of Prince Turveydrop. Of
course, at that time, there was no question of a republic, but the
politics advocated and discussed during the lunch were too superfine for
humble mortals like myself, who instinctively felt that--

"Quelques billets de mille francs feraient bien mieux l'affaire"

of the host. And the instinct was not a deceptive one. Four months after
February, 1848, M. de Lamartine had virtually ceased to exist, as far
as French politics were concerned. From that time until the day of his
death, the world only heard of him in connection with a new book or new
poem, the avowed purpose of which was, not to make the world better or
wiser, but to raise money. He kept singing like the benighted musician
on the Russian steppes keeps playing his instrument, to keep away the
wolves.

I knew not one but a dozen men, all of whom visited M. de Lamartine. I
have never been able to get a single story or anecdote about him, not
bearing upon the money question. He is ten times worse in that respect
than Balzac, with this additional point in the latter's favour--that he
never whines to the outside world about his impecuniosity. M. Guizot
produces a volume every twelvemonth, and asks nothing of any one; he
leaves the advertising of it to his publisher: M. de Lamartine spends
enormous sums in publicity, and subsidizes, besides, a crowd of
journalists, who devour his creditors' substance while he keeps
repeating to them that his books do not sell. "If, henceforth, I were to
offer pearls dissolved in the cup of Cleopatra, people would use the
decoction to wash their horses' feet." And, all the while, people bought
his works, though no one cared to read the later ones. The golden lyre
of yore was worse than dumb; it emitted false and weak sounds, the
strings had become relaxed, the golden tongue alone remained.

When a national subscription is raised to pay his debts, the committee
are so afraid of his wasting the money that they decide to have the
proceeds deposited at the Comptoir d'Escompte, and that de Lamartine
shall not be able to draw a farthing until all his affairs are settled.
One morning he deputes a friend to ask for forty thousand francs, in
order to pay some bills that are due. They refuse to advance the money.
De Lamartine invites them to his own house, but they stand firm at
first. Gradually they give way. "How much do you really want?" is the
question asked at last. "Fifty thousand francs," is the answer; "bu