CHAPTER V

The things that are the greatest enemies to the success of a play --The honesty of Mademoiselle Mars' as an actress--Her dressing-room --The habitués at her supper-parties--Vatout--Denniée--Becquet --Mornay--Mademoiselle Mars in her own home--Her last days on the stage --Material result of the success of _Henri III._--My first speculation--The recasting of _Christine_--Where I looked for my inspiration--Two other ideas

At the thirty-fifth representation of _Henri III._ Mademoiselle Mars was obliged to take her holiday. She did her utmost to persuade the Comédie-Française to compensate her for this holiday; she gave them every possible facility, but the Comédie-Française would not listen to anything. The success of _Henri III._ served certain interests but wounded certain _amour-propres._ At the Comédie-Française one suffers from a peculiarity unknown, or very nearly so, in any other theatre. The author whose piece is being acted makes enemies of all the actors who are not taking part in it.

Towards the close of the run of _Henri III._ I noticed Monrose, an excellent comedian whose talents should have raised him above the paltry jealousies of those of lesser genius, come into the green-room, rubbing his hands together and exclaiming gleefully--

"Ah! we have taken five hundred francs less to-night than at the last representation!"

I was present--he had not perceived me at first, and, when he caught sight of me, he pretended not to have seen me, and went away.

Mademoiselle Mars was on the point of renouncing her holiday, so reluctant was she to interrupt the success of the run.

Mademoiselle Mars was an exceedingly straightforward, honest actress, I nearly said an honest _man_, and punctiliously accurate; everyone did his duty when connected with her, because she did hers as carefully as a pupil during her first year at a boarding-school. Once only was she a few minutes late at a rehearsal.

"I beg your pardon for being a quarter of an hour late," she said as she came in; "but I have just lost forty thousand francs.... Let us be quick and begin." And she rehearsed as though nothing had happened.

Once, when she was going on the stage, she had a sort of apoplectic fit; but, instead of interrupting the play, as any other actress would have done, she sent for leeches, and between the first and third acts she took advantage of the second act, in which she did not have to appear, to apply them to her chest. When I entered her dressing-room after the play, she was covered with blood down to her slippers.

Mademoiselle Mars had a very large room--the same that Mademoiselle Rachel now has. At the end of each performance the room was always filled with people. Mademoiselle Mars did not trouble herself in the least about her visitors being present; she would undress and take off her paint and rouge with a modest dexterity quite remarkable: she had in particular a way of changing her chemise while talking, without showing anything of her person beyond her finger tips, that was a _tour de force._ When her toilet was complete, those who wished to accompany her home went with her and found a supper ready. The regular attenders at these suppers were Vatout, Romieu, Denniée, Becquet and myself, among men, and Julienne, her lady-companion--a character--the beautiful Amigo, the fair Madame Mira, and sometimes an old lady named Fusil.

Mornay called every evening to conduct Mademoiselle Mars to the theatre, or saw her safely home.

My readers are acquainted with Romieu; I introduced him in company with his friend Rousseau. So as I have nothing fresh to tell about him, I will pass him over.

But I have hardly as yet described Vatout; Madame Valmore took him off well when she dubbed him a "_butterfly in top-boots._" Vatout was full of small defects and great qualities. He would superciliously hold out a finger to you if you offered to shake hands with him, and he put on the airs of a grand seigneur without ever succeeding in being mistaken for a grand seigneur. He had a good heart in spite of his uppish manners; and a charming mind behind his awkward appearance. He had a way of saying certain things that did not sit at all well on him. One of his monstrous affectations was to try and resemble the Duc D'Orléans; I have even been assured that, in confidence, he let people draw conclusions about this resemblance. The Duc d'Orléans was very fond of him and, when king, maintained his friendship with him. At the _Cour Citoyenne_ they quoted his quips and sang his chansons. There was one in particular about the Mayor of Eu, which became the rage. Will our modest readers allow us to insert it here? for, to our way of thinking, it constituted his worthiest claim to the Académie. Do not let us do injustice to poor Vatout.

LE MAIRE D'EU

AIR_--à faire_

"L'ambition, c'est des bêtises; Ça vous rend triste et soucieux; Mais, dans le vieux manoir des Guises. Qui ne serait ambitieux?... Tourmenté du besoin de faire Quelque chose dans ce beau lieu, J'ai brigué l'honneur d'être maire, Et l'on m'a nommé maire d'Eu!

Notre origine n'est pas claire ... Rollon nous gouverna jadis; Mais César fut-il notre père, Où descendons-nous, de Smerdis? Dans l'embarras de ma pensée, Un mot peut tout concilier: Nous sommes issus de Persée; Voyez plutôt mon mobilier!

Je ne suis pas fort à mon aise: Ma mairie est un petit coin, Et mon trône une simple chaise Qui me sert en cas de besoin; Mes habits ne sentent pas l'ambre: Mon équipage brille peu; Mais que m'importe! un pot de chambre Suffit bien pour un maire d'Eu!

On vante partout ma police; Ce qu'on fait ne m'échappe pas. A tous je rends bonne justice; J'observe avec soin tous, les cas. On ne peut ni manger ni boire Sans que tout passe sous mes yeux; Mais c'est surtout les jours de foire Qu'on me voit souvent sur les lieux.

Grâce aux roses que l'on recueille Dans mon laborieux emploi, Je préfère mon portefeuille A celui des agents du roi. Je brave les ordres sinistres Qui brise leur pouvoir tout net; Et, plus puissant que les ministres, J'entre, en tout temps, au cabinet.

Je me complais dans mon empire; Il ne me cause aucun souci; Moi, j'aime l'air que l'on y respire; On voit, on sent la mer d'ici! Partout l'aisance et le bien-être; Ma vie est un bouquet de fleurs.. Aussi j'aime beaucoup mieux être Maire d'Eu que maire d'ailleurs!

Beau château bâti par les Guises, Mer d'azur baignant le Tréport, Lieux où Lauzun fit des bêtises, Je suis à vous jusqu'à la mort; Je veux, sous l'écharpe française, Mourir en sénateur romain, Calme et tranquille sur ma chaise Tenant mes papiers à la main!'

Vatout was also the author of the famous _mot_ said to an official who, accompanying the king down a by-street which the latter was determined to penetrate, made excuses at each step for the obstructions they encountered. Many hens had laid there, of the type of which Henri IV. had remarked, "Stop, stop, mother! I much prefer to see the hen than the egg!"

"Oh, sire," said the poor fellow,--"oh, sire, had I only known your Majesty intended passing this way, I would have had them all cleared away."

"You would not have had the right to do that, M. le maire," Vatout gravely remarked; "they have their papers!"

Between 1821 and 1822 Vatout wrote a book which was an enormous success. It was about the adventures of la Charte and was entitled _Histoire de la fille d'un Roi._ Later, he wrote _Idée fixe_, which was scarcely read; then, some sort of a novel called the _Conspiration de Cellamare_; finally, various publications about the royal châteaux. In all, nothing very striking; but nevertheless he was consumed with the desire to become an Academician, Scribe urging him to it. He reached his goal, poor fellow; but in the interval between his nomination and his reception, being as faithful to the royal cause during its exile as he had been in the heyday of its powerfulness, he went to pay a visit to the exiles at Claremont, where he was taken ill after dinner, and died twenty-four hours later! He died without having had the joy of sitting once in the Académie! Poor Vatout! No one, I am sure, did him greater justice or regretted him more than I did. I obtained Hugo's vote for him with much difficulty.

The whole of Parisian society knew Denniée, ex-ordonnateur-general, who, man of wit and pleasure-seeker as he was, talked as though his mouth were full of nutshells, and told a host of stories and anecdotes, each more strange and amusing than the last, with such a defective pronunciation that they acquired a convincing air of originality. He worshipped Mademoiselle Mars, who was very fond of him in return. If three days went Dy without Denniée being seen at her house, one asked what had become of him; for nothing but illness or an accident could, it was supposed, account for so long an absence.

Becquet was as well known as Denniée: perhaps he was even better known. He was one of the weekly contributors to the _Journal des Débâts._ He was exceedingly clever; but, as he got drunk regularly once a day, his intellect gradually became dulled. Two often quoted sayings of his will serve to illustrate the sort of respect and filial affection he had for his father. Once when Becquet the elder took his son to task concerning his unfortunate habit of drunkenness, saying to him.

"See, you wretch, how it is ageing you; you will be taken for my father, and I shall outlive you by ten years!"

"Ah!" Becquet languidly retorted, "why do you always say such disagreeable things to me?"

Becquet possessed another habit, that of contracting debts. He owed money to everybody, and this widespread indebtedness reduced his father to despair.

"Wretch!" he said to him, on another occasion,--this was old Becquet's usual term for his son, sometimes used as an adjective, at others as a substantive,--"Wretch!" he said, "by God and the devil, I cannot conceive how you can live like this."

"Stay, father," Becquet replied, "you have just mentioned the only two powers to whom I do not owe anything."

The day his father died--it is sad to relate that it was a festival-day for Becquet, who made merry in heart and purse--he dined at the _café de Paris_ and ordered his menu like a man who is regardless of cost; but, when it came to the wine, he called the waiter; some doubt had probably arisen in his mind, and he wished the opinion of an expert.

"Waiter," he asked, "is the Bordeaux in mourning?"

Two hours later, they carried Becquet home.

One night, I met Becquet in one of those marvellous states of intoxication that he alone could carry off in such lordly style. It was on the 21st of January.

"What!" said I to him, "drunk on this day of all days, Becquet?"

"May I ask if there is, perchance, any day on which a man may not be drunk if he likes?" asked the author of _Mouchoir bleu_ in amazement.

"Certainly, I should have thought there was, especially for you who are a Royalist, it being the anniversary of the death of Louis XVI."

Becquet seemed to reflect for an instant over the gravity of my observation; then, placing a hand on my shoulder--

"If they had not cut off the head of good King Louis XVI., do you suppose he would be dead now?"

"It is more than probable."

"Well, then," said Becquet, carelessly snapping his fingers, "how can you say anything to me?"

And off he went with the aplomb of the drunkard, who, from long practice, has learnt to be superior to the general run of drinkers in being always able to walk straight when intoxicated.

It was when dead-drunk, after having left the house of Mademoiselle Mars, that Becquet wrote the famous article for the _Journal des Débats_ which concluded with the following words, and which overthrew the monarchy:--

"Malheureuse France! Malheureux roi!" "Unfortunate France! Unfortunate King!"

Becquet died of drink and died whilst drinking. For the last six months of his life he was never sober: his eyes became dull and expressionless; his actions were involuntary and instinctive; his hand mechanically felt for the bottle to pour wine into his glass, which he had not sufficient strength to empty. To the last moment, Mademoiselle Mars received him with the whole-hearted friendship that was one of her finest virtues. When Becquet died, she had not the heart to regret him although she shed tears at the news.

Mornay formed a singular contrast to all those of whom I have been speaking. Mornay was elegant and aristocratic, he was the _gentry_ personified, and, in addition to all these qualifications, he had as much wit as all the rest of us put together. When Mornay was appointed plenipotentiary, and left first for the grand-duchy of Baden, and afterwards for Sweden, Mademoiselle Mars lost the brightest star of her salon. There are minds which possess the qualities of well-seasoned tinder, and set fire to all around with whom they come in contact; Mornay was one of these; the rest of us served him for flint. When, perchance, he happened to be too fatigued to use his own wits, he counted on our supplying his deficiency. Mornay had no fortune; but Mademoiselle Mars left him an income of 40,000 livres per annum at her death. He took down a portrait of her, which he carried away with him, remarking, "That is the only thing to which I have a right here," and he left the 40,000 livres per annum to the heirs of Mademoiselle Mars.

Mademoiselle Mars at the theatre, and Mademoiselle Mars in her private home, were two quite different beings. On the stage, her voice was entrancing, almost like a song, and her looks were endearing and soft, full of bewitching charm. At home, her voice was harsh, she looked almost hard and her movements were brusque and impatient. Her theatrical voice was acquired, an instrument on which she had been taught to play and which she played marvellously well, but she rightly mistrusted it when she had to express great crises of passion, or to give effect to great heights of poesy; she was afraid then of straining her gentle notes, and she almost envied Madame Dorval her hoarse, raucous voice which enabled her to utter piteous cries that went straight to the heart. I never knew anyone who was more modest about her talents than was Mademoiselle Mars: she never spoke of herself, her triumphs, or her creations; she admired her father, Mouvel, profoundly; she was his pupil, and it gave her evident pleasure to talk of him. She was also a great admirer of Mademoiselle Contat, and it was odd to hear her confessing her inferiority to this great actress, in regard to certain points of art. I cannot say if all the tales told about the age of Mademoiselle Mars be true, but I know she never concealed a week of it from her friends. She had a marble sculpture by Boule, in her salon, which had been given by Queen Marie-Antoinette to her mother because they had both been confined on the same day. Therefore, Mademoiselle Mars must have been exactly the same age as the Duchesse d'Angoulême, who was born on 19 December 1778. When Mademoiselle Mars liked, she could be charming, for she possessed a great fund of humour; her voice was just the voice that could imitate, and when she criticised the members of the Comédie-Française, from Mademoiselle Plessy to Ligier, it was tersely but capitally done. She showed much kindness towards and interest in persons whom she thought to possess talent, and would help them with her advice, her talent and her influence. She once rescued a clown who was performing in the square at Metz and never rested until she had found a small position for him. She recommended him to me in 1833 or 1834, but I had no opportunity of giving him a part for fifteen or eighteen years, when I entrusted him with the rôle of Lorrain in the _Barrière de Clichy._ The man's name was Patonnelle and he was one of the best riders at the Cirque.

In common with Talma, Mademoiselle Mars saw her reputation go on increasing to the very day on which she finally left the stage. Her last creation, Mademoiselle de Belle-Isle, was one of her happiest performances. I was her latest supporter at the theatre and, in all probability, I had the good fortune of prolonging her career for two or three years.

The latter days of her period at the Comédie-Française were tinged with bitterness. One day, at an extra performance, someone threw a crown of immortelles at her feet, such as are placed upon tombs. It had been put together in one of the very boxes of the theatre, and I could, if I chose, mention in whose. When she left the stage the same thing occurred as after the loss of Talma. Everyone believed himself capable of replacing Talma, and everyone hoped to replace Mademoiselle Mars: they attempted it in their old rôles; they invented new ones. Managers and papers did their part by puffing and praising budding reputations. They had Turenne's money;--had they even the money of Mademoiselle Mars?...

Although _Henri III._ did not bring any very great wealth to our household, it had, nevertheless, produced a considerable change: first and foremost it had freed us from debt; it had repaid Porcher and M. Laffitte; it had permitted us to quit our humble lodgings in the rue Saint-Denis and to hire for my mother a set of rooms on the ground floor, with a garden, at No. 7 rue Madame. She had been recommended to have air and exercise, and I chose that street and quarter so as to be close to Mesdames Villenave and Waldor, who from family reasons had left their house in the rue de Vaugirard and taken a suite of apartments at No. 11 rue Madame. I had hired a separate room for myself, on the fourth floor, at the corner of rue de l'Université and the rue du Bac, and, as my new position brought me visitors from among the ladies and gentlemen of the Théâtre-Français, I made this room as pretty as I could afford.

As I had learnt from past experience never to trust too much to the future, I had compounded for my food for one year, paying 1800 francs in advance; or, to be more exact, I paid for 365 breakfast coupons and 365 dinner tickets, wine not included. Unluckily, a month after I had made this arrangement, the Café Desmares went bankrupt, and I lost my year's payment and meals. It was my first speculation, and it turned out badly, it will be seen.

Meanwhile, I had been receiving reproaches from an exceedingly charming young lady at the Théâtre-Français, who grumbled because, after having had an insignificant part in _Henri III._ there was none at all for her in _Christine_--for I still flattered myself with the hope that my _Christine_ would yet be played at the Théâtre-Français, in spite of the delay owing to M. Brault, who had died meanwhile; and now the Comédie-Française was not in a hurry to take up either. Her reproaches went home, as they were deserved, and I felt I owed her a double reparation. I therefore replied--

"Set your mind at rest: I will recast _Christine_ in order to make it more dramatic and up to date, and something shall come out of the transformation that will, I hope, satisfy you."

The mind of a worker is often full of singular prejudices, which are sometimes odd enough to border upon mania: at times he imagines he can only conceive his schemes in such and such a place; at others, that he can only write his play on some special kind of paper. I got it into my head that I could only evolve a fresh _Christine_ out of my old _Christine_ if I took a short journey, and was rocked by the motion of a carriage. As I was not yet rich enough to go in a carriage, I chose a diligence; it did not matter where the diligence was going, provided I had the _coupé_, the inside or the _rotonde_ to myself. I went to the cour des Messageries and, after a couple of hours' waiting, I found what I wanted, a coach with no passenger in the _coupé._ The diligence was bound for Havre. This was, indeed, a chance for me, for I had never been to a seaport, and I should be killing two birds with one stone. In those days it took fully twenty hours to go from Paris to Havre; this, again, suited me well enough. Inspiration would have plenty of time to work, or it would never come at all. I set off and, as imagination, naturally, plays a principal part in works of art, when my imagination had what it wanted in the way of external conditions for working, it began to work. By the time I reached Havre, my play was recast; I had divided the scenes between Stockholm, Fontainebleau and Rome, and the character of Paula rose out of this fresh genesis. It meant a complete overhauling and rewriting of the entire play, and very little was left of the original one. Although I was in great haste to set to work, I did not start back again to Paris before I had seen the sea. I stayed at Havre just long enough to eat some oysters, to have a sail on the sea, and to buy a couple of china vases which I could have got cheaper in Paris, and then I got into the diligence. In seventy-two hours I had been my journey and reconstructed my play.

I have spoken of the strange prejudices which imperiously impose certain conditions under which work shall be fulfilled. No one is less of a maniac than myself; nobody who acquires the habit of working incessantly, as I did, could work with greater ease than I, and yet, three times, I have felt absolutely compelled to obey a caprice. The first occasion I have just related; the second was over the composition of _Don Juan de Marana_, and the third was connected with _Capitaine Paul._ I was possessed with the notion that I could only conceive my fantastic drama to the sound of some music. I asked for tickets from my friend Zimmermann, for the Conservatoire, and, in the corner of a box together with three strangers, my eyes closed as though I were asleep, soothed into semi-unconsciousness by Beethoven and Weber, I composed the principal scenes of my drama in two hours.

It was different in the case of _Capitaine Paul_: I needed sea, a wide horizon, clouds scudding across the sky, and breezes whistling through the rigging and masts of ships. I went a voyage to Sicily and anchored my little boat for a couple of hours at the entrance to the Straits of Messina. In two days' time _Capitaine Paul_ was finished.

On my return, I found a letter from Hugo. The success of _Henri III._ had inspired him with the desire to write a drama, and he invited me to go and hear it read at the house of Devéria. That drama was _Marion Delorme._