1781, to La Ferté, Intendant des Menus, shows us Mlle. Guimard supreme
in the _coulisses_ of the theatre. All the affairs of the Opera, he
says, are treated of in private committees held at Mlle. Guimard’s
hôtel, and the orders of the administration are ignored whenever they
happen to clash with the wishes of the lady, to whom every one--dancers,
vocalists, composers, scene-painters, and so forth--is subservient. A
little later, Dauvergne complains that the demoiselle Guimard refuses to
have an understudy in the _ballets d’action_, in consequence of which,
whenever she is unable to appear, there can be no ballet; also that she
has quarrelled with Noverre and proscribed his ballets. “Not only does
she refuse to dance in them herself, but she is unwilling for other
persons to dance in them.”[88]
There exists a curious document, dated 1783, drawn up by La Ferté, for
the information of the Minister of the King’s Household, on the talents,
faults, habits, characters, and so forth of the singers and dancers of
the Opera. And here is what the Intendant des Menus says of Mlle.
Guimard:
“Dlle. Guimard.--_Première danseuse de demi-caractère._ Her talent is
known to every one; on the stage she still retains a very youthful
appearance; if she has not a great deal of execution in her dancing, she
possesses, by way of compensation, much grace; she is very good in
_ballets d’action_ and in pantomime; she has much zeal and works hard;
but she is an enormous expense to the Opera, where her wishes are
followed with as much respect as if she was its director. Following her
example, the other actresses demand the most costly dresses and
equipments.”
But enormous expense or not, the directors of the Opera seemed to have
been possessed by an ever-present dread lest Mlle. Guimard should take
it into her head to retire or transfer her services to some foreign
stage. After the destruction of the Opera by fire in June 1781, and
while the new Opera of the Porte Saint-Martin was in course of erection,
the minds of many of the homeless singers and dancers “turned towards
the shores of Great Britain and the guineas of Drury Lane,” and, in
spite of the most stringent precautions on the part of the Government,
several of them succeeded in emigrating.[89] Although Mlle. Guimard’s
fortune placed her in a position, where, according to the expression of
La Ferté, “she had very little need to trouble herself about England,”
the anxious Intendant was only half-reassured and wrote to the Minister
of the King’s Household, begging him to use every inducement possible to
keep the lady in France.
Mlle. Guimard remained faithful and reaped the reward of her fidelity in
the spring of the following year, when she demanded and obtained a
pension of 2500 livres, which, with an annual _gratification_ of 1500
livres and her salary of 2000 livres, brought her professional income up
to 6000 livres.
In the fire at the Opera-house, referred to above, Mlle. Guimard had a
very narrow escape of her life. The fire broke out at the end of the
third act of _Orphée_, happily after the majority of the audience had
quitted their seats. Mlle. Guimard was in her _loge_ at the time, and,
not daring to leave it, would probably have been stifled, had not a
scene-shifter come to her assistance and, wrapping her in the
curtains--for she was half-undressed--carried her through the smoke and
flames to a place of safety.
This was not the only time the _danseuse_ was in danger during the
course of her professional career. In June 1784, while appearing at the
Opera-house in the Haymarket, in London, then under Gallini’s
management, the theatre was completely destroyed by fire. Boaden, in his
Life of John Kemble, thus alludes to the catastrophe:
“On the 17th of June 1784, I was, on my return from a visit, crossing
the Park from Buckingham Gate to Stable Yard, St. James’s, when this
most tremendous conflagration burst upon me; it seemed to make the long
line of trees wave in an atmosphere of fire.... The fire had commenced
in the flies and burst through the roof in a column of confirmed
fierceness, that evinced its strength to have been irresistible, even
when it was first perceived. In the theatre, about two o’clock, they had
been rehearsing a ballet, and the first alarm was occasioned by the
sparks of fire which fell upon the heads of the dancers. Mme. Ravelli
was with difficulty saved by one of the firemen; Mme. Guimard lost a
slipper, but escaped in safety.”
A few years after her first appearance at the Opera, an accident
occurred which might have been attended with serious consequences to
Mlle. Guimard. One night in January 1766, during a performance of _Les
Fêtes de l’Hymen et de l’Amour_, a heavy piece of scenery fell upon her,
throwing her to the ground and breaking her arm. Had it struck her upon
the head, she would certainly have been killed.
At the end of the year 1782, came the bankruptcy of the Prince de
Guéménée, whose wife, _gouvernante_ to the children of Louis XVI., was
the daughter of the Prince de Soubise: a catastrophe which involved more
than three thousand people, many of whom were completely ruined. Mlle.
Guimard’s tender relations with the Prince de Soubise had come to an end
some years earlier--she had been succeeded in his affections and the
enjoyment of the two thousand écus a month, by her niece and pupil,
Mlle. Zacharie, a damsel of fifteen summers--but she still remained on
excellent terms with her former lover and received a handsome pension,
as the reward of her not very faithful services. This pension she now
determined to renounce, in favour of the creditors of the Prince de
Guéménée, and having persuaded several other ladies of the ballet, who,
like herself, had once basked in the smiles of the “Sultan of the Opera”
and had been similarly provided for, to follow her example, they met one
day in her dressing-room and drew up a letter to the prince setting
forth their wishes, copies of which they caused to be distributed among
the habitués of the theatre.
_Letter of_ MLLE. GUIMARD _and other danseuses of the
Opera to_ M. LE PRINCE DE SOUBISE.
“MONSEIGNEUR,--Accustomed, my comrades and myself, to have you in
our midst at each performance of the Théâtre-Lyrique, we have
observed with the most bitter regret, that not only were you weaned
from the pleasures of the play, but that none of us have been
summoned to those frequent _petits soupers_, at which we had, in
turn, the happiness of pleasing and amusing you. Rumour has only
too well informed us of the cause of your retirement and of your
just grief. Up to the present, we have feared to trouble you,
making our sensibility yield to our respect; we should not even
dare to break silence, without the pressing motive which our
delicacy is not able to resist. We flattered ourselves,
Monseigneur, that the bankruptcy (for one must needs employ a term
with which the _foyers_, the clubs, the gazettes, France, and the
whole of Europe resound), that the bankruptcy of M. le Prince de
Guéménée would not be on so enormous a scale as was announced. But
the derangement of his affairs has reached such a point that no
hope remains. We have come to this conclusion from the generous
sacrifices to which, following your example, the principal chiefs
of your illustrious house have resigned themselves.
“We should believe ourselves guilty of ingratitude, were we not to
imitate you, in seconding your humanity; were we not to return the
pensions which your munificence has lavished upon us. Apply these
revenues, Monseigneur, to the relief of the many suffering military
men, the many poor men of letters, the many unhappy servants, whom
M. le Prince de Guéménée drags into the abyss with him. As for
ourselves, we have other resources; we shall lose nothing,
Monseigneur, if we retain your esteem for us. We shall even be the
gainers if, in refusing your benefits, we compel our detractors to
confess that we were not altogether unworthy of them.
“We are with profound respect, &c.
“_In the dressing-room of Mlle. Guimard, this Friday, December 6,
1782._”
In August 1783, Mlle. Guimard was attacked by small-pox, to the great
alarm of the patrons of the Opera, who feared that, even if she were to
recover, the priests might succeed in persuading her to renounce her
profession. Happily, however, the attack was a mild one, and on August
29 a fête was held at the _danseuse’s_ hôtel, “to render thanks to her
lovers for the care they had taken of her.”
In the following year, however, Mlle. Guimard did announce her
intention of retiring, whereupon La Ferté wrote in hot haste to the
Minister of the King’s Household, begging him to promise her an addition
of one thousand livres to her retiring pension, if she would reconsider
her decision. As the ballerina had already demanded this favour, it is
probable that the announcement of her approaching resignation was merely
a ruse on her part to force the Minister’s hand.
The Minister replied the same day to La Ferté, that, “although a favour
accorded to one person opens the door to a whole crowd of pretensions,”
in consideration of her long services, he promised to assure to her,
when she should retire, the additional thousand livres which she
demanded; but on condition that she should preserve the most profound
secrecy in regard to this favour.
In the early part of the year 1785, Mlle. Guimard fell into financial
difficulties and was obliged to sell the “Temple of Terpsichore,” in the
Chaussée-d’Antin. Instead of putting it up to auction or inviting
private offers, she decided to adopt the somewhat novel expedient of
disposing of it by lottery, and, having succeeded in obtaining the
permission of the authorities, or at any rate a promise that they would
not offer any opposition to the scheme, caused the following prospectus
to be circulated:
“_Prospectus of a lottery of the house of Mlle. Guimard, of which the
draw will take place in public, May 1, 1786, in a room of the Hôtel des
Menus, Rue Bergère, in the presence of a public official._
“This house is situated at the entrance of the Chaussée-d’Antin, and
consists of a building, with a court on one side and a garden on the
other. The side facing the court is adorned by a peristyle; the
_rez-de-chaussée_, which is raised on eight steps, is divided into an
ante-chamber, dining-room, bedchamber, boudoir, a large room lighted
from above, to serve as a picture-gallery, dressing-room, bathroom, &c.,
all richly decorated.
“Above are also private apartments very commodious, and likewise very
richly decorated.
“A building facing the street contains stables and coach-houses, and
above is a theatre with all its accessories.
“The garden is adorned with covered bowers. The greater part of the
furniture remains in the house, having been made for the place.
“The lottery will consist of 2500 tickets, at 120 livres a ticket, of
which one will be the winner.
“Immediately after the lottery has been drawn, Mlle. Guimard will
transfer the contract of the sale of the house and the furniture, to the
benefit of the owner of the winning lot.”
The drawing of the lottery, originally fixed for May 1, 1786, was, for
some reason, postponed until the 22nd of the month, when it took place
in a tent erected in the garden of the Hôtel des Menus. There were two
wheels, in one of which had been placed 2500 numbered tickets, and in
the other 2499 blank tickets and one bearing the word _Lot_. The draw
began at ten o’clock in the morning; but it was not until late in the
afternoon, and after 2267 tickets had been drawn, that the winning one
was forthcoming, when it was found that Mlle. Guimard’s hôtel had become
the property of the Comtesse de Lau, who had only purchased a single
ticket. That lady subsequently sold the hôtel to the banker Perregaux,
for 500,000 livres.
* * * * *
Mlle. Guimard was growing old; the fatal epoch when beauty is usually
compelled to renounce its rights had come; but, like the wicked old
Maréchal de Richelieu, she seemed to have drunk of the fountain of
eternal youth, and on the boards of the Opera, environed by her cloud of
gauze, she appeared as young and fresh and charming as ever. What was
her secret? According to the actor Fleury it was an ingenious one. At
twenty years of age, he tells us, she had had her portrait painted by a
faithful hand, and now, each morning in her boudoir, with this picture
on one side and her mirror on the other, she worked to assimilate the
face she saw reflected in the latter to the work of the painter, nor did
she desist from her labours until she felt certain of a perfect
resemblance. Her admirers, it is scarcely necessary to observe, were not
admitted to this function.[90]
Mlle. Guimard visited London on several occasions during the season to
dance at the Opera House in the Haymarket or at Covent Garden. Three
letters, two written respectively on June 20, 1784, and April 16, 1789,
to the banker Perregaux, the third bearing date May 26 (probably 1787),
contain some interesting details about her sojourn in England. From the
first, we learn that she was engaged at a salary of 650 guineas, half of
which seems to have been paid in advance and the balance on the
termination of her engagement. The latter instalment she complains that
she had just seen devoured by a fire which had reduced the theatre to
ashes. She graciously says that she has no complaint to make of the
inhabitants of London; but the Italians of the Opera--“_Ah, les
coquins!_” They are everything that is bad. And the rest of the letter
is chiefly taken up with an account of her dispute with Gallini as to
whether or not her articles had been dissolved by the destruction of
the theatre.
The second letter, in order of date, is more interesting. “Since my
arrival in this town,” she writes, “the people have not left me a single
moment to myself. I am overwhelmed by the kindness of all the great
ladies and principally of the Duchess of Devonshire. I pass all my time
with her, when I am not engaged at the theatre. In truth, my dear little
good friend, the manner in which I am everywhere received is so
flattering that a less sensible head than that of your little good
friend might be turned by it.” She goes on to say that she has just been
given a benefit performance, which has realised 950 guineas, and has
concluded an engagement for the last five weeks of her stay in England.
For this she is to receive 650 guineas, “which makes a very pretty sum
for me to bring back to Paris.” “This journey has not been so
unprofitable, _hein!_ What think you about it? They love me to
distraction, these good English! _Voilà ce que c’est que le mérite!_”
The third letter shows us that in London the ballerina was regarded as
the very glass of fashion: “For the ball [a ball at Drury Lane organised
by the Duchess of Devonshire and other ladies] one must have dresses,
and the English ladies are as coquettish as the French. The moment I
alighted from my carriage on my arrival, I was besieged by _marchandes
des modes_ and tailors, who had come to beg me, on the part of the
ladies, to give my opinion on their costumes. You know well that I did
not make the fashions.”
Of Mlle. Guimard’s visits to England there exists a weird souvenir in
the form of a coloured etching entitled:
“The Celebrated Mademoiselle G----rd, or Grimhard, from Paris.
_Published by Thomas Humphrey, May 26, 1787._”
The leanness of the ballerina, of which we have spoken elsewhere, seems
to have increased with years, and was the theme of jests innumerable at
her expense and that of her lovers, most of them, however, good-natured
enough, for Madeleine Guimard had few enemies, and even the chroniclers
of contemporary scandal generally have a good word to say for her.
In the etching in question one sees, under a toque with sky-blue plumes,
a woman, with a death’s head crowned with false hair, and a bony neck,
raising in the air a consumptive leg and waving her arms, at the ends of
which are phalanxes of little bones in place of fingers.[91]
On her return to Paris, from England, in the summer of 1789, Mlle.
Guimard married Jean Étienne Despréaux, the dancing-master and poet, who
had been for some years an intimate friend, though not, it would appear,
a lover.[92] The marriage took place on August 14, at the church of
Sainte-Marie du Temple, the age of the bride being forty-six and that of
her husband thirty-one. The _acte de mariage_, cited by Jal, states that
the two had received the nuptial benediction, “after having renounced
their profession,” and, to the great sorrow of her countless admirers,
the Opera knew Madeleine Guimard no more.
It is not altogether easy to determine the reasons which induced Mlle.
Guimard to take this step; a step which, as we have mentioned, entailed
the renunciation of her profession. Certainly it could not have been any
interested motive, since Despréaux was in far from affluent
circumstances, while the _danseuse_ was in possession of a comfortable
little fortune, as fortunes went, in theatrical circles, in those
days.[93] Nor is it at all likely that she was consumed with any very
violent passion for the dancing-master, who, on his own confession, was
insignificant of figure and remarkably plain of face.[94] The
probability is that she was by this time heartily tired of the stage
and of a life of gallantry, and desired to spend the remainder of her
days in retirement and the odour of sanctity, with a man who, if he had
no physical attractions to boast of, “possessed all the little agreeable
talents calculated to assure the affection of a woman of pleasure whose
youth was dead.”[95]
However that may be, the _ménage_ appears to have been a happy one, and
that notwithstanding the fact that the _danseuse_ and her husband were
very far from enjoying the life of comfort and tranquillity to which
they had looked forward. For the Revolution had begun; and the
Revolution meant to themselves and hundreds of other pensioners of the
State an abrupt descent from comparative affluence to poverty. Their
circumstances were, of course, superior to most of their colleagues, as
Madeleine Guimard had saved money, a very small proportion, it is true,
of the enormous sums which had passed through her hands, but still
sufficient to save them from actual want.
When, in 1792, the municipality entrusted the management of the Opera to
Celerier and Francœur, Despréaux was nominated by them a member of
the administrative council and stage-manager. These posts would have
more than compensated him for the loss of his pensions, but,
unfortunately, the directors were shortly afterwards accused of
embezzlement and arrested; and in September 1793, Despréaux, perhaps
fearful of sharing their fate, resigned.
He and his wife now retired to a little house on the summit of
Montmartre, to reach which, he tells us, it was necessary to traverse a
road so steep that the Jacobin patrols neglected to ascend it, and they
were, in consequence, left undisturbed. Here they appeared to have
lived for some three years, and it was here that Despréaux composed most
of the poems which he published later, under the title of _Mes
Passe-Temps_. “I composed these _chansons_,” he says, “to find some
distraction from the terrible evils that beset us, and as a little
surprise for my wife, whom I adored.”[96]
Notwithstanding the disparity in years between them, there can be no
doubt that Despréaux was devoted to his wife, and in a poetical
“_bouquet_” entitled _Un Bon Ménage_, published in 1806, he informs the
world of the profound happiness which he has found in his union with the
_danseuse_:
* * * * *
“Ah! mon Dieu! combien j’étais fou!
Je redoutais le mariage;
Et j’avais lu, je ne sais où:
‘Le bonheur n’est pas en ménage.’
Erreur! ta bonté, ta raison
M’ont enfin prouvé le contraire,
Et je vois, dans l’heureux garçon
L’heureux imaginaire (_bis_).
Magdelaine aime ma gaîté
Et moi sa tournure m’enchante,
Elle fait ma félicité
Elle est en verité, charmante!
Elle prouve depuis vingt ans
Par sa grâce qui m’est si chère,
Qu’on a l’art d’arrêter le temps,
Quand on a l’art de plaire (_bis_).”
In 1807, Despréaux was appointed inspector of the theatres of the Opera
and the Tuileries. Having religiously preserved the traditions of the
ancient Court, he was often consulted in regard to the ceremonial to be
observed at the fêtes of the new Court of Napoleon. He became, in fact,
a kind of unofficial master of the ceremonies, and, in this capacity,
assisted at all the solemn functions of the Empire, notably at the
marriage of Napoleon and Marie Louise, of which event he has left an
interesting account in his _Souvenirs_. When the Empire fell, he found
himself out of employment; but in 1815 received the appointments of
inspector-general of Court entertainments and professor of dancing and
deportment at the École Royale de Musique.
The _ménage_ Despréaux-Guimard resided, in these last years, in the Rue
de Ménars, where the _ex-danseuse_ surrounded herself with a large
circle of friends. Often the conversation turned on the past triumphs of
Mlle. Guimard, when the younger members of the company would express
their regret that it was impossible for them to form an idea of that
marvellous talent which, for a whole generation, had so enchanted the
patrons of the Opera, and would beg their hostess to give them a few
steps of the ballets in which she had achieved her greatest successes.
At first, the ballerina refused, on the score of her age and the decline
of her physical powers. But the ingenious Despréaux erected in the salon
a theatre, the curtain of which was so arranged as to reveal only the
knee and the legs of the actors. And here he and his wife, concealing
thus all the ravages that time had wrought upon face and figure, danced
with legs and feet which seemed to the delighted spectators to have
preserved all the grace and suppleness of youth.
Later, when increasing years and feeble health had caused her to retire
altogether from society, if one of the few intimate friends who were
still admitted to the house happened to refer to her glorious past at
the Opera, the old artiste would sometimes offer to amuse her visitors
with what she called her theatre. With that, she would draw from under
her fauteuil a little drum, which she would place between her feet on a
foot-stool. Then she would join two of her fingers, bow, lift the
curtain, announce some ballet, and, by a marvel of memory and agility of
hand, dance with her two fingers all the steps of this ballet--her own
steps, and the steps of those who preceded, and of those who had doubled
her--with such correctness as to make her audience appreciate the
superiority of her own dancing.[97]
* * * * *
On May 4, 1816, Madeleine Guimard--or rather Madame Despréaux--died at
the age of seventy-three; the death of the famous _danseuse_ of the
eighteenth century passing almost unnoticed in this Paris of the
Restoration, which seemed to have already forgotten her dazzling
triumphs of yesterday.
III
MADEMOISELLE RAUCOURT
Several versions have at different times been current in regard to the
origin of Mlle. Raucourt. According to the one which, until
comparatively recent years, found almost general acceptance, her
baptismal name was Françoise Marie Antoinette Clairien; she was born at
Dombasle, on November 29, 1753, and was the daughter of “a poor barber
overwhelmed with children,” who consigned her to the care of the village
postmaster, a person called François Saucerotte, by whom she was
adopted.[98] That a child of that name was born at Dombasle, on the
above-mentioned date, is true enough; but she was not the future
_tragédienne_. The actress in question was born in Paris, on March 3,
1756; François Saucerotte was her own, and not her adopted, father, and
she was baptized at the church of Saint-Severin, by the name of Marie
Antoinette Joseph, as witness the _acte de naissance_, given by Auguste
Jal, in his invaluable _Dictionnaire de Biographie et d’Histoire_:
“Wednesday, March 3, 1756.--Marie Antoinette Joseph, born to-day,
daughter of François Saucerotte, bourgeois of Paris, and of Antoinette
de la Porte, his wife, residing Rue de Vieille-Bouclerie. The godfather
was Julien Mérel, labourer, the godmother, Marguerite Lancelin, _fille
majeure_, both residing Rue du Bac. The godmother has declared herself
unable to sign her name. (Signed) Mérel, Saucerotte.”