"THE ABANDONED ORPHAN"
DRAMA
The usual guests who figure at stage weddings had assembled in the
salon. Evidently, the audience whispered, one to another, it was a
marriage contract, at least, which was about to be signed--or,
perhaps, an assemblage of relatives at the bride's house ere setting
forth to the church. No doubt of that, they thought, else why the
love-knots at ladies' wrists and breasts--quite clean and fresh
because, somehow, the poor strolling players who represented
high-born dames had been provided with them by the giver of the
entertainment--and why, also, had the gentlemen got on the best suits
which the baggage waggon of their troupe contained?
Wherefore, after seeing all this, the actual high-born dames and men
of ancient family in the audience gave many a sidelong glance at each
other, while the former's eyes frequently flashed leering looks over
their enamelled cheeks and from beneath their painted eyelashes and
eyebrows. For all recalled that, in the real drama which had happened
in Paris in the winter months--the real drama over which Baron and
Destouches and Poinsinet (who should never have been an author, since
he was born almost a gentleman), and other grinning devils of the pen,
had made such bitter mockery in verse and prose--in that real drama, a
marriage, renounced and broken, had formed the main incident.
Recalling all this, they settled down well into their seats, eager and
excited as to what was to come.
Enter amongst the guests, Célie. The handsome woman was made up to
look a little older now. Yet, "the deuce confound me!" said the
venerable Marquise de Champfleury, a lady who, fifty years before, had
been renowned for her _bonnes fortunes_ in the Royal circle, "the
deuce confound me! she resembles Diane more than ever." Which was
true, and was, perhaps, made more so by the fact that the woman was
now wearing a costly dress which Diane Grignan de Poissy had herself
worn more than once at Eaux St. Fer before all her friends, but which
she had now bestowed upon the wandering actress. The latter was,
indeed, so like Diane, that again and again the revered marquise
uttered her oaths as she regarded her.
To Célie there entered next Cidalise, young, slender, pretty,
yet--because sometimes the troupe were starving and had naught to eat
but that which was flung to them in charity, or a supper of broken
victuals given them by an innkeeper in return for a song or
performance before a handful of provincial shopkeepers--thin, and out
of condition. Nevertheless, she could deliver her lines well, and
speak as clearly as Charlotte Lenoir had done, or as La Gautier did
now--and would have become a leading actress, indeed might become one
yet, if she could only get a foothold in Paris.
In short, sharp sentences, such as the French dramatists loved to
intersperse with the terribly long monologues which, in other places,
they put into the mouths of their characters, Célie asked her if she
was resolved to carry out her contract and marry this man, this
Prince, who desired her for his wife? Yes, Cidalise replied, yes. Not
because she loved him, but because her origin was obscure, her present
surroundings revolting. Was not her uncle a gambler! At this there was
a movement amongst the audience; many exquisitely painted fans were
fluttered, a rustle of silk and satin and brocade was perceptible.
And, also, eyes gleamed into other eyes again, but none spoke. Even
the old Marquise de Champfleury swore no more. The aged trifler had
become interested, a novelty which had not occurred to her--unless in
connection with herself and her food and her health--for a long time.
Yet, because when all is said, these were ladies and gentlemen, not
one stole a glance in the direction of Monsieur le Duc.
Had they done so they would have seen that he sat motionless in his
seat, with his eyes half closed, yet glittering, as they gazed at the
two women on the stage.
Two more figures were now upon the scene. His Highness, the Prince,
the bridegroom predestinate, and also the uncle of Cidalise; the first
called Cléon, Prince de Fourbignac, the second, Dorante. They loved
such names as these, did those old French dramatists. Yet what was
there about the man who played the Prince which awoke recollections in
the minds of all the audience of another man they had once seen or
known who was not the Duc Desparre, but someone very like him?
How--how was that likeness produced? The vagabond, the stroller who
enacted the illustrious personage, was a big, hectoring fellow, with a
short-clipped, jet black moustache; an individual who looked more
accustomed to the guardroom than a salon, to a spadroon clanking against
his thigh--perhaps sticking out half a foot through its worn-out
scabbard--than to a clouded cane which he now wielded, even though
in a salon. His clothes, too--they were the best that could be found
in the frowsy, hair-covered trunk which carried the costumes of the
"first gentleman" of the troupe--seemed more fitted to some bully or
sharper than to an exquisite. So, too, did his expressions, his
"Health, belle comtesse!" to one high-born (stage) lady, his
"_Rasade_" to another whose glass touched his as she wished him
felicity; so, too, did his vulgar heartiness to all.
"A Prince!" the real aristocrats in front muttered to themselves and
each other, yet remembered that the words he uttered must for sure
have been put into his mouth either by the authoress, or her
collaborateur, De Crébillon. Only, why and wherefore? And still they
were puzzled, since many of them could recall in far back days some
fellow very much like the creature who was now strutting about the
stage and kicking a footman here and there, slapping the bare
shoulders of female guests, and giving low winks to his male friends.
There was some art in this, they muttered; some recollection which it
was intended to evoke. Whom had they ever known like this? What fellow
who, for some particular reason, had been admitted to their august
society--a society in which, to do them justice, they behaved
admirably and with exquisite grace so long as their actions were
public, no matter how much they atoned for that behaviour by extremely
questionable conduct in private?
Then they remembered all, memory being aroused by none other than the
respected Marquise de Champfleury.
"_Me damne!_" she whispered, changing her form of exclamation
somewhat--probably for fear of being monotonous. "_Me damne!_ does no
one recall our friend when a beggarly captain on the frontier? _Hein!_
he was the second, heir then, wherefore we permitted his presence
sometimes. Yet, only sometimes, God be praised! Had he not been an
heir, our lackeys should have kicked him down the street. You
remember; you, Fifine, and you, Finette? Heaven knows you are both old
enough to do so!"
After which the amiable aristocrat ceased her pleasing prattle, and
attended to the development of the drama before them.
They were all doing that now, eagerly, absorbingly, and even more
especially so since the fine memory of the old Marquise had recalled
to them, or most of them, the time when Desparre stamped about their
salons roughly, and, because he was the second heir to the dukedom and
almost sure to succeed to it some day, treated them all to a great
deal of what they termed privately in disgust, "his guardroom
manners." And, in remembering, they thought what good fortune it was
for Diane (if it was not the outcome of astute selection) to have
secured this rough fellow to personate the man she was undoubtedly
bent on exposing--the man who now sat staring at the stage with his
face as set as a mask, and as expressionless.
Meanwhile, the play went on. The signing of the contract which, all
recognised now, was the ceremony to be performed, was at hand. First
came the bridegroom, who--having ceased his tavern buffooneries--so
becoming to a Prince! and in the distribution of which he had included
Cidalise, who, with well-acted horror, shrank from him every time he
approached her--drew near the table at which the notary and his clerk
sat, and, having slapped the former on the back, affixed his signature
with a great deal of gesticulation, and then handed the quill with
ostentatious politeness to his future Princess.
"Sign, dear idol," he whispered in a stage whisper, "sign. I await
with eagerness the right to call thee mine." Only he marred somewhat
these affecting words by winking at another girl who stood by
Cidalise.
On either side of that Iphigenia were grouped now Célie and
Dorante--an old grisly actor this, round shouldered and ill-favoured,
who had forgotten to shave himself that morning, or who, perhaps,
imagined that, as he represented a Parisian gambler, it was a touch of
nature to go thus unclean--Cléon being of course next to Cidalise. And
to her, Célie spoke clearly, so clearly that her voice was heard by
everyone of the audience present in the salon of The Garland as she
said "Sign, Cidalise." Then she stood with her large blue eyes fixed
full on Cléon, while the expression in them told the spectators as
plainly as words could have done that the great moment was at hand,
that the dénouement was coming.
"Sign," she said again.
Taking the pen, the girl signed, repeating in stage fashion the
letters of the name "Cidalise," so that the audience, who could not
see the characters, should understand that they were being written
down.
"So," exclaimed Célie, her eyes still on Cléon, "So, Cidalise.
Continue."
"D. O. R.," murmured the bride as she pretended to write again, when,
suddenly, breaking in upon hers was heard the voice of the leading
actress. "No! Not that. If you sign further you must use another
name." Then, turning to Cléon she hissed rapidly:
"_Lâche!_ You abandoned one woman and deserted another. My time has
come."
Aroused thoroughly, the audience bent forward in their chairs. The
Marquise de Champfleury drew a quick breath, but cursed no more.
Agénor Grignan de Poissy felt his aunt's hand tighten convulsively on
his. Now, not one of the painted patricians glanced at the other; all
eyes were on the stage, except one pair--those of Diane--and they were
fixed on Desparre!
"What must I sign?" whispered Cidalise, trembling, and playing her
part as the audience said afterwards, _à ravir_. "What? What?"
"Demand of thy uncle--uncle, mon Dieu! Demand of Dorante. Speak,
Dorante."
"Thy real name," replied Dorante slowly, effectively, "is De
Fourbignac."
"Thou canst not marry him," and now the woman who represented Célie
was superb, as, with finger extended and eyes ablaze, she pointed at
Cléon, (she got to Paris at last and became the leading lady at the
Odéon!). "He is thy father. Even as he deserted me, so, too, he
deserted thy mother, leaving her to die of starvation. Villain!
_maraud!_" she exclaimed, turning on Cléon. "What did I promise thee?
Thus I fulfil my vow."
"And thus I avenge myself," cried Cléon, tugging at his rapier. "Thus,
traitress----"
But the actor did not finish his speech. From outside the wall of the
salon was heard ringing the great bell of The Garland; the bell which
was a signal to all who resided at the inn that now was the time when
the noblesse, in contradistinction to those of the commercial world,
repaired to the wells of Eaux St. Fer, there to take their glass of
those unutterably filthy, but health-giving waters. Perhaps it was an
arranged thing; arranged by the vengeful Diane, or the spiteful De
Crébillon. Perhaps, too, it was arranged that, as the bell ceased to
ring, the old Comte de la Ruffardière, a man who was of the very
highest position even among so fashionable an audience as that
assembled there, should rise from his chair and say, in a voice
exquisitely sweet and silvery:
"Mesdames et Messieurs,--you hear that bell. Alas, that it
should--although we are desolated in obeying it--that it should be
able to call us away from this most ravishing drama. Yet, my dear
friends, we have our healths, our most precious healths, to consult.
If we miss our revivifying glass what shall become of us? Madame,"
addressing the representative of Célie, "Monsieur," to Cléon,
"Mademoiselle," to Cidalise--his manners were of a truth perfect--not
for nothing had he handed the Grand Monarch his shirt for forty-two
nights in every year (by royal appointment), and watched his august
master's deportment both in public and private--"we are penetrated, we
are in despair, at having to depart ere this most exciting play is at
an end. A play, my faith! it is a tragedy of the first order. Yet,
yet, it must be so. We are all invalids--sufferers. Alas! the waters
the waters! We must partake of the waters!"
Then he bowed again, solemnly to each actress, in a friendly way to
the representatives of Cléon and Dorante, comprehensively to all. And,
strange to say, not one of those gifted Thespians seemed at all
surprised, nor in the least offended, at the departure of the
audience, which was now taking place rapidly. On the contrary, the
shrinking, persecuted Cidalise, that distinguished heroine and
once-about-to-be sacrificed one, tapped him lightly on his aged cheek
with her bridal fan as he stepped on to the foot-high stage, and
whispered, "be still, _vieux farceur_," while Célie regarded him with
a mocking smile in her blue eyes. Nor did Cléon refuse a fat purse
which, surreptitiously, the old courtier dropped into his hand, but,
instead, murmured his thanks again and again.
The audience had indeed departed now amidst rustlings of silks and
satins, the click-clack of light dress swords upon the parquet floor,
and the sharp tap of high heels. Diane, with her nephew, had slipped
out even as De la Ruffardière commenced his oration; scarcely any
were left when he had concluded it and his withered old cheek had
received the accolade of Cidalise. And, it was strange! but not one
had looked at--in solemn truth, all had avoided looking at--the only
person who seemed to make no attempt to move. Desparre!
Desparre, who sat on and on in his seat, motionless as ever, and
always stone, marble white; his eyes glaring through their drooping
lids at the little stage on which the battered old courtier was
whispering his compliments.
Presently however, the latter turned and descended the foot-high
platform, casting his eyes,--for him, timidly and, undoubtedly,
furtively--at the silent, motionless figure sitting there. Then he
turned round to the actors and actresses who, themselves, had observed
Desparre, while, in a totally different tone from that in which he had
previously addressed them, he said:
"Begone. Quit the stage. Your parts are played. And," he muttered to
himself, "played with sufficient effect."
As they obeyed his orders--he watching them depart from the scene of
what was undoubtedly their triumph (never before had those wandering
comedians achieved such a success--in more ways than one), he went
over slowly to where the Duke sat and touched him gently on the
shoulder. The withered, battered old roué, who had known the secrets
and intrigues of the most intriguing court that ever existed in
Europe, had still something left that did duty for a heart.
"Come, Desparre. Come," he said. "The company has broken up. It is
time to--to--to take the waters."
But Monsieur le Duc, sitting there, his eyes still fixed on the stage,
made him no answer, though his lips moved once, and once he turned
those eyes and gazed at the old Chevalier by his side.
"Come, Desparre," the other repeated. "If not the waters, at least to
your apartments. Come."
Then, old and feeble though he was, he placed his hands under
Desparre's shoulders and endeavoured to assist him to rise.