CHAPTER II

Death of _Mirabeau_--The accessories of _Charles VII._--A shooting party--Montereau--A temptation I cannot resist--Critical position in which my shooting companions and I find ourselves--We introduce ourselves into an empty house by breaking into it at night--Inspection of the premises--Improvised supper--As one makes one's bed, so one lies on it--I go to see the dawn rise--Fowl and duck shooting--Preparations for breakfast--Mother Galop

It will be seen the times were not at all encouraging for literature. But there was through that highly strung period such a vital turgescence that enough force remained in the youth of the day, who had just been making a political disturbance on the boulevard Saint-Denis or the place Vendôme, to create a literary disturbance at the Théâtre Porte-Saint-Martin or the Odéon. I think I have said that _Mirabeau_ had been played, and had passed like a shadow without even being able, when dying, to bequeathe the name of its author to the public: the company of the Odéon, therefore, was entirely at the disposal of _Charles VII._

Whether Harel had returned to my opinion, that the play would not make money, or whether he had a fit of niggardliness, a rare happening, I must confess, when Mademoiselle Georges was taking part in a play, he would not risk any expense, not even to the extent of the stag that kills Raymond in the first act, not even for the armour which clothes Charles VII. in the fourth. The result was that I was obliged to go to Raincy myself to kill a stag, and to get it stuffed at my own expense; then I had to go and borrow a complete set of armour from the Artillery Museum, which they obligingly lent me in remembrance of the service that I had rendered their establishment on 29 July 1830, by saving a portion of the armour of Francis I. However, the rehearsals proceeded with such energy that, on 5 September, the opening day of the shooting season having arrived, I had no hesitation about leaving _Charles VII._ to the strength of the impetus that I had given it, and, as M. Étienne would say, I went to woo Diana at the expense of the Muses. True, our Muses, if the illustrious Academician is to be believed, were but sorry ones!

I had decided to undertake this cynegetic jollification because of an unlimited permission from Bixio. That permission had been given to us by our common friend Dupont-Delporte, who, by virtue of our discretionary powers, we had just made sub-lieutenant in the army, together with a delightful lad called Vaillant, who, with Louis Desnoyers, managed a paper called the _Journal Rose_, and also the son of Mademoiselle Duchesnois, who, I believe, died bravely in Algeria. As to Vaillant, I know not what became of him, or whether he followed up his military career; but, if he be still living, no matter where he may be, I offer him greeting, although a quarter of a century has rolled by. Now this permission was indeed calculated to tempt a sportsman. Dupont-Delporte introduced us to his father, and begged him to place his château and estates at our disposition. The château was situated three-quarters of a league from Montigny, a little village which itself was three leagues from Montereau. We left by diligence at six o'clock on the morning of 4 September, and we reached Montereau about four in the afternoon. I was not yet acquainted with Montereau, doubly interesting, historically, by reason of the assassination of the Duke of Burgundy Jean Sans-Peur, and from the victory which, in the desperate struggle of 1814, Napoléon won there over the Austrians and the Würtemburgers. Our caravan was made up of Viardot, author of the _Histoire des Arabes en Espagne_, and, later, husband of that adorable and all round actress called Pauline Garcia; of Bessas-Lamégie, then deputy-mayor of the 10th arrondissement; of Bixio, and of Louis Boulanger. Whilst Bixio, who knew the town, went in search of a carriage to take us to Montigny, Boulanger, Bessas-Lamégie, Viardot and I set to work to turn over the two important pages of history embedded in the little town, written four centuries ago. The position of the bridge perfectly explained the scene of the assassination of the Duke of Burgundy. Boulanger drew for me on the spot a rough sketch, which served me later in my romance of _Isabeau de Bavière_, and in my legend of the _Sire de Giac._ Then we went to see the sword of the terrible duke, which hung in the crypt of the church. If one formed an idea of the man by the sword one would be greatly deceived: imagine the ball swords of Francis II. or of Henri III.! When we had visited the church we had finished with the memories of 1417, and we passed on to those of 1814. We rapidly climbed the ascent of Surville, and found ourselves on the plateau where Napoléon, once more an artilleryman, thundered, with pieces of cannon directed by himself, against the Würtemburgers fighting in the town. It was there that, in getting off his horse and whipping his boot with his horse-whip, he uttered this remarkable sentence, an appeal from Imperial doubt to Republican genius--

"Come, Bonaparte, let us save Napoléon!"

Napoléon was victor, but was not saved: the modern Sisyphus had the rock of the whole of Europe incessantly falling back upon him.

It was five o'clock. We had three long leagues of country to cover; three leagues of country, no matter in what department, were it even in that of Seine-et-Marne, always means five leagues of posting. Now, five leagues of posting in a country stage-waggon is at least a four hours' journey. We should only arrive at M. Dupont-Delporte's house, whom not one of us knew, at nine or half-past nine at night. Was he a loving enough father to forgive us such an invasion, planting ourselves on him at unawares? Bixio replied that, with the son's letter, we were sure to be made welcome by the father, no matter at what hour of the day or night we knocked at his door.

We started in that belief, ourselves and our dogs all heaped together in the famous stage-waggon in question, which very soon gave us a sample of its powers by taking an hour and a quarter to drive the first league. We were just entering upon the second when, in passing by a field of lucerne, I was seized with the temptation to go into it with the dog of one of my fellow-sportsmen. I do not know by what misfortune I had not my own. My companions sang out to me that shooting had not yet begun; but my sole reply was that that was but one reason more for finding game there. And I added that, if I succeeded in killing a brace of partridges or a hare, it would add some sauce to the supper which M. Dupont-Delporte would be obliged to give us. This argument won over my companions. The waggon was stopped; I took Viardot's dog and entered the field of lucerne. If any sort of gamekeeper appeared, the waggon was to proceed on its way, and I undertook to outdistance the above-mentioned gamekeeper. Those who knew my style of walking had no uneasiness on this score. The journey I made there and back from Crépy to Paris, shooting by the way with my friend Paillet, will be recalled to mind. Scarcely had I taken twenty steps in the field of lucerne before a great leveret, three-quarters face, started under the dog's nose. It goes without saying that that leveret was killed. As no gamekeeper had appeared on the scene at the noise of my firing, I took my leveret by its hind legs and quietly remounted the stage-waggon. What a fine thing is success! Everybody congratulated me, even the most timorous. Three-quarters of a league farther on was a second field of lucerne. A fresh temptation, fresh argument, and fresh yielding. At the very entrance into the field the dog came across game, and stopped, pointing. A covey of a dozen or so of partridges started up; I fired my first shot into the very middle of the covey: two fell, and a third fell down at my second shot. This would make us a roast which, if not quite sufficient, would at least be presentable. Again I climbed into the coach in the midst of the cheering of the travellers. You will see directly that these details, trivial as they may appear at the first glance, are not without their importance. I had a good mind to continue a hunt which seemed like becoming the parallel to the miraculous draught of fishes; but night was falling, and compelled me to content myself with my leveret and three partridges. We drove on for another couple of hours, until we found ourselves opposite a perfectly black mass. This was the château of M. Dupont-Delporte.

"Ah!" said the driver, "here we are."

"What, have we arrived?"

"Yes."

"Is this the château d'Esgligny?"

"That is the château d'Esgligny."

We looked at one another.

"But everybody is asleep," said Bessas.

"We will create a revolution," added Viardot.

"Messieurs," suggested Boulanger, "I think we should do well to sleep in the carriage, and only present ourselves to-morrow morning."

"Why! M. Dupont-Delporte would never forgive us," said Bixio, and, jumping down from the carriage, he resolutely advanced towards the door and rang.

Meanwhile the driver, who was paid in advance, and who had shuddered at Boulanger's suggestion of using his stage-waggon for a tent, quietly turned his horse's head towards Montigny, and suddenly departed at a trot which proved that his horse felt much relieved at getting rid of his load. For a moment we thought of stopping him, but before the debate that began upon this question was ended, driver, horse and vehicle had disappeared in the darkness. Our boats were burned behind us! The situation became all the more precarious in that Bixio had rung, knocked, flung stones at the door, all in vain, for nobody answered. A terrifying idea began to pass through our minds: the château, instead of containing sleeping people, seemed to contain nobody at all. This was a melancholy prospect for travellers not one of whom knew the country, and all of whom had the appetites of ship-wrecked men. Bixio ceased ringing, ceased knocking, ceased throwing stones; the assault had lasted a quarter of an hour, and had not produced any effect: it was evident that the château was deserted. We put our heads together in council, and each advanced his own view. Bixio persisted in his of entering, even if it meant scaling the walls; he answered for M. Dupont-Delporte's approval of everything he did.

"Look here," I said to him, "will you take the responsibility on yourself?"

"Entirely."

"Will you guarantee us, if not judicial impunity, at all events civil absolution?"

"Yes."

"Very well; will somebody light a bit of paper to give me light?"

A smoker (alas! from about that period there were smokers to be found everywhere) drew a match--box from his pocket, twisted up half a newspaper, and lighted me with his improvised beacon. In a trice I had pulled off the lock, by the help of my screw--driver. The door opened by itself when the lock was off. We found ourselves inside the park. Before going farther we thought we ought to put back the lock in its place. Then, feeling our way through the tortuous walks, we attained the main entrance. By chance the emigrants, probably counting on the first door to be a sufficient obstacle, had not shut that of the château. So we entered the château and wandered about among the salons, bedrooms and kitchens. Everywhere we found traces of a hasty departure, and that it had been incomplete owing to the haste with which it had been undertaken. In the kitchen the turnspit was in position, and there were two or three saucepans and a stove. In the dining-room were a dozen chairs and a table; eighteen mattresses were in the linen-room; and, in the cupboard of one room thirty pots of jam! Each fresh discovery led to shouts of joy equal to those uttered by Robinson Crusoe on his various visits to the wrecked vessel. We had the wherewithal to cook a meal, to sit down and to sleep; furthermore, there were thirty pots of jam for our dessert. It is true we had nothing for our supper. But at that moment I drew my hare and the partridges from my pocket, announcing that I was prepared to skin the hare if the others would pluck the partridges. When hare and partridges were skinned and plucked I undertook to put them all in the spit. We only wanted bread. Here Boulanger came on the scene with a shout of joy. In order to draw the view of the bridge of Montereau, or, rather, in order to rub out the incorrect lines in his sketch, he had sent an urchin to fetch some crumbly bread. The lad had brought him a two-pound loaf. The loaf had been stuffed into someone or other's game bag. We searched all the game bags, and the loaf of bread was found in Bessas-Lamégie's bag. At this sight we all echoed Boulanger's shout of joy. The two pounds of bread were placed under an honourable embargo; but, for greater security, Bixio put in his pocket the key of the sideboard in which the bread was enclosed. After this I began to skin my hare, and my scullion-knaves began to pluck the partridges.

Bessas-Lamégie, who had announced that he had no culinary proclivities, was sent with a lantern to find any available kind of fuel. He brought back two logs, stating that the wood-house was abundantly stocked, and that consequently we need not be afraid of making a good fire. The hearth-place flamed with joy after this assurance. In a kitchen table drawer we found a few old iron forks. We were not so particular as to insist upon silver ones. The table was laid as daintily as possible. We each had our knife, and, what was more, a flask full of wine or brandy or kirsch. I, who drink but little wine and am not fond of either brandy or kirsch, had gooseberry syrup. I was therefore the only one who could not contribute to the general stock of beverages; but they forgave me in virtue of the talents I showed as cook. They saw clearly that I was a man of resource, and they praised my adroitness in killing the game and my skill in roasting it. It was nearly one in the morning when we lay down in our clothes on the mattresses. The Spartans took only one mattress; the Sybarites took two. I was the first to wake, when it was scarcely daylight. In the few moments that elapsed between the extinction of the light and the coming of sleep I had reflected about the future, and promised myself as soon as I waked to look about for a village or hamlet where we could supply ourselves with provisions. Therefore, like Lady Malbrouck, I climbed up as high as I could get, not, however, to a tower, but to the attics. A belfry tower was just visible in the distance, through the trees, probably belonging to the village of Montigny. The distance at which it was situated inspired me with extremely sad reflections, but just then, dropping my eyes, melancholy-wise towards the earth, I saw a fowl picking about in a pathway; then, in another path, another fowl; then a duck dabbling in a kind of pond. It was evident that this was the rear-guard of a poultry yard which had escaped death by some intelligent subterfuge. I went downstairs into the kitchen, got my gun, put two charges of cartridges in my pocket, and ran out into the garden. Three shots gave me possession of the duck and fowls, and we had food for breakfast. Furthermore, we would dispatch two of our party to a village for eggs and bread, wine and butter. At the sound of my three shots the windows opened, and I saw a row of heads appear which looked like so many notes of interrogation. I showed my two fowls in one hand and my duck in the other. The result was immediate. At the sight of my simple gesture shouts of admiration rose from the spectators. At supper the night before, we had had roast meats; at breakfast, we were going to have both roast and stew. I thought I would stew the duck with turnips, as it seemed of a ripe age. Enthusiasm produces great devotion: when I suggested drawing lots as to who should go to the village of Montigny to find butter, eggs, bread and wine, two men of goodwill volunteered from the ranks. These were Boulanger and Bixio, who, not being either shooters or cooks, desired to make themselves useful to society according to their limited means. Their services were accepted; an old basket was discovered, the bottom of which was made strong with twine! Bixio set the example of humility by taking the empty basket,--Boulanger undertook to carry back the full basket. I set the rest of my people to work to pluck the fowls and the duck, and I undertook a voyage of discovery. It was impossible that a château so well provisioned, even in the absence of its owners, should not include among its appurtenances an orchard and a kitchen-garden. It was necessary to discover both. I was without a compass, but, by the aid of the rising sun, I could make out the south from the north. Therefore the orchard and the kitchen-garden would, naturally, be situated to the south of the park. When I had gone about a hundred yards I was walking about among quantities of fruit and vegetables. I had but to make my choice. Carrots and turnips and salads for vegetables--pears, apples, currants for fruit. I returned loaded with a double harvest. Bessas-Lamégie, who saw me coming from afar, took me for Vertumnus, the god of gardens. Ten minutes later the god of gardens had made room for the god of cooking. An apron found by Viardot round my body, a paper cap constructed by Bessas on my head, I looked like Cornus or Vatel. I possessed a great advantage over the latter in that, not expecting any fish, I did not inflict on myself the punishment of severing my carotid artery because the fishmonger was late. To conclude, my scullion lads had not lost anytime; the fowls and the duck were plucked, and a brazier of Homeric proportions blazed in the fireplace.

Suddenly, just at the moment when I was spitting my two fowls, loud cries were heard in the courtyard, then in the ante-chamber, then on the stairs, and a furious old woman, bonnet-less and thoroughly scared, ran into the kitchen. It was Mother Galop.