The Companions of Jehu | Page 2

the house of
Mercédès at the Catalans, and the dungeons of Dantès and Faria at the
Château d'If.
When I staged "Monte-Cristo" at the Theâtre-Historique, I wrote to
Marseilles for a plan of the Château d'If, which was sent to me. This
drawing was for the use of the scene painter. The artist to whom I had

recourse forwarded me the desired plan. He even did better than I
would have dared ask of him; he wrote beneath it: "View of the
Château d'If, from the side where Dantès was thrown into the sea."
I have learned since that a worthy man, a guide attached to the Château
d'If, sells pens made of fish-bone by the Abbé Faria himself.
There is but one unfortunate circumstance concerning this; the fact is,
Dantès and the Abbé Faria have never existed save in my imagination;
consequently, Dantès could not have been precipitated from the top to
the bottom of the Château d'If, nor could the Abbé Faria have made
pens. But that is what comes from visiting these localities in person.
Therefore, I wished to visit Varennes before commencing my novel,
because the first chapter was to open in that city. Besides, historically,
Varennes worried me considerably; the more I perused the historical
accounts of Varennes, the less I was able to understand,
topographically, the king's arrest.
I therefore proposed to my young friend, Paul Bocage, that he
accompany me to Varennes. I was sure in advance that he would accept.
To merely propose such a trip to his picturesque and charming mind
was to make him bound from his chair to the tram. We took the railroad
to Châlons. There we bargained with a livery-stable keeper, who agreed,
for a consideration of ten francs a day, to furnish us with a horse and
carriage. We were seven days on the trip, three days to go from
Châlons to Varennes, one day to make the requisite local researches in
the city, and three days to return from Varennes to Châlons.
I recognized with a degree of satisfaction which you will easily
comprehend, that not a single historian had been historical, and with
still greater satisfaction that M. Thiers had been the least accurate of all
these historians. I had already suspected this, but was not certain. The
only one who had been accurate, with absolute accuracy, was Victor
Hugo in his book called "The Rhine." It is true that Victor Hugo is a
poet and not a historian. What historians these poets would make, if
they would but consent to become historians!
One day Lamartine asked me to what I attributed the immense success
of his "Histoire des Girondins."
"To this, because in it you rose to the level of a novel," I answered him.
He reflected for a while and ended, I believe, by agreeing with me.
I spent a day, therefore, at Varennes and visited all the localities

necessary for my novel, which was to be called "René d'Argonne."
Then I returned. My son was staying in the country at Sainte-Assise,
near Melun; my room awaited me, and I resolved to go there to write
my novel.
I am acquainted with no two characters more dissimilar than
Alexandre's and mine, which nevertheless harmonize so well. It is true
we pass many enjoyable hours during our separations; but none I think
pleasanter than those we spend together.
I had been installed there for three or four days endeavoring to begin
my "René d'Argonne," taking up my pen, then laying it aside almost
immediately. The thing would not go. I consoled myself by telling
stories. Chance willed that I should relate one which Nodier had told
me of four young men affiliated with the Company of Jehu, who had
been executed at Bourg in Bresse amid the most dramatic
circumstances. One of these four young men, he who had found the
greatest difficulty in dying, or rather he whom they had the greatest
difficulty in killing, was but nineteen and a half years old.
Alexandre listened to my story with much interest. When I had finished:
"Do you know," said he, "what I should do in your place?"
"What?"
"I should lay aside 'René d'Argonne,' which refuses to materialize, and
in its stead I should write 'The Companions of Jehu.'"
"But just think, I have had that other novel in mind for a year or two,
and it is almost finished."
"It never will be since it is not finished now."
"Perhaps you are right, but I shall lose six months regaining my present
vantage-ground."
"Good! In three days you will have written half a volume."
"Then you will help me."
"Yes, for I shall give you two characters."
"Is that all?"
"You are too exacting! The rest is your affair; I am busy with