Book 4 — CHAPTER XVI

Casimir Delavigne's Louis XI

Here is very little incident in the drama we have just been analysing. Very well, there is less still in the tragedy which we are about to examine.

Mély-Janin's mise-en-scène is quite improbable enough, is it not? Well—Casimir Delavigne's is more improbable still. In the first place, the landscape is the same. Here is the description of it—

"A countryside—the château of Plessis-les-Tours in the back ground, a few scattered cottages at the side. IT IS NIGHT."

You must know that if I underline the last three words it is not without a motive. As the curtain rises, Tristran, who is on sentry-duty, stops and compels a poor peasant named Richard to go back into his cottage instead of letting him go to Saint-Martin-des-Bois, to obtain the consolations of religion for a dying man. The scene has no other importance than to show in what manner the police of Louis XI. act in the neighbourhood of Plessis-les-Tours. The peasant re-enters his cottage, Tristran goes back into the fortress, and leaves the place to Comines, who arrives on the scene, holding a roll of parchment, and seats himself at the foot of an oak tree. It is still night. Guess why Comines comes there, in that particular place, where the police guard so strictly that they do not even allow peasants to go out to obtain the viaticum for the dying, and where they can be seen from every loophole in the château? Comines comes there to read his Mémoires, which deal with the history of Louis XI.

"But," you will say, "he cannot read because it is dark!"

"Wait! the dawn is coming."

"But, if dawn comes, Comines will be seen."

"He will hide behind a tree."

"Would it not be much simpler, especially at such an hour, i.e. four o'clock in the morning, for him to re-read his Mémoires in his own home, in his study, with pen and ink at hand, in case he has anything to add; with his pen-knife and eraser close by, if he has something to delete?"

"Yes, certainly, it would be much simpler; but don't you see that the author needs Comines to do this particular business out of doors; so poor Comines must, of course, do what the author wishes!" Comines himself knows very well that he would be better elsewhere, and he has not come there of his own will. He does not hide from himself the danger he is incurring if they see him working at such a task, and if his manuscripts were to fall under the king's notice. But listen to him rather than to me—

"Mémoires de Comines! Ah! si les mains du roi Déroulaient cet écrit, qui doit vivre après moi, Où chacun de ses jours, recueillis par l'histoire, Laisse un tribut durable et de honte et de gloire, Tremblant on le verrait, par le titre arrêté, Pâlir devant son règne à ses yeux présenté!"

I ask you what would have become of the historian who could have made Louis XI. turn pale! But, no doubt, Comines, who knew the rebels of the war of the Bien Public, the jailor of Cardinal la Balue and especially the murderer of Nemours,—since he calculated on marrying his daughter to the son of the victim,—absorbed in I know not what spirit of pre-occupation, reading his Mémoires in so dangerous a place as this, will keep one eye open whilst he reads his Mémoires with the other. Not a bit of it! You can judge whether or not this is what is meant by the stage-direction: Doctor Coitier passes at the back of the stage, looks at Comines and goes into Richard's cottage."

Thus, just as Louis XI. did not see Isabelle, though it was to his interest to see her, so Comines, who is anxious not to be seen, is seen and does not himself see. You tell me such absent-mindedness cannot last long on the part of such a man as Comines. Second mistake! Instead of waking out of his rêveries—"He remains absorbed in his reading." With this result, that Coitier comes out of the peasant's cottage and says—

"Rentrez, prenez courage: Des fleurs que je prescris composez son breuvage; Par vos mains exprimés, leurs sues adoucissants Rafraîchiront sa plaie, et calmeront ses sens."

Take particular note that these lines are said at the back of the stage, that Comines is between the audience and the person who utters them and that Comines—extraordinary to relate!—does not hear them, whilst the public, which is at a double, triple, quadruple distance from the doctor, hears them perfectly. Never mind! "Without perceiving Coitier" our historian continues—

"Effrayé du portrait, je le vois en silence Chercher un châtiment pour tant de ressemblance!"

It seems to me that knowing so well to what he is exposing himself, this was the moment or never for Comines to look round him. There is no danger! He acts as children do who are sent to bed before their mother, and who are so afraid in their beds that they shut their eyes in order not to see anything. Only, there is this difference, that with children the danger is fictitious, whilst in the case of Comines it is real; children are children, and Comines is a man, a historian, a courtier and a minister. Now, I perfectly understand the terror of children; but I do not understand Comines's imprudence. And Coitier sees him, comes up to him and actually claps him on the shoulder, before Comines has either seen or heard Coitier.

"COITIER (clapping Comines on the shoulder.)— Ah! Seigneur d'Argenton, salut! Comines, tressaillant Qui m'a parlé? Vous!... Pardon, je rêvais ..."

You might even, my dear Comines, say that you were sleeping, and that your sleep was heavy and imprudent.

Now why does Coitier, in his turn, bring Comines out of his dreams? Why does he loiter outside Plessis-les-Tours, whilst the king is waiting for him impatiently? Comines points this out to him; for poor Comines, who takes little care of his own safety, looks to the well-being of others, which ought to be Coitier's own affair, who is a doctor, rather than his, who is a minister.

"COMINES. Mais, vous, maître Coitier, dont les doctes secrets Out des maux de ce roi ralenti les progrès, Cette heure, à son lever, chaque jour vous rappelle: Qui peut d'un tel devoir détourner votre zèle?"

Coitier might well reply to him: "Et vous?" ... for it is more surprising to see a historian under an oak at four o'clock in the morning, than a doctor upon the high road. But he prefers rather to reply—

"Le roi! toujours le roi! Qu'il attende!..."

You tell me that it is in order to reveal the character of the person; that Coitier does not love the king, whom he attends, and that, this morning, in particular, he is angry with him for a crime which he had failed to commit the previous day. It would have been more logical for Coitier to be angry with Louis XI. for the crimes he has committed than for those which he has failed to commit, all the more since, with regard to the former, he would have had plenty to choose from. However, here is the crime—

"COITIER. Hier, sur ces remparts, Un pâtre que je quitte attira ses regards; Des archers du Plessis l'adresse meurtrière Faillit, en se jouant, lui ravir la lumière!"

Which is equivalent to saying that the poor devil for whom Coitier, the night before, had ordered a draught of the soothing syrup which would cool his wound, had received an arrow from a cross-bow, either in the arm or in the leg, it matters not where. But how can a draught cool a wound unless the remedy be so efficacious that it can both be administered as a drink and applied as a poultice? Now we will return to the question we proposed a little while ago: Why, instead of going to attend the king, who is impatient for him, does Coitier rouse Comines out of his dreams? Bless me, what a question! Why, to develop the tragedy. Now, this is what one learns in the development: that Comines, who, in conjunction with Coitier, has saved Nemours, takes with both hands all that Louis XI. gives him, in order to give it all back again, in the future, to his future son-in-law. Coitier complains bitterly, on his side, of the life led by the doctor to a king, and in such round terms, that, if the king heard, he would certainly change his doctor. The conversation is interrupted by Comines's daughter, Marie, who arrives on foot, quite alone, at half-past four in the morning!—where from, do you think? From looking for St. Francis de Paul. Where has she been to look for him? History does not say, no more than it does where Marie slept; it is, however, a question natural enough for a father to address to his daughter. But Marie relates such beautiful stories of the saint, who only needs canonisation to make him a complete saint, that Comines thinks of nothing else but of listening to her.

MARIE. Le saint n'empruntait par sa douce majesté Au sceptre pastoral dont la magnificence Des princes du conclave alleste la puissance: Pauvre, et, pour crosse d'or, un rameau dans les mains, Pour robe, un lin grossier, traînant sur les chemins; C'est lui, plus humble encor qu'an fond de sa retraite! COITIER. Et que disait tout has cet humble anachorète, En voyant la litière où le faste des cours Prodiguait sa mollesse au vieux prélat de Tours, Et ce cheval de prix dont l'amble doux et sage Pour monseigneur de Vienne abrégeait le voyage? MARIE. Tous les deux, descendus, marchaient à ses côtés."

Attention! for I am going to put a question to which I challenge you to give an answer—

"Tous les deux, descendus, marchaient à ses côtés!"

Who is it who walks beside the humble anchorite? Was it the litter? Was it the old prelate? Was it monseigneur from Vienna? Was it the horse? If we take the sense absolutely given by the construction of the sentence, it was not the prelate of Tours and the monseigneur of Vienna who stepped down, the one from his litter, the other from his horse, but the horse and the litter, on the contrary, who stepped down, the one from the old prelate of Tours, the other from the monseigneur of Vienna. The difficulty of understanding this riddle no doubt decides Coitier to return to the king, leaving Marie alone with her father. Then, Marie tells the latter a second piece of news, much more interesting than the first, namely, that the Comte de Rethel has arrived.

"MARIE. Berthe, dont je le tiens, l'a su du damoisel Qui portait la bannière où, vassal de la France, Sous la fleur de nos rois, le lion d'or s'élance!"

Which means, if I am not deceived, that the Comte de Rethel bears the arms of gules either of azure on a golden lion, with a fleur-de-lys au chef. One thing makes Marie especially happy: that the Comte de Rethel is going to give her news of Nemours, whom he left at Nancy. In fact, Nemours, whose father has been executed, cannot return to France without exposing himself to capital punishment. Chanting is heard at this juncture; it is the procession of St. Francis de Paul, which is coming.

"Entendez-vous ces chants, dans la forêt voisine?"

Says Marie—

"Le cortège s'avance et descend la colline."

No doubt, in his capacity as historian, Comines will be curious to see so extraordinary a man as St. Francis de Paul. You are wrong. "Come in!" says Comines drily; and he and his daughter leave the stage, just as the head of the cortège appears in sight. But why on earth do they leave the stage? Is there any reason for it? Yes, indeed, there is a reason. Among the people in the procession is Nemours,—for the supposed Comte de Rethel is no other than Nemours,—and neither Comines nor Marie must know that he is there. Now what is Nemours doing under the title of the Comte de Rethel? He has come to assassinate the king; but before risking the stroke, he desires to receive absolution from St. Francis de Paul. Now we know where the saint comes from; we have learnt it in the interval; he comes from Frondi, five or six hundred leagues away. Very well, will you believe that during the whole of that long journey, with the saint in front of him, Nemours could not find a more convenient place in which to ask absolution for the crime he wants to commit, than the threshold of the château of the man he intends to assassinate? We can now sum up the improbabilities of the first act thus—

Comines is out of doors at four o'clock in the morning: first improbability. He comes, before break of day, to read his Mémoires twenty yards from the château of Plessis-les-Tours: second improbability. He does not look around him as he reads them: third improbability. Coitier, in order to chat with him about matters they both know perfectly well, keeps the king waiting for him: fourth improbability. Marie arrives alone, at four in the morning: fifth improbability. Her father never asks where she has slept: sixth improbability. Nemours, after waiting for fifteen years, returns to France in disguise to avenge the death of his father by assassinating a king who is dying, and who, in fact, will die the following day: eighth improbability. Finally, he wishes to receive absolution from Saint Francis de Paul, and instead of making his confession in a room, in a church, in a confessional, which would be the easiest thing to do, he comes to confess at the gates of the château: ninth improbability, which alone is worth all the eight other improbabilities!

Shall I go any further, and shall I pass on from the first to the second act? Bless me, no; it is too poor a job. Let us stop here. I only wanted to prove that, when the audience grumbled, nearly hissed and even hissed outright, at the first performance, it was not in error, and that when it did not come to see Louis XI. during the eight or ten times it was played, it was in the right. But is it true that the public did not go to it? The takings of the first four nights will show this—

Finally, why this failure during the first four representations, and why such great success at the twentieth, thirtieth and fortieth? I am going to tell you. M. Jouslin de la Salle was manager for nearly six months, and, after he took up the management, not a play was a failure. He created successes. When he saw that, at the fourth performance, Louis XI. brought in eighteen hundred francs, he ordered those few persons who came to hire boxes to be told that the whole of the theatre was booked up to the tenth performance. The report of this impossibility to get seats spread over Paris. Everybody wanted to have them. Everybody had them. It was a clever trick! Now let some one else than I take the trouble to undertake, in respect of the last four acts, the work which I have just done in respect of the first, and they will see that, in spite of Ligier's predilection for this drama, it is one of the most indifferent of Casimir Delavigne's works.