CHAPTER VIII

The Government member--Chodruc-Duclos--His portrait--His life at Bordeaux--His imprisonment at Vincennes--The Mayor of Orgon--Chodruc-Duclos converts himself into a Diogenes--M. Giraud-Savine--Why Nodier was growing old--Stibert--A lesson in shooting--Death of Chodruc-Duclos

Let us bid a truce to politics of which, I daresay, I am quite as tired as is my reader. Let us put on one side those brave deputies of whom Barthélemy makes such a delightful portrait, and return to matters more amusing and creditable. Still, these Memoirs would fail of their end, if, in passing through a period, they did not reveal themselves to the public tinged with the colour of that particular period. So much the worse when that period be dirty; the mud that I have had beneath my feet has never bespattered either my hands or my face. One quickly forgets, and I can hear my reader wondering what that charming portrait is that Barthélemy drew of the deputy. Alas! it is the misfortune of political works; they rarely survive the time of their birth; flowers of stormy seasons, they need, in order to live, the muttering of thunder, the lightning of tempests: they fade when calm is restored; they die when the sun re-appears.

Ah, well! I will take from the middle of _La Némésis_ one of those flowers which seem to be dead; and, as all poetry is immortal, I hold that it was but sleeping and that, by breathing upon it, it will come to life again. Therefore, I shall appeal to the poets of 1830 and 1831 more than once.

LE DÉPUTÉ MINISTÉRIEL

"C'était un citoyen aux manières ouvertes, Ayant un œil serein sous des lunettes vertes; Il lisait les journaux à l'heure du courrier; Et, tous les soirs, au cercle, en jouant cœur ou pique, Il suspendait le whist avec sa philippique Contre le système Perrier.

Il avait de beaux plans dont il donnait copie; C'était, de son aveu, quelque belle utopie, Pièce de désespoir pour tous nos écrivains; Baume qui guérirait les blessures des villes, En nous sauvant la guerre et la liste civiles, Et l'impôt direct sur les vins.

Il disait: 'En prenant mon heureux antidote, Notre pays sera comme une table d'hôte Où l'on ne verra plus, après de longs repas, Quand les repus du centre ont quitté leurs serviettes, Les affamés venir pour récolter les miettes, Que souvent ils ne trouvent pas!'

Les crédules bourgeois, que ce langage tente, Les rentiers du jury, les hommes à patente, L'écoutaient en disant: 'Que ce langage est beau! Voilà bien les discours que prononce un digne homme! Si pour son député notre ville le nomme, Il fera pâlir Mirabeau!'

Il fut nommé! Bientôt, de sa ville natale, Il ne fit qu'un seul bond jusqu'à la capitale, S'installant en garni dans le quartier du Bac. On le vit à la chambre assis au côté gauche, Muet ou ne parlant qu'à son mouchoir de poche, Constellé de grains de tabac.

Grave comme un tribun de notre République, Parfois il regardait evec un œil oblique Ce centre où s'endormaient tant d'hommes accroupis. Quel déchirant tableau pour son cœur patriote! En longs trépignements les talons de sa botte Fanaient les roses du tapis.

Lorsque Girod (de l'Ain), qui si mal les préside, Disait: 'Ceux qui voudront refuser le subside Se lèveront debout': le tribun impoli, Foudroyant du regard le ministre vorace, Bondissait tout d'un bloc sur le banc de sa place Comme une bombe à Tivoli.

Quand il était assis, c'était Caton en buste; Le peuple s'appuyait sur ce torse robuste; De tous les rangs du cintre on aimait à le voir ... Qui donc a ramolli ce marbre de Carrare? Quel acide a dissous cette perle si rare Dans la patère du pouvoir?

Peut-être avez-vous vu, dans le cirque hippodrome, Martin, l'imitateur de l'Androclès de Rome, Entre ses deux lions s'avancer triomphant; Son œil fascinateur domptait les bêtes fauves; Il entrait, sans pâlir, dans leurs sombres alcôves, Comme dans un berceau d'enfant.

Aujourd'hui, nous avons la clef de ces mystères. Il se glissait, la nuit, au chevet des panthères; Sous le linceul du tigre il étendait la main; Il trompait leur instinct dans la nocturne scène, Et l'animal, sans force, à ce jongleur obscène Obéissait le lendemain!

Voilà par quels moyens l'Onan du ministère Énerve de sa main l'homme le plus austère, Du tribun le plus chaste assouplit la vertu; Il vient à lui, les mains pleines de dons infâmes; 'Que veux-tu? lui dit-il; j'ai de l'or, j'ai des femmes, Des croix, des honneurs! que veux-tu?'

Eh! qui résisterait à ces dons magnifiques? Hélas! les députés sont des gens prolifiques; Ils ont des fils nombreux, tous visant aux emplois, Tous rêvant, jour et nuit, un avenir prospère, Tous, par chaque courrier, répétant: 'O mon père! Placez-nous en faisant des lois!'

Et le bon père, ému par ces chaudes missives, Dépose sur son banc les armes offensives, Se rapproche du centre, et renonce au combat. Oh! pour faire au budget une constante guerre, Il faudrait n'avoir point de parents sur la terre, Et vivre dans le célibat!

Ou bien, pour résister à ce coupable leurre, Il faut aller, le soir, où va Dupont (de l'Eure), Près de lui retremper sa vertu de tribun; Là veille encor pour nous une pure phalange, Cénacle politique où personne ne mange Au budget des deux cent vingt-un!"

This _cénacle_ referred to our evenings at La Fayette's. Since his resignation, the general was to be found amidst his young, warm, and true friends the Republicans, and, more than once, as said Barthélemy, our callow wrath invigorated the patriotism of the two old men.

Another man received his dismissal at the same time as La Fayette: this was Chodruc-Duclos, the Diogenes of the Palais-Royal, the long-bearded man of whom we have promised to say a few words.

One morning, the frequenters of those stone galleries were amazed to see Chodruc-Duclos go by, clad in shoes and stockings, in a coat only a very little worn and an almost new hat! We will borrow the portrait of Chodruc-Duclos from Barthélemy; and complete it by a few anecdotes, gleaned from personal experience, and by others which we believe are new. When the poet has described all those starving people who swarm round the cellars of Véfour and of the Frères-Provençaux, he proceeds to the king of the beggars--Chodruc-Duclos. These are Barthélemy's lines; they depict the man with that happy touch and that faithfulness of description which are such characteristic features of the talented author of _La Némésis_--

"Mais, autant qu'un ormeau s'élève sur l'arbuste, Autant que Cornuet domine l'homme-buste,[1] Sur cette obscure plèbe errante dans l'enclos, Autant plane et surgit l'héroïque Duclos. Dans cet étroit royaume où le destin les parque, Les terrestres damnés l'ont élu pour monarque: C'est l'archange déchu, le Satan bordelais, Le Juif-Errant chrétien, le Melmoth du palais. Jamais l'ermite Paul, le virginal Macaire, Marabout, talapoin, faquir, santon du Caire, Brahme, Guèbre, Parsis adorateur du feu, N'accomplit sur la terre un plus terrible vœu! Depuis sept ans entiers, de colonne en colonne, Comme un soleil éteint ce spectre tourbillonne; Depuis le dernier soir que l'acier le rasa, Il a vu trois Véfour et quatre Corazza; Sous ses orteils, chaussés d'eternelles sandales, Il a du long portique usé toutes les dalles; Être mystérieux qui, d'un coup d'œil glaçant, Déconcerte le rire aux lèvres du passant, Sur tant d'infortunés, in fortune célèbre! Des calculs du malheur c'est la vivante algèbre. De l'angle de Terris jusqu'à Berthellemot, Il fait tourner sans fin son énigme sans mot. Est-il un point d'arrêt à cette ellipse immense? Est-ce dédain sublime, ou sagesse, ou démence? Qui sait? Il vent peut-être, au bout de son chemin, Par un enseignement frapper le genre humain; Peut-être, pour fournir un dernier épisode, Il attend que Rothschild, son terrestre antipode, Un jour, dans le palais, l'aborde sans effroi, En lui disant: 'Je suis plus malheureux que toi!'"

We will endeavour to be the Œdipus to that Sphinx, and guess the riddle, the mystery whereof was hidden for a long time.

Chodruc-Duclos was born at Sainte-Foy, near Bordeaux. He would be about forty-eight when the Revolution of July took place; he was tall and strong and splendidly built; his beard hid features that must have been of singular beauty; but he used ostentatiously to display his hands, which were always very clean. By right of courage, if not of skill, he was looked upon as the principal star of that Pleiades of duellists which flourished at Bordeaux, during the Empire, under the title of _les Crânes_ (Skulls). They were all Royalists. MM. Lercaro, Latapie and de Peyronnet were said to be Duclos' most intimate friends. These men were also possessed of another notable characteristic: they never fought amongst themselves. Duclos was suspected of carrying on relations with Louis XVIII. in the very zenith of the Empire, and was arrested one morning in his bed by the Chief of the Police, Pierre-Pierre. He was taken to Vincennes, where he was kept a prisoner until 1814. Set free by the Restoration, he entered Bordeaux in triumph, and as, during his captivity, he had come into a small fortune, he resumed his old habits and interlarded them with fresh diversions. The Royalist government, which recompensed all its devoted adherents (a virtue that was attributed to it as a crime), would, no doubt, have been pleased to reward Duclos for his loyalty, but it was very difficult to find a suitable way of doing so, for he had the incurable habits of a peripatetic: he was only accustomed to a nomadic life of fencing, political intrigue, theatre-going, women and literature. King Louis XVIII., therefore, could not entrust him with any other public function than that of an everlasting walker, or, as Barthélemy dubbed it, "_Chrétien_ _errant._"

Unfortunately, money, however considerable its quantity, comes to an end some time. When Duclos had exhausted his patrimony, he recollected his past services for the Bourbon cause and came to Paris to remind them. But he had remembered too late and had given the Bourbons time to forget. The business of soliciting for favours, at all events, exercised his locomotive faculties to the best possible advantage. So, every morning, two melancholy looking pleaders could be seen to cross the Pont Royal, like two shades crossing the river Styx, on their way to beg a good place in the Elysian fields from the minister of Pluto. One was Duclos, the other the Mayor of Orgon. What had the latter done? He had thrown the first stone into the emperor's carriage in 1814, and had come to Paris, stone in hand, to demand his reward. After years of soliciting, these two faithful applicants, seeing that nothing was to be obtained, each arrived at a different conclusion. The Mayor of Orgon, completely ruined, tied his stone round his own neck and threw himself into the Seine. Duclos, much more philosophically inclined, decided upon living, and, in order to humiliate the Government to which he had sacrificed three years of his liberty, and M. de Peyronnet, with whom he had had many bouts by the banks of the Garonne, bought old clothes, as he had not the patience to wait till his new ones grew old, bashed in the top of his hat, gave up shaving himself, tied sandals over his old shoes, and began that everlasting promenade up and down the arcades of the Palais-Royal which exercised the wisdom of all the Œdipuses of his time. Duclos never left the Palais-Royal until one in the morning, when he went to the rue du Pélican, where he lodged, to sleep, not exactly in furnished apartments, but, more correctly speaking, in _unfurnished_ ones. In the course of his promenading, which lasted probably a dozen years, Duclos (with only three exceptions, which we are about to quote, one of them being made in our own favour) never went up to anyone to speak to him, no matter who he was. Like Socrates, he communed alone with his own familiar spirit; no tragic hero ever attempted such a complete monologue!--One day, however, he departed from his habits, and walked straight towards one of his old friends, M. Giraud-Savine, a witty and learned man, as we shall find out later, who afterwards became deputy to the Mayor of Batignolles. M. Giraud's heart stood still with fright for an instant, for he thought he was going to be robbed of his purse; but he was wrong: for Duclos never borrowed anything.

"Giraud," he asked in a deep bass voice, "which is the best translation of Tacitus?"

"There isn't one!" replied M. Giraud.

Duclos shook his treasured rags in sad dejection, then returned, like Diogenes, to his tub. Only, his tub happened to be the Palais-Royal.

On another occasion, whilst I was chatting with Nodier, opposite the door of the café de Foy, Duclos passed and stared attentively at Nodier. Nodier, who knew him, thought he must want to speak to him, and took a step towards him. But Duclos shook his head and went on his way without saying anything. Nodier then gave me various details of the life of this odd being; after which we separated. During our talk, Duclos had had time to make the round of the Palais-Royal; so, going back by the Théâtre-Français, I met him very nearly opposite the café Corazza. He stopped right in front of me.

"Monsieur Dumas," he said to me, "Do you know Nodier?"

"Very well."

"Do you like him?"

"With all my heart I do."

"Do you not think he grows old very fast?"

"I must confess I agree with you that he does."

"Do you know why?"

"No."

"Well, I will tell you: _Because he does not take care of himself!_ Nothing ages a man more quickly than neglecting his health!"

He continued his walk and left me quite stunned; not by his observation, sagacious as it was; but by the thought that it was Chodruc-Duclos who had made it.

The Revolution of July 1830 had, for the moment, interrupted the inveterate habits of two men--Stibert and Chodruc-Duclos.

Stibert was-as confirmed a gambler as Duclos was an indefatigable walker. Frascati's, where Stibert spent his days and nights, was closed; the Ordinances had suspended the game of _trente-et-un_, until the monarchy of July should suppress it altogether. Stibert had not patience to wait till the Tuileries was taken: on 28 July, at three in the afternoon, he compelled the concierge at Frascati's to open its doors to him and to play picquet with him. Duclos, for his part, coming from his rooms to go to his beloved Palais-Royal, found the Swiss defending the approaches to it. Some youths had begun a struggle with them, and one of them, armed with a regulation rifle, was firing on the red-coats with more courage than skill. Duclos watched him and then, growing impatient that anyone should risk his life thus wantonly, he said to the youth--

"Hand me your rifle. I will show you how to use it."

The young fellow lent it him and Duclos took aim.

"Look!" he said; and down dropped a Swiss.

Duclos returned the youth his rifle.

"Oh," said the latter, "upon my word! if you can use it to such good purpose as that, stick to it!"

"Thanks!" replied Duclos, "I am not of that opinion," and, putting the rifle into the youth's hands, he crossed right through the very centre of the firing and re-entered the Palais-Royal, where he resumed his accustomed walk past the bronze Apollo and marble Ulysses, the only society he had the chance of meeting during the 27, 28 and 29 July. This was the third and last time upon which he opened his mouth. Duclos, engrossed as he was with his everlasting walk, would, doubtless, never have found a moment in which to die; only one morning he forgot to wake up. The inhabitants of the Palais-Royal, astonished at having been a whole day without meeting the man with the long beard, learnt, on the following day, from the Cornuet papers, that Chodruc-Duclos had fallen into the sleep that knows no waking, upon his pallet bed in the rue du Pélican.

For three or four years, Duclos, as we have said, had clad himself in garments more like those of ordinary people. The Revolution of July, which exiled the Bourbons, and the trial of the ex-ministers, which ostracised M. de Peyronnet to Ham, removed every reason for his ragged condition, and set a limit to his revenge. In spite of, perhaps even on account of, this change of his outward appearance, Duclos, like Epaminondas, left nothing wherewith to pay for his funeral. The Palais-Royal buried him by public subscription.

General La Fayette resigned his position, and Chodruc-Duclos his revenge. A third notability resigned his life; namely, Alphonse Rabbe, whom we have already briefly mentioned, and who deserves that we should dedicate a special chapter to him.

[1] Cornuet occupied one of those literary pavilions which were erected at each end of the garden of the Palais-Royal; the other was occupied by a dwarf who was all body and seemed to crawl on almost invisible legs.