r in
casting obloquy upon him and his reign. One of the few honourable
exceptions is M. Got, who, being invited to recite Hugo's "Chatiments,"
emphatically refuses "to kick a man when he is down."

At the Theatre-Francais, there is a special box--the erstwhile Imperial
box--for the convalescents, who are being tended in the theatre itself.

But though I went to hear Melchisedec and Taillade, Caron and
Berthelier, there is one performance that stands out vividly from the
rest in my memory. It was a representation of Hugo's "Le Roi s'amuse"
("The Fool's Revenge"), at the theatre at Montmartre. Under ordinary
circumstances, I should probably not have gone so far afield to see any
piece, not even that which was reputed to be _the masterpiece_ of Victor
Hugo, but, in this instance, the temptation was too great. The play had
only been performed in Paris once--on the 22nd of November, 1832; next
day it was suspended by order of the Government. Alexandre Dumas the
elder, Theophile Gautier, Nestor Roqueplan, all of whom were present on
that memorable night, had spoken to me of its beauties. I had often
promised myself to read it, and had never done so. If I had, I should
probably not have gone to Montmartre that night, lest my illusions
should be disturbed. The performance was intended as a tribute to the
genius of the poet, but also as an act of defiance on the part of the
young Republic to the preceding regimes; though why it was not revived
during the Second Republic I have never been able to make out clearly.

My companion and I toiled up the steep Rue des Martyrs, and it was
evident to us, when we got to the Place du Theatre, that something
unusual was going on, for the little square was absolutely black with
people. We managed, however, to elbow our way through, and to get two
stalls. The house was dimly lighted by gas, the deficiency made up, as
far I could see, by lamps in the auditorium, by candles on the stage.
There was not an empty seat anywhere. The overture, consisting of
snatches from "Rigoletto," was received with deafening applause, and
then the curtain rose upon the magnificent hall in the Louvre of
Francois I., with the king surrounded by his courtiers and his
favourites. By his side hobbled Triboulet, his evil genius, as Hugo has
represented him.

My disappointment was great. I had come to admire, not expecting
magnificent scenery, gorgeous costumes, or transcendent acting, but a
spirit of reverence for t