CHAPTER XV

Why M. Beudin came to Trouville--How I knew him under another name--Prologue of a drama--What remained to be done--Division into three parts--I finish _Charles VII._--Departing from Trouville--In what manner I learn of the first performance of _Marion Delorme_

The night of that adventure, the fresh bather came up to me and complimented me on my skill. It was an excuse for beginning a conversation. We sat out on the beach and chatted. After a few remarks had been exchanged he said to me:

"Well! there is one thing you have no idea of."

"What is that?" I asked.

"That I have come here almost on your account."

"How so?"

"You do not recognise me under my name of Beudin?"

"I confess I do not."

"But you may, perhaps, recognise me under that of Dinaux?"

"What! Victor Ducange's collaborator!"

"Exactly."

"The same who wrote _Trente ans ou la vie d'un Joueur_ with him?"

"That was I ... or rather us."

"Why us?"

"There were two of us: Goubaux and myself."

"Ah! I knew Goubaux; he is a man of boundless merit."

"Thanks!"

"Pardon ... one cannot be skilful both with gun and in conversation ... With the gun, now, I should not have missed you!"

"You have not missed me as it is; in the first shot you brought me down by saying that Goubaux was a clever man and that I was an idiot!"

"Confess that you never thought I meant anything of the kind?"

"Upon my word, no!" And we burst out laughing.

"Well," I resumed, "as you probably did not hunt me out to receive the compliment I have just given you, tell me why you did."

"To talk to you about a play which Goubaux and I did not feel equal to bringing to a satisfactory conclusion, but which, in your hands, would become--plus the style--equal to the _Joueur._"

I bowed my thanks.

"No, upon my word of honour, I am certain the idea will take your fancy!" continued Beudin.

"Have you any part done or is it still in a nebulous state?"

"We have done the prologue, which is in quite a tangible shape.... But, as for the rest, you must help us to do it."

"Have you the prologue with you?"

"No, nothing is written down yet; but I can relate it to you."

"I am listening."

"The scene is laid in Northumberland, about 1775. An old physician whom, if you will, we will call Dr. Grey and his wife separate, the wife to go to bed, the husband to work part of the night. Scarcely has the wife closed the door of her room, before a carriage stops under the doctor's windows and a man inquires for a doctor. Dr. Grey reveals his profession; the travellers asks hospitality for some one who cannot go any further. The doctor opens his door and a masked man, carrying a woman in his arms, enters upon the scene, telling the postilion to unharness the horses and hide both them and the carriage."

"Bravo! the beginning is excellent!... We can picture the masked man and the sick woman."

The woman is near her confinement; her lover is carrying her away and they are on their way to embark at Shields when the pangs of childbirth come upon the fugitive; it is important to conceal all trace of her; her father, who is the all-powerful ambassador of Spain in London, is in pursuit of her. The doctor attends to them with all haste: he points out a room to the masked man who carries the patient into it; then he rouses his wife to help him to attend to the sick woman. At this moment they hear the sound of a carriage passing at full gallop. The cries of the woman call the doctor to her side; the masked man comes back on the stage, not having the courage to witness his mistress's sufferings. After a short time the doctor rushes to find his guest: the unknown woman has just given birth to a boy, and mother and child are both doing well."

The narrator interrupted himself.

"Do you think," he asked me, "that this scene would be possible on the stage?"

"Why not? It was possible in Terence's day."

"In what way?"

"Thus:

"PAMPHILA. Miseram me! differor deloribus! Juno Lucina, fer opem! Serva me, obsecro!

REGIO. Numnam ilia, quæso, parturit?... Hem!

PAMPHILA. Oh! unhappy wretch! My pains overcome me! Juno Lucina, come to my aid! save me, I entreat thee.

REGIO. Hullo, I say, is she about to be confined?"

"Is that in Terence?"

"Certainly."

"Then we are saved!"

"I quite believe it! It is as purely classical as _Amphitryon_ and _l'Avare."_

"I will proceed, then."

"And I will listen!"

"Just as the masked man is rushing into the chamber of the sick woman, there is a violent knocking at Dr. Grey's door. 'Who is there? Open in the name of the law!' It is the father, a constable and two police-officers. The doctor is obliged to admit that he has given shelter to the two fugitives; the father declares that he will carry his daughter away instantly. The doctor opposes in the name of humanity and his wife; the father insists; the doctor then informs him of the condition of the sick woman, and both beg him to be merciful to her. Fury of the father, who completely ignores the situation. At that moment, the masked man comes joyfully out of the sickroom and is aghast to see the father of the woman he has carried off; the father leaps at his throat and demands his arrest. The noise of the struggle reaches the _accouchée_, who comes out half-fainting and falls at her father's feet: she vows she will follow her lover everywhere, even to prison; that he is her husband in the eyes of men. The father again and more energetically calls into requisition the assistance of the constable and takes his daughter in his arms to carry her away. The doctor and his wife implore in vain. The masked man comes forward in his turn ... and the act finishes there; stay, I have outlined the last scene ... Let us suppose that the masked man has assumed the name of Robertson, that the father is called Da Sylva and the young lady Caroline:--

"ROBERTSON, _putting his hand on Da Sylva's shoulder._--Leave her alone.

CAROLINE.--Oh, father!... my Robertson!...

DA SYLVA.--Thy Robertson, indeed!... Look, all of you and I will show you who thy Robertson is ... Off with that mask." (He snatches it from Robertson's face).--"Look he is ..."

"ROBERTSON.--Silence; in the name of and for the sake of your daughter."

"You understand," Beudin went on "he quickly puts his mask on again, so quickly that nobody, except the audience whom he is facing, has time to see his countenance."

"Well; after that?"

"After?"

"You are right," says Da Sylva; "she alone shall know who you are.... This man."

"Well?" asks Caroline anxiously.

"This man," says Da Sylva leaning close to his daughter's ear; "this man is the executioner!"

"Caroline shrieks and falls. That is the end of the prologue."

"Wait a bit," I said, "surely I know something similar to that ... yes ... no. Yes, in the _Chronicles of the Canongate!_"

"Yes; it was, in fact, Walter Scott's novel which gave us the idea for our play."

"Well, but what then? There is no drama in the remainder of the novel."

"No.... So we depart completely from it here."

"Good! And when we leave it what follows?"

"There is an interval of twenty-six years. The stage represents the same room; only, everything has grown older in twenty-six years, personages, furniture and hangings. The man whose face the audience saw, and whom Da Sylva denounced in a whisper to his daughter, as the executioner, is playing chess with Dr. Grey; Mrs. Grey is sewing; Richard, the child of the prologue, is, standing up writing; Jenny, the doctor's daughter, watches him as he writes."

"Stay, that idea of everybody twenty-six years older is capital."

"And then?"

"Ah! plague take it! That is all there is," said Beudin. "What, you stop there?"

"Yes ... the deuce! you know well enough that if the play were concluded we should not want your assistance!"

"Quite so ... but still, you must have some idea concerning the rest of the play?"

"Yes ... Richard has grown up under his father's care. Richard is ambitious, and wants to become a member of the House of Commons. Dr. Grey's influence can help him: he pretends to be in love with his daughter ... We will have the spectacle of an English election, which will be out of the common."

"And then?"

"Well then, you must invent the rest."

"But, come, that means that there is nearly the whole thing to finish!"

"Yes, very nearly ... But that won't trouble you!"

"That's all very well; but, at this moment, I am busy on my drama, _Charles VII._, and I cannot give my mind to anything else."

"Oh! there is no desperate hurry for it! meantime Goubaux will work away at it whilst I will do likewise ... You like the idea?"

"Yes."

"All right! when you return to Paris we will have a meeting at your house or at mine or at Goubaux's and we will fix our plans."

"Granted, but on one condition."

"What?"

"That it shall be under your names and I shall remain behind the curtain."

"Why so?"

"Because, in the first place, the idea is not mine; and, secondly, because I have decided never to let my name be associated with any other name."[1]

"Then we will withhold our names."

"No, indeed! that is out of the question."

"Very well, as you will! We will settle the point when we have come to it.... You will take half share?"

"Why half, when there are three of us?"

"Because we are leaving you the trouble of working out the plot."

"I will compose the play if you wish; but I will only take a third of the profits."

"We will discuss all that in Paris."

"Precisely so! But do not forget that I make my reservations."

"Then, this 24 July, at five o'clock in the afternoon, it is agreed that you, Goubaux and I shall write _Richard Darlington_ between us."

"To-day, 24 July, my birthday, it is agreed, at five o'clock in the afternoon, that Goubaux, you and I shall write _Richard Darlington._"

"Is to-day your birthday?"

"I was twenty-nine at four o'clock this morning."

"Bravo! that will bring us good luck!"

"I hope so!"

"When shall you be in Paris?"

"About 15 August."

"That will suit perfectly!"

"Now, jot down the plan of the prologue for me on a slip of paper."

"Why now?"

"Because I shall come to the rendezvous with the prologue completed.... The more there is done the less will there be to do."

"Capital! you shall have the outline to-morrow."

"Oh! it will do if I have it just before I leave; if I have it to-morrow, I shall finish it the day after to-morrow, and that will cause trouble in the matter of the drama I am writing."

"Very well; I will keep it ready for you."

"Ah! one more favour."

"Which is?"

"Do not let us speak of _Richard Darlington_ again; I shall think of it quite enough, you need not fear, without talking about it."

"We will not mention it again."

And, as a matter of fact, from that moment, there was no reference made between us to _Richard Darlington_--I will not say as though it had never existed, but as though it never were to exist. On the other hand, _Charles VII._ went on its way. On 10 August I wrote the four last lines.

"Vous qui, nés sur la terre, Portez comme des chiens, la chaîne héréditaire, Demeurez en hurlant près du sépulcre ou vert ... Pour Yakoub, il est libre, et retourne au désert!"

When the work was finished, I read it over. It was, as I have said, more in the nature of a _pastiche_ than a true drama; but there was an immense advance in style between _Christine_ and _Charles VII._ True, _Christine_ is far superior to _Charles VII._ in imagination and in dramatic feeling.

Nothing further kept me at Trouville. Beudin had preceded me to Paris several days before. We took leave of M. and Madame de la Garenne; we settled our accounts with Madame Oseraie and we started for Paris. Bonnechose accompanied us as far as Honfleur. He did not know how to part with us, poor fellow! He might have guessed that we were never to see each other again. The same night we took diligence from Rouen. Next day, at dawn, the travellers got down to climb a hillside; I thought I recognised, among our fellow-passengers, one of the editors of the _Journal des Débats._ I went up to him as he was coming towards me, and we got into conversation.

"Well!" he said, "you have heard?"

"What?"

"_Marion Delorme_ has been performed."

"Ah really?... And here am I hurrying to be present at the first performance!"

"You will not see it ... and you will not have lost much."

It was a matter of course that the editor of a journal so devoted an admirer of Hugo as was the _Journal des Débats_ should speak thus of the great poet.

"Why do I not miss much? Has the play not succeeded?"

"Oh! yes indeed! but coldly, coldly, coldly; and no money in it."

My companion said this with the intense gratification of the critic taking his revenge upon the author, of the eunuch with his foot on the sultan's neck.

"Cold? No money?" I repeated.

"And besides, badly played!"

"Badly played by Bocage and Dorval! Come now!"

"If the author had had any common-sense he would have withdrawn the play or he would have had it performed after the July Revolution, while things were warm after the rejection of MM. de Polignac and de la Bourdonnaie."

"But as to poetry?..."

"Weak! Much poorer than _Hernani!_"

"Ah! say you so," I burst forth, "a drama weak in poetry that contains such lines as these!"--

"LE ROI.

Je sais l'affaire, assez q'avez vous a me dire?

LE MARQUIS DE NANGIS.

Je dis qu'il est bien temps que vous y songiez, sire: Que le cardinal-due a de sombres projets, Et qu'il boit le meilleur du sang de vos sujets. Votre père Henri, de mémoire royale, N'eut point ainsi livré sa noblesse loyale; Il ne la frappait point sans y fort regarder, Et, bien gardé par elle, il savait la garder; Il savait qu'on peut faire, avec des gens d'épees, Quelque chose de mieux que des têtes coupées; Qu'ils sont bons à la guerre! Il ne l'ignorait point, Lui, dont plus d'une balle a troué le pourpoint. Ce temps était le bon; j'en fus, et je l'honore; Un peu de seigneurie y palpitait encore. Jamais à des seigneurs un prêtre n'eût touché; On n'avait point alors de tête à bon marché. Sire, en des jours mauvais comme ceux où nous sommes, Croyez un vieux; gardez un peu de gentilshommes. Vous en aurez besoin peut-être à votre tour! Hélas! vous gémirez peut-être, quelque jour! Que la place de Grève ait été si fêtée, Et que tant de seigneurs, de valeur indomptée; Vers qui se tourneront vos regrets envieux, Soient morts depuis longtemps, qui ne seraient pas vieux!

Car nous sommes tout chauds de la guerre civile, Et le tocsin d'hier gronde encor dans la ville Soyez plus ménager des peines du bourreau: C'est lui qui doit garder son estoc au fourreau, Non pas nous! D'échafauds montrez vous économe; Craignez d'avoir, un jour, à pleurer tel brave homme, Tel vaillant de grand cœur dont, à l'heure qu'il est, Le squelette blanchit aux chaînes d'un gibet! Sire, le sang n'est pas un bonne rosée; Nulle moisson ne vient sur la grève arrosée; Et le peuple des rois évite le balcon, Quand, aux dépens du Louvre, ils peuplent Montfaucon. Meurent les courtisans, s'il faut que leur voix aille Vous amuser, pendant que le bourreau travaille! Cette voix des flatteurs qui dit que tout est bon, Qu'après tout, on est fils d'Henri Quatre, et Bourbon, Si haute qu'elle soit, ne couvre pas sans peine Le bruit sourd qu'en tombant fait une tête humaine. Je vous en donne avis, ne jouez pas ce jeu, Roi, qui serez, un jour, face a face avec Dieu. Donc, je vous dis, avant que rien ne s'accomplisse, Qu'à tout prendre, il vaut mieux un combat qu'un supplice, Que ce n'est pas la joie et l'honneur des États De voir plus de besogneaux bourreaux qu'aux soldats! Que ce n'est un pasteur dur pour la France où vous êtes, Qu'un prêtre qui se paye une dîme de têtes, Et que cet homme, illustre entre les inhumains, Qui touche à votre sceptre, a du sang à ses mains!"

"Why! you know it by heart then?"

"I hope so, indeed!"

"Why the deuce did you learn it?"

"I know nearly the whole of _Marion Delorme_ by heart."

And I quoted almost the whole of the scene between Didier and Marion Delorme, in the island.

"Ah! that is indeed odd!" he said.

"No! there is nothing odd about it. I simply think _Marion Delorme_ one of the most beautiful things in the world. I had the manuscript at my disposal and have read and re-read it. The lines I have just recited have remained in my memory and I repeated them to you in support of my opinion."

"Then, too," continued my critic, "the plot is taken from de Vigny's novel...."

"Good! that is exactly where Hugo shows his wisdom. I would willingly have been his John the forerunner in this instance."

"Do you mean to say that Saverny and Didier are not copied from Cinq-Mars and de Thou?"

"As man is copied from man and no further!"

"And Didier is your Antony."

"Rather say that Antony is taken from Didier, seeing that _Marion Delorme_ was made a year before I dreamt of _Antony_ "Ah! well, one good thing has come out of it."

"What is that?"

"Your defence of Victor Hugo."

"Why not? I like him and admire him."

"A colleague!" said the critic in a tone of profound pity, and shrugging his shoulders.

"Take your seats, gentlemen!" shouted the conductor.

We remounted, the editor of the _Journal des Débats_ inside, I in the coupé, and the diligence resumed a monotonous trot, to meditation.

[1] I resolutely stuck to this decision until the time when my great friendship with Maquet determined me to spring the surprise upon him of putting forth his name with mine as the author of the drama of _Les Mousquetaires._ This was but fair, however, since we did not only the drama, but also the romance, in collaboration. I am delighted to be able to add, that, although we have not worked together now for a couple of years, the friendship is just the same, at all events on my side.