Then came my tenth year and the age for school.  It was decided that I should go to the seminary and be educated for a priest; but I settled that matter by running away and living for three days in the hut of a friendly bird-catcher in the woods.  So I passed instead into our little school of the Abbe Gregoire—­a just and good man, of whom I learned little but to love him; and from another parish priest, an uncle of mine, a few miles away, I gained a passion for shooting the hares and partridges with which our country swarmed.

But while I was living in twelve-year-old joys and sorrows, the enemy was marching on French soil, and all confidence in Napoleon’s star had vanished.  God had forsaken him.  A retreating wave of our army swept over the countryside, followed by alien forces.  We lived in the midst of fighting and alarms, and my mother and her friends worked like sisters of charity.  There followed Bonaparte’s exile in Elba, and then the astonishing report that he had landed near Cannes, and was marching on Paris.  He reached the Tuileries on March 20, 1815; in May, his troops were marching through our town on their way to Waterloo, glory, and the grave.  I saw him passing in his carriage, his face, pale and sickly, leaning forward, chin on breast.  He raised his head, and glanced around.

“Where are we?”

“At Villers-Cotterets, sire.”

“Forward!  Faster!” he cried, and fell back into his lethargy.  Whips cracked, and the gigantic vision had passed.  That was June 11—­Waterloo was the 18th.  On the 20th, three or four hours after the first doubtful rumour had reached us, a carriage drew up to change horses.  There was the same inert figure, and the same question and answer.  The team broke into a gallop, and the fallen Napoleon was gone.  Soon all went on in the ordinary way, and in our little town, isolated in the midst of its forest, one might have thought no changes had taken place; people had had an evil dream—­that was all.

My memories of this period are chiefly memories of the woods—­shooting parties, now and then a wolf or boar hunt, often a poaching adventure with a friend.  But at fifteen years of age I was placed in a notary’s office; at sixteen I learned to love, and shortly afterwards I saw “Hamlet” played by a touring company.  It made a profound impression on me, awakening vast, aimless desires, strange gleams of mystery.  A friend of mine, Adolphe de Leuven, himself an ardent versifier, guided me to a first sense of my vocation, and together we set to work as playwrights.

Adolphe and his father went up to live in Paris, and our plays were submitted everywhere in vain.  My ardour for the great city grew daily until it became irresistible; and at length, in the temporary absence of my notary, I made a three days’ escape with a friend, saw Talma act, and was even introduced to him by Adolphe.  His playing opened a new world to me, and the great man playfully foretold my destiny.