had taken forty-eight hours, except a little brandy and water kindly offered by some sailors who travelled with him. He had not dared to spend the little he had left after buying his ticket, for he thought it better to go without food than reach Paris penniless. His brother met him and took him to his lodgings in the “Quartier Latin.”
Ernest, who had come to Paris with introductions, had obtained a post on the staff of an Orleanist newspaper, Le Spectateur, at a salary of £2 a week. In his Trente ans de Paris and Souvenirs d’un homme de lettres, Le Petit Chose graphically tells us how, when his brother was at work, he wandered through the second-hand bookshops, where he was allowed to look through the new books on condition that he did not cut the leaves, and how one day, after fruitless interviews with publishers, when loitering along the banks of the Seine, he made the acquaintance of an editor, who became interested in him and agreed to publish his first little volume of charming poems, Les Amoureuses (1858). Thus at the age of eighteen did Daudet make his debut in the literary world. The first rung was reached in the ladder of fame, and success was not long in coming. He became a regular contributor to the Figaro. One of his poems, Les Frunes, was recited at the Tuileries before the Empress Eugénie. She liked it so much that she was led to inquire who the author was. On being told he was a poor man starving in a garret, she at once requested the Duc de Moray, President of the Corps Législatif, to offer him a post as secretary in his department, a sinecure, with a handsome salary attached. This gave him plenty of time to devote to literature, but hard work soon told on so delicate a frame. In 1861 he broke down owing to overwork, and went to Algeria and Corsica to recruit, collecting materials for future novels. In 1866, seized with a keen desire to visit once more his native town, he went South, where he wrote part of his autobiography, Le Petit Chose. In the following year (1867) he married Mlle. Julia Allard, whom he met at his parents’ home. It was a case of love at first sight. The marriage was an ideally happy one, and Daudet owed much of his future success to his wife, who corrected his proofs, criticized his characters, and encouraged him in every way she could.
For thirty years Daudet, now famous, continued to work, though only intermittently. He published, with increasing success, Le Petit Chose (1868), Tartarin de Tarascon (1872), Fromont jeune et Risler aîné (1874), Jack (1876), Le Nabab (1877), Les Rois en exil (1879), Numa Roumestan (1881), L’Évangéliste (1883), Sapho (1884), Tartarin sur les Alpes (1885), La Belle Nivernaise (1886), L’Immortel (1888), Port-Tarascon (1890), Rose et Ninette (1892), La Petite Paroisse (1895), and Le Trésor d’Arlatan (1897). His last novel, Soutien de famille, appeared after his death. The best known works of his earlier years, besides Les Amoureuses, are his Lettres de mon moulin (1869) and Les Contes du lundi (1873).
Daudet remained all his life the delicate, fragile Petit Chose. Ten years before his death—which was tragic in its suddenness when it did come—a severe illness overtook him, and slowly but surely his iron will broke down under the physical and mental strain which its ravages had brought on him. One evening, sitting at supper with his family, he had scarcely begun to eat when he fell from his chair. His wife and son ran to his assistance, but saw at once that the end had come. He died in Paris on December 18, 1897.
Daudet was a thorough Méridional. Born a Provençal, he never lost his early affection for the South. Impulsive, fiery in temper, and rather given to exaggeration, he possessed beneath a cheerful and handsome exterior a kind, sympathetic heart, and was generous to a fault. Having known what it was to suffer extreme poverty and feel the pangs of hunger, he was full of pity for those who had to face the stern realities of life. He was a close and accurate observer of humanity. He describes not only what he felt but what he saw. When a youth he always carried a notebook in which he would write down any little object of interest that came across his path. His characters, however, are not mere photographs, but pictures of real men and women painted with the infinite care of a skilled artist. His personality permeates all he wrote, and in this lies his charm.
In presenting this delightful story of a writer who is probably the most widely read in France to-day, the Editor has felt reluctantly compelled to abridge the original text by about fifty pages, so as to bring it within easy scope of the class-room; but in spite of these omissions he confidently hopes that the book will not fail to charm all the students who read it.
S. T.
[1]
LE PETIT CHOSE
I
LA FABRIQUE
Je suis né le 13 mai 18.., dans une ville du Languedoc, où l’on trouve, comme dans toutes les villes du Midi, beaucoup de soleil, pas mal de poussière, un couvent de Carmélites et deux ou trois monuments romains.
Mon père, M. Eyssette, qui faisait à cette époque le commerce des foulards, avait, aux portes de la ville, une grande fabrique dans un pan de laquelle il s’était taillé une habitation commode, tout ombragée de platanes, et séparée des ateliers par un vaste jardin. C’est là que je suis venu au monde et que j’ai passé les premières, les seules bonnes années de ma vie. Aussi ma mémoire reconnaissante a-t-elle gardé du jardin, de la fabrique et des platanes un impérissable souvenir, et lorsqu’à la ruine de mes parents il m’a fallu me séparer de ces choses, je les ai positivement regrettées comme des êtres. [2]
Je dois dire, pour commencer, que ma naissance ne porta pas bonheur à la maison Eyssette. La vieille Annou, notre cuisinière, m’a souvent conté depuis comme quoi mon père, en voyage à ce moment, reçut en même temps la nouvelle de mon apparition dans le monde et celle de la disparition d’un de ses clients de Marseille, qui lui emportait plus de quarante mille francs.
C’est une vérité, je fus la mauvaise étoile de mes parents. Du jour de ma naissance, d’incroyables malheurs les assaillirent par vingt endroits. D’abord nous eûmes donc le client de Marseille, puis deux fois le feu dans la même année, puis la grève des ourdisseuses, puis notre brouille avec l’oncle Baptiste, puis un procès très coûteux avec nos marchands de couleurs, puis, enfin, la Révolution de 18.., qui nous donna le coup de grâce.
A partir de ce moment la fabrique ne battit plus que d’une aile; petit à petit, les ateliers se vidèrent: chaque semaine un métier à bas, chaque mois une table d’impression de moins. C’était pitié de voir la vie s’en aller de notre maison comme d’un corps malade, lentement, tous les jours un peu. Une fois, on n’entra plus dans les salles du second. Une autre fois, la cour du fond fut condamnée. Cela dura ainsi pendant deux ans; pendant deux ans la fabrique agonisa. Enfin, un jour, les ouvriers ne vinrent plus, la cloche des ateliers né sonna pas, le puits à roue cessa de grincer, l’eau des grands bassins, dans lesquels on lavait les tissus, demeura immobile, et bientôt, dans toute la fabrique, il ne resta plus que [3] M. et Mme. Eyssette, la vieille Annou, mon frère Jacques et moi; puis, là-bas, dans le fond, pour garder les ateliers, le concierge Colombe et son fils le petit Rouget.
C’était fini, nous étions ruinés.
J’avais alors six ou sept ans. Comme j’étais très frêle et maladif, mes parents n’avaient pas voulu m’envoyer à l’école. Ma mère m’avait seulement appris à lire et à écrire, plus quelques mots d’espagnol et deux ou trois airs de guitare à l’aide desquels on m’avait fait, dans la famille, une réputation de petit prodige. Grâce à ce système d’éducation, je ne bougeais jamais de chez nous, et je pus assister dans tous ses détails à l’agonie de la maison Eyssette. Ce spectacle me laissa froid, je l’avoue; même je trouvai à notre ruine ce côté très agréable que je pouvais gambader à ma guise par toute la fabrique, ce qui, du temps des ouvriers, ne m’était permis que le imanche. Je disais gravement au petit Rouget: “Maintenant, la fabrique est à moi; on me l’a donnée pour jouer.” Et le petit Rouget me croyait. Il croyait tout ce que je lui disais, cet imbécile.