down to his head; that all men might see how odious that flattery was to him, and the very approbation of the person, though at that time most popular.

When there was any overture or hope of peace, he would be more erect and vigorous, and exceedingly solicitous to press anything which he thought might promote it; and sitting among his friends, often, after a deep silence and frequent sighs, would with a shrill and sad accent, ingeminate the word, "Peace! peace!" and would passionately profess that "the very agony of the war, and the view of the calamities and desolation the kingdom did and must endure, took his sleep from him and would shortly break his heart." This made some think, or pretend to think, that he was so much enamored of peace that he would have been glad the King should have bought it at any price; which was a most unreasonable calumny. As if a man that was himself the most punctual and precise in every circumstance that might reflect upon conscience and honor could have wished the King to have committed a trespass against either. . . .

"

In the morning before the battle as always upon action — he was very cheerful, and put himself into the first rank of Lord Byron's regiment, then advancing upon the enemy, who had lined the hedges on both sides with musketeers; from whence he was shot with a musket in the lower part of the belly, and in the instant falling from his horse, his body was not found till the next morning; till when there was some hope he might have been a prisoner; though his dearest friends, who knew his temper, received small comfort from that imagination. Thus fell that incomparable young man, in the four-and-thirtieth year of his age, having so much despatched the business of life that the eldest rarely attain to that immense knowledge, and the youngest enter not into the world with more innocence. Whoever leads such a life needs be the less anxious upon how short warning it is taken from him.

JULES ARNAUD ARSÈNE CLARETIE.

CLARETIE, JULES ARNAUD ARSÈNE, a French novelist and journalist, born at Limoges, France, December 3, 1840. He was educated at the Bonaparte Lyceum, in Paris. He chose literature as a profession, contributed many articles to French and Belgian journals, and in 1866 became war correspondent of the "Avenir National" during the war between Austria and Italy. During the Franco-Prussian War he was a correspondent of several French newspapers. After the war he was appointed a secretary of the commissioners of the papers of the Tuileries, and later charged with the organization of a library and lecture-hall in each of the arrondissements of Paris. In 1871 he returned to literary pursuits. Among his numerous works are "Une Drôleuse" (1862); "Pierille" (1863); "Les Ornières de la Vie" (1864); "Voyages d'un Parisien" (1865); “L'Assassin," republished under the title " Robert Burat" (1866); "Mademoiselle Cachemire" (1867); "La Libre Parole" (1868); "Histoire de la Révolution de 1870-1871;" "Ruines et Fantômes" (1873); "Les Muscadins" (1874); "Camille Desmoulins, Lucile Desmoulins, Études sur les Dantonistes " (1875); "Cinq Ans Après, l'Alsace et la Lorraine depuis l'Annexion" (1876); "Le Train No. 7" (1877); "La Maison Vide" (1878); Monsieur le Ministre " (1881); and still later, "Molière et Ses Œuvres ; "Les Prussiens chez eux; ""La Vie Moderne au Théâtre;""Le Prince Zillah" (1884); "Puyjoli" (1890). Claretie was for some years director of the Comédie-Française.

ONE OF BRICHANTEAU'S GREAT DAYS.1

(From "Brichanteau, Actor.")

You would

LOUIS XI.! A great king and a grand rôle ! I have played it, monsieur. And under such circumstances! hardly believe me if I should tell you the story. It left with me a memory of pleasure, a perfume of joy. Louis XI.!- that was my great day! one of my great days, for, God be thanked, my career is well filled with them! There are unknown devo

1 Copyright, 1897. By courteous permission of Little, Brown & Co.

tees of art, monsieur, who have accumulated in their lives as many victories as the most famous artists, and who have tasted, like all celebrated, illustrious, successful men, the intoxication of success. Yes, on my word I sometimes say to myself that I would not give my artistic life, unworthy as it is to be written, for that of a sociétaire of the Comédie-Française.

I have no regular engagement, I have had no chance; I am a Bohemian, a free-lance of art, but I have had my hour!-my hours!

Louis XI., the performance of Louis XI. at Compiègne, that is something to remember! My old comrade Courtillier had undertaken to produce it; my comrade and my pupil. He knew that I was without an engagement as usual, I, who at one time, being a youngster and even then well spoken of, had been within an ace of giving Rachel her cue in America, I whom the great Mélingue used to call familiarly the little Mélingue. Courtillier, when he was organizing a tour, made up to me in wages the lessons I had given him. A good fellow, not ungrateful, an artist's soul. We were made, he and I, to commune together in the domain of the Beautiful.

Courtillier had offered me the part of Tristan in Louis XI A fair part. An apparition, a cold, forbidding creature. In a word, a sort of accommodation part. I knew it thoroughly. Monsieur Beauvallet gave me the traditions of the part at the Conservatory, and I had long before rummaged through the texts and memoirs and chronicles to saturate myself with the character. Everything depends on saturating one's self with the past, monsieur, when one seeks to evoke an historical figure. I annotated the Mémorial de Sainte Hélène to enable me to play Napoléon better. So I was saturated with Tristan. I hated him when I acted him. Yes, I hated him in order to make him more hateful. I am for the art militant, the art that proves something.

So I was to play Tristan! But, if I played Tristan, who would play Louis XI.? I give you a thousand guesses! Monsieur Talbot of the Comédie-Française! I have n't a word to say against Monsieur Talbot, who is a charming man, who adores his art and is devoted to his pupils, and has played the Avare and Triboulet with remarkable success; but, between him and myself, perhaps Courtillier should not have hesitated. He knew that I had dug up my Louis XI. among the archives. I had seen Ligier in Les Grands Vassaux. Very good, Ligier was.

A little undersized, but very good. Picturesque and profound. Another one of those who saturate themselves with the characters they represent. But what could you expect? Courtillier had the Talbot superstition. A sociétaire, you understand! And Sociétaire de la Comédie-Française on the posters means doubling up the receipts.'

So it was that, on a damp, unhealthy day in February, like gallant soldiers setting out for the seat of war, we took the Compiègne train at the Gare du Nord at 8.55 in the morning, all in the best of spirits. We talked together pleasantly in the train. General exchange of views upon art and its destiny, while the engine bore us along, puffing vigorously — I was about to say sifflant, but that would have had a satirical sound. Courtillier told us that Thibouville, the professor, who, after acting at the Odéon, had become Monsieur de Rothschild's reader, advised his pupils to put a weight on their stomachs and accustom themselves to breathing despite that obstacle. excellent method of acquiring the power to recite a long speech without stopping for breath. I maintained, for my part, that no known method was equal to that of drawing in the breath, and that no artist could ever tell, when he walked on to the stage, whether he was going to act well or ill. That depends on the state of his mind. It is an everlasting subject of controversy.

We were still arguing when we reached Compiègne, at 10.24, and we continued to argue as we sat about the table at the Hôtel de la Cloche, where we breakfasted. Then I walked about the city, all by myself, dreaming of Tristan, regretting Louis XI., and devoting special attention to the out-of-the-way corners of the old town, where I might find some stray bits of gothic architecture, in order to transport my mind, through the medium of my eyes, back to the epoch when the man I was to represent flourished. Yes, monsieur, after texts, monuments. That is the way the actor becomes the equal of the historian. I who speak to you have read Michaud's "History of the Crusades" as a preparation for acting Nérestan's confidant in Zaire. But by that means, as all my comrades will tell you, I made my mark in the part!

Having studied Compiègne from Tristan's standpoint, I was returning thoughtfully to the hotel, when I saw two men in the doorway, both much excited, but in very different ways. The first, my comrade and pupil, Courtillier, seemed in despair; the 1 Siflant (whistling) means also hissing.

VOL. V. - 34

other, Monsieur Talbot, was like a madman! One pale, the other red, a living antithesis. Life is full of them, as is art itself. Behind the two men, equally agitated, appeared the perplexed faces of the actors and actresses who composed our improvised troupe.

"Well, well, what's the matter?" I cried, divining some disaster, I have experienced so many on my travels.

"The matter?" said Courtillier; "the matter is that Monsieur Talbot's box of costumes has n't arrived!"

"They have probably sent it somewhere else than to Compiègne!" said Monsieur Talbot.

"There's evidently a mistake somewhere!"

"Perhaps the box is at Saint-Quentin!"

"The Comédie-Française costume! My costume," said Monsieur Talbot. "And if I don't have my costume, why, I simply don't play!"

"But what about the money?" interposed Courtillier. "There's been some money taken in advance!"

"The money can be returned," replied Talbot firmly.

To return money is always a disagreeable necessity. The features of my comrades, men and women, expressed, at that prospect, a feeling very far removed from joy. But how could we soothe Monsieur Talbot? His carefully studied costume made a part of his conception of the rôle. He could not be Louis XI. without the fur cape and the legendary hat adorned with images and medals from Notre-Dame d'Embrun. To tell the truth, monsieur, heartsick as I was at the thought of losing my share of the receipts, I could not blame a dramatic artist, a successful actor, a professor, for that excess of conscientiousness. And yet I felt that it was a most deplorable thing to return the money, absolutely deplorable.

"But you must know Louis XI.," said Capécure, who played Coitier, to me.

Did I know Louis XI.? I knew the whole of Casimir Delavigne as I know my whole repertory.

"Tell Courtillier that you'll play it."

"You're joking! What about Monsieur Talbot ?"

Monsieur Talbot was still justified in hoping that the costumes would arrive in time. Courtillier was studying the time-tables. He discovered that there was a train that left Paris at 4.50, and reached Compiègne at 6.19, and another, a semi-express, that arrived at 9.41. That would be too late. But the train