The novel may sometimes be this stroke of the bell,—­a stroke honest and useful,—­a disinterested warner,_ and I have striven to make Monsieur le Ministre precisely that, in a small degree, for the political world.  I have essayed to paint this hell paved with some of the good intentions.  The success which greeted the appearance of this book, might justify me in believing that I have succeeded in my task.  I trust that it will enjoy under its new form—­so flattering to an author, that an editor-artist is pleased to give it,—­the success achieved under its first form._

__Monsieur le Ministre_ is connected with more than one recollection of my life.  I was called upon one day to follow to his last resting-place—­and it is on an occasion like this that one discovers more readily and perceives more clearly life’s ironies—­one of those men “who do nothing but create other men,” a journalist.  It was bitterly cold and we stood before the open grave, just in front of a railway embankment, in an out of the way cemetery of Saint-Ouen,—­the cemetery called Cayenne, because the dead are “deported” thither.  We were but four faithful ones.  Yes, four, but amongst these four must be included a young man, bare-headed and wearing the uniform of an officer, who stood by the deceased man’s son._

Whilst one of us bade the last farewell to the departed on the brink of the grave, the scream of the railway engine cut short his words, and seemed to hiss for the last time the fate of the vanquished man lying there.  As we were quitting the cemetery, a worthy man, a song-writer, observed to me:  “Well, if all those whom Leon Plee helped during his lifetime had remembered him when he was dead, this little Campo Santo_ of Saint-Ouen would not have been large enough to hold them all!"_

Doubtless.  But they did not remember him.

And from the contrast between the shabby obsequies of the old journalist and the solemn pomp of that of the funeral service of the four days’ minister came the idea of my book.  It seemed to me that here was an appropriate idea and a useful reparation.  Art has nothing to lose—­rather the contrary, when it devotes itself to militant tasks.

Ah!  I forgot—­When one mentions to-day the name of this illustrious minister whose funeral convoy was in its day one of the great spectacles of Paris, and one of the great surprises to those who know how difficult it is for a minister to die in office—­like the Spartan still grasping his shield—­those best informed, shaking their heads solemnly will say:

"Ricard?—­Oh! he had great talent, Ricard—­I saw lately a portrait of Paul de Musset by him—­It is superb!"

They confound him with the painter to whom no statue has been erected, but whose works remain.

Be, then, a Cabinet Minister!

JULES CLARETIE.

Viroflay, September 1, 1886.