"Unless you have seen certain lithographs by Charlet, Madame, you could form no idea of the physiognomy of my Uncle Victor, when he used to stride about the garden of the Tuileries with a fiercely elegant manner of his own--buttoned up in his frogged coat, with his cross-of-honour upon his breast, and a bouquet of violets in his button-hole.
"Idleness and intemperance greatly intensified the vulgar recklessness of his political passions.He used to insult people whom he happened to see reading the 'Quotidienne,' or the 'Drapeau Blanc,' and compel them to fight with him.In this way he had the pain and the shame of wounding a boy of sixteen in a duel.In short, my Uncle Victor was the very reverse of a well-behaved person; and as he came to lunch and dine at our house every blessed day in the year, his bad reputation became attached to our family.My poor father suffered cruelly from some of his guest's pranks; but being very good-natured, he never made any remarks, and continued to give the freedom of his house to the captain, who only despised him for it.
"All this which I have told you, Madame, was explained to me afterwards.But at the time in question, my uncle the captain filled me with the very enthusiasm of admiration, and I promised myself to try to become some day as like him as possible.So one fine morning, in order to begin the likeness, I put my arms akimbo, and swore like a trooper.My excellent mother at once gave me such a box on the ear that I remained half stupefied for some little while before I could even burst out crying.I can still see the old arm-chair, covered with yellow Utrecht velvet, behind which Iwept innumerable tears that day.
"I was a very little fellow then.One morning my father, lifting me upon his knees, as he was in the habit of doing, smiled at me with that slightly ironical smile which gave a certain piquancy to his perpetual gentleness of manner.As I sat on his knee, playing with his long white hair, he told me something which I did not understand very well, but which interested me very much, for the simple reason that it was mysterious to me.I think but am not quite sure, that he related to me that morning the story of the little King of Yvetot, according to the song.All of a sudden we heard a great report; and the windows rattled.My father slipped me down gently on the floor at his feet; he threw up his trembling arms, with a strange gesture; his face became all inert and white, and his eyes seemed enormous.He tried to speak, but his teeth were chattering.At last he murmured, 'They have shot him!' Idid not know what he meant, and felt only a vague terror.I knew afterwards, however, that hew was speaking of Marshal Ney, who fell on the 7th of December, 1815, under the wall enclosing some waste ground beside our house.
"About that time I used often to meet on the stairway an old man (or, perhaps, not exactly an old man) with little black eyes which flashed with extraordinary vivacity, and an impassive, swarthy face.
He did not seem to me alive--or at least he did not seem to me alive in the same way that other men are alive.I had once seen, at the residence of Monsieur Denon, where my father had taken me with him on a visit, a mummy brought from Egypt; and I believed in good faith that Monsieur Denon's mummy used to get up when no one was looking, leave its gilded case, put on a brown coat and powdered wig, and become transformed into Monsieur de Lessay.And even to-day, dear Madame, while I reject that opinion as being without foundation, I must confess that Monsier de Lessay bore a very strong resemblance to Monsieur Denon's mummy.The fact is enough to explain why this person inspired me with fantastic terror.
"In reality, Monsieur de Lessay was a small gentleman and a great philosopher.As a disciple of Mably and Rousseau, he flattered himself on being a man without any prejudices; and this pretension itself is a very great prejudice.
"He professed to hate fanaticism, yet was himself a fanatic on the topic of toleration.I am telling you, Madame, about a character belonging to an age that is past.I fear I may not be able to make you understand, and I am sure I shall not be able to interest you.
It was so long ago! But I will abridge as much as possible:
besides, I did not promise you anything interesting; and you could not have expected to hear of remarkable adventures in the life of Sylvestre Bonnard."Madame de Gabry encouraged me to proceed, and I resumed:
"Monsieur de Lessay was brusque with men and courteous to ladies.
He used to kiss the hand of my mother, whom the customs of the Republic and the Empire had not habituated to such gallantry.In him, I touched the age of Louis XVI.Monsieur de Lessay was a geographer; and nobody, I believe, ever showed more pride then he in occupying himself with the face of the earth.Under the Old Regime he had attempted philosophical agriculture, and thus squandered his estates to the very last acre.When he had ceased to own one square foot of ground, he took possession of the whole globe, and prepared an extraordinary number of maps, based upon the narratives of travellers.But as he had been mentally nourished with the very marrow of the "Encyclopedie," he was not satisfied with merely parking off human beings within so many degrees, minutes, and seconds of latitude and longitude.he also occupied himself, alas! with the question of their happiness.It is worthy of remark, Madame, that those who have given themselves the most concern about the happiness of peoples have made their neighbors very miserable.
