Editing Volume 3/Book 3/Chapter 3

Les Mis&eacute;rables, Volume 3: Marius, Book Third: The Grandfather and the Grandson, Chapter 3: Requiescant<br />
(Tome 3: Marius, Livre troisi&egrave;me: Le grand-p&egrave;re et le petit-fils, Chapitre 3: Requiescant)

==General notes on this chapter==

==French text==

 
Le salon de madame de T. &eacute;tait tout ce que Marius Pontmercy connaissait
du monde. C'&eacute;tait la seule ouverture par laquelle il p&ucirc;t regarder dans
la vie. Cette ouverture &eacute;tait sombre, et il lui venait par cette lucarne
plus de froid que de chaleur, plus de nuit que de jour. Cet enfant, qui
n'&eacute;tait que joie et lumi&egrave;re en entrant dans ce monde &eacute;trange, y devint
en peu de temps triste, et, ce qui est plus contraire encore &agrave; cet &acirc;ge,
grave. Entour&eacute; de toutes ces personnes imposantes et singuli&egrave;res, il
regardait autour de lui avec un &eacute;tonnement s&eacute;rieux. Tout se r&eacute;unissait
pour accro&icirc;tre en lui cette stupeur. Il y avait dans le salon de madame
de T. de vieilles nobles dames tr&egrave;s v&eacute;n&eacute;rables qui s'appelaient Mathan,
No&eacute;, L&eacute;vis qu'on pronon&ccedil;ait L&eacute;vi, Cambis qu'on pronon&ccedil;ait Cambyse. Ces
antiques visages et ces noms bibliques se m&ecirc;laient dans l'esprit de
l'enfant &agrave; son ancien testament qu'il apprenait par c&oelig;ur, et quand
elles &eacute;taient l&agrave; toutes, assises en cercle autour d'un feu mourant, &agrave;
peine &eacute;clair&eacute;es par une lampe voil&eacute;e de vert, avec leurs profils
s&eacute;v&egrave;res, leurs cheveux gris ou blancs, leurs longues robes d'un autre
&acirc;ge dont on ne distinguait que les couleurs lugubres, laissant tomber &agrave;
de rares intervalles des paroles &agrave; la fois majestueuses et farouches, le
petit Marius les consid&eacute;rait avec des yeux effar&eacute;s, croyant voir, non
des femmes, mais des patriarches et des mages, non des &ecirc;tres r&eacute;els, mais
des fant&ocirc;mes.

 
&Agrave; ces fant&ocirc;mes se m&ecirc;laient plusieurs pr&ecirc;tres, habitu&eacute;s de ce salon
vieux, et quelques gentilshommes; le marquis de Sassenaye, secr&eacute;taire
des commandements de madame de Berry, le vicomte de Valory, qui publiait
sous le pseudonyme de ''Charles-Antoine'' des odes monorimes, le prince de
Beauffremont qui, assez jeune, avait un chef grisonnant et une jolie et
spirituelle femme dont les toilettes de velours &eacute;carlate &agrave; torsades
d'or, fort d&eacute;collet&eacute;es, effarouchaient ces t&eacute;n&egrave;bres, le marquis de
Coriolis d'Espinouse, l'homme de France qui savait le mieux &laquo;la
politesse proportionn&eacute;e&raquo;, le comte d'Amendre, le bonhomme au menton
bienveillant, et le chevalier de Port-de-Guy, pilier de la biblioth&egrave;que
du Louvre, dite le cabinet du roi. M. de Port-de-Guy, chauve et plut&ocirc;t
vieilli que vieux, contait qu'en 1793, &acirc;g&eacute; de seize ans, on l'avait mis
au bagne comme r&eacute;fractaire, et ferr&eacute; avec un octog&eacute;naire, l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que de
Mirepoix, r&eacute;fractaire aussi, mais comme pr&ecirc;tre, tandis que lui l'&eacute;tait
comme soldat. C'&eacute;tait &agrave; Toulon. Leur fonction &eacute;tait d'aller la nuit
ramasser sur l'&eacute;chafaud les t&ecirc;tes et les corps des guillotin&eacute;s du jour;
ils emportaient sur leur dos ces troncs ruisselants, et leurs capes
rouges de gal&eacute;riens avaient derri&egrave;re leur nuque une cro&ucirc;te de sang,
s&egrave;che le matin, humide le soir. Ces r&eacute;cits tragiques abondaient dans le
salon de madame de T.; et &agrave; force d'y maudire Marat, on y applaudissait
Trestaillon. Quelques d&eacute;put&eacute;s du genre introuvable y faisaient leur
whist, M. Thibord du Chalard, M. Lemarchant de Gomicourt, et le c&eacute;l&egrave;bre
railleur de la droite, M. Cornet-Dincourt. Le bailli de Ferrette, avec
ses culottes courtes et ses jambes maigres, traversait quelquefois ce
salon en allant chez M. de Talleyrand. Il avait &eacute;t&eacute; le camarade de
plaisir de M. le comte d'Artois, et, &agrave; l'inverse d'Aristote accroupi
sous Campaspe, il avait fait marcher la Guimard &agrave; quatre pattes, et de
la sorte montr&eacute; aux si&egrave;cles un philosophe veng&eacute; par un bailli.

 
Quant aux pr&ecirc;tres, c'&eacute;taient l'abb&eacute; Halma, le m&ecirc;me &agrave; qui M. Larose, son
collaborateur &agrave; ''la Foudre'', disait: ''Bah! qui est-ce qui n'a pas
cinquante ans? quelques blancs-becs peut-&ecirc;tre''! l'abb&eacute; Letourneur,
pr&eacute;dicateur du roi, l'abb&eacute; Frayssinous, qui n'&eacute;tait encore ni comte, ni
&eacute;v&ecirc;que, ni ministre, ni pair, et qui portait une vieille soutane o&ugrave; il
manquait des boutons, et l'abb&eacute; Keravenant, cur&eacute; de Saint-Germain des
Pr&eacute;s; plus le nonce du pape, alors monsignor Macchi, archev&ecirc;que de
Nisibi, plus tard cardinal, remarquable par son long nez pensif, et un
autre monsignor ainsi intitul&eacute;: abbate Palmieri, pr&eacute;lat domestique, un
des sept protonotaires participants du saint-si&egrave;ge, chanoine de
l'insigne basilique lib&eacute;rienne, avocat des saints, ''postulatore di
santi'', ce qui se rapporte aux affaires de canonisation et signifie &agrave;
peu pr&egrave;s ma&icirc;tre des requ&ecirc;tes de la section du paradis; enfin deux
cardinaux, M. de la Luzerne et M. de Clermont-Tonnerre. M. le cardinal
de la Luzerne &eacute;tait un &eacute;crivain et devait avoir, quelques ann&eacute;es plus
tard, l'honneur de signer dans le ''Conservateur'' des articles c&ocirc;te &agrave;
c&ocirc;te avec Chateaubriand; M. de Clermont-Tonnerre &eacute;tait archev&ecirc;que de
Toulouse, et venait souvent en vill&eacute;giature &agrave; Paris chez son neveu le
marquis de Tonnerre, qui a &eacute;t&eacute; ministre de la marine et de la guerre. Le
cardinal de Clermont-Tonnerre &eacute;tait un petit vieillard gai montrant ses
bas rouges sous sa soutane trouss&eacute;e; il avait pour sp&eacute;cialit&eacute; de ha&iuml;r
l'encyclop&eacute;die et de jouer &eacute;perdument au billard, et les gens qui, &agrave;
cette &eacute;poque, passaient dans les soirs d'&eacute;t&eacute; rue Madame, o&ugrave; &eacute;tait alors
l'h&ocirc;tel de Clermont-Tonnerre, s'arr&ecirc;taient pour entendre le choc des
billes, et la voix aigu&euml; du cardinal criant &agrave; son conclaviste,
monseigneur Cottret, &eacute;v&ecirc;que ''in partibus'' de Caryste: ''Marque, l'abb&eacute;,
je carambole''. Le cardinal de Clermont-Tonnerre avait &eacute;t&eacute; amen&eacute; chez
madame de T. par son ami le plus intime, M. de Roquelaure, ancien &eacute;v&ecirc;que
de Senlis et l'un des quarante. M. de Roquelaure &eacute;tait consid&eacute;rable par
sa haute taille et par son assiduit&eacute; &agrave; l'acad&eacute;mie; &agrave; travers la porte
vitr&eacute;e de la salle voisine de la biblioth&egrave;que o&ugrave; l'acad&eacute;mie fran&ccedil;aise
tenait alors ses s&eacute;ances, les curieux pouvaient tous les jeudis
contempler l'ancien &eacute;v&ecirc;que de Senlis, habituellement debout, poudr&eacute; &agrave;
frais, en bas violets, et tournant le dos &agrave; la porte, apparemment pour
mieux faire voir son petit collet. Tous ces eccl&eacute;siastiques, quoique la
plupart hommes de cour autant qu'hommes d'&eacute;glise, s'ajoutaient &agrave; la
gravit&eacute; du salon de T., dont cinq pairs de France, le marquis de
Vibraye, le marquis de Talaru, le marquis d'Herbouville, le vicomte
Dambray et le duc de Valentinois, accentuaient l'aspect seigneurial. Ce
duc de Valentinois, quoique prince de Monaco, c'est-&agrave;-dire prince
souverain &eacute;tranger, avait une si haute id&eacute;e de la France et de la pairie
qu'il voyait tout &agrave; travers elles. C'&eacute;tait lui qui disait: ''Les
cardinaux sont les pairs de France de Rome, les lords sont les pairs de
France d'Angleterre''. Au reste, car il faut en ce si&egrave;cle que la
r&eacute;volution soit partout, ce salon f&eacute;odal &eacute;tait, comme nous l'avons dit,
domin&eacute; par un bourgeois. M. Gillenormand y r&eacute;gnait.

 
C'&eacute;tait l&agrave; l'essence et la quintessence de la soci&eacute;t&eacute; parisienne
blanche. On y tenait en quarantaine les renomm&eacute;es, m&ecirc;me royalistes. Il y
a toujours de l'anarchie dans la renomm&eacute;e. Chateaubriand, entrant l&agrave;,
e&ucirc;t fait l'effet du p&egrave;re Duch&ecirc;ne. Quelques ralli&eacute;s pourtant p&eacute;n&eacute;traient,
par tol&eacute;rance, dans ce monde orthodoxe. Le comte Beugnot y &eacute;tait re&ccedil;u &agrave;
correction.

 
Les salons &laquo;nobles&raquo; d'aujourd'hui ne ressemblent plus &agrave; ces salons-l&agrave;.
Le faubourg Saint-Germain d'&agrave; pr&eacute;sent sent le fagot. Les royalistes de
maintenant sont des d&eacute;magogues, disons-le &agrave; leur louange.

 
Chez madame de T., le monde &eacute;tant sup&eacute;rieur, le go&ucirc;t &eacute;tait exquis et
hautain, sous une grande fleur de politesse. Les habitudes y
comportaient toutes sortes de raffinements involontaires qui &eacute;taient
l'ancien r&eacute;gime m&ecirc;me, enterr&eacute;, mais vivant. Quelques-unes de ces
habitudes, dans le langage surtout, semblaient bizarres. Des
connaisseurs superficiels eussent pris pour province ce qui n'&eacute;tait que
v&eacute;tust&eacute;. On appelait une femme ''madame la g&eacute;n&eacute;rale. Madame la colonelle''
n'&eacute;tait pas absolument inusit&eacute;. La charmante madame de L&eacute;on, en souvenir
sans doute des duchesses de Longueville et de Chevreuse, pr&eacute;f&eacute;rait cette
appellation &agrave; son titre de princesse. La marquise de Cr&eacute;quy, elle aussi,
s'&eacute;tait appel&eacute;e ''madame la colonelle''.

 
Ce fut ce petit haut monde qui inventa aux Tuileries le raffinement de
dire toujours en parlant au roi dans l'intimit&eacute; ''le roi'' &agrave; la troisi&egrave;me
personne et jamais ''votre majest&eacute;'', la qualification ''votre majest&eacute;''
ayant &eacute;t&eacute; &laquo;souill&eacute;e par l'usurpateur&raquo;.

 
On jugeait l&agrave; les faits et les hommes. On raillait le si&egrave;cle, ce qui
dispensait de le comprendre. On s'entr'aidait dans l'&eacute;tonnement. On se
communiquait la quantit&eacute; de clart&eacute; qu'on avait. Mathusalem renseignait
&Eacute;pim&eacute;nide. Le sourd mettait l'aveugle au courant. On d&eacute;clarait non avenu
le temps &eacute;coul&eacute; depuis Coblentz. De m&ecirc;me que Louis XVIII &eacute;tait, par la
gr&acirc;ce de Dieu, &agrave; la vingt-cinqui&egrave;me ann&eacute;e de son r&egrave;gne, les &eacute;migr&eacute;s
&eacute;taient, de droit, &agrave; la vingt-cinqui&egrave;me ann&eacute;e de leur adolescence.

 
Tout &eacute;tait harmonieux; rien ne vivait trop; la parole &eacute;tait &agrave; peine un
souffle; le journal, d'accord avec le salon, semblait un papyrus. Il y
avait des jeunes gens, mais ils &eacute;taient un peu morts. Dans
l'antichambre, les livr&eacute;es &eacute;taient vieillottes. Ces personnages,
compl&egrave;tement pass&eacute;s, &eacute;taient servis par des domestiques du m&ecirc;me genre.
Tout cela avait l'air d'avoir v&eacute;cu il y a longtemps, et de s'obstiner
contre le s&eacute;pulcre. Conserver, Conservation, Conservateur, c'&eacute;tait l&agrave; &agrave;
peu pr&egrave;s tout le dictionnaire. ''&Ecirc;tre en bonne odeur'', &eacute;tait la question.
Il y avait en effet des aromates dans les opinions de ces groupes
v&eacute;n&eacute;rables, et leurs id&eacute;es sentaient le v&eacute;tyver. C'&eacute;tait un monde momie.
Les ma&icirc;tres &eacute;taient embaum&eacute;s, les valets &eacute;taient empaill&eacute;s.

 
Une digne vieille marquise &eacute;migr&eacute;e et ruin&eacute;e, n'ayant plus qu'une bonne,
continuait de dire: ''Mes gens''.

 
Que faisait-on dans le salon de madame de T.? On &eacute;tait ultra.

 
&Ecirc;tre ultra; ce mot, quoique ce qu'il repr&eacute;sente n'ait peut-&ecirc;tre pas
disparu, ce mot n'a plus de sens aujourd'hui. Expliquons-le.

 
&Ecirc;tre ultra, c'est aller au del&agrave;. C'est attaquer le sceptre au nom du
tr&ocirc;ne et la mitre au nom de l'autel; c'est malmener la chose qu'on
tra&icirc;ne; c'est ruer dans l'attelage; c'est chicaner le b&ucirc;cher sur le
degr&eacute; de cuisson des h&eacute;r&eacute;tiques; c'est reprocher &agrave; l'idole son peu
d'idol&acirc;trie; c'est insulter par exc&egrave;s de respect; c'est trouver dans le
pape pas assez de papisme, dans le roi pas assez de royaut&eacute;, et trop de
lumi&egrave;re &agrave; la nuit; c'est &ecirc;tre m&eacute;content de l'alb&acirc;tre, de la neige, du
cygne et du lys au nom de la blancheur; c'est &ecirc;tre partisan des choses
au point d'en devenir l'ennemi; c'est &ecirc;tre si fort pour, qu'on est
contre.

 
L'esprit ultra caract&eacute;rise sp&eacute;cialement la premi&egrave;re phase de la
Restauration.

 
Rien dans l'histoire n'a ressembl&eacute; &agrave; ce quart d'heure qui commence &agrave;
1814 et qui se termine vers 1820 &agrave; l'av&egrave;nement de M. de Vill&egrave;le, l'homme
pratique de la droite. Ces six ann&eacute;es furent un moment extraordinaire, &agrave;
la fois brillant et morne, riant et sombre, &eacute;clair&eacute; comme par le
rayonnement de l'aube et tout couvert en m&ecirc;me temps des t&eacute;n&egrave;bres des
grandes catastrophes qui emplissaient encore l'horizon et s'enfon&ccedil;aient
lentement dans le pass&eacute;. Il y eut l&agrave;, dans cette lumi&egrave;re et dans cette
ombre, tout un petit monde nouveau et vieux, bouffon et triste, juv&eacute;nile
et s&eacute;nile, se frottant les yeux; rien ne ressemble au r&eacute;veil comme le
retour; groupe qui regardait la France avec humeur et que la France
regardait avec ironie; de bons vieux hiboux marquis plein les rues, les
revenus et les revenants, des &laquo;ci-devant&raquo; stup&eacute;faits de tout, de braves
et nobles gentilshommes souriant d'&ecirc;tre en France et en pleurant aussi,
ravis de revoir leur patrie, d&eacute;sesp&eacute;r&eacute;s de ne plus retrouver leur
monarchie; la noblesse des croisades conspuant la noblesse de l'Empire,
c'est-&agrave;-dire la noblesse de l'&eacute;p&eacute;e; les races historiques ayant perdu le
sens de l'histoire; les fils des compagnons de Charlemagne d&eacute;daignant
les compagnons de Napol&eacute;on. Les &eacute;p&eacute;es, comme nous venons de le dire, se
renvoyaient l'insulte; l'&eacute;p&eacute;e de Fontenoy &eacute;tait risible et n'&eacute;tait
qu'une rouillarde; l'&eacute;p&eacute;e de Marengo &eacute;tait odieuse et n'&eacute;tait qu'un
sabre. Jadis m&eacute;connaissait Hier. On n'avait plus le sentiment de ce qui
&eacute;tait grand, ni le sentiment de ce qui &eacute;tait ridicule. Il y eut
quelqu'un qui appela Bonaparte Scapin. Ce monde n'est plus. Rien,
r&eacute;p&eacute;tons-le, n'en reste aujourd'hui. Quand nous en tirons par hasard
quelque figure et que nous essayons de le faire revivre par la pens&eacute;e,
il nous semble &eacute;trange comme un monde ant&eacute;diluvien. C'est qu'en effet il
a &eacute;t&eacute; lui aussi englouti par un d&eacute;luge. Il a disparu sous deux
r&eacute;volutions. Quels flots que les id&eacute;es! Comme elles couvrent vite tout
ce qu'elles ont mission de d&eacute;truire et d'ensevelir, et comme elles font
promptement d'effrayantes profondeurs!

 
Telle &eacute;tait la physionomie des salons de ces temps lointains et candides
o&ugrave; M. Martainville avait plus d'esprit que Voltaire.

 
Ces salons avaient une litt&eacute;rature et une politique &agrave; eux. On y croyait
en Fi&eacute;v&eacute;e. M. Agier y faisait loi. On y commentait M. Colnet, le
publiciste bouquiniste du quai Malaquais. Napol&eacute;on y &eacute;tait pleinement
Ogre de Corse. Plus tard, l'introduction dans l'histoire de M. le
marquis de Buonaparte, lieutenant g&eacute;n&eacute;ral des arm&eacute;es du roi, fut une
concession &agrave; l'esprit du si&egrave;cle.

 
Ces salons ne furent pas longtemps purs. D&egrave;s 1818, quelques doctrinaires
commenc&egrave;rent &agrave; y poindre, nuance inqui&eacute;tante. La mani&egrave;re de ceux-l&agrave;
&eacute;tait d'&ecirc;tre royalistes et de s'en excuser. L&agrave; o&ugrave; les ultras &eacute;taient
tr&egrave;s fiers, les doctrinaires &eacute;taient un peu honteux. Ils avaient de
l'esprit; ils avaient du silence; leur dogme politique &eacute;tait
convenablement empes&eacute; de morgue; ils devaient r&eacute;ussir. Ils faisaient,
utilement d'ailleurs, des exc&egrave;s de cravate blanche et d'habit boutonn&eacute;.
Le tort, ou le malheur, du parti doctrinaire a &eacute;t&eacute; de cr&eacute;er la jeunesse
vieille. Ils prenaient des poses de sages. Ils r&ecirc;vaient de greffer sur
le principe absolu et excessif un pouvoir temp&eacute;r&eacute;. Ils opposaient, et
parfois avec une rare intelligence, au lib&eacute;ralisme d&eacute;molisseur un
lib&eacute;ralisme conservateur. On les entendait dire: &laquo;Gr&acirc;ce pour le
royalisme! il a rendu plus d'un service. Il a rapport&eacute; la tradition, le
culte, la religion, le respect. Il est fid&egrave;le, brave, chevaleresque,
aimant, d&eacute;vou&eacute;. Il vient m&ecirc;ler, quoique &agrave; regret, aux grandeurs
nouvelles de la nation les grandeurs s&eacute;culaires de la monarchie. Il a le
tort de ne pas comprendre la R&eacute;volution, l'Empire, la gloire, la
libert&eacute;, les jeunes id&eacute;es, les jeunes g&eacute;n&eacute;rations, le si&egrave;cle. Mais ce
tort qu'il a envers nous, ne l'avons-nous pas quelquefois envers lui? La
R&eacute;volution, dont nous sommes les h&eacute;ritiers, doit avoir l'intelligence de
tout. Attaquer le royalisme, c'est le contre-sens du lib&eacute;ralisme. Quelle
faute! et quel aveuglement! La France r&eacute;volutionnaire manque de respect
&agrave; la France historique, c'est-&agrave;-dire &agrave; sa m&egrave;re, c'est-&agrave;-dire &agrave;
elle-m&ecirc;me. Apr&egrave;s le 5 septembre, on traite la noblesse de la monarchie
comme apr&egrave;s le 8 juillet on traitait la noblesse de l'Empire. Ils ont
&eacute;t&eacute; injustes pour l'aigle, nous sommes injustes pour la fleur de lys. On
veut donc toujours avoir quelque chose &agrave; proscrire! D&eacute;dorer la couronne
de Louis XIV, gratter l'&eacute;cusson d'Henri IV, cela est-il bien utile? Nous
raillons M. de Vaublanc qui effa&ccedil;ait les N du pont d'I&eacute;na! Que
faisait-il donc? Ce que nous faisons. Bouvines nous appartient comme
Marengo. Les fleurs de lys sont &agrave; nous comme les N. C'est notre
patrimoine. &Agrave; quoi bon l'amoindrir? Il ne faut pas plus renier la patrie
dans le pass&eacute; que dans le pr&eacute;sent. Pourquoi ne pas vouloir toute
l'histoire? Pourquoi ne pas aimer toute la France?&raquo;

 
C'est ainsi que les doctrinaires critiquaient et prot&eacute;geaient le
royalisme, m&eacute;content d'&ecirc;tre critiqu&eacute; et furieux d'&ecirc;tre prot&eacute;g&eacute;.

 
Les ultras marqu&egrave;rent la premi&egrave;re &eacute;poque du royalisme; la congr&eacute;gation
caract&eacute;risa la seconde. &Agrave; la fougue succ&eacute;da l'habilet&eacute;. Bornons ici
cette esquisse.

 
Dans le cours de ce r&eacute;cit, l'auteur de ce livre a trouv&eacute; sur son chemin
ce moment curieux de l'histoire contemporaine; il a d&ucirc; y jeter en
passant un coup d'&oelig;il et retracer quelques-uns des lin&eacute;aments
singuliers de cette soci&eacute;t&eacute; aujourd'hui inconnue. Mais il le fait
rapidement et sans aucune id&eacute;e am&egrave;re ou d&eacute;risoire. Des souvenirs,
affectueux et respectueux, car ils touchent &agrave; sa m&egrave;re, l'attachent &agrave; ce
pass&eacute;. D'ailleurs, disons-le, ce m&ecirc;me petit monde avait sa grandeur. On
en peut sourire, mais on ne peut ni le m&eacute;priser ni le ha&iuml;r. C'&eacute;tait la
France d'autrefois.

 
Marius Pontmercy fit comme tous les enfants des &eacute;tudes quelconques.
Quand il sortit des mains de la tante Gillenormand, son grand-p&egrave;re le
confia &agrave; un digne professeur de la plus pure innocence classique. Cette
jeune &acirc;me qui s'ouvrait passa d'une prude &agrave; un cuistre. Marius eut ses
ann&eacute;es de coll&egrave;ge, puis il entra &agrave; l'&eacute;cole de droit. Il &eacute;tait royaliste,
fanatique et aust&egrave;re. Il aimait peu son grand-p&egrave;re dont la ga&icirc;t&eacute; et le
cynisme le froissaient, et il &eacute;tait sombre &agrave; l'endroit de son p&egrave;re.

 
C'&eacute;tait du reste un gar&ccedil;on ardent et froid, noble, g&eacute;n&eacute;reux, fier,
religieux, exalt&eacute;; digne jusqu'&agrave; la duret&eacute;, pur jusqu'&agrave; la sauvagerie.

 
==English text==

 
Madame de T.'s salon was all that Marius Pontmercy knew of the world. It
was the only opening through which he could get a glimpse of life. This
opening was sombre, and more cold than warmth, more night than day, came
to him through this skylight. This child, who had been all joy and light
on entering this strange world, soon became melancholy, and, what is still
more contrary to his age, grave. Surrounded by all those singular and
imposing personages, he gazed about him with serious amazement. Everything
conspired to increase this astonishment in him. There were in Madame de
T.'s salon some very noble ladies named Mathan, Noe, Levis,&mdash;which
was pronounced Levi,&mdash;Cambis, pronounced Cambyse. These antique
visages and these Biblical names mingled in the child's mind with the Old
Testament which he was learning by heart, and when they were all there,
seated in a circle around a dying fire, sparely lighted by a lamp shaded
with green, with their severe profiles, their gray or white hair, their
long gowns of another age, whose lugubrious colors could not be
distinguished, dropping, at rare intervals, words which were both majestic
and severe, little Marius stared at them with frightened eyes, in the
conviction that he beheld not women, but patriarchs and magi, not real
beings, but phantoms.

 
With these phantoms, priests were sometimes mingled, frequenters of this
ancient salon, and some gentlemen; the Marquis de Sass****, private
secretary to Madame de Berry, the Vicomte de Val***, who published, under
the pseudonyme of Charles-Antoine, monorhymed odes, the Prince de
Beauff*******, who, though very young, had a gray head and a pretty and
witty wife, whose very low-necked toilettes of scarlet velvet with gold
torsades alarmed these shadows, the Marquis de C*****d'E******, the man in
all France who best understood "proportioned politeness," the Comte
d'Am*****, the kindly man with the amiable chin, and the Chevalier de
Port-de-Guy, a pillar of the library of the Louvre, called the King's
cabinet, M. de Port-de-Guy, bald, and rather aged than old, was wont to
relate that in 1793, at the age of sixteen, he had been put in the galleys
as refractory and chained with an octogenarian, the Bishop of Mirepoix,
also refractory, but as a priest, while he was so in the capacity of a
soldier. This was at Toulon. Their business was to go at night and gather
up on the scaffold the heads and bodies of the persons who had been
guillotined during the day; they bore away on their backs these dripping
corpses, and their red galley-slave blouses had a clot of blood at the
back of the neck, which was dry in the morning and wet at night. These
tragic tales abounded in Madame de T.'s salon, and by dint of cursing
Marat, they applauded Trestaillon. Some deputies of the undiscoverable
variety played their whist there; M. Thibord du Chalard, M. Lemarchant de
Gomicourt, and the celebrated scoffer of the right, M. Cornet-Dincourt.
The bailiff de Ferrette, with his short breeches and his thin legs,
sometimes traversed this salon on his way to M. de Talleyrand. He had been
M. le Comte d'Artois' companion in pleasures and unlike Aristotle
crouching under Campaspe, he had made the Guimard crawl on all fours, and
in that way he had exhibited to the ages a philosopher avenged by a
bailiff. As for the priests, there was the Abbé Halma, the same to whom M.
Larose, his collaborator on la Foudre, said: "Bah! Who is there who is not
fifty years old? a few greenhorns perhaps?" The Abbé Letourneur, preacher
to the King, the Abbé Frayssinous, who was not, as yet, either count, or
bishop, or minister, or peer, and who wore an old cassock whose buttons
were missing, and the Abbé Keravenant, Curé of Saint-Germain-des-Pres;
also the Pope's Nuncio, then Monsignor Macchi, Archbishop of Nisibi, later
on Cardinal, remarkable for his long, pensive nose, and another Monsignor,
entitled thus: Abbate Palmieri, domestic prelate, one of the seven
participant prothonotaries of the Holy See, Canon of the illustrious
Liberian basilica, Advocate of the saints, Postulatore dei Santi, which
refers to matters of canonization, and signifies very nearly: Master of
Requests of the section of Paradise. Lastly, two cardinals, M. de la
Luzerne, and M. de Cl****** T*******. The Cardinal of Luzerne was a writer
and was destined to have, a few years later, the honor of signing in the
Conservateur articles side by side with Chateaubriand; M. de Cl******
T******* was Archbishop of Toul****, and often made trips to Paris, to his
nephew, the Marquis de T*******, who was Minister of Marine and War. The
Cardinal of Cl****** T******* was a merry little man, who displayed his
red stockings beneath his tucked-up cassock; his specialty was a hatred of
the Encyclopaedia, and his desperate play at billiards, and persons who,
at that epoch, passed through the Rue M***** on summer evenings, where the
hotel de Cl****** T******* then stood, halted to listen to the shock of
the balls and the piercing voice of the Cardinal shouting to his
conclavist, Monseigneur Cotiret, Bishop in partibus of Caryste: "Mark,
Abbé, I make a cannon." The Cardinal de Cl****** T******* had been brought
to Madame de T.'s by his most intimate friend, M. de Roquelaure, former
Bishop of Senlis, and one of the Forty. M. de Roquelaure was notable for
his lofty figure and his assiduity at the Academy; through the glass door
of the neighboring hall of the library where the French Academy then held
its meetings, the curious could, on every Tuesday, contemplate the
Ex-Bishop of Senlis, usually standing erect, freshly powdered, in violet
hose, with his back turned to the door, apparently for the purpose of
allowing a better view of his little collar. All these ecclesiastics,
though for the most part as much courtiers as churchmen, added to the
gravity of the T. salon, whose seigniorial aspect was accentuated by five
peers of France, the Marquis de Vib****, the Marquis de Tal***, the
Marquis de Herb*******, the Vicomte Damb***, and the Duc de Val********.
This Duc de Val********, although Prince de Mon***, that is to say a
reigning prince abroad, had so high an idea of France and its peerage,
that he viewed everything through their medium. It was he who said: "The
Cardinals are the peers of France of Rome; the lords are the peers of
France of England." Moreover, as it is indispensable that the Revolution
should be everywhere in this century, this feudal salon was, as we have
said, dominated by a bourgeois. M. Gillenormand reigned there.

 
There lay the essence and quintessence of the Parisian white society.
There reputations, even Royalist reputations, were held in quarantine.
There is always a trace of anarchy in renown. Chateaubriand, had he
entered there, would have produced the effect of Pere Duchene. Some of the
scoffed-at did, nevertheless, penetrate thither on sufferance. Comte
Beug*** was received there, subject to correction.

 
The "noble" salons of the present day no longer resemble those salons. The
Faubourg Saint-Germain reeks of the fagot even now. The Royalists of
to-day are demagogues, let us record it to their credit.

 
At Madame de T.'s the society was superior, taste was exquisite and
haughty, under the cover of a great show of politeness. Manners there
admitted of all sorts of involuntary refinements which were the old regime
itself, buried but still alive. Some of these habits, especially in the
matter of language, seem eccentric. Persons but superficially acquainted
with them would have taken for provincial that which was only antique. A
woman was called Madame la Générale. Madame la Colonelle was not entirely
disused. The charming Madame de Leon, in memory, no doubt, of the
Duchesses de Longueville and de Chevreuse, preferred this appellation to
her title of Princesse. The Marquise de Crequy was also called Madame la
Colonelle.

 
It was this little high society which invented at the Tuileries the
refinement of speaking to the King in private as the King, in the third
person, and never as Your Majesty, the designation of Your Majesty having
been "soiled by the usurper."

 
Men and deeds were brought to judgment there. They jeered at the age,
which released them from the necessity of understanding it. They abetted
each other in amazement. They communicated to each other that modicum of
light which they possessed. Methuselah bestowed information on Epimenides.
The deaf man made the blind man acquainted with the course of things. They
declared that the time which had elasped since Coblentz had not existed.
In the same manner that Louis XVIII. was by the grace of God, in the five
and twentieth year of his reign, the emigrants were, by rights, in the
five and twentieth year of their adolescence.

 
All was harmonious; nothing was too much alive; speech hardly amounted to
a breath; the newspapers, agreeing with the salons, seemed a papyrus.
There were some young people, but they were rather dead. The liveries in
the antechamber were antiquated. These utterly obsolete personages were
served by domestics of the same stamp.

 
They all had the air of having lived a long time ago, and of obstinately
resisting the sepulchre. Nearly the whole dictionary consisted of
Conserver, Conservation, Conservateur; to be in good odor,&mdash;that was
the point. There are, in fact, aromatics in the opinions of these
venerable groups, and their ideas smelled of it. It was a mummified
society. The masters were embalmed, the servants were stuffed with straw.

 
A worthy old marquise, an emigree and ruined, who had but a solitary maid,
continued to say: "My people."

 
What did they do in Madame de T.'s salon? They were ultra.

 
To be ultra; this word, although what it represents may not have
disappeared, has no longer any meaning at the present day. Let us explain
it.

 
To be ultra is to go beyond. It is to attack the sceptre in the name of
the throne, and the mitre in the name of the attar; it is to ill-treat the
thing which one is dragging, it is to kick over the traces; it is to cavil
at the fagot on the score of the amount of cooking received by heretics;
it is to reproach the idol with its small amount of idolatry; it is to
insult through excess of respect; it is to discover that the Pope is not
sufficiently papish, that the King is not sufficiently royal, and that the
night has too much light; it is to be discontented with alabaster, with
snow, with the swan and the lily in the name of whiteness; it is to be a
partisan of things to the point of becoming their enemy; it is to be so
strongly for, as to be against.

 
The ultra spirit especially characterizes the first phase of the
Restoration.

 
Nothing in history resembles that quarter of an hour which begins in 1814
and terminates about 1820, with the advent of M. de Villele, the practical
man of the Right. These six years were an extraordinary moment; at one and
the same time brilliant and gloomy, smiling and sombre, illuminated as by
the radiance of dawn and entirely covered, at the same time, with the
shadows of the great catastrophes which still filled the horizon and were
slowly sinking into the past. There existed in that light and that shadow,
a complete little new and old world, comic and sad, juvenile and senile,
which was rubbing its eyes; nothing resembles an awakening like a return;
a group which regarded France with ill-temper, and which France regarded
with irony; good old owls of marquises by the streetful, who had returned,
and of ghosts, the "former" subjects of amazement at everything, brave and
noble gentlemen who smiled at being in France but wept also, delighted to
behold their country once more, in despair at not finding their monarchy;
the nobility of the Crusades treating the nobility of the Empire, that is
to say, the nobility of the sword, with scorn; historic races who had lost
the sense of history; the sons of the companions of Charlemagne disdaining
the companions of Napoleon. The swords, as we have just remarked, returned
the insult; the sword of Fontenoy was laughable and nothing but a scrap of
rusty iron; the sword of Marengo was odious and was only a sabre. Former
days did not recognize Yesterday. People no longer had the feeling for
what was grand. There was some one who called Bonaparte Scapin. This
Society no longer exists. Nothing of it, we repeat, exists to-day. When we
select from it some one figure at random, and attempt to make it live
again in thought, it seems as strange to us as the world before the
Deluge. It is because it, too, as a matter of fact, has been engulfed in a
deluge. It has disappeared beneath two Revolutions. What billows are
ideas! How quickly they cover all that it is their mission to destroy and
to bury, and how promptly they create frightful gulfs!

 
Such was the physiognomy of the salons of those distant and candid times
when M. Martainville had more wit than Voltaire.

 
These salons had a literature and politics of their own. They believed in
Fievee. M. Agier laid down the law in them. They commentated M. Colnet,
the old bookseller and publicist of the Quay Malaquais. Napoleon was to
them thoroughly the Corsican Ogre. Later on the introduction into history
of M. le Marquis de Bonaparte, Lieutenant-General of the King's armies,
was a concession to the spirit of the age.

 
These salons did not long preserve their purity. Beginning with 1818,
doctrinarians began to spring up in them, a disturbing shade. Their way
was to be Royalists and to excuse themselves for being so. Where the
ultras were very proud, the doctrinarians were rather ashamed. They had
wit; they had silence; their political dogma was suitably impregnated with
arrogance; they should have succeeded. They indulged, and usefully too, in
excesses in the matter of white neckties and tightly buttoned coats. The
mistake or the misfortune of the doctrinarian party was to create aged
youth. They assumed the poses of wise men. They dreamed of engrafting a
temperate power on the absolute and excessive principle. They opposed, and
sometimes with rare intelligence, conservative liberalism to the
liberalism which demolishes. They were heard to say: "Thanks for Royalism!
It has rendered more than one service. It has brought back tradition,
worship, religion, respect. It is faithful, brave, chivalric, loving,
devoted. It has mingled, though with regret, the secular grandeurs of the
monarchy with the new grandeurs of the nation. Its mistake is not to
understand the Revolution, the Empire, glory, liberty, young ideas, young
generations, the age. But this mistake which it makes with regard to us,&mdash;have
we not sometimes been guilty of it towards them? The Revolution, whose
heirs we are, ought to be intelligent on all points. To attack Royalism is
a misconstruction of liberalism. What an error! And what blindness!
Revolutionary France is wanting in respect towards historic France, that
is to say, towards its mother, that is to say, towards itself. After the
5th of September, the nobility of the monarchy is treated as the nobility
of the Empire was treated after the 5th of July. They were unjust to the
eagle, we are unjust to the fleur-de-lys. It seems that we must always
have something to proscribe! Does it serve any purpose to ungild the crown
of Louis XIV., to scrape the coat of arms of Henry IV.? We scoff at M. de
Vaublanc for erasing the N's from the bridge of Jena! What was it that he
did? What are we doing? Bouvines belongs to us as well as Marengo. The
fleurs-de-lys are ours as well as the N's. That is our patrimony. To what
purpose shall we diminish it? We must not deny our country in the past any
more than in the present. Why not accept the whole of history? Why not
love the whole of France?"

 
It is thus that doctrinarians criticised and protected Royalism, which was
displeased at criticism and furious at protection.

 
The ultras marked the first epoch of Royalism, congregation characterized
the second. Skill follows ardor. Let us confine ourselves here to this
sketch.

 
In the course of this narrative, the author of this book has encountered
in his path this curious moment of contemporary history; he has been
forced to cast a passing glance upon it, and to trace once more some of
the singular features of this society which is unknown to-day. But he does
it rapidly and without any bitter or derisive idea. Souvenirs both
respectful and affectionate, for they touch his mother, attach him to this
past. Moreover, let us remark, this same petty world had a grandeur of its
own. One may smile at it, but one can neither despise nor hate it. It was
the France of former days.

 
Marius Pontmercy pursued some studies, as all children do. When he emerged
from the hands of Aunt Gillenormand, his grandfather confided him to a
worthy professor of the most purely classic innocence. This young soul
which was expanding passed from a prude to a vulgar pedant.

 
Marius went through his years of college, then he entered the law school.
He was a Royalist, fanatical and severe. He did not love his grandfather
much, as the latter's gayety and cynicism repelled him, and his feelings
towards his father were gloomy.

 
He was, on the whole, a cold and ardent, noble, generous, proud,
religious, enthusiastic lad; dignified to harshness, pure to shyness.


==Translation notes==

==Textual notes==

==Citations==
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