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Updated: May 31, 2025
There were Captain Lepine, who had won the medal of honour at Leipzig; Colonel Bonnet, aide-de-camp to Macdonald; Colonel Jourdan, whose fame in the army was hardly second to my own; Sabbatier of my own Hussars, Meunier of the Red Lancers, Le Breton of the Guards, and a dozen others.
"Andre Meunier." "And yours?" "Nicholas Klopper." "Sergeant, you will arrest these men, Meunier and Klopper." "Certainly, captain," said the sergeant, a dark grizzled old soldier of Conde and Turenne. "See that they are tried to-day." "And on what charge, captain?" "For assaulting an aged and respected citizen who had come on business to the king."
Meunier was now a brilliant figure in society, to whom elegant women pretended to listen, and whose acquaintance was boasted of by noblemen ambitious of brains.
As he had much experience in ecclesiastical lawsuits, he looked on the chapter's loss of this one, of which he had in some sort guaranteed the success, as a personal humiliation, so that when Urbain gave himself airs of triumph and exacted the last letter of his bond, as in the case of Meunier, he turned Mignon into an enemy who was not only more relentless but more dangerous than the former.
Even Meunier looked paralysed; life for that moment ceased to be a scientific problem to him. As for me, this scene seemed of one texture with the rest of my existence: horror was my familiar, and this new revelation was only like an old pain recurring with new circumstances.
It was my task at first to keep up the artificial respiration in the body after the transfusion had been effected, but presently Meunier relieved me, and I could see the wondrous slow return of life; the breast began to heave, the inspirations became stronger, the eyelids quivered, and the soul seemed to have returned beneath them.
The hydrogen gas balloon was oblong, sixty feet high and forty feet in diameter, and it had been constructed upon a plan supplied by Meunier. In order to obviate the use of the valve, he had placed inside the balloon a smaller globe, filled with ordinary air.
Meunier, fulfilling his promise to me, paid my fare to New York. I soon walked into the office of the National Magazine. Clara Martin was there, and Allsworth Lephil, the managing editor, and his assistant Galusha Siddon. As I sat in the office, they gave me a sort of impromptu reception. Ray Sanford strolled in, as fresh-complexioned as an Englishman.
"My dear Romilly," replied Meunier sharply, "do you imagine that the fate of dramatic authors like myself does not depend as much upon the actors as upon ourselves? Do you think it never happens that actors, by their carelessness or clumsiness, ruin a work which was meant to reach the heights?
"It would be difficult not to speak of La Mare au Diable and the Meunier d'Angibault when recalling the fields where Rosa Bonheur speeds the plow or places the oxen lowering their patient heads under the yoke." In the evening, at home, while other members of the family were at work, one member read aloud to the rest; and George Sand was a favorite author with the Bonheur group of artists.
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