Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 66, No 409, November 1849

Having given precedence to the ladies, we look around for some of their male colleagues who may deserve a word. Amongst the new candidates for the favour of romance-readers is a writer, signing himself Marquis de Foudras, and whose debut, if we err not, was made in conjunction with a M. de Montepin, in a romance entitled Les Chévaliers du Lansquenet– a long-winded imitation of the Sue school, extremely feeble, and in execrable taste, but which, nevertheless, obtained a sort of circulating library success. Encouraged by this, Messrs Foudras and Montepin achieved a second novel, upon the whole a shade better than the first; and then, dissolving their association, set off scribbling, each "on his own hook;" and threaten to become as prolific, although not as popular, as the great Dumas himself. The last production of M. de Foudras bears the not unattractive title of Les Gentilhommes Chasseurs. It is a series of sporting sketches and anecdotes, of various merit, in most of which the author – who would evidently convince us that he is a genuine marquis, and not a plebeian under a pseudonyme – himself has cut a more or less distinguished figure. To the curious in the science of venery, as practised in various parts of France, these two volumes may have some interest; and the closing and longest sketch of the series, a tale of shooting and smuggling adventures in the Alps, is, we suspect, the best thing the author has written. Unless, indeed, we except his account of a stag-hunt in Burgundy in 1785, in which he gives a most animated and graphic account of the mishaps of a dull-dog of an Englishman, who arrives from the further extremity of Italy to join the party of French sportsmen. Of course Lord Henry is formal, peevish, and unpolished; the very model, in short, of an English nobleman. Disdaining to mount French horses, which, he politely informs his entertainer, have no speed, and cannot leap, he has had four hunters brought from England, upon one of which, "a lineal descendant of Arabian Godolphin, and whose dam was a mare unconquered at Newmarket," he follows the first day's hunt, by the side of a beautiful countess, by whose charms he is violently smitten, and who rides a little old Limousin mare, of piteous exterior, but great merit. The pace is severe, the country heavy, the Arabian's grandson receives the go-by from the Limousin cob, and shows signs of distress. The following passage exhibits the author's extraordinary acquaintance with the customs and usages of the English hunting-field, – "We were still a-head, and had leaped I know not how many hedges, ditches, and ravines, when I observed that Lord Henry, who had refused to take either a whip or spurs, struck repeated blows on the flank of his horse, which, still galloping, writhed under the pressure of its master's fist. Looking with more attention, I presently discovered in milord's hand a sharp and glittering object, in which I recognised one of the elegant chased gold toothpicks which men carried in those days. I saw at once that poor Cœur-de-Lion was done up." In spite of the toothpick, Cœur-de-Lion refuses a leap, whereupon his master hurls away the singular spur, leaps from his saddle, draws his hunting-knife, and plunges it to the hilt in the horse's breast! – with which taste of his quality, we bid a long farewell to the Marquis de Foudras.

It were strange indeed if the name of Dumas did not more than once appear on the numerous title-pages before us. We find it in half-a-dozen different places. The amusing Charlatan, who, in the first fervour and novelty of the republican regime, seemed disposed to abandon romance for politics, has found time to unite both. Whilst writing a monthly journal, in which he professes to give the detailed history of Europe day by day – forming, as his puffs assure us, the most complete existing narrative of political events since February 1848 – he has also produced, in the course of the last twelve months, some twenty-five or thirty volumes of frivolities. Thus, whilst with one hand he instructs, with the other he entertains the public. For our part, we have enjoyed too many hearty laughs, both with and at M. Dumas, not to have all inclination to praise him when possible. In the present instance, and with respect to his last year's tribute to French literature, we regret to say it is quite impossible. He has been trifling with his reputation, and with the public patience. Since last we mentioned him, he has added a dozen volumes to the Vicomte de Bragelonne, which nevertheless still drags itself along, without prospect of a termination. A tissue of greater improbabilities and absurdities we have rarely encountered. Certainly no one but Alexander Dumas would have ventured to strain out so flimsy a web to so unconscionable a length. Are there, we wonder, in France or elsewhere, any persons so simple as to rely on his representations of historical characters and events? The notions they must form of French kings and heroes, courtiers and statesmen, are assuredly of the strangest. We doubt if, in any country but France, a writer could preserve the popularity Dumas enjoys, who caricatured and made ridiculous, as he continually does, the greatest men whose names honour its chronicles. Besides the wearisome adventures of Mr Bragelonne and the eternal Musketeers, M. Dumas has given forth the first three or four volumes of a rambling story, founded on the well-known affair of Marie Antoinette's diamond necklace. Then he has completed the account of his Spanish rambles, which we rather expected he would have left incomplete, seeing the very small degree of favour with which the first instalment of those most trivial letters was received. In the intervals of these various labours, he has thrown off a history of the regency, and a historical romance, of which Edward III. of England is the hero. The latter we have not read. On French ground, M. Dumas is sometimes unsuccessful, but when he meddles with English personages he is invariably absurd. Finally, and we believe this closes the catalogue – although we will not answer but that some trifle of half-a-dozen volumes may have escaped our notice – M. Dumas, gliding, with his usual facility of transition, from the historical to the speculative, has begun a series of ghost-stories, whose probable length it is difficult to foretell, seeing that what he calls the introduction occupies two volumes. Some of these tales are tolerably original, others are old stories dressed up à la Dumas. They are preceded by a dedication to M. Dumas' former patron, the Duke of Montpensier, and by a letter to his friend Véron, editor of the Constitutionnel, theatrical manager, &c. These two epistles are by no means the least diverting part of the book. M. Dumas, whom we heard of, twenty months ago, as a fervid partisan and armed supporter of the republic, appears to have already changed his mind, and to hanker after a monarchy. Some passages of his letter to his friend are amusingly conceited and characteristic. "My dear Véron," he writes, "you have often told me, during those evening meetings, now of too rare occurrence, where each man talks at leisure, telling the dream of his heart, following the caprice of his wit, or squandering the treasures of his memory – you have often told me, that, since Scheherazade, and after Nodier, I am one of the most amusing narrators you know. To-day you write to me that, en attendant a long romance from my pen – one of my interminable romances, in which I comprise a whole century – you would be glad of some tales, two, four, or six volumes at most – poor flowers from my garden – to serve as an interlude amidst the political preoccupations of the moment: between the trials at Bourges, for instance, and the elections of the month of May. Alas! my friend, the times are sad, and my tales, I warn you, will not be gay. Weary of what I daily see occurring in the real world, you must allow me to seek the subjects of my narratives in an imaginary one. Alas! I greatly fear that all minds somewhat elevated, somewhat poetical and addicted to reverie, are now situated similarly to mine; in quest – that is to say, of the ideal – sole refuge left us by God against reality." After striking this desponding chord, the melancholy poet of elevated mind proceeds to regret the good old times, to deplore the degeneracy of the age, to declare himself inferior to his grandfather, and to express his conviction that his son will be inferior to himself. We are sorry for M. Dumas, junior. "It is true," continues Alexander, "that each day we take a step towards liberty, equality, fraternity, three great words which the Revolution of 1793 – you know, the other, the dowager – let loose upon modern society as she might have done a tiger, a lion, and a bear, disguised in lambskins; empty words, unfortunately, which were read, through the smoke of June, on our public monuments all battered with bullets." After so reactionary a tirade, let M. Dumas beware lest, in the first fight that occurs in Paris streets, a Red cartridge snatch him from an admiring world. His moan made for republican illusions, he proceeds to cry the coronach over French society, unhinged, disorganised, destroyed, by successive revolutions. And he calls to mind a visit he paid, in his childhood, to a very old lady, a relic of the past century, and widow of King Louis Philippe's grandfather, to whom Napoleon paid an annuity of one hundred thousand crowns – for what? "For having preserved in her drawing-rooms the traditions of good society of the times of Louis XIV. and Louis XV. It is just half what the chamber now gives his nephew for making France forget what his uncle desired she should remember." Take that, President Buonaparte, and go elsewhere for a character than to the Débit de Romans of Mr Alexander Dumas. How is it you have neglected to propitiate the suffrage of the melancholy poet? Repair forthwith the omission. Summon him to the Elysée. Pamper, caress, and consult him, or tremble for the stability of your presidential chair! After Louis Napoleon, comes the turn of the legislative chamber; apropos of which M. Dumas quotes the Marquis d'Argenson's memoirs, where the courtier of 1750 bewails the degeneracy of the times neither more nor less than does the dramatic author of a century later. "People complain," M. d'Argenson says, "that in our day there is no longer any conversation in France. I well know the reason. It is that our cotemporaries daily become less patient listeners. They listen badly, or rather they listen not at all. I have remarked this in the very best circles I frequent." "Now, my dear friend," argues M. Dumas, with irresistible logic, "what is the best society one can frequent at the present day? Very certainly it is that which eight millions of electors have judged worthy to represent the interests, the opinions, the genius of France. It is the chamber, in short. Well! enter the chamber, at a venture, any day and hour that you please. The odds are a hundred to one, that you will find one man speaking in the tribune, and five or six hundred others sitting on the benches, not listening, but interrupting him. And this is so true, that there is an article of the constitution of 1848 prohibiting interruptions. Again, reckon the number of boxes on the ear, and fisticuffs given in the chamber during a year that it has existed – they are innumerable. All in the name – be it well understood – of liberty, equality, and fraternity!" Rather strange language in the mouth of a citizen of the young republic; and its oddness diminishes the surprise with which we find, on turning the page, the captor of the Tuileries paying his devoirs to the most presently prosperous member of the house of Orleans. "Monseigneur," he says, to the illustrious husband of the Infanta Louisa, "this book is composed for you, written purposely for you. Like all men of elevated minds, you believe in the impossible," &c. &c. Then a flourish about Galileo, Columbus, and Fulton, and a quotation from Shakspeare, some of whose plays M. Dumas has been so condescending as to translate and improve. Then poor Scheherazade is dragged in again, always apropos of "I, Alexander," and then, the flourish of trumpets over, the fun begins and phantoms enter.

Although not generally partial to tales of diablerie– a style which the Germans have overdone, and in which few writers of other nations have succeeded – we have been much amused by the story of Jean le Trouveur, in which, upon the old yarn of a pact with the evil one, M. Paul de Musset has strung a clever and spirited series of Gil-Blas-like adventures, interspersed with vivid glimpses of historical events and personages, with here and there a garnishing of quiet satire. "The life of Jean le Trouveur," says the ingenious and painstaking author of these three pleasant little volumes, "is one of those histories which the people tell, and nobody has written… This fantastical personage is known in several countries, under different names. In Provence he is called Jean l'Heureux; in Arragon, Don Juan el Pajarero – that is to say, the Fowler or Birdcatcher; in Italy Giovanni il Trovatore. His real name will be found in the course of the following narration. His death was related to me in Lower Brittany, where I did not expect to meet with him. This circumstance decided me to write his history, uniting the various chronicles, whose connexion is evident." That accomplished antiquarian and legendary, M. Prosper Mérimée, would doubtless be able to tell us whether this be a mere author's subterfuge, or a veritable account of the sources whence M. de Musset derived the amusing adventures of John the Finder. We ourselves are not sufficiently versed in the traditions of Provence and Italy, Arragon and Brittany, to decide, nor is it of much interest to inquire. M. de Musset may possibly have found the clay, but he has made the bricks and built the house. It is a light and pleasant edifice, and does him credit.

The main outline of the story of Jean le Trouveur is soon told, and has no great novelty. The interest lies in the varied incidents that crowd every chapter. In the year 1699 there dwelt at Arles, in Provence, a commander of Malta, by name Anthony Quiqueran, Lord of Beaujeu. After an adventurous career, and innumerable valiant exploits achieved in the wars of the Order against Turks and barbarians; after commanding the galleys of Malta in a hundred successful sea-fights, and enduring a long captivity in the fortress of the Seven Towers, this brave man, at the age of nearly eighty years, dwelt tranquilly in his castle of Beaujeu, reposing, in the enjoyment of perfect health, from the fatigues of his long and busy life, and awaiting with seeming resignation and confidence the inevitable summons of death. Only two peculiarities struck the neighbours of the old knight: one of which was, that he avoided speaking of his past adventures; the other, that he would attend mass but at a particular convent, and that even there he never entered the chapel, but kneeled on a chair in the porch, his face covered with his hands, until the service was concluded. It was supposed by many that he was bound by a vow, and that his conduct was a mark of penitence and humiliation. And although the commander never went to confession, or the communion table, his life was so pure, his charities were so numerous, and he had rendered such great services to the cause of religion, that none ventured to blame his eccentricities and omissions. But one stormy day a little old Turk, the fashion of whose garments was a century old, landed from a brigantine, which had made its way up the Rhone in spite of wind, and, to the wonder of the assembled population, approached the commander of Malta, and said to him – "Anthony Quiqueran, you have but three days left to fulfil your engagements." An hour later, the old knight is in the convent chapel, assisting at a mass, which he has requested the superior to say for him. But when the priest takes the sacred wafer it falls from his hands, a gust of wind extinguishes the tapers, and a confused murmur of voices is heard in the lateral nave of the church. In spite of himself, the officiant utters a malediction instead of a prayer, and, horror-stricken, he descends the steps of the altar, at whose foot M. de Beaujeu lies senseless, his face against the ground. The ensuing chapters contain the commander's confession. Long previously, when languishing in hopeless captivity in a Turkish dungeon, he had made a compact with a demon, by which he was to enjoy liberty and health, and thirty years of glory and good fortune. At the end of that term he must find another person to take his place on similar conditions, or his soul was the property of the fiend. Scarcely was the bargain concluded, when he doubted its reality, and was disposed to attribute it to the delirium of fever. In the uncertainty, he studiously abstained from the advantage of the compact, hoping thereby to expiate its sin. His health returned, his liberty was given him, but he sought neither glory, nor wealth, nor honours, living retired upon ten thousand crowns a-year, the gift of the King of France and other princes, for his services to Christendom, practising good works, and cultivating his garden. He began to hope that this long course of virtue and self-denial had redeemed his sin, when the warning of the demon, in the garb of the Turkish captain, renewed his alarm, and the interrupted mass convinced him of the graceless state of his soul. No act of penitence, the superior now assured him, could atone his crime. Too high-minded to seek a substitute, and endeavour to shift its penalty upon another's shoulders, M. de Beaujeu attempts the only reparation in his power, by bequeathing half his wealth to charities. To inherit the other moiety, he entreats the superior to select a foundling worthy of such good fortune. The superior is not at a loss. "I have got exactly what you want," he says; "the chorister who answered at the mass at which you swooned away has no relations. I picked him up in the street on a winter's night, fourteen years ago, and since then he has never left me. He has no vocation for the church, and you will do a good action in restoring him to the world." The chorister boy, who had been baptised Jean le Trouvé, is sent for, but cannot at first be found; for the excellent reason that, hidden in the recesses of the superior's bookcase, behind a row of enormous folios, he had listened to all that had passed between the commander and the monk. As soon as he can escape he repairs to the castle of Beaujeu, where his good looks, his simplicity and vivacity, interest the old knight, who receives him kindly, resolves to make him his heir, and sends him back to the convent to announce his determination to the superior. The foundling is grateful. His joy at his brilliant prospects is damped by the recollection of the commander's confession and despair. He resolves to astonish his benefactor by the greatness of his gratitude. The following extract, which has a good deal of the Hoffmannsche flavour, will show how he sets about it.

In the street of La Trouille, which took its name from the fortress built by the Emperor Constantine, dwelt a barber, who, to follow the mode of the barbers and bath-keepers of Paris, sold wine and entertained gamesters. Young men, sailors, merchants, and citizens of Arles, resorted to his shop – some to transact business; others to discuss matters of gallantry or pleasure; others, again, to seek dupes. Of a night, sounds of quarrel were often heard in the shop, to which the town-archers had more than once paid a visit. If a stranger staked his coin on a turn of the cards, or throw of the dice, it was no mere hazard that transferred his ducats to the pockets of the regular frequenters of the house. Seated upon a post, opposite to this honest establishment, John the Foundling watched each face that entered or came out. After some time, he saw approaching from afar the captain of the brigantine, with his flat turban and his great matchlock pistol. When the Turk reached the barber's door, John placed himself before him.

"Sir stranger," said the boy, "did you not arrive here this morning from the East, on important business which concerns the Commander de Beaujeu?"

"Si," replied the Turk; "but I may also say that it is business which concerns you not."

"You mistake," said John; "it does concern me, and I come on purpose to speak to you about it."

"'Tis possible," said the old captain; "ma mi non voler, mi non poter, mi non aver tempo."

"Nevertheless," firmly retorted John, "you must find time to hear me. What I have to communicate to you is of the utmost importance."

"Do me the pleasure de andar al diable!" cried the Turk, in his Franco-Italian jargon.

"I am there already," replied the lad; "rest assured that I know who you are. I will not leave you till you have given me a hearing."

The old Mussulman, who had hitherto averted his head to try to break off the conversation, at last raised his melancholy and aquiline countenance. With his yellow eyes he fixed an angry gaze upon the chorister, and said to him in a full strong voice: —

"Well, enter this shop with me. We will presently speak together."

There was company in the barber's shop of the Rue de la Trouille, when little John and the captain of the brigantine raised the curtain of checked linen which served as a door. In a corner of the apartment, four men, seated round a table, were absorbed in a game at cards, to which they appeared to pay extreme attention, although the stake was but of a few miserable sous. One of the gamblers examined, with the corner of his eye, the two persons who entered; and, seeing it was only a lad and a Turk of mean and shabby appearance, he again gave all his attention to the game. The master of the shop conceived no greater degree of esteem for the new comers, for he did not move from the stool on which he was sharpening his razors. At the further end of the apartment a servant stood beside the fire, and stirred with a stick the dirty linen of the week, which boiled and bubbled in a copper caldron. A damaged hour-glass upon a board pretended to mark the passage of time; and small tables, surrounded with straw-bottomed stools, awaited the drinkers whom evening usually brought. Bidding the chorister to be seated, the captain of the brigantine placed himself at one of the tables, and called for wine for all the company. The barber hasted to fetch a jug of Rhone wine, and as many goblets as there were persons in the room. When all the glasses were filled, the captain bid the barber distribute them, and exclaimed, as he emptied his own at a draft. —

"A la salute de Leurs Seigneuries!"

Thereupon the four gamblers exchanged significant glances, whispered a few words, and then, as if the politeness of the Turkish gentleman had caused them as much pleasure as surprise, they pocketed their stakes and discontinued their game. With gracious and gallant air, and smiling countenance, one hand upon the hip and the other armed with the goblet, the four gentlemen approached the old Turk with a courteous mien, intended to eclipse all the graces of the courtiers of Versailles. But there was no need of a magnifying-glass to discern the true character of the four companions; the adventurer was detectible at once in their threadbare coats, their collars of false lace, and in the various details of their dress, where dirt and frippery were ill concealed by trick and tawdry. A moderately experienced eye would easily have seen that it was vice which had fattened some of them, and made others lean. The most portly of the four, approaching the Turkish gentleman, thanked him in the name of his friends, and placed his empty glass upon the table with so polite and kindly an air, that the Turk, touched by his good grace, took the wine jug and refilled the four goblets to the brim. Some compliments were exchanged, and all sorts of titles used; so that by the time the jug was empty they had got to calling each other Excellency. The barber, putting his mouth to the captain's ear, with such intense gravity that one might have thought him angry, assured him that these gentlemen were of the very first quality, whereat the Turk testified his joy by placing his hand on his lips and on his forehead. In proportion as mutual esteem and good understanding augmented, the contents of the jug diminished. A second was called for; it was speedily emptied in honour of the happy chance that had brought the jovial company together. A third disappeared amidst promises of frequent future meetings, and a fourth was drained amidst shaking of hands, friendly embraces, and unlimited offers of service.