No, Necessity was crushing me and how many others, as I crush an ant-hill. Why? who can tell? perhaps because I happened to be under her heel and because with her blindfolded eyes, cold goddess of the iron wedges, she never saw me.
The world she had set upon my shoulders was my office. I was paid 125 francs a month; and this is what I had to do for my 125 francs a month:
I began work about ten, and left off at five; but in the summer I had to go back again from seven till ten.
Why this overtime in the summer and at this hour of the day,—just when it would have been so good to breathe the pure country air or the stimulating atmosphere of the playhouse?
I will tell you why; there was the Duke of Orleans' despatch box to see to. "Duke of Orleans,"—such was the style and title in those days of this man of many parts, Dumouriez's aide-de-camp at Jemmapes and Valmy, proscribed in 1792, teacher of mathematics at Reichenau, sailor round the Horn, citizen of America, princely friend of Foy, Manuel, Lafitte, Lafayette, King in 1830, dethroned and banished in 1848.
It was the happiest period of his life; I had my dream, and my patron had his. Mine was a success in literature, his was the Throne of France.
Pity for a fallen Monarch! Peace for an old man's declining days! God grant a husband and father all that may yet remain for him of paternal and conjugal happiness in the infinite treasures of His loving-kindness! Alas! at Dreux I have beheld this Royal father weeping bitterly over the tomb of a son who was to have worn a Crown. The loss of your sceptre, Sire, has not cost you, I ween, so many tears as the death of your child.
But to return to the Duke's despatch-box. Its contents consisted of the day's letters and the evening papers, which had to be sent in to Neuilly. Then these documents duly forwarded by mounted messenger, the next thing was to wait for the answer.
The junior clerk was entrusted with these duties, and as I was the last comer to the office, they had fallen to my share. My comrade, Ernest Banet, superintended the morning despatches, while the Sunday mail we took turn and turn about in alternate weeks.
Well, one evening in the interval between getting off the despatch-box and receiving the return one, I was scribbling down some lines for Christine when the door of the office-room opened; a head of light curly hair and a delicate clear-cut face appeared, and a rather shrill voice enunciated in a tone not untinged with gentle raillery the three monosyllables:
"Are you there?"
"Yes," I answered eagerly; "come in, do!" I had recognised Cordelier Delanoue, son, like myself, of an ex-Republican General, and, like myself, a budding poet. Why, I wonder, in pursuing our careers side by side in after life, has he been less successful than I? I cannot tell; he has as much intelligence and talent and he writes better verses, there is no question about that.
'Tis all a matter of chance, — fortune or misfortune in this world; only when we come to die, shall we know which of us two, he or I, has been really fortunate or misfortunate.
Cordelier Delanoue's visit was a perfect godsend. Like all the people I have ever loved, I loved him then and I love him still; only I love him even better to-day, and I feel convinced it is the same on his side.
He had come to ask me if I would go with him to the "Athénée" to hear a lecture on something or other,—I have forgotten what.
The lecturer was M. de Villenave. I knew the name only; I had heard of the man as having executed a translation of Ovid which was well thought of, as having formerly been secretary to Monsieur de Malesherbes, and tutor to the children of the Marquis de Chauvelin.
At that time plays and such-like amusements very seldom came my way. Theatres and drawing rooms all threw their doors wide later on for the author of Henri III. and Christine, but they were shut to the junior clerk on fifteen hundred livres a year who took charge of the Duke of Orleans' despatch box.
I therefore accepted gladly, only begging Delanoue to stay with me and wait the messenger's return. Meantime, he read me an ode he had just composed,—by way of fitting preparation for the meeting at the "Athénée." Presently the man arrived; I was free for the night, and we set off for the Rue de Valois.
Whereabouts in the said street the
