Her origin was of the humblest, for her mother--so it was said--had
been kitchen-maid in the household of the Duc de Marny, but Desiree had
received some kind of education, and though she began life as a dresser
in one of the minor theatres of Paris, she became ultimately one of its
most popular stars.
She was small and dark, dainty in her manner and ways, and with a
graceful little figure, peculiarly supple and sinuous. Her humble
origin certainly did not betray itself in her hands and feet, which were
exquisite in shape and lilliputian in size.
Her hair was soft and glossy, always free from powder, and cunningly
arranged so as to slightly overshadow the upper part of her face.
The chin was small and round, the mouth extraordinarily red, the neck
slender and long. But she was not pretty: so said all the women. Her
skin was rather coarse in texture and darkish in colour, her eyes
were narrow and slightly turned upwards at the corners; no! she was
distinctly not pretty.
Yet she pleased the men! Perhaps because she was so artlessly determined
to please them. The women said that Demoiselle Candeille never left a
man alone until she had succeeded in captivating his fancy if only for
five minutes; an interval in a dance... the time to cross a muddy road.
But for five minutes she was determined to hold any man's complete
attention, and to exact his admiration. And she nearly always succeeded.
Therefore the women hated her. The men were amused. It is extremely
pleasant to have one's admiration compelled, one's attention so
determinedly sought after.
And Candeille could be extremely amusing, and as Magdelon in Moliere's
“Les Precieuses” was quite inimitable.
This, however, was in the olden days, just before Paris went quite mad,
before the Reign of Terror had set in, and ci-devant Louis the King had
been executed.
Candeille had taken it into her frolicsome little head that she would
like to go to London. The idea was of course in the nature of an
experiment. Those dull English people over the water knew so little
of what good acting really meant. Tragedy? Well! passons! Their heavy,
large-boned actresses might manage one or two big scenes where a
commanding presence and a powerful voice would not come amiss, and where
prominent teeth would pass unnoticed in the agony of a dramatic climax.
But Comedy!
Ah! ca non, par example! Demoiselle Candeille had seen several English
gentlemen and ladies in those same olden days at the Tuileries, but
she really could not imagine any of them enacting the piquant scenes of
Moliere or Beaumarchais.
Demoiselle Candeille thought of every English-born individual as having
very large teeth. Now large teeth do not lend themselves to well-spoken
comedy scenes, to smiles, or to double entendre.
Her own teeth were exceptionally small and white, and very sharp, like
those of a kitten.
Yes! Demoiselle Candeille thought it would be extremely interesting to
go to London and to show to a nation of shopkeepers how daintily one can
be amused in a theatre.
Permission to depart from Paris was easy to obtain. In fact the fair
lady had never really found it difficult to obtain anything she very
much wanted.
In this case she had plenty of friends in high places. Marat was still
alive and a great lover of the theatre. Tallien was a personal admirer
of hers, Deputy Dupont would do anything she asked.
She wanted to act in London, at a theatre called Drury Lane. She wanted
to play Moliere in England in French, and had already spoken with
several of her colleagues, who were ready to join her. They would give
public representations in aid of the starving population of France;
there were plenty of Socialistic clubs in London quite Jacobin and
Revolutionary in tendency: their members would give her full support.
She would be serving her country and her countrymen and incidentally see
something of the world, and amuse herself. She was bored in Paris.
Then she thought of Marguerite St. Just, once of the Maison Moliere, who
had captivated an English milor of enormous wealth. Demoiselle Candeille
had never been of the Maison Moliere; she had been the leading star of
one of the minor--yet much-frequented--theatres of Paris, but she felt
herself quite able and ready to captivate some other unattached milor,
who would load her with English money and incidentally bestow an English
name upon her.
So she went to London.
The experiment, however, had not proved an unmitigated success. At first
she and her company did obtain a few engagements at one or two of the
minor theatres, to give representations of some of the French classical
comedies in the original language.
But these never quite became the fashion. The feeling against France
and all her doings was far too keen in that very set, which Demoiselle
Candeille had desired to captivate with her talents, to allow of the
English jeunesse doree to flock and see Moliere played in French, by a
French troupe, whilst Candeille's own compatriots resident in England
had given her but scant support.
One section of these--the aristocrats and emigres--looked upon the
actress who was a friend of all the Jacobins in Paris as nothing better
than canaille. They sedulously ignored her presence in this country, and
snubbed her whenever they had an opportunity.
The other section--chiefly consisting of agents and spies of the
Revolutionary Government--she would gladly have ignored. They had at
first made a constant demand on her purse, her talents and her time:
then she grew tired of them, and felt more and more chary of being
identified with a set which was in such ill-odour with that very same
jeunesse doree whom Candeille had desired to please.
In her own country she was and always had been a good republican: Marat
had given her her first start in life by his violent praises of her
talent in his widely-circulated paper; she had been associated in
Paris with the whole coterie of artists and actors: every one of them
republican to a man. But in London, although one might be snubbed by
the emigres and aristocrats--it did not do to be mixed up with the
sans-culotte journalists and pamphleteers who haunted the Socialistic
clubs of the English capital, and who were the prime organizers of all
those seditious gatherings and treasonable unions that caused Mr. Pitt
and his colleagues so much trouble and anxiety.
One by one, Desiree Candeille's comrades, male and female, who had
accompanied her to England, returned to their own country. When war was
declared, some of them were actually sent back under the provisions of
the Aliens Bill.
But Desiree had stayed on.
Her old friends in Paris had managed to advise her that she would not
be very welcome there just now. The sans-culotte journalists of England,
the agents and spies of the Revolutionary Government, had taken their
revenge of the frequent snubs inflicted upon them by the young actress,
and in those days the fact of being unwelcome in France was apt to have
a more lurid and more dangerous significance.
Candeille did not dare return: at any rate not for the present.
She trusted to her own powers of intrigue, and her well-known
fascinations, to re-conquer the friendship of the Jacobin clique, and
she once more turned her attention to the affiliated Socialistic clubs
of England. But between the proverbial two stools, Demoiselle Candeille
soon came to the ground. Her machinations became known in official
quarters, her connection with all the seditious clubs of London was soon
bruited abroad, and one evening Desiree found herself confronted with
a document addressed to her: “From the Office of His Majesty's Privy
Seal,” wherein it was set forth that, pursuant to the statute 33 George
III. cap. 5, she, Desiree Candeille, a French subject now resident in
England, was required to leave this kingdom by order of His Majesty
within seven days, and that in the event of the said Desiree Candeille
refusing to comply with this order, she would be liable to commitment,
brought to trial and sentenced to imprisonment for a month, and
afterwards to removal within a limited time under pain of transportation
for life.
This meant that Demoiselle Candeille had exactly seven days in which to
make complete her reconciliation with her former friends who now ruled
Paris and France with a relentless and perpetually bloodstained hand.
No wonder that during the night which followed the receipt of this
momentous document, Demoiselle Candeille suffered gravely from insomnia.
She dared not go back to France, she was ordered out of England! What
was to become of her?
This was just three days before the eventful afternoon of the Richmond
Gala, and twenty-four hours after ex-Ambassador Chauvelin had landed in
England. Candeille and Chauvelin had since then met at the “Cercle des
Jacobins Francais” in Soho Street, and now fair Desiree found herself in
lodgings in Richmond, the evening of the day following the Gala, feeling
that her luck had not altogether deserted her.
One conversation with Citizen Chauvelin had brought the fickle jade
back to Demoiselle Candeilles' service. Nay, more, the young actress
saw before her visions of intrigue, of dramatic situations, of pleasant
little bits of revenge;--all of which was meat and drink and air to
breathe for Mademoiselle Desiree.
She was to sing in one of the most fashionable salons in England: that
was very pleasant. The Prince of Wales would hear and see her! that
opened out a vista of delightful possibilities! And all she had to do
was to act a part dictated to her by Citizen Chauvelin, to behave as
he directed, to move in the way he wished! Well! that was easy enough,
since the part which she would have to play was one peculiarly suited to
her talents.
She looked at herself critically in the glass. Her maid Fanchon--a
little French waif picked up in the slums of Soho--helped to readjust a
stray curl which had rebelled against the comb.
“Now for the necklace, Mademoiselle,” said Fanchon with suppressed
excitement.
It had just arrived by messenger: a large morocco case, which now lay
open on the dressing table, displaying its dazzling contents.
Candeille scarcely dared to touch it, and yet it was for her. Citizen
Chauvelin had sent a note with it.
“Citizeness Candeille will please accept this gift from the government
of France in acknowledgment of useful services past and to come.”
The note was signed with Robespierre's own name, followed by that of
Citizen Chauvelin. The morocco case contained a necklace of diamonds
worth the ransom of a king.
“For useful services past and to come!” and there were promises of still
further rewards, a complete pardon for all defalcations, a place
within the charmed circle of the Comedie Francaise, a grand pageant
and apotheosis with Citizeness Candeille impersonating the Goddess of
Reason, in the midst of a grand national fete, and the acclamations of
excited Paris: and all in exchange for the enactment of a part--simple
and easy--outlined for her by Chauvelin!...
How strange! how inexplicable! Candeille took the necklace up in her
trembling fingers and gazed musingly at the priceless gems. She had seen
the jewels before, long, long ago! round the neck of the Duchesse de
Marny, in whose service her own mother had been. She--as a child--had
often gazed at and admired the great lady, who seemed like a wonderful
fairy from an altogether different world, to the poor little kitchen slut.
How wonderful are the vagaries of fortune! Desiree Candeille, the
kitchen-maid's daughter, now wearing her ex-mistress' jewels.
She supposed that these had been confiscated when the last of the
Marnys--the girl, Juliette--had escaped from France! confiscated and now
sent to her--Candeille--as a reward or as a bribe!
In either case they were welcome. The actress' vanity was soothed. She
knew Juliette Marny was in England, and that she would meet her to-night
at Lady Blakeney's. After the many snubs which she had endured from
French aristocrats settled in England, the actress felt that she was
about to enjoy an evening of triumph.
The intrigue excited her. She did not quite know what schemes Chauvelin
was aiming at, what ultimate end he had had in view when he commanded
her services and taught her the part which he wished her to play.
That the schemes were vast and the end mighty, she could not doubt. The
reward she had received was proof enough of that.
Little Fanchon stood there in speechless admiration, whilst her mistress
still fondly fingered the magnificent necklace.
“Mademoiselle will wear the diamond to-night?” she asked with evident
anxiety: she would have been bitterly disappointed to have seen the
beautiful thing once more relegated to its dark morocco case.
“Oh, yes, Fanchon!” said Candeille with a sigh of great satisfaction;
“see that they are fastened quite securely, my girl.”
She put the necklace round her shapely neck and Fanchon looked to see
that the clasp was quite secure.
There came the sound of loud knocking at the street door.
“That is M. Chauvelin come to fetch me with the chaise. Am I quite
ready, Fanchon?” asked Desiree Candeille.
“Oh yes, Mademoiselle!” sighed the little maid; “and Mademoiselle looks
very beautiful to-night.”
“Lady Blakeney is very beautiful too, Fanchon,” rejoined the actress
naively, “but I wonder if she will wear anything as fine as the Marny
necklace?”
The knocking at the street door was repeated. Candeille took a final,
satisfied survey of herself in the glass. She knew her part and felt
that she had dressed well for it. She gave a final, affectionate
little tap to the diamonds round her neck, took her cloak and hood from
Fanchon, and was ready to go.