the income so earned was not enormous, because
managers had their favourites then, as managers
have their favourites now.

Aude, the first of M. de Rochefort's portraits,
boasted of having been secretary to Buffon. He
dressed so shabbily, that the children in the
streets ran after him to throw stones at him.
The leading adventure of his life was this: One
day, in a public-house in Belleville, he was meditating
on an empty bottle. Beside him were a
blacksmith and his wife, who drank till they
quarrelled, and quarrelled till they fought. Aude
rose and offered his mediation. The husband,
without paying the slightest attention, continued
his matrimonial discipline, exclaiming, "Mon
Dieu! Who will rid me of this woman? I
would let her go cheap."

Aude, illumined with a bright idea, inquired,
"What will you take for her?"

"Whatever anybody is fool enough to give."

"Is it a bargain for thirty francs ?"

"Certainly. Down with them. Take her,
and be off with you."

The poor woman, subject to daily beatings,
made no difficulty in following her purchaser.
The pair dwelt in a cottage, like Philemon and
Baucis, happily, for five-and-twenty years.

At one time, Aude worked in partnership, and
lived with a fellow-vaudevilliste, Dorvigny, who
was a natural son of Louis the Fifteenth. Their
joint worldly wealth was such, that, on one occasion,
they had only one suit of clothes between
them. The unclad partner had to lie in bed
while the other took his walks abroad. A propos
of a writer named Sewrin, M. de Rochefort has
forgotten to mention that a tambourine figures
in every one of his (Sewrin's) pieces.

Brazier, another prolific vaudevilliste, was for
a time librarian to the Arsenal, but was dismissed
for incompatibility with scientific pursuits.
While there, he wrote inside his hat, " Ex libris
Brazier"— This book belongs to Brazier. He
then got employment on a journal as a collector
of the small misfortunes which happen in Paris,
at the rate of three francs per misfortune. He
was a boon companion, who enjoyed life while
hunting up crimes and accidents. The greater
the abundance of fires and murders, the more
luxurious was his fare.

One evening, he entered the green-room of
the Variétés with such delight depicted on his
countenance, that his friends took it for granted
that he had had a new piece received by the
committee, and complimented him accordingly.

"It is not that," he said. "It is quite a
different affair which puts me in spirits. I had
promised my wife to take her into the country
to-morrow; but all the cash we could muster
between us was eighteen francs, which was not
enough. Providence led me to the Palais de
Justice, where I learnt that an individual,
coming down the grand staircase, had just
broken his leg. Noting the fact, I followed the
Quays to the Rue Dauphine, where I saw a
crowd. I had the good luck to learn that a
woman had been thrown down and severely
bruised by a cart laden with stones. I ran off
to my journal with these two misfortunes, which
completed the sum of twenty-four francs; and
I have had the pleasure of informing my wife
that she shall go into the country to-morrow."

These temporary resources did not suffice to
render Brazier independent of the theatre. He
eventually devoted himself entirely to vaudeville,
which brought him great applause, if not
much money; for Scribe had not yet regulated
the rights of dramatic authors.

Madame de la Sablière relates that, crossing
the garden of the Tuileries one morning to go
to Versailles, she saw La Fontaine deep in his
meditations, leaning against a tree. When she
came back in the evening, she found him still in
the same place; and it had been raining hard all
day! The same was the case with Brazier. Frost,
sunshine, hail, or snow, did not prevent his wandering
along the Boulevards, coupletting with all
his might and main. He was a victim vowed to
verses of eight syllables. If he happened to meet
one of his friends, he pulled his hat over his eyes
to pass unnoticed, for fear of losing a rhyme.

In like manner, Théaulon improvised hundreds
of little dramas as he walked the streets. Calderon's
or Lope de Vega's fecundity was nothing
in comparison to his. Whatever he touched
turned to vaudeville or comedy. He has been
seen to write the complete plan of a dramatic
piece while he breakfasted, with more than
twenty people talking around him—even with
him—without troubling the course of his ideas.
He ought to have earned a deal of money; no
one knew what became of it; but it is supposed
that he sold his copyrights for low prices to
usurers. In a few years, he quite forgot his
most charming comedies. He has been caught
applauding a piece of his own writing; the name
of the author had entirely slipped his memory.
When he died, he was writing a vaudeville.
Twenty-four hours scarcely intervened between
his last song and the De Profundis, the final
couplet of human life.

Augustin Hapdé was a pensive little man,
holding his head on one side like Frederick the
Great, only he was no flute-player, as the King
of Prussia was. He never uttered a syllable to
any one except concerning the getting up of
his pieces, in which art his talents were supreme.
He had scarcely risen above the second
class of dramatic purveyors to the Ambigu and
the Gaîté, when he obtained the privilege of
establishing at the Porte Saint Martin, the
Théâtre des Jeux Gymniques. He was allowed to
perform pantomimes only and vaudevilles with
two actors. His pantomimes were composed on
the largest scale, in accordance with the dimensions
of his theatre. One bold idea occurred to
him; namely, to make the Emperor Napoleon a
prominent character in one of his productions.
The master of so many vanquished kings was
then shining in all his glory. The author's
project was executed under the title of "The
Man of Destiny." An actor named Chevalier
was found, who, by a lucky chance, bore a
striking likeness to the emperor.

It is impossible to form an idea of the