monarchical sympathies. During the Directory, she was a bright and
shining light of what was known as “_Le petit Coblentz_,” an association
of Royalists which held its meetings at a house in the Boulevard des
Italiens and strove, by force of jests, sarcasms, and epigrams, to upset
the Republic. She wore on her spencer eighteen buttons, “a delicate
allusion to Louis XVIII., the legitimate sovereign.” And when she fanned
herself, it was with one of those famous weeping-willow fans, the folds
of which formed the face of Marie Antoinette.
Nevertheless, Mlle. Raucourt had, personally, but little cause to
complain of the Directory. Her antagonism to the Government did not
extend to its agents, through the good offices of some of whom she
contrived to make a considerable fortune, by judicious speculation in
assignats, army contracts, and confiscated estates. She now discharged
her debts, and bought “a palace” in the Rue Royale, with a spacious
garden attached, where she gave sumptuous fêtes, to which all
fashionable Paris was invited. Nothing so delightful as her boudoir, we
are assured, had ever been seen before; the fittings were of green and
gold, and the chimney-piece of blue marble.
After the establishment of the Empire, Napoleon, who was a great admirer
of Mlle. Raucourt’s acting, accorded her a handsome pension and engaged
her to organise a troupe of French players, to travel through Italy and
give performances in the principal towns, with the idea of extending
French influence in that country. In Italy, Mlle. Raucourt remained
several years, paying, however, occasional visits to Paris, when she
appeared at the Comédie-Française, generally in the parts of mothers or
queens, and always with great success. Madame Vigée Lebrun tells us that
she remained to the last a great _tragédienne_, but that, with advancing
years, her voice became so harsh that, when not looking at her, people
might have imagined themselves listening to a man.[125]
Mlle. Raucourt retired from the stage in 1814, her farewell appearance
at the Comédie-Française being as Catherine de Medicis, in the _États de
Blois_ of Raynouard. On January 15 of the following year, she died,
after a short illness, “thanking God that she had been permitted to
salute the return of her legitimate King.”
The funeral, which took place two days later, was the occasion of a
painful scandal. From the earliest days of the Restoration, the clergy,
relying on the support of the new Government, had shown themselves as
intolerant towards the actor as had those of the old régime. Mlle.
Raucourt’s house was in the Rue du Helder, that is to say, in the parish
of Saint-Roch, and it was in that church that the service should have
been held. The curé, however, flatly refused to celebrate it. “Actors,”
said he, “are excommunicated, and the time has come to revert to the
rigorous execution of the canons of the Church.” It was in vain that he
was reminded of the never-failing charity of the deceased woman towards
the poor of his parish, and the generous gift which he himself had
received each year for the needs of his church. He remained deaf to all
representations and entrenched himself behind the orders of the
Archbishop of Paris.
To obtain justice, the members of the Comédie-Française addressed a
petition to the King, but the morning of the interment came without
bringing an answer from his Majesty. In the meanwhile, the news of the
refusal of the curé of Saint-Roch to accord ecclesiastical burial to the
remains of the great actress had become common knowledge and had aroused
widespread indignation. An enormous crowd, numbering fully 15,000
persons, assembled in the Rue du Helder and the adjoining streets, among
which might be observed several actors of the Comédie in the uniform of
the National Guards. At the moment when the cortège left the house, the
police gave the order to proceed directly to the cemetery; but the crowd
interfered and compelled the hearse to drive towards Saint-Roch. On
entering the Rue de la Michodière, a police-officer rushed to the
horses’ heads, to turn them in the direction of the boulevard, but was
roughly pushed aside; and the procession, growing in size every moment,
pursued its way towards Saint-Roch.
When the church was reached, the principal door was found closed, a
circumstance which threw the mob into a frenzy of anger. Some proposed
to break down the door, others to carry the corpse to the Tuileries or
the archbishop’s palace; while cries of “_Le curé à la lanterne!_” were
raised, and if that intolerant ecclesiastic had had the temerity to show
himself, it is to be feared that he would have been very roughly
handled.
The actors in the procession, alarmed at all this uproar, the blame for
which, they feared, would be laid upon them, took advantage of a moment
when the more violent section of the crowd was occupied in endeavouring
to force the great door of the church, to make the cortège resume its
progress towards Père-Lachaise. The mob, however, gave chase, overtook
the hearse at the top of the Rue Traversière, and brought it back in
triumph to Saint-Roch.
In the meanwhile, a deputation had started for the Tuileries; Louis
XVIII. consented to admit it to his presence, and Huet, an actor of the
Opéra-Comique, harangued the monarch with so much eloquence, that, some
days later, he received an intimation that a course of foreign travel
might not be without benefit to his health. However, his representations
had the desired effect; for the King promised to interfere without
delay, sent orders to the curé to receive the body, and, for greater
security, despatched his own almoner to read the service.
The orders of the King arrived only just in time to prevent a serious
affray between the infuriated mob and the troops who had been summoned
to quell the disturbance. The great door was then opened, and the
coffin, borne on the shoulders of the crowd, was carried to the foot of
the altar, where the people themselves lighted the candles. The almoner
of the Court arrived, accompanied by two choristers, and performed the
service, at the conclusion of which an immense concourse of people
followed the cortège as far as Père-Lachaise.[126]
IV
MADAME DUGAZON
When, at the close of the year 1774, Justine Favart retired from the
stage of the Comédie-Italienne, to die alas! a few months later, she
left behind her, in the person of a young girl of nineteen, a worthy
successor, whose budding talents she had been one of the first to
recognise and encourage.
Louise Rosalie Lefèvre, known to fame as Madame Dugazon, was born, at
Berlin, on June 18, 1755, of French parents. Her father, François Joseph
Lefèvre, was a dancing-master, formerly of the Comédie-Italienne, and
when, in 1767, the little Louise, who had been from a very early age
destined for the stage, made her first appearance on the boards of that
theatre, it was as a _danseuse_ in a _pas de deux_ introduced into the
_Nouvelle École des femmes_, a comedy in three acts and in prose, by
Moissy.
It was not, however, as a _danseuse_ that Louise Lefèvre was to attain
her immense reputation. Ere long her grace, refinement, and command of
facial expression attracted the attention of the composer Grétry, who
after some conversation with her, promised her a part in his next opera.
He was as good as his word, and when, in 1769, he produced his _Lucile_,
it was for the little Lefèvre that he composed the pretty air:
“On dit qu’à quinze ans.”
The grace, charm, and _naïveté_ with which she rendered it decided her
future. Pleased at finding his previsions confirmed, the composer
advised her to devote herself seriously to the study of music, promising
that he would bear her in mind; and from that day the girl “divided her
time between dancing, which was her duty, and the study of music, which
was her passion.”[127]
She was fortunate in her teachers, particularly in Madame Favart, who,
with a magnanimity far from common on the stage, did all in her power to
aid and encourage the young aspirant. The lessons were not thrown away,
nor was the pupil wanting in gratitude; for even in her old age, when
she had retired from the theatre, Madame Dugazon could not mention the
name of Justine Favart without tears in her eyes.
At length, on June 19, 1774, Mlle. Lefèvre was promoted to a definite
part, that of Pauline, in _Sylvain_, words by Marmontel, music by
Grétry. Her success was instantaneous, unprecedented. At a single bound,
she attained the highest rank, an elevation from which she never
afterwards descended. Never in the history of the Comédie-Italienne had
such talent been exhibited by so young an actress, and never had talent
been so keenly appreciated by its patrons. It sufficed for her to
undertake the principal part in any new work to ensure for it a
favourable, if not a triumphant, reception. _Les Événements imprévus_,
_l’Amant jaloux_, _Les Amours d’été_, and many other pieces owed the
vogue which they enjoyed entirely to her masterly impersonations.
Four days after her appearance in _Sylvain_, Mlle. Lefèvre was received
_à l’essai_, with a salary of 1800 livres, which, in the following
April, was increased to 2400 livres. But promotion was slow in those
days, even for the most brilliant talents, and it was not until April
7, 1776, that she became a _sociétaire_.[128]
But long before this--almost, indeed, from the evening on which she had
first played Pauline--the public had taken her to its heart. People
seemed never tired of lauding “her sympathetic voice, her exquisite
sensibility, her gaiety, which was so contagious, her acting, which was
so tender and impassioned.” Some enthusiasts even went so far as to
declare that such remarkable talent must be the product of some divine
inspiration.
Mlle. Lefèvre was not strictly beautiful, but “adorably pretty,” dainty,
and refined. She had delicate features, a mobile face, “and an
expressive mouth, sometimes mocking, sometimes pouting.” But her
greatest charm seems to have been her splendid eyes, fringed with long
lashes, which, in turn, “shone with mischief and gaiety, or closed in
order to allow the soft tears to flow.” Her figure, we are told,
“without being tall, was well-proportioned, and all her movements were
characterised by a peculiar charm.”
Naturally, she was speedily surrounded by a throng of adorers. No
actress of the time was so sought after, courted, adulated. “Jupiters of
all conditions solicited the honour of descending at her feet in a
shower of gold.” The most brilliant propositions were made to her:
furnished hôtels, gorgeous equipages, ravishing toilettes, parures of
diamonds, together with the hearts, if not the hands, of the noblest in
the land, were at her disposal. She repulsed them all; she had decided
to marry--to marry in her own profession. And her choice fell upon
Dugazon, of the Comédie-Française.
A singular character was this Dugazon. Born at Marseilles, in 1749, he
made his first appearance on the Paris stage in 1771, and at once
succeeded in ingratiating himself with his audience. Handsome and well
made, he united to a profound knowledge of his art and a wealth of
humour, a physiognomy of extraordinary flexibility, which he could so
change at any moment that it seemed as if he had put on a mask. “By the
play or the contraction of certain muscles of his face, he possessed the
faculty of disfiguring himself instantly and so completely as to become
unrecognisable.” There can be no question that he was a great comedian,
though his style was in the spirit of farce rather than of comedy, and
by the side of Préville, who, with all his vivacity, never condescended
to what was low or trivial, he must have appeared a mere caricaturist.
But in broad comedy he was unsurpassed, and in the farces of Scarron and
Le Grand, as Scapin in the _Fourberies_, Monsieur Jourdain in the
_Bourgeois Gentilhomme_, Mascarille in _l’Étourdi_, and Sganerelle in
_Don Juan_, no actor of the time could even approach him.
But if the actor was excellent, the man was altogether insupportable. In
the café or the tavern, a quarrelsome braggart, as ready with his sword
as with his tongue. In the salon--for, in his character of privileged
buffoon, he was admitted into the highest circles--a rude jester, who
respected neither age nor sex, and who took the most outrageous
liberties with every one who did not make him keep his distance. Many
are the stories told of his eccentricities, one at least of which will
bear repetition here.
One day the actor received a summons to Versailles, from Louis XVI.
himself. Wondering much what his sovereign could require of him, he
repaired thither, and, on his arrival, was ushered into the King’s
cabinet, where he found his Majesty alone. The King bade him be seated,
and then informed him that he required his assistance in a matter
closely concerning the dignity of the Royal Family. He was, said he,
extremely displeased at her Majesty continuing to attend the balls at
the Opera, in the face of his oft-expressed disapproval of these
gatherings. He had therefore bethought him of a means of curing her of
this deplorable weakness for mixed society. Dugazon must attend the next
ball, in disguise, treat the august lady as if she were nothing but a
common _bourgeoise_, and so shock and disgust her that she would never
care to attend another.
Dugazon obeyed with alacrity; the commission entrusted to him was one
after his own heart. At the next ball he appeared disguised as a
fishwife, a veritable virago of the Halles, foul of tongue, unkempt and
dirty, and, taking the Queen aside, behaved to her--it was the King’s
express command, be it remembered--with such outrageous coarseness and
familiarity that the spectators were absolutely horrified.
Next morning, the King slyly inquired how her Majesty had enjoyed
herself the previous evening.
“Never,” answered Marie Antoinette, laughing heartily, “never was I so
much diverted as yesterday!”
* * * * *
The marriage between Louise Lefèvre and Dugazon was celebrated at
Saint-Eustache on August 20, 1776. It was not a happy one. The husband
was bad-tempered, exacting, and jealous; the wife pleasure-loving,
coquettish and self-willed. Before the honeymoon was well over, they
were quarrelling like cat and dog. Before a year had passed, their
domestic differences were the talk of Paris. Madame’s marriage vows
weighed very lightly upon her, and she made but small attempt to
disguise her amours; Monsieur went about, complaining to every one whom
he could persuade to listen to him of his wife’s conduct, and boasting
of the terrible retribution he intended for her lovers.
In 1778, there was a grave scandal. A certain M. de Cazes, a young
_maître des requêtes_, fell madly in love with Madame Dugazon, who
condescended to reciprocate his passion. In order to conceal their
intrigue and, at the same time, facilitate their interviews, M. de Cazes
presented the Dugazons to his father, a wealthy farmer-general, who
invited them to his house, where actor and magistrate often performed
scenes from popular comedies for the entertainment of the company. Their
most diverting performance, however, took place in private, a fact to be
regretted, since it must have been worth going a very long way to see.
Dugazon had for some time suspected the motive of his introduction to
this family and the very cordial reception which had been accorded him.
But the guilty pair had observed so much discretion that he had not a
particle of evidence to justify his interference and was, therefore, at
a loss how to proceed. Jealousy, however, prompted him to a bold move.
One morning, M. de Cazes was in his cabinet, dreaming of his inamorata,
when Dugazon entered unannounced, and, locking the door behind him, drew
a pistol from his pocket, held it to the young man’s head, informed him
that he knew everything, and that he would blow out his brains on the
instant, if he did not immediately deliver up his wife’s portrait and
letters.
[Illustration: MADAME DUGAZON
From an engraving by MONSALDI after the painting by JEAN BAPTISTE
ISABEY]
The unfortunate gallant believed that Madame Dugazon had made a
confession to her husband or that in some way he had been betrayed, and,
in fear and trembling, handed over both portrait and letters to his
assailant, who retired, enchanted with the success of his expedition.
No sooner, however, had the actor and his pistol departed, than M. de
Cazes’s alarm gave way to indignation, and he followed in pursuit,
shouting: “Thief! Assassin! Stop the villain!” And the servants, roused
by his cries, came running to the spot.
Dugazon, who was leisurely descending the stairs, turned round, and, in
no way disconcerted, coolly replied: “Perfect, Monsieur; admirably
played! The scene is excellent! The servants would be quite deceived by
it, were they not accustomed to our farces.” Then, without quickening
his pace, he passed through the astonished lackeys--who, uncertain
whether it was a comedy or not, did not dare to lay hands on him--gained
the door, made the discomfited magistrate a profound _congé_, and
swaggered off.
Some days later, M. de Gazes happened to be on the stage of the
Comédie-Italienne, at the conclusion of the performance, and was there
espied by Dugazon, who could not resist the temptation to read his
wife’s admirer a second lesson. Accordingly, he waited until the crowd
had dispersed and he was unobserved, and then, stealing up behind the
_maître des requêtes_, dealt him four or five sharp cuts across the
shoulders with a cane.
The luckless young man turned round, furious with rage and pain, and,
perceiving his “rival,” poured forth a torrent of abuse and threats.
The actor, quite unmoved, begged him to explain himself and inquired,
with a bland smile, if he were rehearsing a tirade from some play.
The infuriated magistrate rejoined by calling Dugazon “an assassin,” and
asserting that he had just dealt him several blows with a cane.
The latter assumed an air of injured innocence, assured M. de Cazes that
he must be labouring under some extraordinary delusion, and inquired how
he could possibly imagine that a poor player like himself should have
been guilty of so shocking an outrage.
As there were no witnesses to the assault, and M. de Cazes had no mind
to give the actor, who was an expert swordsman, the satisfaction of
running him through the body, the affair went no further. Dugazon,
however, did not fail to boast everywhere he went of the thrashing he
had inflicted on madame’s lover; conduct which, the _Mémoires secrets_
tell us, “revolted honourable men.”
If Dugazon had taken upon himself to detect and punish all his wife’s
infidelities, it is to be feared that he would have had but little time
to devote to his professional duties. “The singing-bird had taken flight
and returned but seldom to the conjugal nest.” However, for a time, he
did his best, and, in the course of the following year, had an affray at
the house of Sallé, the director of the winter Vauxhall, with the
Marquis de Langeac, who had succeeded M. de Cazes in the actress’s
affections.
Dugazon had written an angry letter to his wife, reminding the lady of
her numerous escapades and bitterly reproaching her with having accepted
the homage of M. de Langeac, to whom he alluded in terms of the most
unmitigated contempt. This letter Madame Dugazon promptly handed to the
marquis, who, talking the matter over with his friend Sallé, announced
his intention of subjecting the actor to “a hundred blows with his
cane,” on the very next occasion on which they should chance to meet.
Scarcely were the words out of his mouth, when the object of his
resentment, who had been an unseen auditor of all that he had said,
stood before him, and, with a profound bow, intimated that he was
entirely at Monsieur le Marquis’s service.
The marquis replied with a blow from his fist; the actor returned the
compliment with interest, and an Homeric combat was in progress, when
the bystanders interfered and separated the parties.
This adventure had no more consequences than the other. Dugazon, who, to
do him justice, was no coward, would have been only too ready to
continue the battle in the manner prescribed by the etiquette of that
day. But M. de Langeac, a notorious poltroon--he had, some time before,
taken, without any attempt at retaliation, a severe thrashing from
Guérin, the Prince de Conti’s surgeon--sheltered himself behind his rank
and declined to cross swords with an actor.
His affray with the Marquis de Langeac appears to have been the last
occasion on which Dugazon attempted to avenge his honour. He resigned
himself to the situation; and when, soon afterwards, the “singing-bird”
flew away altogether and established herself in a gilded cage prepared
for her by a rich financier of the name of Boudreau, received the news
with fashionable complacency. From that time, husband and wife never
lived together again, and, when the Revolution came, both hastened to
avail themselves of the law permitting divorce.
Madame Dugazon had barely remained long enough in the gilded cage to
take stock of all the marvels of art and decoration which the amorous
financier had provided for her benefit, when she fell in love with a
foreign count, whose name the chroniclers of scandal, with a discretion
very uncommon with them, forbear to mention, and left poor M. Boudreau
to meditate upon the inconstancy of woman. This last affair would appear
to have been a serious one, on the lady’s part, at any rate; but it was
of very brief duration, as the count was suddenly recalled to his own
country, and she saw him no more.
Consolation, however, was not long in forthcoming. Her lover’s departure
happened to synchronise with the arrival from Bordeaux of a handsome
youth of eighteen, “with the most interesting face conceivable, and the
most surprising, the most wonderful voice possible to imagine.” Without
knowing a single note of music, he could imitate the voice of every
singer of the Opera and the sound of every instrument in the orchestra,
so perfectly as to deceive even the most experienced ear. By himself, it
was said, he could imitate an entire opera. This prodigy, Garat by name,
aroused a perfect _furore_ in fashionable, as well as in musical
circles, and after Marie Antoinette had sent a coach and six to fetch
him to Versailles, the enthusiasm of the ladies was raised to the
highest pitch; they literally fought for him. Madame Dugazon bore away
the prize, and is believed to have given the youthful singer lessons in
his art as well as in love. But she could not long retain possession of
“this brilliant butterfly, who had only to open his wings to alight upon
the most beautiful flowers,” and, for the first time in her life, was
fated to taste something of the mortification which she had so often
occasioned.