Part 3 (1/2)

laughs at it, giving a most amusing account of a performance of ”Rochester” at the Porte St.-Martin. The character that created the greatest sensation, she says, was the Watchman, ”who was dressed like an alguazil, with a child's rattle in his hand.” Whenever he appeared there was a general murmur of ”Ha! C'est le vatchman.”--”Regarde donc, ma fille, c'est le vatchman; ton papa t'a souvent parle des vatchmen.”--”Ah, c'est le vatchman.”--”Oui, c'est le vatchman.” Great play, too, was made with tea. Rochester entertained his merry companions with tea; Mr. Wilkes poisoned his wife in it. This latter incident gave the highest pleasure:

”Dieu, que c'est anglois! Toujours le the et la jalousie a Londres!”

The Parisian ideas and imitations of English manners were, no doubt, pretty ridiculous, and must have caused considerable amus.e.m.e.nt to Lord Seymour, one of the few Englishmen who were conspicuous among the aristocratic _viveurs_. He was the illegitimate son of Lady Yarmouth, daughter-in-law of the notorious Lord Hertford. He lived entirely in Paris, where, being extremely rich, he kept a fine house at the corner of the Rue Taitbout and the boulevard. Here he cultivated cigar-smoking and physical exercise with great a.s.siduity. He was a splendid boxer and fencer, and all the finest bruisers and blades, amateur and professional, were to be met in his _salle d'armes_. He took great pride in his strength, which was abnormal, in his skill as a whip and his success on the race-course. French sport owes him a permanent debt for his successful starting of the Jockey Club, but he can hardly have been a very popular member of a society, for he was cold and brutal, a man who took a defeat rancorously and one who had a cynical delight in causing suffering to his hangers-on. His misanthropy was the reason of his gradually dropping out of society after 1842, and it would have been beside the point to mention him here had it not been for the quite undeserved notoriety which he acquired in Paris during the thirties as the baccha.n.a.lian lord of misrule at all the carnivals. It was a strange case of mistaken ident.i.ty which persisted for many years in spite of categorical denials. The more aristocratic of the _viveurs_ were not, as I have said, Bohemians; but during the carnival, which was celebrated by all the population with extraordinary licence, some of the more youthful let themselves go and became revellers with the rest. For the last three days of the carnival the streets of Paris, by day and by night, were given up to an orgy. Crowds of masqueraders filled the pavements, the restaurants, and the theatres, where fancy-dress b.a.l.l.s were held. The richer masks had carriages drawn by postilions, in which they drove among the crowd, scattering confetti and sweetmeats and even money, indulging in every kind of quaint antic and gallantry, and inciting the vulgar to engage them in a wordy warfare in which volleys of the coa.r.s.est expletives were fired on both sides. Riot reached its culmination on the night of Shrove Tuesday, when the revellers, after an orgy of feasting and dancing at the Barriere de la Courtille, on the north-east of Paris, ended by descending the steep hill towards the city in a state of bacchic frenzy. This was the famous _descente de la Courtille_, at which, as at all the other revels, a certain carriage, drawn by six horses and filled by a motley party of young men, was the central object of admiration. No challenger ever worsted the leader of this gang at a bout of blackguarding, no costumes equalled his in originality, no mask so tormented and excited the crowd as he with his harangues, his missiles, and his largesse. This was the man known to all the populace of Paris as ”Milord Arsouille,” which, as all Paris would have told you, was simply the _nom de guerre_ of Lord Seymour. But it was not so. The real ”Milord Arsouille” was a certain Charles de la Battut, son of an English chemist and a French _emigree_. His father, unwilling to compromise his position in England by recognizing him, paid for his adoption by the ruined Breton Count de la Battut. He was educated in Paris, where, even in his youth, he showed a most dissolute character. He delighted to frequent the lowest haunts, and there learnt that mastery of slang and that skill as a boxer which were his pride.

The death of his real father gave him a large fortune, which he proceeded to dissipate with the utmost extravagance and bad taste. His house in the Boulevard des Capucines and his personal attire were equally flamboyant. During his short period of glory he was on certain terms of intimacy with the more rowdy among the young bloods of good family, who in after years looked back, like the Duc d'Aulnis, with shame to some of their exploits in his company. His most notable achievement was to introduce the _cancan_ into the fas.h.i.+onable fancy-dress ball at the Varietes in 1832, and his perpetual grief was that all his eccentricities were attributed to Lord Seymour, in spite of his utmost efforts to proclaim the difference of ident.i.ty. In 1835 he died, a shattered _roue_, at Naples.

The only other English name deserving comment in the _pet.i.t cercle_ of the Cafe de Paris is that of Major Fraser, whose personality was an enigma. He was one of the most popular characters on the boulevard, and an honoured friend of the most exclusive diners at the Cafe Anglais or the Cafe de Paris, yet nothing was known of his personal history. He spoke English perfectly, but was not an Englishman; he never alluded to his parents, and lived as a bachelor in an _entresol_ at the corner of the Rue Lafitte. He was never short of money, but the source of his income was a mystery; and when he died no letters were found, but only a file of receipts, including a receipt from an undertaker for his funeral expenses, and a direction that his clothes and furniture were to be sold for the benefit of the poor. In spite of the mystery surrounding him he was a prominent figure among the _viveurs_. His tight blue frock-coat and his grey trousers were models for the most fastidious dandies; his kindness and gentleness to everyone except professional politicians was extreme; he quoted Horace freely and had a complete knowledge of political history with a prodigious memory. Major Fraser's story could be paralleled by the head waiter of many a London club. While he lived he was a favourite; when he died he simply vanished.[14]

There are only two other members of the _pet.i.t cercle_ whom I wish to mention--Alfred de Musset and Roger de Beauvoir--because they form a link between the exclusiveness of that society and the hurly-burly existence of _la haute Boheme_, to which both more properly belonged. In the early Romantic days Alfred de Musset, with his beautiful, bored face set off by the fair curls that fell over his eyes, was the petted darling of Paris, its perfect dandy wafting the triple essence of _bouquet de Romantisme_. Nevertheless, Alfred de Musset, though his name was on the lips of all dandies and his poetry set a fas.h.i.+on in Bohemia, never took among men the place that seemed to be his due. He might have been a true Bohemian of 1830, but he disavowed his Romantic companions of letters for the greater splendour of fas.h.i.+onable life; while among the exquisites of the boulevard he found it impossible to preserve that impa.s.sive demeanour and attention to the niceties of dandyism which were inexorably demanded. His nature was far too pa.s.sionate to make him for long together a comfortable companion for men, and his personal history, apart from his poetry, is a chapter of relations with women, of whom George Sand is the most notable. The ashes of his career have been raked over with most scrupulous care since his death, but it is no purpose of mine to take part in the scavenging. To have omitted Alfred de Musset's name would have been impossible, but having mentioned him, I can leave him. Though he hymned Musette and drank deeply with Prince Belgiojoso, he had as little place in Bohemia, high or low, as Lamartine or Victor Hugo. Their throne was the study, his the boudoir.

There are no such reservations to be made for Roger de Beauvoir, whom Madame de Girardin called ”Alfred de Musset aux cheveux noirs.” He was the arch-_viveur_, with one exquisitely shod foot on the boulevard, the other in Bohemia, the gayest of all those who supped, the insatiable quaffer of champagne, the inexhaustible fountain of epigram, the king of _la haute Boheme_, the very incarnation of the _Noctambule_ in Charpentier's delightful opera, ”Louise.” His family was the good Norman family of de Bully, and he took the name of Beauvoir from one of the two estates which were his heritage. Those who were responsible for his early guidance clearly intended that he should make his way in diplomacy--a career in which his good looks, sympathetic voice, and charming manners would have greatly helped his pioneering--for he was sent to be Polignac's secretary when that unfortunate minister occupied the emba.s.sy at London. When his chief came back to the stormy days of July, the debonair secretary, judging no doubt that any a.s.sociation with politics was incompatible with gilded ease, abandoned all attempts to play the game of a Rastignac, and pursued his fantasies in airy independence. The Romanticism of the _Jeune-France_ party attracted at once the enthusiasm of a young man, just in his majority by 1830, who was naturally a lover of brilliant colouring. He became a fanatical medievalist, who displayed with pride a Gothic cabinet panelled in carved oak, hung with black velvet, and lit by stained-gla.s.s windows.

The ceiling was covered with coats-of-arms; the chief decorations were a panoply of armour and an old _prie-dieu_ on which a missal of 1350 opened its illuminated pages. Even in 1842, when Maxime du Camp first met him, he still dreamt of reviving the age of chivalry, having just created a sensation by waltzing at a ball in full armour, fainting and falling with the clatter of innumerable stove-pipes. Undeterred by this mishap, he proposed to form a company, to be called the ”Societe des champs clos de France,” which was to buy land for a tilting-ground, Arab steeds, and armour for the purpose of holding weekly tourneys. The shares were to be 1000 francs each, but as Maxime du Camp's guardian prohibited the purchase of any by his enthusiastic ward, the project was dropped. Like every true Romantic he wrote a medieval novel, but his novel, ”L'ecolier de Cluny,” unlike those of the majority, was published and brought him considerable fame. After its publication in 1832, he became in some sort a man of letters, but he never added to his reputation, being far too bent upon the pursuit of pleasure to bear the restrictions of any profession. Having failed as a writer of vaudevilles, he found his true vocation as the leader of a band of revellers and a composer of wicked epigrams in verse. His epigrams, always written _impromptu_ upon the pages of a notebook, were a real addition to the gaiety of Paris. Here is one composed when Ancelot--literary husband of a literary wife--was elected to the Academy:

_Le menage Ancelot, par ses vers et sa prose,_ _Devait a ce fauteuil arriver en tout cas,_ _Car la femme accouchait toujours de quelque chose,_ _Quand le mari n'engendrait pas._

His dress was of the highest elegance in a day when men were not confined to a funereal black. His blue frock-coat, tight-waisted with amply curving skirts, broad velvet _revers_, and gilt b.u.t.tons, fitted as neatly as one of his own epigrams; his blue waistcoats and light grey trousers were treasures, his hat the curliest and s.h.i.+niest to be seen.

In his own apartment he tempered the shadows of his Gothic furniture by wearing a green silk dressing-gown and red cashmere trousers. So long as their fortunes lasted he and his companions bade dull care begone. At midday they left the softest of beds, and, after a serious hour of dressing, met for dejeuner at the Cafe Anglais, the Maison d'Or, or the Cafe Hardi. By four they were to be seen in force upon the boulevard, displaying their waistcoats and quizzing the ladies upon the marble steps of Tortoni's. Before dinner they would visit a drawing-room or two, buy a picture or bargain for some _bibelot_--a Toledo blade or a Turkish narghile--with a dealer in curiosities. The evening programme was a set of variations upon the ground ba.s.s of dinner, opera, supper.

Roger de Beauvoir was one of the company who haunted the famous _loge infernale_ at the Opera, and it is needless to say that their attention was devoted more to the ballet than to the music, for they were all connoisseurs in ch.o.r.eography and had a personal acquaintance with the dancers, which developed in most cases into something more than Platonic affection. The _foyer des artistes_ was the enchanted garden of _la haute Boheme_, where they sought their ”Cynthia of this minute” as the true Bohemians did at the Chaumiere or the Closerie des Lilas.

The science of practical joking was sedulously cultivated by Roger and his friends, who rejoiced to bring off successful ”mystifications.” One of Roger's best was played upon Duponchel, the director of the Opera.

One day the whole street where Duponchel lived was set all agog by the appearance of a magnificent funeral procession, consisting of a hea.r.s.e and fifty carriages, with Roger and his friend Cabanon occupying the first carriage as chief mourners; the head of the procession drew up at Duponchel's door, to his great indignation. The joke up to this point was of no especial originality, but Roger gave it a turn of his own. The Romantic fas.h.i.+on dictated that every chapter in a novel should be headed by an epigraph, as extravagant as possible, from the work of some Romantic author. Roger therefore headed a chapter in his novel ”Pulchinella,” which was just appearing, ”Feu Duponchel (Histoire contemporaine).” Even after he was hopelessly in debt he remained a joker. Being saddled with a thin and dirty bailiff, he gave him ten francs a day, washed him, dressed him as a Turk, and gave an evening party in honour of his Pasha, who could only talk in signs. The supreme _mystificateurs_, however, were Romieu and Monnier. Romieu was reputed to be the most amusing man in Paris, and so firmly founded was his reputation that n.o.body ever took him seriously. When he became prefect of Quimperle--an easy post which enabled him to take many a holiday upon the boulevard--he was faced with the problem of dealing with a plague of c.o.c.kchafers in the prefecture. He hit upon the wise and perfectly successful device of offering fifty francs for every bushel of dead c.o.c.kchafers. The Bretons were grateful enough, but all Paris was in a roar. Here was the crowning farce of which only its lost joker would have been capable, and it supplied the smaller comic papers with copy for several days. Romieu made Monnier's acquaintance in an appropriate way. About eleven o'clock one night the artist heard a knock at his door, which he opened to a stranger, who came in and entered into a polite conversation without a word of introduction. Monnier made no comment, but replied with equal affability. After an hour or so, as the stranger remained, he ransacked his sideboard and entertained his guest with an impromptu supper. Time pa.s.sed, the small hours struck, and still the stranger made no sign of going. Monnier therefore announced that he was ready for bed and that his sofa was at his guest's disposition. So they parted for the night, and next morning when they met Monnier's first words were ”You are Romieu,” a compliment returned by ”You are Monnier.”

Monnier, says Champfleury in his memoir, belonged to Bohemia till the end of his life; but it is clear that this Bohemia was that of the boulevards and cafes. He was no real Romantic, and far too fond of a good time to stay in the Bohemia which Champfleury himself knew so well.

As a writer of short stories and dialogues, an actor, and an artist he had a huge success in the thirties, and he followed the pleasures of life with inexhaustible zest. Balzac drew him as Bixiou in ”Les Employes.” The portrait, according to Champfleury, was very true, but unjust:

”Intrepide cha.s.seur de grisettes, fumeur, amuseur de gens, dineur et soupeur, se mettant partout au diapason, brillant aussi bien dans les coulisses qu'au bal des grisettes dans l'allee des Veuves, il etonnait autant a table que dans une partie de plaisir; en verve a minuit dans la rue, comme le matin si vous le preniez au saut du lit, mais sombre et triste avec lui-meme, comme la plupart des grands comiques. Lance dans le monde des actrices et des acteurs, des ecrivains, des artistes, et de certaines femmes dont la fortune est aleatoire, il vivait bien, allait au spectacle sans payer, jouait a Frascati, gagnait souvent. Enfin cet artiste, vraiment profond, mais par eclairs, se balancait dans la vie comme sur une escarpolette, sans s'inquieter du moment ou la corde ca.s.serait.”

Innumerable stories are told of his practical jokes. Being an expert ventriloquist, he was wont to enter an omnibus and without moving a muscle utter in a feminine voice: ”Je vous aime, monsieur le conducteur,” at which there would be tremendous consternation among the petticoats. The dames swept the company with searching glares of outraged decency, the _demoiselles_ blushed, and the embarra.s.sed conductor looked in vain for his temptress. One evening he was burdened with a bore in some illuminated public garden. To escape the tedium of conversation he pretended to be greatly interested in some matter which necessitated his walking carefully all round the garden and gazing intently at all the gas-lamps. After half an hour of these mysterious peregrinations the bore, who had been forced to keep silence, asked with impatience what was the matter. ”I bet you five francs,” said Monnier, ”that there are here seventy-nine _becs de gaz_ (gas-jets).” The bore accepted the challenge with delight, and another half-hour was spent in silent perambulation and calculation. At length he announced triumphantly that he only counted seventy-eight. ”Ah,” said Monnier as he made his escape, and pointing to the orchestra, ”vous avez oublie le bec de la clarinette.”

Monnier, the great artist, the disappointed actor, was at the other end of the scale to Lord Seymour and his friends. They had a position without activity: his activity made his position. No great artist remains long in Bohemia. Some work their way out on foot: he rose from it, one might say, in a balloon, by which, after disporting himself for some years above the mists, he was landed for his later days in the obscurity of a province. Such a man, at home in all society, is restricted by none. As he was not the perfect Bohemian, so he was not the whole-hearted _viveur_, for whose complete picture I must return to Roger de Beauvoir and his set, some of whom are described in Roger's own little book, ”Soupeurs de mon Temps.” It is a melancholy epitaph of a brilliant company. The sparkling wit of their gatherings has vanished with the bubbles of the champagne they drank, and little is left on record but the capacity of their stomachs. They took an immense pride in their consumption of champagne. Briffaut, a clever journalist and a particular friend of Roger's, was the king of topers. To him was due the invention of ”ingurgitation,” which consisted in pouring a bottle of champagne into a bell-shaped gla.s.s cover, such as was used to protect cheese, and swallowing it at a draught. He once challenged a noted English toper and gave him a gla.s.s a bottle; the victory was easily his, for he disposed of a dozen. Among other champions who helped to make Veuve Clicquot's fortune were Armand Malitourne, a singularly gifted man, a journalist, and at one time secretary to the minister Montalivet; Bequet, whose good taste Roger himself extolled; and Bouffe, the director of the Vaudeville. Then there was Emile Cabanon, who lives in Romantic annals as the author of the extravagant ”Roman pour les Cuisinieres.” Champfleury,[15] on the authority of Camille Rogier, the artist, says that he appeared one day upon the boulevard and won himself forthwith a place by his gifts as a story-teller, becoming a favourite with all from Prince Belgiojoso downwards. He is one of the reputed originals--there are two or three--of Balzac's Comte de la Palferine (in ”Un Prince de la Boheme”), who, being struck with the appearance of a lady pa.s.sing along the street, at once attached himself to her: in vain she tried to get rid of the importunate by saying she was going to visit a friend, for her cavalier came too and mixed with all urbanity in the conversation, rising to take his leave at the same time as the object of his sudden pa.s.sion. This a.s.siduity so captivated the besieged one's heart that she struck her colours. It is _a propos_ of Cabanon that Champfleury refers with some contempt to ”les gentilshommes de lettres du boulevard de Gand, qui nageaient comme des poissons dans le fleuve de la dette, se fiaient plus sur leurs relations que sur leur plume, depensaient de l'esprit comptant en veux-tu en voila.” Alfred Tattet,[16] the rich son of an _agent de change_, who was introduced to the _viveurs_ by Felix Arvers, the poet of one sonnet, was another of the crew. Alfred de Musset, Roger de Beauvoir, Romieu, and others made merry at his sumptuous entertainments till he varied the monotony by running over the frontier with a married woman, leaving Arvers to look after his affairs. In 1843 he returned to settle down at Fontainebleau with the wife of a German in Frankfort. Another young man, with the promising name of Chaudesaigues--a corruption of the Latin for ”hot water”--came to Paris in 1835 with a fortune of 30,000 francs, which he squandered in a few years, and then struggled on as a journalist till he died of apoplexy.

I should wrong the _viveurs_ if I allowed it to be implied that they were all purely pleasure-seekers. Some of them were successful business men besides. Lautour-Mezeray, for instance, who was distinguished by the white camellia in his b.u.t.tonhole, laid the foundations of his fortune by starting a paper called _Le Voleur_, which was entirely composed of cuttings from other papers. Like Andoche Finot, he went on from small to great, founding _La Mode_ and _Le Journal des Enfants_, the first children's paper. He helped to start _La Presse_ with Emile de Girardin, who was another of the more solid among the _viveurs_. Doctor Veron, stout and self-important, his face half hidden in a huge cravat, held an important place among them. He began life as a medical pract.i.tioner, but made a fortune by exploiting a certain Pate Regnault and took to political journalism. Between 1831 and 1835 he was an extremely successful director of the Opera, and in 1838 bought _Le Const.i.tutionnel_, which he sold fourteen years later for two million francs. To him, it is said, is due the invention of the _tournedos_.

Certainly, he was a prominent gastronome, and the terror of head waiters, for he was no mere swiller of champagne, but one who insisted on perfect vintages combined with perfect cooking. In the thirties, when ”Robert le Diable” was filling the Opera and his own pocket, he was a constant diner at the restaurants, but in later years he never dined except at his own house, where Sophie, his cook and majordomo, alone preserved the proper traditions of gastronomy. Maecenas-like, he made a certain literary set free of his table. Their places were always laid, they helped themselves, and they remained as long as they pleased, whether their host left them or no. Theodore de Banville and many others have celebrated the excellent ”cuisine” and its accompaniment of wit, but a reader of Veron's ”Souvenirs d'un bourgeois de Paris” will be inclined to suspect that the doctor himself was rather a prosy humbug, who only supplied the appropriate stimulus for the wit of his guests.

The chief of these, another celebrated _viveur_, was Nestor Roqueplan, whose toilette was unsurpa.s.sed and whose wit inexhaustible. He was a Parisian to the marrow; a day from Paris was to him a day out of Paradise. Like most of his generation, he began as a journalist, but diverged to become a director of theatres. The Pantheon, Nouveautes, Saint-Antoine, Varietes, Opera, Opera Comique, and Chatelet pa.s.sed successively under his sway, and he lost money at them all except at the Varietes, during his management of which he wrote those sparkling ”Nouvelles a la main” which are perhaps the freshest examples of purely ephemeral contemporary wit.

The Revolution of 1848 dispersed the _viveurs_ for ever. It was not that Paris diminished in gaiety during the Second Empire nor that the _cafes_ ceased to be invaded by merry bands of _fetards_, but simply that Paris became too gay, too large, and too cosmopolitan. The boulevard was no longer to be kept sacred for a chosen few, and a new generation was rising, which found other channels for its energies than ingurgitatory wit-combats. Under the new _regime_ there was a court and a more exciting foreign policy. The aristocracy threw off its sulks, the prosperous industrial conquered his diffidence, the pleasure-loving stranger found that all railways led to Paris. The old guard was overwhelmed, or rather would have been overwhelmed if not already well-nigh crumbled away. Men with clear heads and practical aims, who had only devoted their leisure to enjoyment, like Veron, Roqueplan, de Girardin, survived to retire with all the honours of war, forming small _coteries_ for the cultivation of wit and good cheer, but shunning, instead of affronting, the public eye. But the rest, the _viveurs_ of every hour, where were they? Dead, worn-out, shattered in health, paying the dismal reckoning for the dissipation of their heyday, poor, neglected, forgotten. Misfortune overtook the gay Roger from the moment he married Mademoiselle Doze, the actress. For six years he was pestered with lawsuits for separation, till a divorce was finally procured. He had drunk, as he said, 150,000 francs worth of champagne and written 300 songs. The francs were gone, the songs lost, and nothing was left but the gout.

_Jadis j'etais des plus ingambes,_ _Mais helas! destins inhumains,_ _Le papier que j'avais aux mains,_ _A present je le porte aux jambes._

He could jest to the last, but in his last days he was a pathetic sight, fat, prematurely old, infirm, confined to a wretched chamber, and denied even the champagne which could charm away his regrets. The dapper figure that had once filled a frock-coat so jauntily was now a shapeless corpulence hidden in the loose folds of a greasy dressing-gown. He died of gout, as Alfred de Musset died of drink. Malitourne, after sinking lower and lower in drunkenness, died mad; apoplexy carried off Chaudesaigues and Charles Froment; Arvers died of spinal paralysis; Bequet ended in a hospital; gout killed Cabanon and Tattet; while Briffaut expired in a mad-house. The mental p.r.o.nouncement of their funeral orations I leave to any moralist who chooses, bidding him remember that if they failed as individuals to fulfil the highest destinies of mankind they were victims of a strange fever in common with all the generation of 1830.

Of that generation they were a part, perhaps the most conspicuous part at the time. I might almost liken them to the set of ”swells” in some public school, privileged themselves yet censorious of others, always in the eye of their small world, influential in their smallest acts, embodying conspicuously the current fas.h.i.+on and expressing the prevailing tone, s.h.i.+ning inevitably as a pattern, envied by most, respected, outwardly, by all. In Louis Philippe's time Parisian society was as limited a corporation as a school. Its ”swells” attained their position, as all ”swells” do, by excelling in a pursuit in which excellence is universally admired. They excelled in tinging their life with a medieval splendour of colouring, they had some prowess in poetry and letters, they performed miracles of wit in the new spirit of busy, ever-bubbling, _bruyant_ fun. As the ”swells” of Romanticism they justified their position so long as the conditions allowed. Bohemia, in some respects, was like a ”house” in the same school, with a smaller corporate life of its own, yet influenced by the powers outside it, the more so because some of its members had risen themselves to the company of ”swells.” In this not very exalted, but true, simile is my reason for devoting s.p.a.ce to the _viveurs_. They were not Bohemians for the most part, but many Bohemians hoped to be _viveurs_ as Etonians hope to be in ”Pop.” On them rested the high lights of the picture, but we can now peer into the background and discern the true Bohemia of 1830.

VI

LA BOHeME ROMANTIQUE

MIL HUIT CENT TRENTE! _Aurore_ _Qui m'eblouis encore,_ _Promesse du destin,_ _Riant matin!_