The Side Scenes of Trianon.
THE ADVENTURES OF the journey are of no importance. A Swiss, an assistant clerk, a citizen, and an abbe, were of course among his traveling companions.
He arrived at half-past five. The court was already assembled at Trianon, and the performers were going over their parts while waiting for the king; for as to the author, no one thought of him. Some were aware that M. Rousseau of Geneva was to come to direct the rehearsal; but they took no greater interest in seeing it. Rousseau than M. Rameau, or M. Marmontel, or any other of those singular animals, to a sight of which the courtiers sometimes treated themselves in their drawing-rooms or country-houses.
Rousseau was received by the usher-in-waiting, who had been ordered by it. de Coigny to inform him as soon as the philosopher should arrive.
This young nobleman hastened with his usual courtesy, and received Rousseau with the most amiable empressement. But scarcely had he cast his eyes over his person, than he stared with astonishment, and could not prevent himself from recommencing the examination.
Rousseau was dusty, pale, and disheveled, and his paleness rendered conspicuous such a beard as no master of the ceremonies had ever seen reflected in the mirrors of Versailles.
Rousseau felt deeply embarrassed under M. de Coigny’s scrutiny, but more embarrassed still when, approaching the hall of the theater, he saw the profusion of splendid dresses, valuable lace, diamonds, and blue ribbons, which, with the gilding of the hall, produced the effect of a bouquet of flowers in an immense basket.
Rousseau felt ill at ease also when he breathed this perfumed atmosphere, so intoxicating for plebeian nerves. Yet he was obliged to proceed and put a bold face on the matter. Multitudes of eyes were fixed upon him who thus formed a stain, as it were, on the polish of the assembly. M. de Coigny, still preceding him, led him to the orchestra, where the musicians were awaiting him.
When there, he felt rather relieved, and while his music was being performed, he seriously reflected that the worst danger was past, that the step was taken, and that all the reasoning in the world could now be of no avail.
Already the dauphiness was on the stage, in her costume as Colette; she waited for Colin.
M. de Coigny was changing his dress in his box.
All at once the king entered, surrounded by a crowd of bending heads. Louis smiled, and seemed to be in the best humor possible.
The dauphin seated himself at his right hand, and the Count de Provence, arriving soon after, took his place on the left. On a sign from the king, the fifty persons who composed the assembly, private as it was, took their seats. “Well, why do you not begin?” asked Louis.
“Sire,” said the dauphiness, “the shepherds and shepherdesses are not yet dressed; we are waiting for them.”
“They can perform in their evening dresses,” said the king.
“No, sire,” replied the dauphiness, “for we wish to try the dresses and costumes by candle-light, to be certain of the effect.”
“You are right, madame,” said the king; “then let us take a stroll.”
And Louis rose to make the circuit of the corridor and the stage. Besides, he was rather uneasy at not seeing Madame Dubarry.
When the king had left the box, Rousseau gazed in a melancholy mood and with an aching heart at the empty hall and his own solitary position; it was a singular contrast to the reception he had anticipated.
He had pictured to himself that on his entrance all the groups would separate before him; that the curiosity of the courtiers would be even more importunate and more significative than that of the Parisians; he had feared questions and presentations; and, lo! no one paid any attention to him!
He thought that his long beard was not yet long enough, that rags would not have been more remarked than his old clothes, and he applauded himself for not having been so ridiculous as to aim at elegance. But in the bottom of his heart he felt humiliated at being thus reduced to the simple post of leader of the orchestra. Suddenly an officer approached and asked him if he was not M. Rousseau?
“Yes, sir,” replied he.
“Her royal highness the dauphiness wishes to speak to you, sir,” said the officer.
Rousseau rose, much agitated.
The dauphiness was waiting for him. She held in her hand the air of Colette:
“My happiness is gone.” The moment she saw Rousseau, she advanced toward him. The philosopher bowed very humbly, saying to himself, “that his bow was for the woman, not for the princess.”
The dauphiness, on the contrary, was as gracious toward the savage philosopher as she would have been to the most finished gentleman in Europe.
She requested his advice about the inflection she ought to give to the third strophe —
“Colin leaves me.” Rousseau forthwith commenced to develop a theory of declamation and melody, which, learned as it was, was interrupted by the noisy arrival of the king and several courtiers.
Louis entered the room in which the dauphiness was taking her lesson from the philosopher. The first impulse of the king’s, when he saw this carelessly dressed person, was the same that M. de Coigny had manifested, only M. de Coigny knew Rousseau, and the king did not.
He stared, therefore, long and steadily, at our freeman, while still receiving the thanks and compliments of the dauphiness.
This look, stamped with royal authority — this look, not accustomed to be lowered before any one — produced a powerful effect upon Rousseau, whose quick eye was timid and unsteady.
The dauphiness waited until the king had finished his scrutiny, then, advancing toward Rousseau, she said:
“Will your majesty allow me to present, our author to you?”
“Your author?” said the king, seeming to consult memory.
During this short dialogue Rousseau was upon burning coals. The king’s eye had successively rested upon and burned up — like the sun’s rays under a powerful lens, the long beard, the dubious shirt frill, the dusty garb, and the old wig of the greatest writer in his kingdom.
The dauphiness took pity on the latter.
“M. Jean Jacques Rousseau, sire,” said she, “the author of the charming opera we are going to execute before your majesty.”
The king raised his head.
“Ah!” said he, coldly, “M. Rousseau, I greet you.”
And he continued to look at him in such a manner as to point out all the imperfections of his dress.
Rousseau asked himself how he ought to salute the king of France, without being a courtier, but also without impoliteness, for he confessed that he was in the prince’s house.
But while he was making these reflections, the king addressed him with that graceful ease of princes who have said everything when they have uttered an agreeable or a disagreeable remark to the person before them. Rousseau, petrified, had at first stood speechless. All the phrases he had prepared for the tyrant were forgotten.
“Monsieur Rousseau,” said the king, still looking at his coat and wig, “you have composed some charming music, which has caused me to pass several very pleasant moments.”
Then the king, in a voice which was diametrically opposed to all diapason and melody, commenced singing:
“Had I turned a willing; ear,
The gallants of the town to hear,
Ah! I had found with ease
Other lovers then to please.”
“It is charming!” said the king, when he had finished.
Rousseau bowed.
“I do not know if I shall sing it well,” said the dauphiness.
Rousseau turned toward the dauphiness to make some remark in reply; but the king had commenced again, and was singing the romance of Colin:
“From my hut, obscure and cold,
Care is absent never;
Whether storm, or sun, or cold,
Suffering, toil, forever.”
His majesty sang frightfully for a musician. Rousseau, half flattered by the monarch’s good memory, half-wounded by his detestable execution, looked like a monkey nibbling an onion — crying on one side of his face and laughing on the other.
The dauphiness preserved her composure with that imperturbable self-possession which is only found at court.
The king, without the least embarrassment, continued:
“If thou’lt come to cast thy lot
In thy Colin’s humble cot.
My sweet shepherdess Colette,
I’d bid adieu to all regret.”
Rousseau felt the color rising to his face.
“Tell me, M. Rousseau,” said the king, “is it true that you sometimes dress in the costume of an Armenian?”
Rousseau blushed more deeply than before, and his tongue was so glued to his throat that not for a kingdom could he have pronounced a word at this moment.
The king continued to sing, without waiting for a reply:
“Ah! but little, as times go.
Doth love know
What he’d let, or what he’d hinder.”
“You live in the Rue Platriere, I believe, M. Rousseau?” said the king.
Rousseau made a gesture in the affirmative with his head, but that was the ultima thule of his strength. Never had he called up so much to his support. The king hummed:
“She is a child,
She is a child.”
“It is said you are on bad terms with Voltaire, M. Rousseau?”
At this blow Rousseau lost the little presence of mind he had remaining, and was totally put out of countenance. The king did not seem to have much pity for him, and, continuing his ferocious melomania, he moved off, singing:
“Come, dance with me beneath the elms;
Young maidens, come, be merry,”
with orchestral accompaniments which would have killed Apollo, as the latter killed Marsyas.
Rousseau remained alone in the center of the room. The dauphiness had quitted it to finish her toilet.
Rousseau, trembling and confused, regained the corridor; but on his way he stumbled against a couple dazzling with diamonds, flowers, and lace, who filled up the entire width of the corridor, although the young man squeezed his lovely companion tenderly to his side.
The young woman, with her fluttering laces, her towering head-dress, her fan, and her perfumes, was radiant as a star. It was she against whom Rousseau brushed in passing.
The young man, slender, elegant, and charming, with his blue ribbon rustling against his English shirt-frill, every now and then burst into a laugh of most engaging frankness, and then suddenly interrupted it with little confidential whispers, which made the lady laugh in her turn, and showed that they were on excellent terms.
Rousseau recognized the Countess Dubarry in this beautiful lady, this seducing creature; and the moment he perceived her, true to his habit of absorbing his whole thoughts on a single object, he no longer saw her companion.
The young man with the blue ribbon was no other than the Count d’Artois, who was merrily toying with his grandfather’s favorite.
When Madame Dubarry perceived Rousseau’s dark figure, she exclaimed:
“Ah, good heavens!”
“What!” said the Count d’Artois, also looking at the philosopher; and already he had stretched out his hand to make way for his companion.
“M. Rousseau!” exclaimed Madame Dubarry.
“Rousseau of Geneva?” said the Count d’Artois, in the tone of a schoolboy in the holidays.
“Yes, my lord,” replied the countess.
“Ah! good-day, M. Rousseau,” said the young fop, seeing Rousseau making a despairing effort to force a passage—”good-day; we are going to hear your music.”
“My lord!” — stammered Rousseau, seeing the blue ribbon.
“Ah! most charming music!” exclaimed the countess; “and completely in harmony with the heart and mind of the author.”
Rousseau raised his head, and his eyes met the burning gaze of the countess.
“Madame!” said he, ill-humoredly.
“I will play Colin, madame,” cried the Count d’Artois, “and I entreat that you, Madame la Comtesse, will play Colette.”
“With all my heart, my lord; but I would never dare — I, who am not an artist — to profane the music of a master.”
Rousseau would have given his life to look again at her; but the voice, the tone, the flattery, the beauty, had each planted a baited hook in his heart. He tried to escape.
“Monsieur Rousseau,” said the prince, blocking up the passage, “I wish you would teach me the part of Colin.”
“I dare not ask Monsieur Rousseau to give me his advice respecting Colette,” said the countess, feigning timidity, and thus completing the overthrow of the philosopher.
But yet his eyes inquired why.
“Monsieur Rousseau hates me,” said she to the prince, with her enchanting voice.
“You are jesting!” exclaimed the Count d’Artois. “Who could hate you, madame?”
“You see it plainly,” replied she.
“M. Rousseau is too great a man, and has written too many noble works, to fly from such a charming woman,” said the Count d’Artois.
Rousseau heaved a sigh as if he were ready to give up the ghost, and made his escape through a narrow loophole which the Count d’Artois had imprudently left between himself and the wall. But Rousseau was not in luck this evening. He had scarcely proceeded four steps when he met another group, composed of two men, one old, the other young. The young one wore the blue ribbon; the other, who might be about fifty years of age, was dressed in red, and looked austere and pale. These two men overheard the merry laugh of the Count d’Artois, who exclaimed loudly:
“Ah! Monsieur Rousseau, Monsieur Rousseau! I shall say that the countess put you to flight; and, in truth, no one would believe it.”
“Rousseau!” murmured the two men.
“Stop him, brother!” said the prince, still laughing; “stop him, M. de Vauguyon!”
Rousseau now comprehended on what rock his evil star had shipwrecked him. The Count de Provence and the governor of the royal youths were before him.
The Count de Provence also barred the way.
“Good-day, sir,” said he, with his dry pedantic voice.
Rousseau, almost at his wits’ end, bowed, muttering to himself:
“I shall never get away!”
“Ah! I am delighted to have met you!” said the prince, with the air of a schoolmaster who finds a pupil in fault.
“More absurd compliments!” thought Rousseau. “How insipid these great people are!”
“I have read your translation of Tacitus, sir.”
“Ah! true,” thought Rousseau; “this one is a pedant, a scholar.”
“Do you know that, it is very difficult to translate Tacitus?”
“My lord, I said so in a short preface.”
“Yes, I know, I know; you said in it that you had only a slight knowledge of Latin.”
“It is true, my lord.”
“Then. M. Rousseau, why translate Tacitus?”
“My lord, it improves one’s style.”
“Ah! M. Rousseau, it was wrong to translate ‘imperatoria brevitate’ by a grave and concise discourse.”
Rousseau, uneasy, consulted his memory.
“Yes,” said the young prince, with the confidence of an old savant who discovers a fault in Saumaise; “yes, you translated it so. It is in the paragraph where Tacitus relates that Pison harangued his soldiers.”
“Well, my lord?”
“Well, M. Rousseau, ‘imperatoria brevitate’ means, with the conciseness of a general, or of a man accustomed to command. With the brevity of command; that is the expression, is it not, Monsieur de la Vauguyon?”
“Yes, my lord,” replied the governor.
Rousseau made no reply. The prince added:
“That is an evident mistake, Monsieur Rousseau. Oh! I will find you another.”
Rousseau turned pale.
“Stay. Monsieur Rousseau, there is one in the paragraph relating to Cecina. It commences thus; ‘At in superiore Germania.’ You know he is describing Cecina, and Tacitus says, ‘Cito sermone’:
“I remember it perfectly, my lord.”
“You translated that by speaking well.”
“Yes, my lord, and I thought—”
“‘Cito sermone’ means speaking quickly, that is to say easily.”
“I said speaking well.”
“Then it should have been ‘decoro,’ or ‘ornato,’ or ‘eleganti sermone;’ ‘cito’ is a picturesque epithet, Monsieur Rousseau. Just as, in portraying the change in Otho’s conduct, Tacitus says—’Delata voluptate, dissimulata luxuria, cuncta que ad imperii decorem composita.”
“I have translated that — Dismissing luxury and effeminacy to other times, he surprised the world by industriously applying himself to re-establish the glory of the empire.”
“Wrong, M. Rousseau, wrong! In the first place, you have run the three little phrases into one, which obliges you to translate ‘dissimulata luxuria’ badly. Then you made a blunder in the last portion of the phrase. Tacitus did not mean that the emperor Otho applied himself to reestablishing the glory of the empire; he meant to say that, no longer gratifying his passions, and dissimulating his luxurious habits, Otho accommodated all, made all turn — all, you understand, M. Rousseau — that is to say, even his passions and his vices — to the glory of the empire. That is the sense — it is rather complex; yours, however, is too restricted, is it not, Monsieur de la Vauguyon?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Rousseau perspired and panted under this pitiless infliction.
The prince allowed him a moment’s breathing time, and then continued:
“You are much more in your element in philosophy, sir.”
Rousseau bowed.
“But your ‘Emilius’ is a dangerous book.”
“Dangerous, my lord?”
“Yes, from the quantity of false ideas it will put into the small citizens’ heads!”
“ My lord, as soon as a man is a father, he can enter into the spirit of my book, whether he be the first or the last in the kingdom. To be a father — is — is—” “Tell me, Monsieur Rousseau,” asked the satirical prince, all at once, “your ‘Confessions’ form a very amusing book. How many children have you had?”
Rousseau turned pale, staggered, and raised an angry and stupefied glance to his young tormentor’s face, the expression of which only increased the malicious humor of the Count de Provence.
It was only malice, for, without waiting for a reply, the prince moved away arm-in-arm with his preceptor, continuing his commentaries on the works of the man whom he had so cruelly crushed.
Rousseau, left alone, was gradually recovering from his stupefaction, when he heard the first bars of his overture executed by the orchestra.
He proceeded in that direction with a faltering step, and when he had reached his seat, he said to himself:
“Fool! coward! stupid ass that I am! Now only do I find the answer I should have made the cruel little pedant. ‘My lord,’ I should have said, ‘it is not charitable in a young person to torment a poor old man!”
He had just reached this point, quite content with his phrase, when the dauphiness and M. de Coigny commenced their duet. The pre-occupation of the philosopher was disturbed by the suffering of the musician — the ear was to be tortured after the heart.