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“‘You think, then,’ said he, ‘that I am conducted to the château to be imprisoned there?’
“‘It is probable.’”
The details of Dantès’ horrible confinement, at first in an upper cell, and later in a lower dungeon, where, as “No. 34,” he became the neighbour of the old Abbé Faria, “No. 27,” are well known of all lovers of Dumas. The author does not weary one, and there are no lengthy descriptions dragged in to merely fill space. When Dantès finally escapes from the château, after he had been imprisoned for fourteen years, Dumas again launches into that concise, direct word-painting which proclaims him the master.
“It was necessary for Dantès to strike out to sea. Ratonneau and Pomègue are the nearest isles of all those that surround the Château d’If; but Ratonneau and Pomègue are inhabited, together with the islet of Daume; Tiboulen or Lemaire were the most secure. The isles of Tiboulen and Lemaire are a league from the Château d’If…
“Before him rose a mass of strangely formed rocks, that resembled nothing so much as a vast fire petrified at the moment of its most fervent combustion. It was the isle of Tiboulen…
“As he rose, a flash of lightning, that seemed as if the whole of the heavens were opened, illumined the darkness. By its light, he saw the isle of Lemaire and Cape Croiselle, a quarter of a league distant.”
In “The Count of Monte Cristo,” Dumas makes a little journey up the valley of the Rhône into Provence.
In the chapter entitled “The Auberge of the Pont du Gard,” he writes, in manner unmistakably familiar, of this land of the troubadours, the roses, and the beautiful women; for the women of Arles – those world-famous Arlesiennes – are the peers, in looks, of all the women of France.
Dumas writes of Beaucaire, of Bellegarde, of Arles, and of Aigues-Mortes, but not very affectionately; indeed, he seems to think all Provence “an arid, sterile lake,” but he comes out strong on the beauty of the women of Arles, and marvels how they can live in the vicinity of the devastating fevers of the Camargue.
The auberge of the Pont du Garde itself – the establishment kept by the old tailor, Caderousse, whom Dantès sought out after his escape from the Château d’If – the author describes thus:
“Such of my readers as have made a pedestrian excursion to the south of France may perchance have noticed, midway between the town of Beaucaire and the village of Bellegarde, a small roadside inn, from the front of which hung, creaking and flapping in the wind, a sheet of tin covered with a caricature resemblance of the Pont du Gard. This modern place of entertainment stood on the left-hand side of the grand route, turning its back upon the Rhône. It also boasted of what in Languedoc is styled a garden, consisting of a small plot of ground, a full view of which might be obtained from a door immediately opposite the grand portal by which travellers were ushered in to partake of the hospitality of mine host of the Pont du Gard. This plaisance or garden, scorched up beneath the ardent sun of a latitude of thirty degrees, permitted nothing to thrive or scarcely live in its arid soil. A few dingy olives and stunted fig-trees struggled hard for existence, but their withered, dusty foliage abundantly proved how unequal was the conflict. Between these sickly shrubs grew a scanty supply of garlic, tomatoes, and eschalots; while, lone and solitary, like a forgotten sentinel, a tall pine raised its melancholy head in one of the corners of this unattractive spot, and displayed its flexible stem and fan-shaped summit dried and cracked by the withering influence of the mistral, that scourge of Provence.”
The great fair of Beaucaire was, and is, – though Beaucaire has become a decrepit, tumble-down river town on the Rhône, with a ruined castle as its chief attraction, – renowned throughout France.
It was here that the head of the house of Morrel, fearing lest the report of his financial distress should get bruited abroad at Marseilles, came to sell his wife’s and daughter’s jewels, and a portion of his plate.
This fair of Beaucaire attracted a great number of merchants of all branches of trade, who arrived by water and by road, lining the banks of the Rhône from Arles to Beaucaire, and its transpontine neighbour, Tarascon, which Daudet has made famous.
Caderousse, the innkeeper, visited this fair, as we learn, “in company with a man who was evidently a stranger to the south of France; one of those merchants who come to sell jewelry at the fair of Beaucaire, and who, during the month the fair lasts, and during which there is so great an influx of merchants and customers from all parts of Europe, often have dealings to the amount of one hundred thousand to one hundred and fifty thousand francs (£4,000 to £6,000).”
That Dumas was a great traveller is well known and substantiated by the records he has left.
When living at Toulon in the spring of 1835, as he himself tells us, he first came into possession of the facts which led to the construction of “Gabriel Lambert.”
There was doubtless much of truth in the tale, which appears not to be generally known to English readers, and it is more than probable that much of the incident was originally related to Dumas by the “governor of the port.”
Dumas was living at the time in a “small suburban house,” within a stone’s throw of Fort Lamalge, the prison, hard at work on his play of “Captain Paul” – though, as he says, he was greatly abstracted from work by the “contemplation of the blue Mediterranean spangled with gold, the mountains that blind in their awful nakedness, and of the sky impressive in its depth and clearness.”
The result of it all was that, instead of working at “Captain Paul” (Paul Jones), he left off working at all, in the daytime, – no infrequent occurrence among authors, – and, through his acquaintance with the governor, evolved the story of the life-history of “Gabriel Lambert.”
“Murat” was the single-worded title given by Dumas to what is perhaps the most subtle of the “Crimes Célèbres.” He drew his figures, of course, from history, and from a comparatively near view-point, considering that but twenty-five years had elapsed since the death of his subject.
Marseilles, Provence, Hyères, Toulon, and others of those charming towns and cities of the Mediterranean shore, including also Corsica, form the rapid itinerary of the first pages.
For the action itself, it resembles nothing which has gone before, or which is so very horrible. It simply recounts the adventures and incidents in the life of the Marshal of France which befel his later years, and which culminated in his decapitated head being brought before the King of Naples as the only assurance which would satisfy him that Murat was not an adventurer and intriguer.
There is a pleasant little town in the Midi of France by the name of Cahors. It is a historic town as well; in fact, it was part of the dowry which Henri de Navarre was to receive when he married Marguerite.
The circumstance is recounted by Dumas in “The Forty-Five Guardsmen,” and extends to some length in the most marvellously descriptive dialogue.
“The poor Henri de Navarre,” as Dumas called him, “was to receive as his wife’s dowry three hundred thousand golden crowns and some towns, among them Cahors.
“‘A pretty town, mordieu!’
“‘I have claimed not the money, but Cahors.’
“‘You would much like to hold Cahors, Sire?’
“‘Doubtless; for, after all, what is my principality of Béarn? A poor little place, clipped by the avarice of my mother-in-law and brother-in-law.’
“‘While Cahors – ’
“‘Cahors would be my rampart, the safeguard of my religion.’
“‘Well, Sire, go into mourning for Cahors; for, whether you break with Madame Marguerite or not, the King of France will never give it to you, and unless you take it – ’
“‘Oh, I would soon take it, if it was not so strong, and, above all, if I did not hate war.’
“‘Cahors is impregnable, Sire.’
“‘Oh! impregnable! But if I had an army, which I have not – ’
“‘Listen, Sire. We are not here to flatter each other. To take Cahors, which is held by M. de Vezin, one must be a Hannibal or a Cæsar; and your Majesty – ’
“‘Well?’ said Henri, with a smile.
“‘Has just said you do not like war.’…
“‘Cahors is so well guarded, because it is the key of the south.’”
Chapter fifty-three of the above book recounts the siege itself, – as we know it in history, – but with all that added picturesqueness which Dumas commanded.
“‘Henri will not pay me his sister’s dowry, and Margot cries out for her dear Cahors. One must do what one’s wife wants, for peace’s sake; therefore I am going to try to take Cahors.’…
“Henri set off at full gallop, and Chicot followed him. On arriving in front of his little army, Henri raised his visor, and cried:
“‘Out with the banner! out with the new banner!’
“They drew forth the banner, which had the double scutcheon of Navarre and Bourbon; it was white, and had chains of gold on one side, and fleurs-de-lis on the other.
“Again the cannon from Cahors were fired, and the balls tore through a file of infantry near the king…
“‘Oh!’ cried M. de Turenne, ‘the siege of the city is over, Vezin.’ And as he spoke he fired at him and wounded him in the arm…
“‘You are wrong, Turenne,’ cried M. de Vezin; ‘there are twenty sieges in Cahors; so, if one is over, there are nineteen to come.’
“M. de Vezin defended himself during five days and nights from street to street and from house to house. Luckily for the rising fortunes of Henri of Navarre, he had counted too much on the walls and garrison of Cahors, and had neglected to send to M. de Biron…
“During these five days and nights, Henri commanded like a captain and fought like a soldier, slept with his head on a stone, and awoke sword in hand. Each day they conquered a street or a square, which each night the garrison tried to retake. On the fourth night the enemy seemed willing to give some rest to the Protestant army. Then it was Henri who attacked in his turn. He forced an intrenched position, but it cost him seven hundred men. M. de Turenne and nearly all the officers were wounded, but the king remained untouched.”
The Pyrenean city of Pau is more than once referred to by Dumas in the Valois romances, as was but natural, considering that its ancient château was the berceau of that Prince of Béarn who later married the intriguing Marguerite, and became ultimately Henri IV.
This fine old structure – almost the only really splendid historical monument of the city – had for long been the residence of the Kings of Navarre; was rebuilt in the fourteenth century by the brilliant Gaston Phœbus; and enlarged and luxuriously embellished by the beautiful Marguerite herself in the sixteenth century, after she had become la femme de Henri d’Albert, as her spouse was then known.
As might be expected, Dumas was exceedingly familiar with the suburban topography of Paris, and made frequent use of it in his novels.
It is in “The Count of Monte Cristo,” however, that this intimacy is best shown; possibly for the reason that therein he dealt with times less remote than those of the court romances of the “Valois” and the “Capets.”
When Dantès comes to Paris, – as the newly made count, – he forthwith desires to be ensconced in an establishment of his own. Dumas recounts the incident thus:
“‘And the cards I ordered to be engraved as soon as you knew the number of the house?’
“‘M. le Comte, it is done already. I have been myself to the best engraver of the Palais Royal, who did the plate in my presence. The first card struck off was taken, according to your orders, to M. le Baron Danglars, Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin, No. 7.’…
“As the steward had said, the notary awaited him in the small salon. He was a simple-looking lawyer’s clerk, elevated to the extraordinary dignity of a provincial scrivener.
“‘You are the notary empowered to sell the country-house that I wish to purchase, monsieur?’ asked Monte Cristo.
“‘Yes, M. le Comte,’ returned the notary.
“‘Is the deed of sale ready?’
“‘Yes, M. le Comte.’
“‘Have you brought it?’
“‘Here it is.’
“‘Very well; and where is this house that I purchase?’ asked the count, carelessly, addressing himself half to Bertuccio, half to the notary. The steward made a gesture that signified, ‘I do not know.’ The notary looked at the count with astonishment.
“‘What!’ said he, ‘does not M. le Comte know where the house he purchases is situated?’
“‘No,’ returned the count.
“‘M. le Comte does not know it?’
“‘How should I know it? I have arrived from Cadiz this morning. I have never before been at Paris: and it is the first time I have ever even set my foot in France!’
“‘Ah, that is different; the house you purchase is situated at Auteuil, in the Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28.’ At these words Bertuccio turned pale.
“‘And where is Auteuil?’ asked the count.
“‘Close here, monsieur,’ replied the notary; ‘a little beyond Passy; a charming situation, in the heart of the Bois de Boulogne.’
“‘So near as that?’ said the count. ‘But that is not in the country. What made you choose a house at the gates of Paris, M. Bertuccio?’
“‘I?’ cried the steward, with a strange expression. ‘M. le Comte did not charge me to purchase this house. If M. le Comte will recollect – if he will think – ’
“‘Ah, true,’ observed Monte Cristo; ‘I recollect now. I read the advertisement in one of the papers, and was tempted by the false title, “a country-house.”’
“‘It is not yet too late,’ cried Bertuccio, eagerly; ‘and if your Excellency will entrust me with the commission, I will find you a better at Enghien, at Fontenay-aux-Roses, or at Bellevue.’
“‘Oh, no,’ returned Monte Cristo, negligently; ‘since I have this, I will keep it.’
“‘And you are quite right,’ said the notary, who feared to lose his fee. ‘It is a charming place, well supplied with spring-water and fine trees; a comfortable habitation, although abandoned for a long time; without reckoning the furniture, which, although old, is yet valuable, now that old things are so much sought after. I suppose M. le Comte has the tastes of the day?’”
Whatever may have been Dumas’ prodigality with regard to money matters in his personal affairs, he was evidently a good traveller, in the sense that he knew how to plan a journey with the greatest economy.
One sees evidences of this in the “Count of Monte Cristo,” where he describes the journey of Madame de Morcerf from Paris to Marseilles.
“‘I have made inquiries,’ said Albert, ‘respecting the diligences and steamboats, and my calculations are made. You will take your place in the coupé to Châlons. You see, mother, I treat you handsomely for thirty-five francs.’
“Albert then took a pen, and wrote:
“‘Let us put down 120,’ added Albert, smiling. ‘You see I am generous; am I not, mother?’
“‘But you, my poor child?’
“‘I! do you not see I reserve eighty francs for myself? A young man does not require luxuries; besides, I know what travelling is.’
“‘With a post-chaise and valet de chambre?’”
The route is practicable even to-day, though probably not at the prices given, and one does not go by steamboat from Châlons to Lyons, though he may from Lyons to Avignon.
CHAPTER XVIII.
LES PAYS ÉTRANGERS
Dumas frequently wandered afield for his mise-en-scène, and with varying success; from the “Corsican Brothers,” which was remarkably true to its locale, and “La Tulipe Noire,” which was equally so, if we allow for a certain perspective of time, to “Le Capitaine Pamphile,” which in parts, at least, is gross exaggeration or burlesque.
Once only, to any great extent, did he go to Germany for his inspirations, and then only to German legend, – where so many others had been before, – and have since.
In “Otho the Archer” is found a repetition of the Knight and Swan legend so familiar to all. It has been before – and since – a prolific source of supply to authors of all ranks and nationalities: Goethe, Schiller, Hoffman, Brentano, Fouqué, Scott, and others.
The book first appeared in 1840, before even “Monte Cristo” and “Les Trois Mousquetaires” were published as feuilletons, and hence, whatever its merits may be, it is to be classed as one of his immature efforts, rather than as a piece of profound romancing.
The story of adventure, of battle, and of love-making is all there, but his picture of the scenery and life of the middle ages on the Rhine are, of course, as purely imaginary as is the romantic background of myth and legend.
Of all the works dealing with foreign lands, – or, at least, foreign to his pen, – Dumas’ “Black Tulip” will ever take a preëminent rank. Therein are pictures of Holland life and of the Hollandaise which, like the pen-drawings of Stevenson in “Catriona,” will live far more vividly in the minds of most readers than volumes of mere dissertation written by others.
The story opens with a recounting of the tragedy of the brothers Cornelius and Jacobus de Windt, which, though not differing greatly from historical fact, is as vivid and terrible an account of the persecutions of mortal man as any similar incident in romance itself, of whatever age and by whomever written.
Dumas was in Amsterdam, in 1849, at the coronation of William III., where it has been said – by Flotow, the composer – that the king remarked to Dumas that none of the scenes of his romances had as yet been laid in the Netherlands, and thereupon told him what was substantially the story of “La Tulipe Noire.” This first appeared as the product of Dumas’ hand and brain in 1850.
This is perhaps more or less a legendary account of its inception; like many another of the reasons for being of Dumas’ romances, but it is sufficiently plausible and well authenticated to warrant acceptance, though it has been said, too, that it was to Paul Lacroix – “Bibliophile Jacob” – that Dumas owed the idea of the tale.
At all events, it is a charming pen-picture of Holland; shows a wonderful love and knowledge of the national flower, the tulip, and is one of the most popular of all Dumas’ tales, if we except the three cycles of romances, whose scenes and incidents are based on the history of French court life.
Not for many years did the translators leave “La Tulipe Noire” unnoticed, and for over a half-century it has enjoyed a vogue which is at least comprehensible.
Its plot and characters are most ingeniously and dextrously handled, but its greatest charm is incident to the process of evolving the famous black tulip from among the indigenous varieties which, at the time of the scene of the novel, had not got beyond the brilliantly variegated yellows and reds. From the various stages of mauve, purple, brown, and, finally, something very nearly akin to black, the flowering bulb finally took form, as first presented to a wide-spread public by Dumas.
The celebrated Alphonse Karr, a devoted lover of flowers, took the trouble to make a “romancers’ garden,” composed of trees and flowers which contemporary novelists, finding the laws of nature too narrow for them, had described in their books. This imaginary garden owed to George Sand a blue chrysanthemum, to Victor Hugo a Bengal rose without thorns, to Balzac a climbing azalea, to Jules Janin a blue pink, to Madame de Genlis a green rose, to Eugene Sue a variety of cactus growing in Paris in the open air, to Paul Féval a variety of larch which retained its leaves during winter, to Forgues a pretty little pink clematis which flourished around the windows in the Latin quarter, to Rolle a scented camellia, and to Dumas the black tulip and a white lotus. The black tulip, it may be remarked, though unknown in Dumas’ day, has now become an accomplished fact.
Dumas, though not a botanist, had charming, if not very precise, notions about flowers, – as about animals, – and to him they doubtless said:
“Nous sommes les filles du feu secret,
Du feu qui circule dans les veines de la terre;
Nous sommes les filles de l’aurore et de la rosée,
Nous sommes les filles de l’air,
Nous sommes les filles de l’eau;
Mais nous sommes avant tout les filles du ciel.”
Dumas wandered much farther afield than the land of his beloved Valois. To Italy, to Spain, to Algeria, to Corsica, to Germany, and even to Russia. Mostly he made use of his experiences in his books of travel, of which “Les Impressions du Voyage” is the chief.
Who would read the narrative of the transactions which took place in Russia’s capital in the early nineteenth century, should turn to “Les Mémoires d’un Maître d’Armes,” or “Dix-huit Mois à St. Petersburgh.” It presents a picture of the Russian life of the time, in which – the critics agree – there is but slight disguise. Its story – for it is confessedly fiction – turns upon the fortunes of a young subaltern, who played a considerable part in the conspiracy of 1825, and, it has been said by a contemporary writer of the time, hardly any circumstance but the real name of the young man is disguised.
It is in the main, or, at least, it has for its principal incident, the story of a political exile, and it is handled with Dumas’ vivid and consummate skill, which therein proves again that the mere romancist had a good deal of the historian about him.
Besides the locale of “La Tulipe Noire,” Dumas takes the action of “The Forty-Five Guardsmen” into the Netherlands. François, the Duc d’Anjou, had entered Belgium and had been elected Duc de Brabant, Sovereign Prince of Flanders. At this time it was supposed that Elizabeth of England saw the opportunity of reuniting the Calvinists of Flanders and France with those of England, and so acquire a triple crown. Then follows an account of the attack on Antwerp, which resulted in final defeat of the French, and presents one of the most graphic descriptions of a battle to be found in the pages of Dumas. The historic incident of the interview in Duc François’ tent, between that worthy and the French Admiral de Joyeuse, is made much of by Dumas, and presents a most picturesque account of this bloody battle. The topography of Antwerp and the country around about is as graphic as a would-be painting.
“‘But,’ cried the prince, ‘I must settle my position in the country. I am Duke of Brabant and Count of Flanders, in name, and I must be so in reality. This William, who is gone I know not where, spoke to me of a kingdom. Where is this kingdom? – in Antwerp. Where is he? – probably in Antwerp also; therefore we must take Antwerp, and we shall know how we stand.’
“‘Oh! monseigneur, you know it now, or you are, in truth, a worse politician than I thought you. Who counselled you to take Antwerp? – the Prince of Orange. Who disappeared at the moment of taking the field? – the Prince of Orange. Who, while he made your Highness Duke of Brabant, reserved for himself the lieutenant-generalship of the duchy? – the Prince of Orange. Whose interest is it to ruin the Spaniards by you, and you by the Spaniards? – the Prince of Orange. Who will replace you, who will succeed, if he does not do so already? – the Prince of Orange. Oh! monseigneur, in following his counsels you have but annoyed the Flemings. Let a reverse come, and all those who do not dare to look you now in the face, will run after you like those timid dogs who run after those who fly.’
“‘What! you imagine that I can be beaten by wool-merchants and beer-drinkers?’
“‘These wool-merchants and these beer-drinkers have given plenty to do to Philippe de Valois, the Emperor Charles V., and Philippe II., who were three princes placed sufficiently high, monseigneur, for the comparison not to be disagreeable to you.’”
In “Pascal Bruno,” Dumas launched into a story of Sicilian brigandage, which has scarce been equalled, unless it were in his two other tales of similar purport – “Cherubino et Celestine,” and “Maître Adam le Calabrais.”
Originally it formed one of a series which were published in one volume – in 1838 – under the title of “La Salle d’Armes, Pauline, et Pascal Bruno.”
According to the “Mémoires,” a favourite rendezvous of Dumas in Paris, at this period, was Grisier’s fencing-room. There it was that the maître d’armes handed him the manuscript entitled “Eighteen Months at St. Petersburg,” – that remarkable account of a Russian exile, – and it is there that Dumas would have his readers to believe that he collected the materials for “Pauline” and “Murat.”
The great attraction of “The Corsican Brothers” lies not so much with Corsica, the home of the vendetta, the land of Napoleon, and latterly known politically as the 86me Departement de France, as with the events which so closely and strenuously encircled the lives of the brothers De Franchi in Paris itself.
Corsican life and topography is limned, however, with a fidelity which has too often been lacking in Dumas’ description of foreign parts. Perhaps, as has been said before, he extracted this information from others; but more likely – it seems to the writer – it came from his own intimate acquaintance with that island, as it is known that he was a visitor there in 1834.
If this surmise be correct, the tale was a long time in taking shape, – an unusually long time for Dumas, – as the book did not appear until 1845, the same year as the appearance of “Monte Cristo” in book form.
It was dedicated to Prosper Merimée, whose “Colomba” ranks as its equal as a thrilling tale of Corsican life.
It has been remarked that, curiously enough, in spite of the fact that the story has been so often dramatized and adapted for the stage, – and acted by persons of all shades and grades of ability, – Dumas never thought well enough of it to have given it that turn himself.
Dumas’ acquaintance with Naples never produced any more lucid paragraphs descriptive of character, and the local colour and scenic effect besides, than in the few short pages of “Les Pêcheurs du Filet.” It comes, of course, as a result of Dumas’ rather extended sojourn in Italy.
When Dumas actually did write scenic descriptions, they were exceedingly graphic, – though not verbose, – and exceedingly picturesque, – though not sentimental, – as witness the following lines which open the tale – though he does make use a little farther on of the now trite tag, “See Naples and die.”
“Every morning on awakening I was in the habit of resting my elbows on the window-sill and gazing far out over the limpid and sparkling mirror of the Tyrrhenian Sea… At night the bay is so intensely blue that, under more favourable conditions, it resembles those leaden-hued lakes, such as Avernus, the Fucine Lake, or Lake Agnano, – all in the neighbourhood of Naples, which cover the craters of extinct volcanoes.”
The story gives further a wonderful pen-portrait of Ladislas I. of Hungary, of Jerusalem, and of Sicily, and of the barbaric torture of “The Question,” which was performed upon the aspiring lover of Joanna of Naples.
Rome figures chiefly in “The Count of Monte Cristo,” wherein half a dozen chapters are devoted to the “Eternal City.” Here it is that Monte Cristo first meets Albert de Morcerf, son of one of that trio of enemies on whom the count has sworn revenge. De Morcerf, enjoying the pleasures of the Roman carnival, is captured by bandits, from whom he is rescued by the count, who, in saving the son, makes the first move of vengeance against the father.
Various interesting parts of Rome are described and touched upon, – the Teatro Argentino, the Colosseum, the Plaza del Popolo – scene of the public executions of that time, – the catacombs of San Sebastian, and many others. The characteristic and picturesque manners and customs of the Romans, from noblesse to peasants, are set down here in vivid and graphic style; and it is clearly plain that when Dumas sojourned in Rome he “did as the Romans do.”
Dumas’ familiarity with Switzerland was no greater or no less than his knowledge of Spain, of Italy, of Russia, or of Corsica. In his volumes of travel, “Impressions du Voyage,” are many charming bits of narrative which might well be extracted and elaborated into what is otherwise known as fiction. With regard to “Pauline,” this is exactly what did happen, or, rather, the relationship between the Pauline of the novelette and the Pauline of “La Voyage en Suisse” is one based upon a common parentage.
Switzerland early attracted Dumas’ attention. He took his first tour in the cantons in 1832, partly as a means of convalescing from a severe illness, and partly because he was in danger of arrest for the too active part taken by him in the public funeral of General Lamarque and the riots that followed. No sooner was Dumas en route than the leaves of his note-book were torn asunder and despatched forthwith to the then newly founded Revue des Deux Mondes.
At Flüelen, that high Alpine pass, the mysterious veiled Pauline de Meulien and her cavalier, Alfred de N – , make their first appearance. One feels intuitively that here are the elements of a drama, of which the author will avail himself before long. The voyages continue, however, and the veiled lady fails to reappear until the end of the journey, when another transitory glimpse of her is had at Pfeffers.
This Pauline’s adventures evidently demanded more space than the travels could afford, and became ultimately a novelette.
“Pauline” is one of Dumas’ early attempts at fiction, and is told with originality, and a very considerable skill. Nearly twenty years after “Pauline” was written, Dumas told us that he met the counterpart of the villain of the story, Horace de Beuzeval, who consigned the beautiful Pauline to a living burial in the old abbey vault on the coast of Normandy, near Trouville.
Dumas’ pictures of Switzerland are more or less conventional; with him the story was the thing, and the minutiæ of stage setting but a side issue.
In “Les Crimes Célèbres,” Dumas goes back to history, though he sticks to France, with the exception of those dealing with the Borgias and Mary Stuart.
The crimes of the Borgias – and they were many – end the series, though they cover but the period 1492-1507. The most unnatural and quite the most despicable being the throwing into the Tiber by Cæsar Borgia the cadaver of his brother. Rome, the Popes, and Italy in general form much of the venue, but the political history of France, Spain, and Austria enter largely into the movement of the chronicle, and such widely separated towns of France as Perpignan, in the Comté de Roussillon in the south, and Hesdin, Etaples, and Bethune in the north, all play their parts in the political treaties of the time.
