more rain falls sometimes in May than in November, and that brave old general may have quite as long a honey-moon as some young couples we have seen!" "But, Restif?" "Enfin! you must read all about him in poor Gérard's Confidences de Nicolas;' the facts will seem to you romantic, perhaps, but they are facts, and well established. I would send you to the Biographie Universelle, but-it is one of our misfortunes in France, that our political spites and hatreds crawl in everywhere, even into our literature. I will sketch Gérard's picture for you, from memory. You will see that Restif was one of the victims of that Circe, whose laureate was Grécourt, and whose painter was Boucher! "Restif was a provincial. He was born at Sacy, a little town that lies on the frontier betwixt passion and frivolity-between Burgundy and Champagne. His parents were respectable farmers, and they meant to make the little Nicholas a curé. The child showed no premature inclinations that way. He was of a wayward temper, and loved to go into the woods with the shepherds. There he sought out cool caverns and secluded clumps of trees, and went through all the wild dramatic life which every gifted and impassioned child leads in his secret soul. In the woods he was a king, a priest, a slayer of giants. At home, his family, good, simple people enough, saw in him only an odd, rather naughty boy. When he was twelve years old, his father's shepherd (men were still pious then) asked leave to make the pilgrimage to Mount St. Michael. He got leave, but who should keep the sheep? Nicholas. Papa Restif hesitated; the boy was young, and wolves were no strangers in that region, thanks to the sweet influences of feudalism and of royal wars. But Nicholas pleaded, and had permission. Rejoicingly he went forth, three great dogs at his side, breathed the fresh air, listened to the song of the birds, looked on the blue sky and the leafless brilliant autumn flowers, with eyes anointed by the new sense of freedom. His imagination was kindled-and by what? by the world about him, by the world within him? No! (and mark this, for it shows you the original generosity and tenderness of the boy's nature,) by the th ught of shepherd Jacquot, wending his lonely way, far off, through the lonely forest! He composed his first poem, that day, on that subject, and if not so long nor so elegant, it is as fervent and affectionate as Horace's ode on the voyage of Virgil. That day, too, he discovered a kingdom, of which he was to take possession, as did the Spaniards of the New World, in the name of religion. Straying about, with the poor sheep at his heels, into the recesses of the woods, where there was more of the picturesque than of pasture, he came on a sombre valley, famous for legends of the robbers, and excommunicated persons, who were held to haunt it in the shape of beasts. Long did Nicholas waver; but his sheep, who had no superstition, where they saw a blade of grass, ran before him; the pigs followed the sheep, and Nicholas had to follow the pigs. He overtook them under a great oak, and there he beheld, mingling with his herd, a huge wild boar, such as he had read of in his favorite stories. Nicholas stood spell-bound among the bushes, pushed aside the branches, and looked out with mingled fear and delight. He fancied himself in fairy-land. There was the savage boar disporting with the tame swine; presently a roebuck bounded across the glade; hares ran in and out upon the turf; a lapwing, Solomon's bird, flew up and sat on the bough of a great honey-pear tree. Then there was a rustling in the undergrowth opposite him, and suddenly, with eyes like burning coals, the tawny, pointed head of a wolf looked over at the boy! And at that moment the great dogs came up. They rushed barking into the glade; wolf, boar, roebuck, and hare all vanished! The lapwing flew away, and, of all the little poet's vision, as of so many greater poet's visions, only the honey-pear tree remained! He filled his pockets and went home. But he had discovered a kingdom. “The next day he came again. ‘I must build me a monument for a witness,' said he, as they do in the Bible my father reads.' And so he worked away for several days, till he had reared a pyramid of stones. Then he bethought him of the Biblical custom of sacrifices. He caught a bee-eater, a bird whose name is its condemnation, and solemnly put it to death. Then he ran out of his valley, and called some other shepherd lads and lasses, to be his witnesses. He set forth to them his 288 Circe. rights, which they recognized; lighted a pile of dry wood, and then, filled with sacerdotal dignity, stood erect by his altar, saw the entrails of the bird consumed, roasted the flesh, singing, meanwhile, some verses of the Psalms, and finally distributed of the burnt-offering to those who were present. The three dogs were the only witnesses, I fancy, who found the feast palatable." “Why, all this," said I, "is singularly like Goethe's boyish Pantheism, of which he gives such a charming account in the Dichtung und Wahrheit.'" "Yes! but it all happened before Goethe was born, and was put on record before he had grown up. I tell you these things, because nothing is so characteristic as the childhood of a man of genius. "This sacerdotal experience soon got wind. Nicholas had an elder halfbrother, the Abbé Thomas, who was a teacher among the Jansenists, at Bicêtre. The abbé heard what the boy had done, thought his soul in danger, and came to the farm of La Bretone, expressly to thrash him back into the true way. He made such representations, that Nicholas was confided to him, and they went back together by the coche-d'eau, to Auxerre. Once there, the abbé ceased to be a brother, and became a teacher. Nicholas was subjected to that rigid intellectual discipline by which the Port Royalists had developed the genius of a Pascal and a Racine. That Port Royal, my friend, was a grand school. It kept for us in France all the seriousness which Calvin left behind him, when he went to Geneva. The Jesuit teachers, on the contrary, were pliant, accommodating, superficial, and we owe them a sad debt; one of them came to Bicêtre, as rector, in the course of time; quarreled with the Jansenism of the teachers, denounced their books, and sent Thomas and his brother off to Sacy. "There Thomas transferred his young "A softer sapphire melts into the sea, "Bon! only he was not very near the sea! But he went to church one Easter day, and there, like Petrarch, found his Laura. That is not strange, by the way, mon cher. Have you never noticed how the perfumes of the incense, the play of warm light upon gorgeous coloring, the enchantments of the music in the Roman service, conspire to intoxicate one into a sort of nervous exaltation, in which state, not the slightest impression passes unheeded, and every emotion soon becomes intense? Well, there, among the communicants, Nicholas espied a young girl, tall, fair, modest, her coloring soft and subdued, as if, wrote Restif, years afterwards, nature meant to give more beauty to her blushes when they came; her loveliness, her carriage, her tasteful costume, combined to make Nicholas feel that he had found the being of whom he had dreamed over his grammars and dictionaries. Nicholas was no common boy; and, you who are of the race of Byron, you will not need to have me prove that one may love as passionately and suf fer as keenly, in the spring of life, as in its summer. Perhaps, more so, for the heart then is less selfish. "The young girl's name was Jeannette Rousseau. She was three years older than Nicholas-for when did a young poet love a woman younger than himself? She rose within him his life's star;' he became the closest of students, that he might deserve to win her-her birth-day became his holytide; he passed daily before her house, and saluted her father's poplar trees, as his dearest friends; he made for himself a little prayer, in Latin, asking God to give her to him; and, finding that the bell-ringer at the church, who was a vine-dresser, often wanted to quit the temple, for the field, Nicholas offered to be his substitute; and, going early to the church, he would kneel where Jeannette kneeled, kiss the stones her feet had pressed, and recite his little litany. He never spoke to her his heart swelled so in him, at the sound of her voice, that, if he drew too near her, he became like a stock, or a stone. "As Gérard recites all this young history, it is one of the most delicious of idyls. How Nicholas found a confidant in his brother's housekeeper, Marguerite-who, in her youth had been asked in marriage by Jeannette's father, and denied to him by her uncle; how the sympathy of Marguerite disturbed and bewildered him sadly; how, in one of these terrible fevers of the heart and brain, which so often drive young people nearly to madness, and are so rarely comprehended-so constantly exasperated, by their elders, Nicholas committed an extravagance, which caused him to be sent off to learn printing of one Parangon, at Auxerre: all this, you must read in the pages of Gérard. You will easily conceive that this turbulent and premature nature expanded rapidly in the atmosphere of the printing-office. Apprentice as he was, the compositors soon learned to respect him; he studied, read, and wrote-yes, he wrote a letter to Jeannette, to whom he had never dared to speak, in octo-syllabic versės, and sent it by post. Her father, of course, carried it to the Cure; and the family of Restif sentenced the young culprit to perpetual banishment. "At Auxerre, Nicholas found a friend in Mme. Parangon, the wife of his master—a young, lovely, intelligent woman, who interested herself in his studies, and became attached to him, for a service which he accidentally rendered her. They read poetry together-the Cid of Corneille, the Zaire of Voltaire. Nothing could be more ingenuous, more charming, than the early days of this intimacy. "But the breath of Circe came wafted on the Northern wind, even to Auxerre. "A certain Mme. Minon came first, fresh from Paris. 66 Our apprentice reads delightfully,' said Mme. Parangon; he has just been making me cry over Zaire.' 66 "Ah!' cried the Minon, clapping her hands, tant mieur! he shall read us La Pucelle-that will be very amusing.' Ignorant Nicholas and innocent Mme. Parangon agreed to the proposal; but the lady had the good sense to look at the book, before giving it to her young friend—and then, of course, threw it aside. "More fatal than Minon, was the second envoy of the enchantress. Next door to the printing-office was a convent of Cordeliers. One evening, Nicholas was surprised by the appearance of one of these monks, half-dressed, excited, alarmed "A snare has been set for me!' cried the monk; I have lost my robe. Let me get into the convent through your back-door, or I am lost!' VII.-19 "Nicholas saved the fellow. His name was Gaudet d'Arras; and, coming a few days after, he invited Nicholas to dine with him. 'He told Nicholas, in the confidence of the dessert, that his family had forced him into the ecclesiastical life, and so did away with something of the unfavorable effect which his conduct had produced on the honorable heart of the young man. "Gaudet d'Arras gradually made his way with Nicholas. He was thoroughly a son of the age, a materialist, a scoffer, a libertine in spirit, and in temper. Appearing in his own person as the victim of those feudal institutions against which all thinking and high-spirited men were everywhere beginning to revolt, Gaudet d'Arras continued to interest this ardent, independent intellect, and began to undermine the ingenuous, romantic, and religious disposition of Nicholas. He put the love of Nicholas for Jeannette, and his friendship for Mme. de Parangon, in the light in which they would have been seen by the Regent and his roués, who used to amuse themselves with robbing the mails, to laugh over the love-letters. Long did the heart of Nicholas hold out; but he was young. he was unformed, he was full of vague desires, aspirations, hopes. What were such as he, in the hands of Circe and her ministers? "His life trembled on that moment betwixt good and evil, which marks the backward or the forward course of destiny. "Haunted by the spirit of Gaudet, Nicholas was no longer at his ease in the presence of Mme. Parangon. One day he stammered into a demi-declaration of love to her, while reading to her from the Cid.' She received what he said with a surprise, and a motherly dignity, which restored him to himself; but the first step was taken, and Gaudet d'Arras was ever at his side, with his misty materialism, his incomprehensible, but exciting and intoxicating theories. The heart of Nicholas began to turn with his brain. Your imagination will paint to you the steps of folly and madness down which he hurried. It cannot paint to you any figure more sweet, and simple, and lovely, than Mme. Parangon, as she appears in the pictures of Gérard. She was a woman, pardon me, mon cher, more rare, I fancy, in Protestant than in Catholic countries; a woman as stainless as our saints, yet as merciful as our religion! I see the shadow of a doubt on your brow, but you will find such women in France still; not often in our books, but whenever you meet a true French gentleman, you will perceive that such women exist, and that he has known them. "Well, the presence of Mme. de Parangon became a torture at once and a fascination to our unhappy Nicholas. Gaudet lifted to his lips the cup of Circe. He began to haunt the vulgar village orgies. You remember de Musset's La Coupe et les Lévres?'" "I answered, "Ah! malheur à celui qui laisse la débauche Planter le premier clou sous sa mamello gauche; Le cœur d'un homme vierge est un vase profond; Lorsque la premiére eau qu'on y verse est impure La mer y passerait sans lavor la souillure, Car l'abime est immense, et la tache est au fond!' "Yes!" Paul resumed, sadly, "the Circe of the Palais Royal breathed contagion over the half of France. The influences of Mme. Parangon, sweet as those of the Pleiades, were rained down in vain upon Restif. He began to wear the bold air, to throw himself into the coarse attitudes, to speak with the husky, vinous voice, of vulgar debauchees. He wrote verses in the style of Lafare and Chaulieu to Aglae and Marianne, to Delphine and to Rose. Little by little he broke the heart of Mme. Parangon, and so depraved himself, that long afterwards, looking back on these days, he wrote, but for my love of work, I should have become a ruffian at nineteen.' "Well, one day Mme. Parangon died; Gaudet d'Arras went away; Nicholas must seek his fortune at Paris. Before he went, Parangon, who knew that Nicholas had addressed his wife, and was coarse enough to suspect her (she then lying in her grave), avenged himself by leading Nicholas into a marriage with one of the worst and most notorious girls in the town. This Agnes soon ran away with one of her cousins, but not till the miserable union had completed the moral perversion of Nicholas. "I shall not follow Restif through all his Parisian history. I have dwelt specially on his youth, that I might illus trate to you the fatal influence of the spirit of that last age upon a genius born for poetry and truth. "Yet if you are not tired, I should like to relate to you an episode or two of that strange career, which paints the manners of those times far better than solemn histories." "By all means," I answered; "we are not very near Paris yet, and I will light another cigar." In 1757, Nicholas used to be seen every night at the Comédie Française, where his graceful and vigorous form, his black, expressive eyes, his stronglymarked features, and rich brown complexion, his air of mingled audacity and refinement, his costume always elegant, though simple, made him a noticeable figure in the parterre. He was pursuing his trade as a printer, but spent a large part of his gains at the theatre, of which he was as fond as Goethe. Moreover he had conceived a dreamy ideal passion for 'la belle Guéant,' who was then winning all suffrages. A born poet is a man born to eternal illusions; and Nicholas for a year had been feeding his fancy on the sight of this divinity of the stage. He had never spoken to her. She was his Jeannette of Paris. Ah! how different from the fair young vision of his boyhood, and yet a dream of Arcadia in the island of Circe! "He used to follow her out to her sedan-chair every night, and saw with joy that she always entered it alone. He used to walk by her windows, and watch her shadow on the curtains, as he had walked by the poplars of La Fontaine Froide, and kissed the stones of the church of Sacy. 46 One night, on leaving the theatre, Mlle. Guéant, instead of taking her chair, put her arm through that of another actress, and hurried off some distance down the street, to a carriage, into which she got, and rode rapidly away. The heart of Nicholas burned with jealousy. He ran after the carriage in a kind of frenzy, and, getting out of breath, jumped up behind. The coach stopped at last, in the then splendid quarter of the Temple. Nicholas was at the door in an instant, and then, for the first time, reflected, "What business have I here?' "Get out first, Junie!' said Mlle. Guéant's sweet, deep voice. "As Junie descended, Nicholas re cognized a danseuse whom he had met before, and held out his hand. 666 "You of the party!' cried Junie. Are you a prince then, or a poet; for we have no others here?' "I am a prince of the house of the Emperor Pertinax,' answered Nicholas solemnly; but where are we?' "At the Hotel de Hollande, where the Venetian ambassador gives a fête; but your arm, man, your arm!' "Nicholas mechanically obeyed, and they followed Mlle. Guéant up the brilliant stairway into the splendid salon. There were many women there, Voltaire's Camargo, the too famous Guimard, Arnold, Levasseur. The supper was exquisite; and when it was over, each guest, in turn, was called upon. This one sang, that one danced, Grécourt recited a tale, Piron a reckless poem; one of the actresses turned at last to Nicholas, and la belle Guéant fixed her eyes upon him. He hesitated. Will you give us something, monsieur?' said Mlle. Guéant, with a smile. He is a little prince,' cried Junie, he is good for nothing, does nothing. He is a descendant of the Emperor Pert-Pert'-Nicolas blushed to the eyes.-' Pertinax! that's it!' said Junie. The Venetian ambassador frowned. He was strong in genealogies. He, a Mocenigo of the Libro d'Oro, had no faith in princes of Imperial Roman blood. Nicholas saw that he was in danger. He rose and began to recite his genealogy; how Helvius, son of Pertinax, hidden in the Apennines, had wedded Didia Juliana, the persecuted daughter of the Emperor Didius! A coquettish abbé shook his head dubiously. Nicholas overwhelmed him with quotations, and recited the marriage contract of his ancestors. Then he went on from Pertinax to Pertinax, down to the sixtieth of the name, who translated his patronymic into the French Restif. Of all this long story he made a cutting brilliant satire on genealogies in general; so well he told it, and so captivated all his hearers, that they urged him to go on and tell his own history. That, you know, was the age of confessions. Nicholas made his rapidly, passionately, with a kind of fiery simplicity, which moved that frivolous company, and lit a spark of youth again in those worn-out hearts. a voice full of emotion, exclaimed, 'Is all that possible? Can one really love so?' "Yes, madame,' answered Nicholas, it is as true as the genealogy of the Pertinaxes. As to the person I loved, she was so like you that nothing could console me for the loss of her, but my admiration of you! !! "A storm of applause followed. Restif was pronounced a finer poet than Rousseau, a more touching romancer than Prévost. "From that moment the poor workman had entered the magic circle of the splendid pollutions of his age. "The supper ended in a style not then uncommon. "At a signal all the lights were put out, and a sort of blind-man's buff began in the dark. Nicholas, standing confounded, by his chair, suddenly felt a soft hand trembling in his. The voice of la Guéant spoke in the darkness, • Will you find my carriage for me?' "As they descended the stairs, they heard the laugh of Junie in the distance. Thirty years afterwards, Restif— then a man of distinction-dined with Beaumarchais, in the Hotel de Hollande. La belle Guéant had died in the flower of her youth; the ambassador of Venice had been put out of the way, by the Council of Ten." "After all, you must admit there was no little romance in that rococo age," said I, "in spite of its gold lace and its perukes." "Yes," answered Paul, "romance enough of a certain kind, but I am with Danton for prose and decency. Restif had enough of your romance," he continued. He was twice romantically married. Once, just after his hateful Agnes was good enough to die; he was sitting in the Luxembourg garden, and the talk of two ladies near by him attracted his attention. Restif was as curious, you must know, as Condamine, who stole a trifle in Smyrna, that he might experience the bastinado, and so he listened with all his ears, when he found that these ladies were discussing matters of business. They were foreigners, and the younger one must infallibly lose all her fortune in a lawsuit, if she could not become a Frenchwoman by marriage within twenty-four hours. Here was a case for a knighterrant ! Restif to the rescue! He |