asie; Vous chassez en courant Anglais, Russes, Germains; Les tours croulent devant vos trompettes fatales, Et de toutes les capitales Vos drapeaux savent les chemins.

Quand leur destin se pèse avec vos destinées, Toutes les nations s'inclinent détrônées; La gloire pour vos noms n'a point assez de bruit; Sans cesse autour de vous les États se déplacent Quand votre astre paraît tous les autres s'effacent; Quand vous marchez, l'univers suit.

Que l'Autriche en rampant, de nœuds vous environne, Les deux géants de France ont foulé sa couronne; L'histoire, qui des temps ouvre le Panthéon, Montre, empreints aux deux fronts du vautour d'Allemagne, La sandale de Charlemagne, L'éperon de Napoléon.

Allez, vous n'avez plus l'aigle qui, de son aire, Sur tous les fronts trop hauts portait votre tonnerre Mais il vous reste encor l'oriflamme et le lys; Mais c'est le coq gaulois qui réveille le monde, Et son cri peut promettre à votre nuit profonde L'aube du soleil d'Austerlitz.

C'est moi qui me tairais! moi qu'enivrai naguère Mon nom saxon mêlé parmi des cris de guerre; Moi qui suivais le vol d'un drapeau triomphant; Qui, joignant aux clairons ma voix entrecoupée, Eus pour premier hochet le nœud d'or d'une épée; Moi qui fus un soldat quand j'étais un enfant!

Non, frères! non, Français de cette âge d'attente! Nous avons tous grandi sur le seuil de la tente; Condamnés à la paix, aiglons bannis des cieux, Sachons du moins, veillant aux gloires paternelles, Garder de tout affront, jalouses sentinelles, Les armures de nos aïeux."

This was the first sign of opposition against the Government of the Bourbons of the older branch that Hugo had given.

In the course of that same year, 1827, _Cromwell_ was published. The poem itself did not raise so much discussion as the preface, which was a novelty in the poetic world. In 1828 appeared the _Orientales_ and the _Dernier jour d'un condamné._ Finally, on 16 February 1829, as I have said, _Henri III._ was played.

Hugo and Lamartine were almost entirely responsible for the revolution in the poetical world, but the revolutionising of the whole of the drama had yet to come. Happily _Henri III._ began the work with its bold and new style. Besides, this representation, the full details of which I have already given, delighted Hugo, and gave him much encouragement. We saw each other after the play and he held out his hand to me.

"Ah!" I cried, "at last I have the chance of grasping your hand!"

I was very happy over my success, but the right to clasp those hands was the most precious thing I had won.

"Now," said Hugo, "it will be my turn next!"

"When the day comes don't forget me...."

"You shall be at the first reading."

"Is that a promise?"

"It is a definite engagement!"

With that we parted.

And, indeed, the very next day Hugo chose the drama of _Marion Delorme_ from among the different subjects that were already in his mind. For, just as a mother carries her babe within her until it is ripe for birth, so we mental creators carry our subjects in our brains before they are brought forth. Then, one day, he said to himself, "On 1 June 1829 I will begin my drama." And on that date he did actually set to work upon it.

On the 19th, he had completed the first three acts. On the 20th, at break of day, as the sun rose and filled his window with its golden rays, lighting up his room in the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, he composed the first lines of his fourth act:--

"LE DUC DE BELLEGARDE. Condamné?

LE MARQUIS DE NANGIS. Condamné!

LE DUC DE BELLEGARDE. Bien!... mais le roi fait grâce?..."

Next day, just twenty-four hours later, when the sun was again paying his accustomed visit, he wrote the last line--

"On peut bien, une fois, être roi par mégarde!"

During those twenty-four hours he had neither eaten, nor drunk, nor slept; but he had written an act containing nearly six hundred lines--an act which I take to be a masterpiece; six hundred lines which to my thinking are among the finest in the French language.

On 27 June _Marion Delorme_ was finished.