home and be quite independent. I adored my mother, but our ideas were
altogether different. Besides, my godfather was perfectly odious to me,
and for years and years he had been in the habit of lunching and dining
with us every day, and of playing whist every evening. He was always
hurting my feelings in one way or another. He was a very rich old
bachelor, with no near relatives. He adored my mother, but she had
always refused to marry him. She had put up with him at first, because
he was a friend of my father’s. After my father’s death she had
continued to put up with him, because she was then accustomed to him,
until finally she quite missed him when he was ill or travelling. But,
placid as she was, my mother was authoritative, and could not endure any
kind of constraint. She therefore rebelled against the idea of another
master. She was very gentle but determined, and this determination of
hers ended sometimes in the most violent anger. She used then to turn
very pale, and violet rings would come round her eyes, her lips would
tremble, her teeth chatter, her beautiful eyes take a fixed gaze, the
words would come at intervals from her throat, all chopped up—hissing
and hoarse. After this she would faint; and the veins of her throat
would swell, and her hands and feet turned icy cold. Sometimes she would
be unconscious for hours, and the doctors told us that she might die in
one of these attacks, so that we did all in our power to avoid these
terrible accidents. My mother knew this, and rather took advantage of
it, and, as I had inherited this tendency to fits of rage from her, I
could not and did not wish to live with her. As for me, I am not placid.
I am active and always ready for fight, and what I want I always want
immediately. I have not the gentle obstinacy peculiar to my mother. The
blood begins to boil under my temples before I have time to control it.
Time has made me wiser in this respect, but not sufficiently so. I am
aware of this, and it causes me to suffer.
I did not say anything about my plans to our dear invalid, but I asked
our old friend Meydieu to find me a flat. The old man, who had tormented
me so much during my childhood, had been most kind to me ever since my
_début_ at the Théâtre Français, and, in spite of my row with Nathalie,
and my escapade when at the Gymnase, he was now ready to see the best in
me. When he came to see us the day after my return home, I remained
talking with him for a time in the drawing-room, and confided my
intentions to him. He quite approved, and said that my intercourse with
my mother would be all the more agreeable because of this separation.
XIII
FROM THE PORTE ST. MARTIN THEATRE TO THE ODÉON
I took a flat in the Rue Duphot, quite near to my mother, and Madame
Guérard undertook to have it furnished for me. As soon as my mother was
well again, I talked to her about it, and I was not long in making her
agree with me that it was really better I should live by myself and in
my own way. When once she had accepted the situation everything went
along satisfactorily. My sisters were present when we were talking about
it. Jeanne was close to my mother, and Régina, who had refused to speak
to me or look at me ever since my return three weeks ago, suddenly
jumped on to my lap.
“Take me with you this time!” she exclaimed suddenly. “I will kiss you,
if you will.”
I glanced at my mother, rather embarrassed.
“Oh, take her,” she said, “for she is unbearable.”
Régina jumped down again and began to dance a jig, muttering the rudest,
silliest things at the same time. She then nearly stifled me with
kisses, sprang on to my mother’s arm-chair, and kissed her hair, her
eyes, her cheeks, saying:
“You are glad I am going, aren’t you? You can give everything to your
Jenny!”
My mother coloured slightly, but as her eyes fell on Jeanne her
expression changed and a look of unspeakable affection came over her
face. She pushed Régina gently aside, and the child went on with her
jig.
“We two will stay together,” said my mother, leaning her head back on
Jeanne’s shoulder, and she said this quite unconsciously, just in the
same way as she had gazed at my sister. I was perfectly stupefied, and
closed my eyes so that I should not see. I could only hear my little
sister dancing her jig and emphasising every stamp on the floor with the
words, “And we two as well; we two, we two!”
It was a very painful little drama that was stirring our four hearts in
this little _bourgeois_ home, and the result of it was that I settled
down finally with my little sister in the flat in the Rue Duphot. I kept
Caroline with me, and engaged a cook. _Mon petit Dame_ was with me
nearly all day, and I dined every evening with my mother.
I was still on good terms with an actor of the Porte Saint Martin
Theatre, who had been appointed stage manager there, Marc Fournier being
at that time manager of the theatre. A piece entitled _La biche au bois_
was then being given. It was a spectacular play, and was having a great
success. A delightful actress from the Odéon Theatre, Mlle. Debay, had
been engaged for the principal _rôle_. She played tragedy princesses
most charmingly. I often had tickets for the Porte Saint Martin, and I
thoroughly enjoyed _La biche au bois_. Madame Ulgade sang admirably in
her _rôle_ of the young prince, and amazed me. Mariquita charmed me with
her dancing. She was delightful and so animated in her dances, so
characteristic, and always so full of distinction. Thanks to old Josse,
I knew every one.
But to my surprise and terror, one evening towards five o’clock, on
arriving at the theatre to get the tickets for our seats, he exclaimed
on seeing me:
“Why here is our Princess, our little _biche au bois_. Here she is! It
is the Providence that watches over theatres who has sent her.”
I struggled like an eel caught in a net, but it was all in vain. M. Marc
Fournier, who could be very charming, gave me to understand that I
should be rendering him a great service and would “save” the receipts.
Josse, who guessed what my scruples were, exclaimed:
“But, my dear child, it will still be your high art, for Mademoiselle
Debay from the Odéon Theatre plays this _rôle_ of Princess, and
Mademoiselle Debay is the first artiste at the Odéon and the Odéon is an
imperial theatre, so that it cannot be any disgrace after your studies.”
Mariquita, who had just arrived, also persuaded me, and Madame Ulgade
was sent for to rehearse the duos, for I was to sing. Yes, and I was to
sing with a veritable artiste, one who was considered to be the first
artiste of the Opéra Comique.
There was but little time to spare. Josse made me rehearse my _rôle_,
which I almost knew, as I had seen the piece often and I had an
extraordinary memory. The minutes flew, soon running into quarters of an
hour, and these quarters of an hour made half-hours, and then entire
hours. I kept looking at the clock, the large clock in the manager’s
room, where Madame Ulgade was making me rehearse. She thought my voice
was pretty, but I kept singing out of tune, and she helped me along and
encouraged me all the time.
I was dressed up in Mlle. Debay’s clothes, and the curtain was raised.
Poor me! I was more dead than alive, but my courage returned after a
triple burst of applause for the couplet which I sang on waking in very
much the same way as I should have murmured a series of Racine’s lines.
When the performance was over Marc Fournier offered me, through Josse, a
three years’ engagement, but I asked to be allowed to think it over.
Josse had introduced me to a dramatic author, Lambert Thiboust, a
charming man who was certainly not without talent. He thought I was just
the ideal actress for his heroine in _La bergère d’Ivry_, but M. Faille,
an old actor, who had just become manager of the Ambigu Theatre, was not
the only person to consult, for a certain M. de Chilly had some interest
in the theatre. De Chilly had made his name in the _rôle_ of Rodin in
_Le Juif errant_, and after marrying a rather wealthy wife, had left the
stage, and was now interested in the business side of theatrical
affairs. He had, I think, just given the Ambigu up to Faille.
De Chilly was then helping on a charming girl named Laurence Gérard. She
was gentle and very _bourgeoise_, rather pretty, but without any real
beauty or grace.
Faille told Lambert Thiboust that he was negotiating with Laurence
Gérard, but that he was ready to do as the author wished in the matter.
The only thing he stipulated was that he should hear me before deciding.
I was willing to humour the poor fellow, who must have been as poor a
manager as he had been an artiste. I gave a short performance for him at
the Ambigu Theatre. The stage was only lighted by the wretched
_servante_, a little transportable lamp. About a yard in front of me I
could see M. Faille balancing himself on his chair, one hand on his
waistcoat and the fingers of the other hand in his enormous nostrils.
This disgusted me horribly. Lambert Thiboust was seated near him, his
handsome face smiling as he looked at me encouragingly.
I had selected _On ne badine pas avec l’amour_; I did not want to recite
verse, because I was to perform in a play in prose. I believe I was
perfectly charming, and Lambert Thiboust thought so too, but when I had
finished poor Faille got up in a clumsy, pretentious way, said something
in a low voice to the author, and took me to his office.
“My child,” remarked the worthy but stupid manager, “you are no good on
the stage!”
I resented this, but he continued:
“Oh no, no good,” and as the door then opened he added, pointing to the
new-comer, “here is M. de Chilly, who was also listening to you, and he
will say just the same as I say.”
M. de Chilly nodded and shrugged his shoulders.
“Lambert Thiboust is mad,” he remarked. “No one ever saw such a thin
shepherdess!”
He then rang the bell and told the boy to show in Mlle. Laurence Gérard.
I understood; and, without taking leave of the two boors, I left the
room.
My heart was heavy, though, as I went back to the _foyer_, where I had
left my hat. There I found Laurence Gérard, but she was fetched away the
next moment. I was standing near her, and as I looked in the glass I was
struck by the contrast between us. She was plump, with a wide face and
magnificent black eyes; her nose was rather _canaille_, her mouth heavy,
and there was a very ordinary look about her generally. I was fair,
slight, and frail-looking, like a reed, with a long, pale face, blue
eyes, a rather sad mouth and a general look of distinction. This hasty
vision consoled me for my failure, and then, too, I felt that this
Faille was a nonentity and that de Chilly was common.
I was destined to meet with them both again later in my life: Chilly
soon after, as manager at the Odéon, and Faille twenty years later, in
such a wretched condition that the tears came to my eyes when he
appeared before me and begged me to play for his benefit.
“Oh, I beseech you,” said the poor man. “You will be the only attraction
at this performance, and I have only you to count on for the receipts.”
I shook hands with him. I do not know whether he remembered our first
interview and my “_auditon_,” but I who remembered it well only hope
that he did not.
Five days later Mile. Debay was well again, and took her _rôle_ as
usual.
Before accepting an engagement at the Porte Saint Martin, I wrote to
Camille Doucet. The following day I received a letter asking me to call
at the Ministry. It was not without some emotion that I went to see this
kind man again. He was standing up waiting for me when I was ushered
into the room. He held out his hands to me, and drew me gently towards
him.
“Oh, what a terrible child!” he said, giving me a chair. “Come now, you
must be calmer. It will never do to waste all these admirable gifts in
voyages, escapades, and boxing people’s ears.”
I was deeply moved by his kindness, and my eyes were full of regret as I
looked at him.
“Now, don’t cry, my dear child; don’t cry. Let us try and find out how
we are to make up for all this folly.”
He was silent for a moment, and then, opening a drawer, he took out a
letter. “Here is something which will perhaps save us,” he said.
It was a letter from Duquesnel, who had just been appointed manager of
the Odéon Theatre in conjunction with Chilly.
“They ask me for some young artistes to make up the Odéon company. Well,
we must attend to this.” He got up, and, accompanying me to the door,
said as I went away, “We shall succeed.”
I went back home and began at once to rehearse all my _rôles_ in
Racine’s plays. I waited very anxiously for several days, consoled by
Madame Guérard, who succeeded in restoring my confidence. Finally I
received a letter, and went at once to the Ministry. Camille Doucet
received me with a beaming expression on his face.
“It’s settled,” he said. “Oh, but it has not been easy, though,” he
added. “You are very young, but very celebrated already for your
headstrong character. But I have pledged my word that you will be as
gentle as a young lamb.”
“Yes, I will be gentle, I promise,” I replied, “if only out of
gratitude. But what am I to do?”
“Here is a letter for Félix Duquesnel,” he replied; “he is expecting
you.”
I thanked Camille Doucet heartily, and he then said, “I shall see you
again, less officially, at your aunt’s on Thursday. I have received an
invitation this morning to dine there, so you will be able to tell me
what Duquesnel says.”
It was then half-past ten in the morning. I went home to put some pretty
clothes on. I chose a dress the underskirt of which was of canary
yellow, the dress being of black silk with the skirt scalloped round,
and a straw conical-shaped hat trimmed with corn, and black ribbon
velvet under the chin. It must have been delightfully mad looking.
Arrayed in this style, feeling very joyful and full of confidence, I
went to call on Félix Duquesnel. I waited a few moments in a little
room, very artistically furnished. A young man appeared, looking very
elegant. He was smiling and altogether charming. I could not grasp the
fact that this fair-haired, gay young man would be my manager.
After a short conversation we agreed on every point we touched.
“Come to the Odéon at two o’clock,” said Duquesnel, by way of leave-
taking, “and I will introduce you to my partner. I ought to say it the
other way round, according to society etiquette,” he added, laughing,
“but we are talking _théâtre_” (shop).
He came a few steps down the staircase with me, and stayed there leaning
over the balustrade to wish me good-bye.
At two o’clock precisely I was at the Odéon, and had to wait an hour. I
began to grind my teeth, and only the remembrance of my promise to
Camille Doucet prevented me from going away.
Finally Duquesnel appeared and took me across to the manager’s office.
“You will now see the other ogre,” he said, and I pictured to myself the
other ogre as charming as his partner. I was therefore greatly
disappointed on seeing a very ugly little man, whom I recognised as
Chilly.
He eyed me up and down most impolitely, and pretended not to recognise
me. He signed to me to sit down, and without a word handed me a pen and
showed me where to sign my name on the paper before me. Madame Guérard
interposed, laying her hand on mine.
“Do not sign without reading it,” she said.
“Are you Mademoiselle’s mother?” he asked, looking up.
“No,” she said, “but it is just as though I were.”
“Well, yes, you are right. Read it quickly,” he continued, “and then
sign or leave it alone, but be quick.”
I felt the colour coming into my face, for this man was odious.
Duquesnel whispered to me, “There’s no ceremony about him, but he’s a
good fellow; don’t take offence.”
I signed my contract and handed it to his ugly partner.
“You know,” he remarked, “He is responsible for you. I should not upon
any account have engaged you.”
“And if you had been alone, Monsieur,” I answered, “I should not have
signed, so we are quits.”
I went away at once, and hurried to my mother’s to tell her, for I knew
this would be a great joy for her. Then, that very day, I set off with
_mon petit Dame_ to buy everything necessary for furnishing my dressing-
room.
The following day I went to the convent in the Rue Notre Dame des Champs
to see my dear governess, Mlle. de Brabender. She had been ill with
acute rheumatism in all her limbs for the last thirteen months. She had
suffered so much that she looked like a different person. She was lying
in her little white bed, a little white cap covering her hair; her big
nose was drawn with pain, her washed-out eyes seemed to have no colour
in them. Her formidable moustache alone bristled up with constant spasms
of pain. Besides all this she was so strangely altered that I wondered
what had caused the change. I went nearer, and, bending down, kissed her
gently. I then gazed at her so inquisitively that she understood
instinctively. With her eyes she signed to me to look on the table near
her, and there in a glass I saw all my dear old friend’s teeth. I put
the three roses I had brought her in the glass, and, kissing her again,
I asked her forgiveness for my impertinent curiosity. I left the convent
with a very heavy heart, for the Mother Superior told me in the garden
that my beloved Mlle. de Brabender could not live much longer. I
therefore went every day for a time to see my gentle old governess, but
as soon as the rehearsals commenced at the Odéon my visits had to be
less frequent.
One morning about seven o’clock a message came from the convent to fetch
me in great haste, and I was present at the dear woman’s death agony.
Her face lighted up at the supreme moment with such a holy look that I
suddenly longed to die. I kissed her hands, which were holding the
crucifix, and they had already turned cold. I asked to be allowed to be
there when she was placed in her coffin. On arriving at the convent the
next day, at the hour fixed, I found the sisters in such a state of
consternation that I was alarmed. What could have happened, I wondered?
They pointed to the door of the cell, without uttering a word. The nuns
were standing round the bed, on which was the most extraordinary looking
being imaginable. My poor governess, lying rigid on her deathbed, had a
man’s face. Her moustache had grown longer, and she had a beard nearly
half an inch long. Her moustache and beard were sandy, whilst the long
hair framing her face was white. Her mouth, without the support of the
teeth, had sunk in so that her nose fell on the sandy moustache. It was
like a terrible and ridiculous-looking mask, instead of the sweet face
of my friend. It was the mask of a man, whilst the little delicate hands
were those of a woman.
There was an awe-struck expression in the eyes of the nuns, in spite of
the assurance of the nurse who had dressed the poor dead body, and had
declared to them that the body was that of a woman. But the poor little
sisters were trembling and crossing themselves all the time.
The day after this dismal ceremony I made my _début_ at the Odéon in _Le
jeu de l’amour et du hasard_. I was not suited for Marivaux’s plays, as
they require a certain coquettishness and an affectation which were not
then and still are not among my qualities. Then, too, I was rather too
slight, so that I made no success at all. Chilly happened to be passing
along the corridor, just as Duquesnel was talking to me and encouraging
me. Chilly pointed to me and remarked:
“_Une flûte pour les gens du monde, il n’y a même pas de mie._”
I was furious at the man’s insolence, and the blood rushed to my face,
but I saw through my half-closed eyes Camille Doucet’s face, that face
always so clean shaven and young-looking under his crown of white hair.
I thought it was a vision of my mind, which was always on the alert, on
account of the promise I had made. But no, it was he himself, and he
came up to me.
“What a pretty voice you have!” he said. “Your second appearance will be
such a pleasure for us!”
This man was always courteous, but truthful. This _début_ of mine had
not given him any pleasure, but he was counting on my next appeai-ance,
and he had spoken the truth. I had a pretty voice, and that was all that
any one could say from my first trial.
I remained at the Odéon, and worked very hard. I was ready to take any
one’s place at a moment’s notice, for I knew all the _rôles_. I made
some success, and the students had a predilection for me. When I came on
to the stage I was always greeted by applause from these young men. A
few old sticklers used to turn towards the pit and try and command
silence, but no one cared a straw for them.
Finally my day of triumph dawned. Duquesnel had the happy idea of
putting _Athalie_ on again, with Mendelssohn’s choruses.
Beauvallet, who had been odious as a professor, was charming as a
comrade. By special permission from the Ministry he was to play Joad.
The _rôle_ of Zacharie was assigned to me. Some of the Conservatoire
pupils were to take the spoken choruses, and the female pupils who
studied singing undertook the musical part. The rehearsals were so bad
that Duquesnel and Chilly were in despair.
Beauvallet, who was more agreeable now, but not choice in his language,
muttered some terrible words. We began over and over again, but it was
all to no purpose. The spoken choruses were simply abominable. When
suddenly Chilly exclaimed:
“Well, let the young one say all the spoken choruses. They will be right
enough with her pretty voice!”
Duquesnel did not utter a word, but he pulled his moustache to hide a
smile. Chilly was coming round to his _protégée_ after all. He nodded
his head in an indifferent way, in answer to his partner’s questioning
look, and we began again, I reading all the spoken choruses. Every one
applauded, and the conductor of the orchestra was delighted, for the
poor man had suffered enough. The first performance was a veritable
little triumph for me! Oh, quite a little one, but still full of promise
for my future. The audience, charmed with the sweetness of my voice and
its crystal purity, encored the part of the spoken choruses, and I was
rewarded by three rounds of applause.
At the end of the act Chilly came to me and said, “_Thou_ art adorable!”
His _thou_ rather annoyed me, but I answered mischievously, using the
same form of speech:
“_Thou_ findest me fatter?”
He burst into a fit of laughter, and from that day forth we both used
the familiar _thou_ and became the best friends imaginable.
Oh, that Odéon Theatre! It is the theatre I loved most. I was very sorry
to leave it, for every one liked each other there, and every one was
gay. The theatre is a little like the continuation of school. The young
artistes came there, and Duquesnel was an intelligent manager, and very
polite and young himself. During rehearsal we often went off, several of
us together, to play ball in the Luxembourg, during the acts in which we
were not “on.” I used to think of my few months at the Comédie
Française. The little world I had known there had been stiff, scandal-
mongering, and jealous. I recalled my few months at the Gymnase. Hats
and dresses were always discussed there, and every one chattered about a
hundred things that had nothing to do with art.
At the Odéon I was happy. We thought of nothing but putting plays on,
and we rehearsed morning, afternoon, and at all hours, and I liked that
very much.
For the summer I had taken a little house in the Villa Montmorency at
Auteuil. I went to the theatre in a _petit duc_, which I drove myself. I
had two wonderful ponies that Aunt Rosine had given to me because they
had very nearly broken her neck by taking fright at St. Cloud at a
whirligig of wooden horses. I used to drive at full speed along the
quays, and in spite of the atmosphere brilliant with the July sunshine,
and the gaiety of everything outside, I always ran up the cold cracked
steps of the theatre with veritable joy, and rushed up to my dressing-
room, wishing every one I passed good morning on my way. When I had
taken off my coat and gloves I went on to the stage, delighted to be
once more in that infinite darkness with only a poor light (a _servante_
hanging here and there on a tree, a turret, a wall, or placed on a
bench) thrown on the faces of the artistes for a few seconds.
There was nothing more vivifying for me than that atmosphere, full of
microbes, nothing more gay than that obscurity, and nothing more
brilliant than that darkness.
One day my mother had the curiosity to come behind the scenes. I thought
she would have died with horror and disgust. “Oh, you poor child,” she
murmured, “how can you live in that!” When once she was outside again
she began to breathe freely, taking long gasps several times. Oh yes, I
could live in it, and I really only lived well in it. Since then I have
changed a little, but I still have a great liking for that gloomy
workshop in which we joyous lapidaries of art cut the precious stones
supplied to us by the poets.
The days passed by, carrying away with them all our little disappointed
hopes, and fresh days dawned bringing fresh dreams, so that life seemed
to me eternal happiness. I played in turn in _Le Marquis de Villemer_
and _François le Champi_. In the former I took the part of the foolish
baroness, an expert woman of thirty-five years of age. I was scarcely
twenty-one myself, and I looked seventeen. In the second piece I played
Mariette, and made a great success.