a performance when the spectators are more numerous than the seats which the theatre contains, the manager struck his three raps, and instantly, as if by magic, everything was quiet. Following the three raps of the manager, Tétrell, in a voice of thunder, commanded silence. The latter was extremely proud of the victory he had gained over Schneider at the Propagande.
Charles recognized his protector of the previous night, and pointed him out to Eugene, but without speaking of his meeting with him, and the advice which he had given him.
Eugene knew Tétrell through having seen him in the streets of Strasbourg; he had heard that he was one of his father's denunciators, and he naturally regarded him with aversion.
As for Augereau, he saw him for the first time, and, caricaturist that he was, like all the children of the faubourgs, he immediately noticed the man's enormous nostrils, which seemed to extend over his cheeks in an exaggerated fashion, and which resembled those extinguishers on the end of poles which sacristans carry to put out the flame of the tall candles which they cannot reach with their breath.
Little Charles was seated just below Tétrell; Augereau, who sat on the other side of Eugene, proposed that he change places with Charles.
"Why?" asked Charles.
"Because you are just within range of citizen Tétrell's breath," replied Augereau. "And I am afraid that when he draws it in he will draw you in with it."
Tétrell was more feared than loved, and the remark, despite its poor taste, caused a laugh.
"Silence!" roared Tétrell.
"What did you say?" asked Augereau, in the mocking tone peculiar to Parisians. And as he stood up to look in his interlocutor's face, the audience recognized the uniform of the regiment that had made the sortie in the morning. They burst into applause, mingled with shouts of "Bravo, sergeant-major! Long live the sergeant-major!"
Augereau gave the military salute and sat down; and as the curtain rose just then, attracting the attention of the audience, nothing more was thought of Tétrell's nose, nor of the sergeant-major's interruption.
The curtain rises, it will be remembered, upon a session of the Roman senate, in which Junius Brutus, first consul of Borne with Publicola, announces that Tarquin, who is besieging Rome, has sent an ambassador.
From the beginning it was easy to see the spirit which animated the spectators. After the first few lines, Brutus pronounces these:
Rome knows I prize her liberty beyond!
All that is dear. Yet though my bosom glows
With the same ardor, my opinion differs.
I cannot but behold this embassy
As the first homage paid by sovereign power
To Rome's free sons; we should accustom thus
The towering and despotic power of kings
To treat on even terms with our republic;
Till, Heaven accomplishing its just decrees,
The time shall come to treat with them as subjects.
A thunder of applause burst forth; it seemed as if France, like Rome, could foresee her lofty destiny. Brutus, interrupted in his speech, had to wait nearly ten minutes before he could continue. He was interrupted a second time, and with still more enthusiasm, when he came to these lines:
The realm, long crushed beneath his iron rod,
Through dint of suffering hath regained its virtue.
Tarquin hath fixed again our native rights;
And from the uncommon rankness of his crimes
Each public blessing sprang. Yon Tuscans now
May follow, if they dare, the bright example,
And shake off tyrants.
Here the consuls returned to the altar with the senate, and their march was accompanied with cries and applause; then there was silence, in expectation of the invocation.
The actor who played the part of Brutus pronounced the words in a loud voice:
O immortal power,
God of heroic chiefs, of warring hosts,
And of illustrious Rome! O Mars! receive
The vows we pour forth on thy sacred altar,
In the consenting senate's mingled name,
In mine and that of all thy genuine sons,
Who do not disgrace their fire! If hid within
Rome's secret bosom there exists a traitor
Who with base mind regrets the loss of kings,
And would behold again a tyrant lord—
May the wretch expire beneath a thousand tortures!
His guilty ashes scattered through the air,
The sport of winds, while naught remains behind
But his vile name, more loathsome to the tongue
Of latest times than that which Rome condemns
To utmost infamy, detested Tarquin's.
In times of political excitement it is not the value of the lines which is applauded, but simply their accordance with the sentiments of the audience. Rarely have more common-place tirades proceeded from the human mouth, yet never were the splendid verses of Corneille and Racine welcomed with such enthusiasm. But this enthusiasm, which seemed as if it could not increase, knew no bounds when, the curtain rising on the second act, the audience saw the young actor who played the part of Titus enter with his arm in a sling. An Austrian ball had broken it. It seemed as if the play could never proceed, so incessant was the applause.
The few lines referring to Titus and his patriotism were encored, and then, repulsing the offers of Porsenna, Titus says:
Yet, born a Roman, I will die for Rome!
This vigorous senate, though to me unjust,
Pull of suspicious jealousy, and fear,
I love beyond the splendor of a court
And the proud sceptre of a single lord.
I am the son of Brutus, and my heart
Deep-graven bears the love of liberty,
And hate of kings.
Finally when, in the following scene, he exclaims, renouncing his love:
Banish far
The vain delusion! Rome with loud acclaim
Invites me to the Capitol; the people
Seek the triumphal arches raised on high,
Thick with my glory crowned, and full adorned
With all my labors; underneath their shade
Convened, they wait my presence to begin
The sacred rites, the strict coercive oath,
Inviolable surety of our freedom—
the most enthusiastic of the people darted upon the stage, in order to embrace the player and press his hand, while the ladies waved their handkerchiefs and threw bouquets. Nothing was lacking to the triumph of Voltaire and Brutus, and above all Fleury, the young actor, for he carried off the honors of the evening.
As has been said, the second piece was by the Frenchman Demoustier, and was called "Filial Love, or the Wooden Leg." It was one of those idyls prompted by the Republic's muse; for it is a remarkable fact that never was dramatic literature more roseate than during the years '92, '93 and '94—that is the time that produced "The Death of Abel," "The Peacemaker," and "The Farmer's Beautiful Wife." It seemed as if, after the blood-stained iniquities of the street, the people had need of these insipidities to restore their equilibrium. Nero crowned himself with flowers after the burning of Rome.
But