What would become of the minor theatres of Paris if Louis XIV., and Richelieu, and the Regency were to be interdicted? On whose memory dare they hang so much of shameless vice and iniquitous folly? Where find characters so degraded, so picturesque, so abandoned, so infamous, and so amusing? What time and trouble, too, are saved by the adoption of this era! No need of wearisome explanations and biographical details of the _dramatis persono_. When one reads the word "Marquis," he knows it means a man whose whole aim in life is seduction; while "Madame la Marquise" is as invariably the easy victim of royal artifice.

It might open a very curious view into the distinctive nature of national character to compare the recognised cla.s.s to which vice is attributed in different countries; for while in England we select the aristocracy always, as the natural subjects for depravity, in the Piedmontese territory all the stage villains are derived from the mercantile world. Instead of a Lord, as with us, the seducer is always a Manufacturer or a Shipowner; and _vice_ a Captain of Dragoons, their terror of domestic peace, is a Cotton-spinner or a Dealer in Hardware.

Let it not be supposed that this originates in any real depravity, or any actual want of honesty, in the mercantile world. No! the whole is attributable to the "Censor." By _his_ arbitrary dictate the entire of a piece is often re-cast, and so habituated have authors become to the prevailing taste, that they now never think of occasioning him the trouble of the correction. Tradesman there stands for scoundrel, as implicitly as with us an Irishman is a blunderer and a Scotchman a knave. Exercised as this power is, and committed to such hands as we find it in foreign countries, it is hard to conceive any more quiet but effectual agent for the degradation of a national taste. It is but a few weeks back I saw a drama marked for stage representation in a city of Lombardy, in which the words "Pope" and "Cardinal" were struck out as irreverent to utter; but all the appeals--and most impious they were--to the Deity were suffered to remain unmutilated.

And now I am reminded of rather a good theme for one of those little dramatic pieces which amuse the public of the Palais Royal and the Varietes. I chanced upon it in an old French book, called "Memoires et Souvenirs de Jules Auguste Prevost, premier Valet de Charge de S. A. le Duc de Courcelles." Printed at the Hague, anno 1742.

I am somewhat sceptical about the veraciousness of many of M. Prevost's recitals; the greater number are, indeed, little else than chronicles of his losses at _Ombre_, with a certain Mdlle. Valencay, or narratives of "_pet.i.ts soupers_," where his puce-coloured shorts and coat of ambre velvet were the chief things worthy of remembrance. Yet here and there are little traits that look like facts, too insignificant for fiction, and preserving something of the character of the time to which they are linked. The whole bears no trace of ever having been intended for publication; and it is not difficult to see where the new touches have been laid on over the original picture. It was in all probability a mere commonplace book, in which certain circ.u.mstances of daily life got mixed up with the written details of his station in the Duke's household.

Neither its authenticity nor correctness, however, are of any moment to my purpose, which was to jot down--from memory if I can,--the subject I believe to be invested with dramatic material.

M. Prevost's narrative is very brief; indeed it barely extends beyond a full allusion to a circ.u.mstance very generally known at the time. The events run somewhat thus, or at least should do so, in the piece. At the close of a brilliant fete at Versailles, where every fascination that an age of unbounded luxury could procure was a.s.sembled, the King retired to his apartment, followed by that prince of vaudeville characters, the Marechal Richelieu. His Majesty was wearied and out of spirits; the pleasures of the evening, so far from having, as usual, elevated his spirits and awakened his brilliancy, had depressed and fatigued him. He was tired of the unvarying repet.i.tion of what his heart had long ceased to have any share in; and, in fact, to use the vulgar, but most fitting phrase, he was bored!

Bored by the courtiers, whose wit was too prompt to have been unprepared; by the homage, too servile to have any sincerity; by the smiles of beauty, perverted as they were by jealous rivalry and subtle intrigue; and, above all, bored by the consciousness that he had no other ident.i.ty than such as kingly trappings gave him, and that all the love and admiration he received were accorded to the monarch and nothing to the man.

He didn't exactly, as novel writers would say, pour his sufferings into Richelieu's ear, but in very abrupt and forcible expressions he manifested his utter weariness of the whole scene, and avowed a very firm belief that the company was almost as tired of him as he was of the company.

In vain the Marechal rallies his Majesty upon successes which were wont to be called triumphs; in vain he a.s.sures him, that never at any period was the domestic peace of the lieges more endangered by his Majesty's condescensions: in fact, for once--as will happen, even with Kings now and then--he said truth; and truth, however wholesome, is not always palatable. Richelieu was too subtle an adversary to be easily worsted; and after a fruitless effort to obliterate the gloomy impression of the king, he, with a ready a.s.surance, takes him in flank, and coolly attributes the royal dissatisfaction to the very natural weariness at ever seeing the same faces, however beautiful, and hearing the same voices, however gay and sparkling their wit.

"Your Majesty will not give yourself the credit due of winning these evidences of devotion from personal causes, rather than from advent.i.tious ones. Happily, a good opportunity presents itself for the proof. Your Majesty may have heard of Madame de Vaugirarde, whose husband was killed at La Roch.e.l.le?"

"The pretty widow who refuses to come to court?"

"The same, sire. She continues to reside at the antique chateau of her late husband, alone, and without companionship; and, if report speak truly, the brightest eyes of France are wasting their brilliancy in that obscure retreat."

"Well, what is to be done? You would not, surely, order her up to Versailles by a '_lettre de cachet?_'"

"No, sire, the measure were too bold; nay, perhaps my counsel will appear far bolder: it is, that since Madame de Vaugirarde will not come to court, your Majesty should go to Madame de Vaugirarde."

It was not very difficult to make this notion agreeable to the king. It had one ingredient pleasurable enough to secure its good reception--it was new--n.o.body had ever before dreamt of his Majesty making a tour into the provinces _incog._ This was quite sufficient; and Richelieu had scarcely detailed his intentions than the King burned with impatience to begin his journey. The wily minister, however, had many things to arrange before they set out; but of what nature he did not reveal to his master. Certain is it that he left for Paris within an hour, hastening to the capital with all the speed of post-horses. Arrived there, he exchanged his court suit for a plain dress, and in a _fiacre_ drove to the private entrance of the Theatre Francais.

"Is M. Duroset engaged?" said he, descending from the carriage.

"He is on the stage, monsieur," said the porter, who took the stranger for one of the better _bourgeois_ of Paris, coming to secure a good _loge_ by personal intercession with the manager. Now, M. Duroset was at the very moment occupied in the not very uncommon task of giving a poor actor his _conge_ who had just presented himself for an engagement.

As was the case in those days--(we have changed since then)--the Director, not merely content with declining the proffered services, was actually adding some very caustic remarks on the pretension of the applicant, whose miserable appearance and ragged costume might have claimed exemption from his gratuitous lecture.

"Believe me, _mon cher_," said he, "a man must have a very different air and carriage from yours who plays 'Le Marquis' on the Parisian boards.

There should be something of the style and bearing of the world about him--his address should be easy, without presumption--his presence commanding, without severity."

"I always played the n.o.ble parts in the provinces. I acted the 'Regent'----"

"I've no doubt of it; and very pretty notions of royalty the audience must have gained from you. There, that will do. Go back to Nancy, and try yourself at valets' parts for a year or two--that's the best counsel I can give you! Adieu! adieu!"

The poor actor retired, discomfited and distressed, at the same instant that the graceful figure of Richelieu advanced in easy dignity.

"Monsieur Duroset," said the Marechal, seating himself, and speaking in the voice so habituated to utter commands, "I would speak a few words with you in confidence, and where we might be certain of not being overheard."

"Nothing could be better than the present spot, then," said the manager, who was impressed by the style and bearing of his visitor, without ever guessing or suspecting his real rank. "The rehearsal will not begin for half-an-hour. Except that poor devil that has just left me, no one has entered this morning."

"Sit down, then, and pay attention to what I shall say," said the Marechal. The words were felt as a command, and instantly obeyed.

"They tell me, M. Duroset, that a young actress, of great beauty and distinguished ability, is about to appear on these boards, whose triumphs have been hitherto won only in the provinces. Well, you must defer her _debut_ for some days; and meanwhile, for the benefit of her health, she can make a little excursion to the neighbourhood of Fontainebleau, where, at a short distance from the royal forest, stands a small chateau. This will be ready for her reception; and where a more critical taste than even your audiences boast will decide upon her merits."

"There is but one man in France could make such a proposition!" said the manager, starting back, half in amazement, half in respect.

"And I am exactly that man," rejoined the Marechal. "There need never be secrets between men of sense. M. Duroset, the case is this: your beauty, whose manners and breeding I conjecture to be equal to her charms, must represent the character of the widowed Countess of Vaugirarde, whose sorrow for her late husband is all but inconsolable. The solitude of her retreat will, however, be disturbed by the accidental arrival of a stranger, who, accompanied by his friend, will demand the hospitality of the chateau. Grief has not usurped every faculty and _devoir_ of the fair Countess, who consents the following morning to receive the respectful homage of the travellers, and even invites them, weary as they seem by travel, to stay another day."

"I understand--I understand," said Duroset, hastily interrupting this narrative, which the speaker poured forth with impetuous rapidity; "but there are several objections, and grave ones."

"I'm certain of it," rejoined the other; "and now to combat them. Here are a thousand louis; five hundred of which M. Duroset will keep--the remainder he will expend, as his taste and judgment may dictate, in the costume of the fair Countess."

"But Mademoiselle Bellecha.s.se?"

"Will accept of these diamonds, which will become her to perfection. She is not a _blonde?_"

"No; dark hair and eyes."

"This suite of pearls, then, will form a most graceful addition to her toilette."

"They are magnificent!" exclaimed the manager, who, with wondering eyes, turned from one jewel-case to the other; "they are splendid! Nay"--then he added, in a lower accent, and with a glance, as he spoke, of inveterate cunning--"nay, they are a Princely present."

"Ah, M. Duroset, _un homme d'esprit_ is always so easy to treat with!

Might I dare to ask if Mademoiselle Bellecha.s.se is here?--if I might be permitted to pay my respects?"

"Certainly; your Excell----"

"Nay, nay, M. Duroset, we are all incog." said the Marechal, smiling good-humouredly.

"As you please, sir. I will go and make a brief explanation to Mademoiselle, if you will excuse my leaving you. May I take these jewels with me? Thanks."

The explanation was, indeed, of the briefest; and he returned in a few seconds, accompanied by a young lady, whose elegance of mien and loveliness of form seemed to astonish even the critical gaze of Richelieu.

"Madame la Comtesse de Vaugirarde," said the Director, presenting her.

"_Ah, belle Comtesse!_" said the Marechal, as he kissed the tips of her fingers with the most profound courtesy; "may I hope that the world has still charms to win back one whose griefs should fall like spring showers, and only render more fragrant the soil they water!"

"I know not what the future may bring forth," said she, with a most gracefully-affected sadness; "but for the present, I feel as if the solitude of my ancient chateau, the peaceful quiet of the country, would best respond to my wishes: there alone, to wander in those woods, whose paths are endeared to me----"

"Admirable!--beautiful!--perfect!" exclaimed Richelieu, in a transport of delight; "never was the tribute of affection more touching--never a more graceful homage rendered to past happiness! Now, when can you set out?"

"To-morrow."

"Why not to-day? Time is every thing here."

"Remember, monsieur, that we have purchases to make--we visit the capital but rarely."

"Quite true; I was forgetting the solitude of your retreat. Such charms might make any lapse of memory excusable."