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LATER QUEENS OF THE
FRENCH STAGE
[Illustration: _Sophie Arnould._
_Printed by J. B. Grange_ (_Wallace Collection_)]
LATER QUEENS OF
THE FRENCH STAGE
BY
H. NOEL WILLIAMS
AUTHOR OF “QUEENS OF THE FRENCH STAGE,” “MADAME RÉCAMIER
AND HER FRIENDS,” “MADAME DE POMPADOUR,” “MADAME
DE MONTESPAN,” “MADAME DU BARRY,” ETC.
[Illustration: colophon]
LONDON AND NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS
45 ALBEMARLE STREET, W.
1906
TO
A. M. BROADLEY
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. SOPHIE ARNOULD 1
II. MADEMOISELLE GUIMARD 99
III. MADEMOISELLE RAUCOURT 143
IV. MADAME DUGAZON 195
V. MADEMOISELLE CONTAT 223
VI. MADAME SAINT-HUBERTY 263
INDEX 345
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
SOPHIE ARNOULD (_Photogravure_) _Frontispiece_
_After the painting by_ GREUZE _in the Wallace Collection
at Hertford House_
GLUCK _To face page_ 56
_After the painting by_ N. F. DUPLESSIS
SOPHIE ARNOULD “ 72
_From an engraving by_ PRUD’HON _after the drawing by_ CŒURÉ
MARIE MADELEINE GUIMARD “ 112
_From an engraving by_ GERVAIS _after the painting by_ BOUCHER
MLLE. RAUCOURT “ 160
_From an engraving by_ RUOTTE _after the painting by_ GROS, _in
the collection of_ Mr. A. M. BROADLEY
MADAME DUGAZON “ 202
_From an engraving by_ MONSALDI _after the painting by_ JEAN
BAPTISTE ISABEY
LOUISE CONTAT “ 240
_After the painting by_ DUTERTRE
MADAME SAINT-HUBERTY “ 288
_From an engraving by_ COLINET _after the painting by_ LE MOINE
LATER QUEENS OF THE FRENCH STAGE
I
SOPHIE ARNOULD
In her unpublished _Mémoires_,[1] which she began, but never completed,
and only a few pages of which--possibly all that she wrote--have been
preserved, Sophie Arnould tells us that she was born in 1745, “in the
same alcove in which Admiral Coligny had been assassinated two hundred
years before.” As a matter of fact, the celebrated singer was born on
February 14, 1745, and it was not until some years after her birth that
her parents removed to the Hôtel de Ponthieu, Rue Béthisy, then known as
the Rue des Fossés-Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois.[2]
Sophie’s parents belonged to the upper _bourgeoisie_, and at the time
of her birth appear to have been in comfortable circumstances. Her
father, Jean Arnould, was a worthy man, whose worldly ambitions were
limited to securing a comfortable competence, retiring from business,
and purchasing some Government or municipal office and the social
distinction which went with it. Her mother, however, had received an
excellent education, “which, joined to her natural intelligence,” says
Sophie, “rendered her in society the most amiable and interesting of
women.” She affected literary society and numbered among her friends and
acquaintances Voltaire, Fontenelle, who, a few days before his death,
called to show her the manuscript of one of the great Corneille’s
tragedies, Piron, the Comte de Caylus, Moncrif, the Abbé (afterwards the
Cardinal) de Bernis, Diderot, and d’Alembert.
So impressed was Madame Arnould by the conversation of these
celebrities, that she determined to make her little girl a prodigy of
learning. Sophie’s education began almost as soon as she was out of her
cradle. She was precocious and learned quickly. At four, she declares,
she could read; at seven she wrote better than at the time of penning
her _Mémoires_, and at the same age could read music at sight without
any difficulty. The infant prodigy was petted and spoiled to the top of
her bent, “dressed up in silk and satin, with marcasite necklace and
flowers in her hair.”
When the child was four or five years old she attracted the attention of
the Princess of Modena, wife of the Prince de Conti, from whom, however,
she was separated. Madame de Conti, lonely and bored, without husband,
lover, child, or occupation, took a violent fancy to Sophie, and begged
Madame Arnould to let her have the little girl to live with her. Madame
Arnould consented, and Sophie became the plaything of the eccentric
princess, “who dragged her about everywhere as she might have her little
dog,” now nursing her on her knee, now setting her down to the
harpsichord, now taking her visiting in her carriage, now summoning her
to her salon to amuse her guests, and anon, if she happened to be in an
ill-humour, turning her out into the ante-chamber to play with the
yawning lackeys.
No pains were spared with Sophie’s education, and the best masters of
the day were engaged to teach her all the arts and accomplishments.
Before she was twelve, she could both write and speak her own language
correctly--a rare accomplishment in those days outside literary
circles,[3] and was familiar with Latin or Italian; while she could sing
like a professional.
Her musical talents were not destined to remain long hidden. When the
time for her first communion drew near, she was placed in the Ursuline
Convent at Saint-Denis, the _supérieure_ of which was a fellow
townswoman and friend of Madame Arnould. Here she sang in the choir, and
with such astonishing success that Court and town flocked to hear her,
and Voltaire, from his retreat at Ferney, wrote to his little friend a
letter congratulating her on her twofold success as a vocalist and a
first communicant; an epistle which Madame Arnould, who did not share
the Patriarch’s views on matters of religion, promptly committed to the
fire, although the Duc de Nivernais begged for a copy on his knees. On
leaving Saint-Denis, Sophie returned to live with Madame de Conti, who,
delighted by the notice which she had attracted, provided her with the
most celebrated music-masters to be found in France: Balbatre gave her
lessons on the harpsichord, and the famous Jéliotte--Jéliotte, the pride
of the Opera!--Jéliotte, “the happy and discreet conqueror of all the
fair ladies in Paris!”--condescended to sing with her. Sophie proved
herself worthy of her teachers.
It was then the fashion, among ladies of rank, to do penance during Lent
by retiring to one of the many convents in Paris or its neighbourhood.
Some of the visitors were, of course, sincerely desirous of benefiting
by the services, the conversation of the nuns, and the opportunities for
meditation which these peaceful abodes afforded; but to the majority the
practice would appear to have been regarded merely as a kind of rest
cure. There was nothing at all austere or conventual about the life for
such as these. They rose late, walked in the gardens, dined on plain but
well-cooked food, received visits from their friends, attended a service
or two, supped, and retired early to bed; and if their souls did not
greatly benefit, the early hours and simple fare worked wonders with
their complexions. They had, too, an opportunity of listening to some
very beautiful singing; for, during Holy Week, the convents vied with
one another in engaging the finest voices of the Opera to reinforce
their choirs, and the services of such singers as Jéliotte, Chassé, and
Mlles. Fel, Chevalier, and Anna Tonelli were always in great request.
At the beginning of Holy Week 1757, Madame de Conti, who, as became an
Italian princess, was very strict in her observance of Lent, arrived at
the Abbey of Panthémont, where she found the community in a state of
consternation. The convent in question had not deemed it necessary to
enlist the services of any of the stars of the Opera, as it numbered
among its inmates a nun with an exceptionally beautiful voice. But alas!
she had suddenly been taken ill, and it was feared that it would be
impossible to replace her. Half fashionable Paris would be coming on
Holy Wednesday to hear the _Tenebræ_ sung, and there would be no one
capable of singing it. The abbess fell upon Madame de Conti’s neck and
wept tears of mortification.
The princess bade her not despair, told her of the talent of her little
_protégée_, and suggested that she should be sent for; a proposal to
which the grateful abbess readily consented.
Holy Wednesday came, and with it a great crowd of visitors. At the
beginning of the service Sophie was a little nervous, but quickly
recovered her presence of mind, and sang so divinely that her hearers
were enraptured, and some, in spite of the solemnity of the place, could
not refrain from applause. The following day there was not a vacant seat
in the church; while on Good Friday the doors were literally besieged,
and more than two hundred carriages were turned back. Those who had
succeeded in gaining admission had every reason to congratulate
themselves on their good fortune, for Sophie sang the _Miserere_ of
Lalande, and with such exquisite pathos that there was scarcely a dry
eye in the congregation.[4]
Paris was as delighted as if it had found a new fashion. All the
Faubourg Saint-Germain wended its way to the Hôtel de Conti to
congratulate the princess upon the possession of this little wonder with
her angelic voice. The Court was scarcely less interested and, finally,
the Queen, the pious Marie Leczinska, who lived in a little world of her
own and seldom troubled herself about what was happening in the one
outside, expressed a desire to see Sophie.
“On your account,” remarked Madame de Conti to the radiant girl, “her
Majesty condescends to remember my existence.” (The said Majesty did not
approve of ladies who lived apart from their husbands.) Nevertheless,
the Queen had to be obeyed, and so the princess, who was proud of her
_protégée_ and, in truth, far from displeased with so striking a tribute
to her discernment, ordered her coach and set out for Versailles.
On reaching the Château, Madame de Conti and Sophie were conducted to
Marie Leczinska’s apartments, where the Queen almost immediately joined
them. Her Majesty smiled very graciously upon the girl, and kissed her
forehead, murmuring: “She is indeed very pretty!” Then several
portfolios of music were put before her, and she was bidden to choose
what she would like to sing, and not to be afraid; a somewhat
unnecessary exhortation, since never was there a more self-possessed
young person. Sophie, quite undismayed by the presence of her royal
auditor, forthwith assailed a very difficult piece, and had scarcely
finished when the Queen, who was herself a musician of no mean
attainments, remarked to Madame de Conti: “I should like to have her,
cousin; you will give her up to me, will you not?” meaning that she
wished to make her one of her Musicians of the Chamber. Afterwards
refreshments were brought in, and the Queen, having complimented the
young singer and bestowed upon her a friendly pat with her fan, took her
departure.
But there was another Queen of France: Madame de Pompadour, to wit, who
had already expressed a wish to hear Sophie sing; a wish which could no
more be ignored than that of Marie Leczinska. On the morrow of the
interview with the Queen, Madame du Hausset, the favourite’s _femme de
chambre_, presented herself at the Hôtel de Conti, bearing a letter from
her mistress to the princess, requesting the loan of little Mlle.
Arnould till the evening.
This request caused Madame de Conti considerable embarrassment. What one
called then “_les grandes convenances_” forbade her to present Sophie to
both the crowned and the uncrowned Queen of France. On the other hand, a
refusal would mortally offend the latter, who was an extremely awkward
person to offend, as a great many people, from Princes of the Blood and
Ministers of State to ballad-mongers, had found to their cost. The poor
lady was at a loss what to do.
Finally, she sought refuge in a compromise. Sophie should go to
Versailles again, but, on this occasion, not in her patroness’s company,
but in that of her mother. So Madame Arnould was sent for and told to
take her daughter, as from Madame de Conti, to the favourite; and the
princess congratulated herself on having emerged with credit from a very
embarrassing situation.
Madame de Pompadour received her visitor very graciously, and remarked
that “mother and daughter were the very picture of one another,” after
which, saying that the King had sent for her, and that she would return
in a few minutes, she left them to themselves. In the room in which
they sat were two magnificent harpsichords, one of which had been
decorated with charming pictures by Boucher. This instrument attracted
Sophie’s attention, and, while Madame de Pompadour was absent, she
stepped up to it, ran her fingers over the keys, and began to sing. The
marchioness, returning at that moment, listened entranced to the girl’s
singing until she had finished, when she exclaimed: “My dear child, _le
bon Dieu_ has made you for the theatre; you were born, formed as one
ought to be for it: you will not tremble before the public.”
Then their hostess conducted them through her apartments, where Sophie
appears to have been particularly struck by the favourite’s sumptuous
bed, with its green and gold hangings and gold fringes, raised, like a
throne, upon a daïs, and enclosed within a semi-circular balustrade of
gold and marble, the exact counter-part, in fact, of the Queen’s own
couch. The marchioness begged her to sing again, and, delighted with her
sweet voice, smilingly inquired who were her masters; to change
countenance, however, when she heard their names, for they were the same
whom she had engaged for her idolised little daughter, Alexandrine
d’Étoiles, who had died some years before.
As Sophie and her mother were taking their leave, Madame de Pompadour
drew the latter aside, and said in a low voice: “If the Queen should ask
for your daughter for the music of the Chamber, do not have the
imprudence to consent. The King goes from time to time to these little
family concerts, and, instead of giving this child to the Queen, you
will have made a present of her to the King.” Then she turned to Sophie,
and, having examined the lines in the girl’s forehead and hand, said to
her gravely: “You will make a charming princess!”
A few days after these visits, Madame Arnould received a communication
from the Gentlemen of the Chamber to the effect that her Majesty had
deigned to admit the demoiselle Sophie Arnould into her private company
of musicians and singers, at a salary of one hundred louis; Madame
Arnould received a similar appointment, at the same salary as her
daughter.
Hardly had the good lady had time to master the contents of this
document, when there came a second of a much less welcome nature. It was
a _lettre de cachet_, informing her that by the express order of the
King, the demoiselle Sophie Arnould was attached to his Majesty’s
company of musicians, and, in particular, to his theatre of the Opera.
On reading this, the poor mother burst into tears. She had no objection
to her daughter singing before the virtuous Marie Leczinska, but the
Opera was a very different matter. No young girl could hope to preserve
her virtue for long at the Académie Royale de Musique, the rules of
which emancipated its members from parental control. Rather than see her
child ruined, she resolved to consign her to a convent, and,
accordingly, hurried off to Madame de Conti to implore her assistance.
Madame de Conti promised to do all in her power to save Sophie from the
danger which threatened her, and took the girl to her friend the Abbess
of Panthémont. “I bring you,” said she, “this young girl, of whom the
Gentlemen of the Chamber wish to make an actress; a decision which does
not meet with my approval. Conceal her for me in some little corner of
your convent, until I have had an opportunity of speaking to the King.”
To which the discreet abbess replied: “Princess, salvation is possible
in every profession. I cannot bring myself to thwart the wishes of the
King, to whom I owe my abbey. Go and see the abbesses of Saint-Antoine
and Val-de-Grâce: perhaps, in this matter, they will have more courage
than myself.”
Madame de Conti tried Saint-Antoine and Val-de-Grâce; but at both she
received the same answer as at Panthémont; and was reluctantly forced to
the conclusion that further attempts in the same direction offered but
very small prospect of success.
There remained, however, another way of escape: marriage. Sophie had an
admirer--a devoted and, what was more to the point, an eligible
admirer--a certain Chevalier de Malézieux, who asked nothing better than
to give her the protection of his name. In his day, M. de Malézieux had
been a noted _vainqueur de dames_, but that day, alas! was long past,
and though he strove manfully to repair the ravages of time by the aid
of an ingenious toilette, the only result of his efforts was to give him
the appearance of a majestic ruin.
Madame de Conti had, at first, regarded this veteran dandy’s attentions
to her _protégée_ with scant favour, and, meeting the old gentleman one
day at the Arnoulds’ house, charitably related for his benefit the story
of a prince of her own family, who had imprudently contracted a marriage
at the age of eighty, and had died the same night. Still, a day or two
later, she told Sophie that she might do worse than take charge of the
chevalier and his infirmities, provided that he would agree to settle
his whole fortune upon her; and after the arrival of the _lettre de
cachet_ from Versailles, and her abortive attempts to secure the girl’s
admission to a convent, actually proposed to send for M. de Malézieux,
and have the marriage celebrated there and then.
Madame Arnould, however, did not altogether approve of such haste, while
Sophie shed tears enough to melt the heart of the sternest parent; and
the matter, therefore, remained in abeyance. Nevertheless, the
chevalier, encouraged by Madame de Conti, pressed his suit with ardour,
dyed his eyebrows, rouged his cheeks, “shaved twice a day,” and, one
fine morning, presented himself at the Arnoulds’ house, bearing the
draft of a marriage-contract, in which the whole of his property,
amounting to some 40,000 livres a year, was settled upon Sophie.
The prospect of so advantageous a settlement in life for her daughter
was a temptation greater than any self-respecting mother could be
expected to resist, and though M. Arnould declined to force the girl
into a marriage which was distasteful to her, his wife lost no
opportunity of sounding the praises of M. de Malézieux--or rather of M.
de Malézieux’s income--in Sophie’s reluctant ear. That young lady,
however, only pouted, and when her antiquated admirer strove to soften
her heart towards him by citing the example of Madame de Maintenon, who,
when a young and beautiful girl, no older than Sophie herself, had
espoused the crippled poet Scarron, replied, laughing: “I will make a
similar marriage to-morrow, on condition that my husband will begin by
being a cripple, and end by being a king.”[5]
And so poor M. de Malézieux’s contract was never signed, and no
alternative now remained for Madame Arnould but to allow Sophie to enter
the Opera, trusting that, for some time to come, her services would only
be required for the Concerts of Sacred Music which were given during
Lent. This hope, however, was not realised, for the directors of the
Opera happened to be just at that time on the look-out for some novelty
to divert the attention of their patrons from the mediocrity of the
pieces with which they had lately been provided, and, accordingly, on
December 15, 1757, the young singer was called upon to make her first
bow to the public.
It was a very modest _début_--merely the singing of an air introduced
into an opera-ballet by Mouret, entitled _Les Amours des Dieux_.[6]
Nevertheless, restricted as were the girl’s opportunities on this
occasion, she quickly became a public favourite; indeed, the eagerness
to see and hear her was so great that on the evenings on which she
appeared, the doors of the theatre were besieged, and Fréron
sarcastically observed that “he doubted whether people would give
themselves so much trouble to enter Paradise.”
“Mlle. Arnould,” says the _Mercure de France_ of the following January,
which was but the feeble echo of the enthusiasm of the public,
“continues her _début_ in _Les Amours des Dieux_, with great and
well-deserved success. She attracts the public to such an extent that
the Thursday has become the most brilliant day at the Opera, altogether
effacing the Friday. The second air which she sings affords her more
scope for the display of her talent than the first. She possesses at
once a charming face, a beautiful voice, and warmth of sentiment. She
is full of expression and of soul. Her voice is not only tender, but
passionate. In a word, she has received all the gifts of Nature, and, in
order to perfect them, she receives all the resources of Art.”
At the beginning of the New Year, Sophie appeared in a second piece,
called _La Provençale_, in which she confirmed the favourable impression
she had created in _Les Amours des Dieux_. “Mlle. Arnould,” says the
_Mercure_, “sang the _Provençale_ with the ingenuous charm of her age.
In this rôle she had only one important song. It is the monologue (‘_Mer
paisible_’...), into which she threw all the expression that it
demanded. The crowded houses which have followed it up to Lent are
proofs of the pleasure which she gives the public.”
In the following April the young actress reaped the reward of her
success by receiving her first important part, that of Venus in _Énée et
Lavinie_, a tragic opera in five acts by Fontenelle, music by
Dauvergne.[7] The confidence reposed in her was not misplaced, and she
received as much applause as she had previously obtained in ariettas and
pastorals. Such was her success indeed that she was speedily promoted to
the principal rôle, and the admiring critic of the _Mercure_, who had
already spoken in high terms of the new singer’s rendering of Venus,
consecrated to her the following article:
“On Tuesday, April 13, Mlle. Arnould played the rôle of Lavinie for the
first time. Her success was complete. The tragic indeed seems to be the
_genre_ most suited to her. It is, at any rate, that in which she has
appeared to most advantage. Her gestures are noble without arrogance and
expressive without grimaces. Her acting is vivacious and animated, and
yet never departs from the natural. This excellent actress has already
partially corrected herself of a kind of slowness, which is only
suitable to the arietta. Bad examples had led her astray. We invite her
to pay heed to no one but herself, if she wishes to approach nearer and
nearer to perfection.”
“So great a success renders it almost needless for us to observe that
Mlle. Arnould has retained this rôle; that she has brought back the
public to the Opera; finally, that she has adorned _Énée et Lavinie_
with an appearance of novelty.”
Some months later the _Mercure_ returns to the subject of _Énée et
Lavinie_, and observes that Mlle. Arnould played the latter part “with
that intelligence, that dignity, those natural and touching graces which
enchant the public.” “Happily,” continues the critic, “she has depended
upon her own impulses before allowing herself to be intimidated by all
the little prejudices of the art. Model as a _débutante_, she reanimates
the lyric stage and appears to communicate her soul to those who have
the modesty and the talent to imitate her.”
Towards the end of June of that year, Sophie created a trio of small
parts in an opera-ballet in three acts, entitled _Les Fêtes de
Paphos_.[8] Collé, that most exacting of critics, is very severe on
this piece, but, at the same time, has nothing but praise for Sophie,
who appears to have covered herself with glory. “At the first
representation,” he writes, “the music of this ballet was thought
pitiable, and it would not have survived six, if it had not been for a
young actress who made her first appearance this winter, and who, in
four months, has become the queen of the theatre. Never have I seen
combined in the same actress more grace, more truth of sentiment,
dignity of expression, intelligence, and fire. Never have I seen grief
more charmingly expressed. She can depict the deepest horror without her
countenance losing one feature of its beauty. She would be twice as
great an actress as Mlle. Le Maure,[9] if she only possessed two-thirds
of her voice, and Mlle. Le Maure will always be regarded as a great
artiste. I speak of Mlle. Sophie Arnould, who is not yet nineteen years
old.”[10]
The voice of Sophie Arnould was very far from being a powerful one.
“Nature,” she says in her _Mémoires_, “had seconded this taste [the
taste for music] with a tolerably agreeable voice, weak but sonorous,
though not extremely so. But it was sound and well-balanced, so that,
with a clear pronunciation and without any defect save a slight lisp,
which could hardly be considered a fault, not a word of what I sang was
lost, even in the most spacious buildings.”
She might have added, without fear of contradiction, that her voice was
infinitely sweet and that she possessed the gift of imparting to it
wonderful pathos and expression. “She brought to harmony, emotion, to
the song, compassion, to the play of the voice, sentiment. She charmed
the ear and touched the heart. All the domain of the tender drama, all
the graces of terror, were hers. She possessed the cry, and the tears,
and the sigh, and the caresses of the pathetic.... What art, what
genius, must there have been to wrest so many harmonies from a
contemptible voice, a feeble throat.”[11]
Another important factor in Sophie’s success is to be found in the fact
that she was not only a great singer, but an accomplished actress, which
great singers rarely are. When Madame Arnould had found that she had no
alternative but to allow her daughter to enter the Opera, she had, like
a sensible woman, decided that, since to the Opera Sophie must go,
nothing which could possibly make for her success in her profession
should be neglected, and had sent her to take lessons in singing from
Mlle. Fel, and in acting from Mlle. Clairon. The girl had not failed to
benefit by the teaching of the famous _tragédienne_, and her command of
facial expression and the dignity and grace of her movements would have
reflected credit on a veteran member of the Comédie-Française, while for
a _débutante_ of the lyric stage they were little short of
extraordinary.
And yet, with all her vocal and histrionic talents, it may be doubted
whether Sophie would so speedily have attained the dazzling position in
the estimation of both the public and the critics which was now hers,
had she not been fortunate enough to possess physical attractions of a
high order. If we are to judge of her appearance solely by her portraits
by La Tour and Greuze, she must have been a very pretty woman. In the
former, which the excellent engraving by Bourgeois de la Richardière has
helped to popularise, Sophie is depicted at the moment when she is about
to sing. Her lips are parted; her eyes, fine and full of expression, and
surmounted by arched eyebrows, are turned imploringly heavenward; while
her face, which is oval in shape, with small and regular features, wears
a look at once charming and pathetic. In the Greuze portrait--now in the
Wallace Collection at Hertford House--the actress is dressed in white,
with a large black hat decorated with a white plume. Her elbow rests on
a chair, her chin on the back of her hand; her expression is nonchalant
and slightly _ennuyé_.
These portraits, as we have already remarked, are those of a very pretty
woman; but it should be added that the pen-portraits which some of her
contemporaries have left of Sophie are not altogether in accord with the
crayon of La Tour or the brush of Greuze--nor yet with the description
which the lady gives us of her own charms[12]--and we are, therefore,
inclined to think that both artists have rather idealised their subject,
a practice not uncommon with portrait-painters in the eighteenth
century or, for that matter, in much later times. Collé and Grimm, it is
true, both speak of Sophie as beautiful, though without condescending to
particulars; but, on the other hand, Madame Vigée Lebrun asserts that
the beauty of her face was spoiled by her mouth, while one of the
inspectors of the Lieutenant of Police describes her skin as “black and
dry.” That curious work _L’Espion anglais_ confirms the artist and the
inspector: “To tell the truth, there is nothing remarkable about her;
her face is long and thin; she has a villainously ugly mouth, prominent
teeth, standing out from the gums, and a black and greasy skin.” The
writer adds, however, that she possessed “two fine eyes,” a feature
which also impressed Madame Lebrun, who says that they gave their owner
“a piquant look,” and were “indicative of the wit which had made her
celebrated.”
But two fine eyes, as one of her biographers very justly observes, count
for much, especially when animated by the intelligence, the feeling, and
the passion which belonged to Sophie; and no sooner did she appear upon
the stage than a host of _soupirants_ gathered about her. For some
months, however, they sighed in vain. The guardian of the Golden Fleece
was not more vigilant or more awe-inspiring than Madame Arnould. Every
evening she escorted her daughter to the theatre, remained in her
dressing-room while the mysteries of her toilette were being performed,
accompanied her to the corner of the stage, and then waited in the wings
until the young actress made her exit, when she again took charge of
her. She seemed to have as many eyes as Argus himself. If an admirer
bolder than the rest ventured to approach Sophie, before he had uttered
half a dozen words down would swoop the watchful mother, with a
freezing: “_Allons! laissez la petite en repos, s’il vous plait,
Monsieur!_” before which the luckless gallant fled incontinently. If a
_poulet_ were despatched, it was invariably intercepted and returned to
the sender, with a message which made him feel supremely foolish. “She
is not a woman at all,” exclaimed the indignant Duc de Fronsac, after
one of these rebuffs; “she is a veritable watch-dog!”
But even the most intelligent of watch-dogs cannot always discriminate
between friend and foe. The danger came from a quarter whence the poor
mother least expected it. She herself admitted the wolf into the
sheepfold.
For some time past, matters had not gone well with the Arnoulds; M.
Arnould had become involved in some disastrous speculations, which had
swallowed up the greater part of his fortune, and a long and serious
illness had made further inroads upon his resources. Accordingly, about
the time that Sophie made her _début_ at the Opera, he removed from the
Rue du Louvre to the Hôtel de Lisieux, Rue
Fossés-Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois, and converted his new residence into
an inn, where “persons from the provinces were accommodated at thirty
sols a night.”[13] To this inn there came, one fine day in the spring of
1758, a handsome young man of about five and twenty, who informed the
Arnoulds that his name was Dorval, that he was an artist by profession,
and that he had just arrived from Normandy, to study painting and get a
play produced. M. Dorval was a model guest. He never grumbled about his
food or his wine, never questioned the amount of his bills, never
returned home with an unsteady gait or accompanied by undesirable
acquaintances, as did so many young provincials who aspired to imitate
the vices of the fine gentlemen of the capital. And then he was so
ingenuous, so friendly, and had such charming manners. He knew nothing
of the ways of Paris, he said, but, _morbleu!_ he had heard that it was
a terribly wicked place and full of snares and pitfalls for unwary
youth. Would M. Arnould do him the favour of taking care of his purse?
Would Madame have the complaisance to do the same for his lace? Ah! it
was indeed a fortunate hour which had led him to the Hôtel de Lisieux!
The good people might have thought it a little singular that a young man
with so well-filled a purse and such fine lace should have selected so
unpretentious a hostelry as theirs for a lengthy stay; also that,
although he never looked askance at the menus of the Hôtel de Lisieux,
he was constantly receiving hampers containing fish, game, truffles, and
choice wines, which, he said, came from his fond parents in Normandy,
and begged his hosts and their daughter to share with him. But M. Dorval
quite disarmed suspicion--if any existed--by reading the letters he
received from home to the sympathetic Madame Arnould, and, besides,
innkeepers have more important matters requiring their attention than
the investigation of the private affairs of their guests, particularly
those who give no trouble, pay regularly, and are so agreeable and
open-handed as was this young Norman.
M. Dorval overwhelmed Madame Arnould with attention; he had literary
tastes, and recognised in her a kindred soul. To Sophie he was also
attentive, though not more so than good-breeding required. In a short
time he had become quite a friend of the family, dining and supping
with them, escorting the ladies to the Opera and home again at the
conclusion of the performance, and spending the rest of the evening in
their company. One night, after playing a couple of games of backgammon
with M. Arnould, Dorval pleaded an insupportable headache and retired to
his modest apartment. Soon afterwards a man in a lackey’s livery entered
the house by means of a false key, knocked at his door, and informed him
that all was ready. Dorval emerged from his room, and was joined by
Sophie. The pair crept noiselessly down the stairs, across the courtyard
and into the street, at the corner of which a coach was awaiting them.
Dorval helped the girl in and took his seat beside her; the driver
cracked his whip; the coach rolled away. Sophie was carried off!
Terrible was the consternation at the Hôtel de Lisieux the following
morning. Madame Arnould was like one distraught; M. Arnould, who had not
yet fully recovered from his recent illness, had a serious relapse. As
for the Chevalier de Malézieux, when the news was communicated to him he
took to his bed and never left it again, dying of grief--or, perhaps, of
wounded vanity. In Paris, nothing else was talked of but the elopement
of the queen of the Opera, and many were the wagers made about the
identity of the fortunate individual who had borne away the coveted
prize. All uncertainty was soon at an end. Two days later a letter was
brought to the Hôtel de Lisieux, signed Louis, Comte de
Brancas-Lauraguais, in which the writer offered his apologies to M. and
Madame Arnould for the deception he had been obliged to practise upon
them, and concluded by a formal promise to espouse their daughter--if he
should ever become a widower!
Madame Arnould dried her tears; M. Arnould’s illness took a favourable
turn. Since Sophie had been carried off, it was at least some
consolation to learn that her abductor was a man of rank and wealth, and
not a mere middle-class libertine; one, too, who, without doubt, was
only prevented from giving his name and all that went with it to the
object of his affection by the unfortunate circumstance that he was
already provided with a wife. The worthy pair quite forgot their
disgrace as they thought of the brilliant future which awaited their
daughter, when the earth should have closed over poor, delicate Madame
de Lauraguais--she lived till 1793, and her career was ended by the
guillotine--and the count’s father, the old Duc de Lauraguais, should
have gone the way of all flesh. Why, if the Fates were kind, ere many
months had passed Sophie might be a countess--nay, a duchess! And so
when, in due course, the prodigal daughter came, in a magnificent coach,
to pay a visit of courtesy to her parents, she found, instead of tears
and reproaches, caresses and pardon. Such was the moral code of the year
of grace 1758!
* * * * *
Louis Léon Félicité de Brancas, Comte de Lauraguais, the first lover of
Sophie Arnould, was a singular creature. “He has all possible talents
and all possible eccentricities,” wrote Voltaire, while Collé describes
him as “the most serious fool in the kingdom.” His conceit was
stupendous, his extravagance unbounded, his energy and versatility truly
astonishing; he dabbled in everything and confidently believed that he
excelled in whatever he might choose to undertake. Now he was composing
tragedies intended to eclipse the masterpieces of Corneille and Racine;
now making experiments in chemistry or anatomy which were to completely
revolutionise those sciences; anon writing treatises in favour of
inoculation, or endeavouring to bring about reforms in the theatre,[14]
or riding in horse-races.[15] The violence with which he advocated his
own views and his unsparing denunciations of all who ventured to differ
from him, no matter how highly placed they might be, were perpetually
bringing him into collision with the authorities, and he was several
times exiled or imprisoned, only to resume his eccentric career the
moment his punishment was at an end. The stories about him are
numberless.
On one occasion he wrote a comedy, entitled _La Cour du Roi Pétaud_, and
coaxed his unsuspecting father to persuade the Comte de Saint-Florentin,
the Minister of the King’s Household, to direct the Comédie-Italienne to
produce it. The order was on the point of being sent, when one of
Saint-Florentin’s secretaries, happening to glance through the play,
discovered, to his horror, that it was nothing less than a clever and
biting satire on certain idiosyncrasies of his Most Christian Majesty
Louis XV. himself, which, had it been represented, would most certainly
have entailed banishment or the Bastille on all concerned in its
production.[16]
On another, he appeared, at four o’clock in the morning, at the lodging
of two poor but talented young chemists, hustled them into a coach which
was in waiting, and carried them off to Sèvres, where he had a little
house, in which he was in the habit of conducting his chemical
experiments. Leading his companions to the laboratory, he addressed them
as follows: “Messieurs, I wish you to make certain experiments; you will
not leave this house until they are completed. Adieu; I shall return a
week hence; you will find here everything you require; the servants have
orders to attend to your wants; set to work.” So saying, he locked them
in and went away. When he returned, the young chemists communicated to
him the result of their labours, a discovery of some little importance,
upon which he offered them a sum of money if they would agree to
surrender to him the credit of having made it. “You,” said he, “have
genius, and you want money. I have money, and I want genius. Let us
strike a bargain. You shall have clothes to wear, and the glory shall be
mine.” The young chemists consented, and Lauraguais went about boasting
everywhere of the discovery he had made; and such, says Diderot, who
tells the story, was his conceit that he soon succeeded in persuading
himself that it was he to whom the credit really belonged, and that the
young men had done nothing, except render him some merely mechanical
assistance.[17]
A third story of this extraordinary man is even more amusing than the
preceding one. He appears to have had a theory that it would be possible
for a person to support life entirely on a diet of forced fruit,
provided that they were kept in the same temperature as was required for
the production of what they consumed. He, therefore, persuaded one of
his mistresses to allow herself to be shut up in a green-house and fed
upon grapes, pine-apples, and so forth. This regimen, as may be
supposed, did not agree with the lady, who soon declared that she was
starving. “Ungrateful girl!” exclaimed the disgusted count. “Can you
complain of not having sufficient to eat--a trivial matter at
best--while you are thus abundantly supplied with the luxuries that
every one longs for?”
So eccentric a character as Lauraguais was hardly calculated to make any
woman happy, whether wife or mistress, and Sophie declared long
afterwards that the count “had given her two million kisses and caused
her to shed four million tears.” Nevertheless, the _liaison_ was a
tolerably long one, and, for the first three years, in the course of
which the actress presented her lover with two children, we are assured
that they were a most affectionate couple. By the police-reports of the
time, Sophie is represented as an extravagant, grasping and avaricious
woman, who cared for the count only so long as he was able and willing
to gratify her innumerable caprices. Extravagant she no doubt was, but
in regard to the other and graver charge, she would appear to have been
maligned, that is to say, if we are to place any reliance in the
following anecdote related by Diderot:
“For some days past a rumour has been current that Mlle. Arnould is
dead, but it requires confirmation. In the meanwhile, the Abbé Raynal
has made me her funeral oration, by relating to me some fragments of a
conversation which passed between her and Madame Portail [the wife of a
president of the Parliament of Paris], in which, it appears, the latter
played the part of a wanton, and the little actress that of an honest
woman:
“‘Is it possible, Mademoiselle, that you have no diamonds?’
“‘No, Madame, nor do I think them necessary for a little _bourgeoise_ of
the Rue du Four.’
“‘Then, I presume, you have an allowance?’
“‘An allowance! Why should I have that, Madame? M. de Lauraguais has a
wife, children, a position to maintain, and I do not see that I could
honourably accept the smallest part of a fortune which legitimately
belongs to others.’
“‘Oh, _par ma foi_! If I were in your place, I should leave him.’
“‘That may be, but he likes me, and I like him. It may have been
imprudent to take him, but, since I have done so, I shall keep him.’
“I do not recollect the remainder of the conversation, but I have an
idea that it was as dishonourable on the part of the president’s wife as
honourable on the part of the actress.”[18]
If Lauraguais really was so generous a protector as the police-reports
and those writers who accept them would have us believe, it is certainly
rather surprising to find on November 13, 1759, when the count’s passion
for his mistress was undoubtedly at a very high temperature, the sieur
Jean Baptiste Delamarre, tipstaff to the Châtelet de Paris, acting on
behalf of the sieur Jean Baptiste Desper, perruquier, requiring the
attendance of a commissary of police to witness an execution upon the
goods of the demoiselle Madeleine Sophie Arnould, residing on the first
floor of a house in the Rue de Richelieu. The said demoiselle, it
appeared, had, twelve months before, taken the apartment in question, on
a lease for three, six, or nine years, at an annual rental of 2400
livres; but the perruquier had not as yet seen any part of that sum. The
goods seized were left in the charge of one Chevalier, fruiterer of the
Rue Traversière, parish of Saint-Roch, from whom, we may presume, Sophie
or Lauraguais subsequently redeemed them.[19]
* * * * *
After her elopement with the Comte de Lauraguais, Sophie became more
than ever the idol of the public, and, for the next few years, might
without exaggeration have parodied the famous _mot_ of _le Grand
Monarque_ and exclaimed: “_L’Opéra, c’est moi!_” Never, declared both
public and critics, had the heroines of lyrical tragedy: the Psychés,
the Proserpines, the Thisbés, the Iphises, and the Cléopâtres, found so
worthy a representative, and, no matter how insipid the opera which
related the story of their woes might happen to be, the young singer was
always sure of an enthusiastic reception. The patrons of the
Palais-Royal seemed indeed as if they could not have enough of her; the
directors, who owed to her popularity their increased receipts, were at
her feet; every one adored her, or pretended to do so, and every one
trembled before her epigrams.
For side by side with her reputation as a singer and actress, Sophie was
building up another reputation, and one which was to endure long after
her stage triumphs had been forgotten: that of a _diseur de bons mots_,
and of _bons mots_ of a peculiarly caustic kind. Few indeed were the
wits of her time--and they were plentiful enough in the eighteenth
century--who cared to cross swords with her, and such was the dread
which her sharp tongue inspired that people imagined they detected a
sarcasm lurking even in her most innocent remark, as the following
incident will show.
It was the custom of the Royal Family of France to dine in public (_au
grand couvert_) on certain days of the week, and any respectably dressed
person was permitted to view his Most Christian King partaking of his
soup or his venison. In the days of Louis XIV., who, if his
sister-in-law, the Princess Palatine, is to be believed, was in the
habit of disposing at a single meal of as much as would suffice an
ordinary person for at least three,[20] a dinner _au grand couvert_ must
have been a spectacle worth going a long way to see; but as “the
Well-Beloved” had no pretensions to emulate the gastronomic feats of his
predecessor, the ceremony was now shorn of much of its former interest.
Sophie, who had never yet enjoyed a near view of her sovereign,
expressed one day a desire to attend one of these dinners, and a noble
admirer, accordingly, conducted her to Versailles and into the Salon de
Grand Couvert, where he placed her exactly opposite the King. His
Majesty was in the act of raising his glass to his lips when he caught
her eye. At the same moment Sophie remarked, half-involuntarily, to her
companion: “The King drinks!” Louis, who had heard much of the young
lady’s biting wit, was apparently under the impression that these simple
words were intended as a covert jest at his expense, and became so
embarrassed that every one present noticed it. Finally, he motioned to
Sophie to withdraw, which she did, reflecting that a reputation as a wit
sometimes has its drawbacks.
To appreciate the witticisms of Sophie Arnould as they deserve, they
must be read in the language in which they were uttered, for, when
translated, the point of many of them--plays upon names and so forth--is
lost. Not a few, too, of her most pungent sayings will scarcely bear
reproduction in a modern work, for her wit was essentially the wit of
the _coulisses_, whose frequenters were seldom at any pains to curb
their tongues, even in the presence of the highest in the land.
Fortunately, however, there still remain a considerable number of _mots_
which may be rendered into English with tolerable fidelity and without
injuring the susceptibilities of even the most fastidious of readers.
Sophie was an inveterate punster, a form of wit more appreciated in the
eighteenth century than it is to-day. Here is one, however, which most
of us will find it hard not to forgive.
The Duc de Bouillon became so enamoured of the charms of a young singer
named Mlle. Laguerre that, in the course of three months, he was
reported to have squandered upon her no less a sum than 800,000 livres.
This prodigality greatly exasperated the creditors of the duke, who
complained to the King himself, with the result that the infatuated
nobleman received orders to retire to his country-seat. A few days
later, some one, meeting Sophie, happened to inquire after the health of
Mlle. Laguerre. “I do not know how she is at present,” was the reply;
“but for the last month the poor child has been living entirely on soup
(_bouillon_).”
This same Mlle. Laguerre created the principal rôle in Piccini’s
_Iphigénie en Tauride_, produced on January 22, 1781. At the first
performance she sang admirably and contributed largely to the
enthusiastic reception it received; but on the second evening her
efforts were but too obviously inspired by wine. “_Mon Dieu!_” exclaimed
Sophie. “This is not Iphigenia in Tauris; it is Iphigenia in Champagne!”