In 1836, too, on February 28, I was present at the first performance of Les Huguenots, an opera which enchanted me.  The action, the music, the stage setting, the interpretation, made an ensemble that was unique, a work of art that defied comparison.  Nothing on the stage to my mind, has ever surpassed the duet in the fourth act as created and sung by Nourrit and Mlle. Falcon.  Inspired by the musical and dramatic situation, these two artists were completely carried away, and their emotion was as infectious as it was apparent.  Mlle. Falcon had a way of interrupting her singing, to speak the words, “Raoul, ils te tueront!” with an expression into which her whole soul was thrown, which was the very embodiment of passion.  Ah!  Passion indeed!  Passion it is that thrills in every page of that admirable book of Merimee’s, La Chronique de Charles IX., which has given birth in succession to those two masterpieces, Le Pre aux Clercs and Les Huguenots.  And what indeed would life be without passion?  If Fieschi’s crime marked the year 1835 with a crimson letter, 1836 was the year of Alibaud’s attempt.  The history of my father’s reign is nothing but an innumerable succession of such attempts, some of which came to the birth, while others, again, miscarried.  Alibaud, as my readers are aware, fired point-blank at the King with a walking-stick gun, which he steadied on the door of the carriage, as it passed slowly through the Tuileries archway, and missed him, except that his whiskers were singed by the wad.  Neither my father’s courage nor that of my mother and aunt, who were with him, failed them for a moment.  I saw them get out of the carriage at Neuilly, without for an instant suspecting the risk they had run.

But the time soon came for me to go to sea again, and I was ordered to join the frigate Iphigenie, of which my old captain, M. de Parseval, had taken command, as full lieutenant, and we started for the Levant station.  The recollection of a very extraordinary accident which occurred during this cruise remains with me.  We were in the Archipelago, off the Island of Andros.  I had just come off the first night watch, at midnight, and had got into bed, when I heard somebody say our consort, a twenty-gun brig, the Ducouedic, Commander Bruat, was making signals of distress, I got back on deck without delay.  The brig’s lights had disappeared.  Nothing could be seen of her.  It was blowing great guns, with a heavy sea.  We continued in a state of great anxiety till morning.  At last, by the first rays of daylight, we saw our consort dismasted.  She signalled to us for a tow, which was quite impracticable in the state of the sea.  All we could do was to stand by her, while she tried to get to Syra. with her foresail, the only one left her.  This she succeeded in doing.  But the extraordinary thing is that what dismasted her was the contrary action of a tremendous roll, and a heavy squall, which came just at midnight, when the whole crew was mustered on deck, to change the watch, and that the mainmast with all its spars and gear and the maintopmast as well, fell on to the deck without hurting anybody.