CHAPTER V

I am officially received into the Artillery Corps of the National Guard--_Antony_ is put under rehearsal at the Théâtre-Français--Ill-will of the actors--Treaty between Hugo and the manager of the Porte-Saint-Martin--Firmin's proposition and confidence--Mademoiselle Mars' dresses and the new gas lights--I withdraw _Antony_ from the Théâtre-Français--I offer Dorval the part of Adèle

After my liberty had been restored me by my implacable gaoler and beautiful gaoleress I returned home and found several letters waiting for me, two only being of importance. One was from Bixio; he had knocked three or four times at my door, and, finding it obstinately closed, he had written to tell me that my admission, when proposed to the heads of the Artillery, had been adopted by a large majority; he was requested to ask me in their name if I should like to enter the same battery as M. le Duc d'Orléans. If such was my wish they would manage to gratify it. Now, the king had decreed that the Duc d'Orléans should join the first artillery battery of the National Guard; he reckoned upon the prince's conciliatory and excellent disposition to win over to him a corps which proudly boasted itself to be an active basis of Opposition; and, as the centre of democratic opinions, principles and interests, completely given over to the bourgeoisie. After my rupture with the king it was out of the question that I should wish to come in contact with his son. I therefore replied to Bixio that I thanked the heads of the Artillery Department for admitting me into their corps, and that they could place me anywhere it suited them, except in the first battery.

The second letter came from the Théâtre-Français. As the censorship had for the moment disappeared, and _Antony_ was a free agent; it was therefore a question of beginning to rehearse it at once, so I rushed off to the Théâtre-Français, where I found Mademoiselle Mars and Firmin. My readers know that Mademoiselle Mars had accepted the rôle of Adèle, and Firmin that of Antony; the remaining distribution of parts was settled there and then. The play was capitally mounted, specially in the subordinate parts; Rose Dupuis played the Comtesse de Lacy; Menjaud, the young poet; Monrose, the subscriber to the _Constitutionnel_; and Madame Hervey took Madame de Camps. I say the play was capitally mounted as far as the subsidiary rôles were concerned, not that I wish in the very least to attack the genius of Mademoiselle Mars or of Firmin; but great as may be the talent of these artists--except when contrasted with an all-embracing and powerful genius like Talma's--there are parts that depend more or less for success upon the personal character of the individuals who act them. Now, no woman could have been less capable of understanding the entirely modern character of Adèle than was Mademoiselle Mars,--a character full of subtle contrasts, of strength and weakness and of extremes of passion and repentance. On the other hand, no man could have been less capable than Firmin of reproducing the gloomy melancholy, bitter irony, fiery passion and philosophic ramblings of the personality of Antony. Mademoiselle Mars possessed grace, wit, charm and the art of elocution and coquetry in the highest degree; but she was wanting in that poetic gift which gilds all other qualities with the undefined mystery that constitutes the charm of Shakespeare's women. Firmin possessed Mademoiselle Mars' qualities in a lesser degree, but he was lacking in the fatalism which creates an Orestes in all ages.

Tameness is one of the principal requirements of modern drama. Now, Mademoiselle Mars dared not, and Firmin could not, be tame. Let us go further, and state that the Théâtre-Français itself was a bad setting for the picture. There are certain atmospheres in which some creations cannot exist.

The rehearsals of _Antony_ were going on concurrently with those of _Napoléon._ But there was this difference between the two pieces and the two theatres: at the Odéon, everybody was satisfied with his or her own part, and from the manager to the prompter everyone did his best to help me, while at the Théâtre-Français everyone was dissatisfied with his part, and from manager to prompter everybody hindered the author and his work. My reader knows Mademoiselle Mars already. I pointed her out at a rehearsal of _Hernani_ pulling to pieces the rôle of Doña Sol. I am sorry I was in such a hurry, I could have shown her in _Antony_ pulling the part of Adèle to pieces. On his side, Firmin plucked the part of Antony as hard as he could. Every feather of slightly vivid colouring made a blur on the kind of grey tint that they wished to give to a work whose ruling theme had, in the first place, been colour, so that by dint of plucking out gently each feather the part was quietly transformed into that of a lover on the stage of the Gymnase.

By the end of a month of rehearsals the piece, deprived of all its salient features, might have been reduced to three acts or even to a single one. One fine morning the suggestion was made to me to suppress the second and fourth acts, because they made the play too wearisome. I had taken such a disgust for the work that I was quite ready to suppress it entirely; I had even got to the point of believing that _Napoléon_ was the real work of art, and _Antony_ the common ordinary run of work. They settled the day for the production of it, because _they must get it out of the way as it blocked the theatre_, which was in urgent haste to put on _Don Carlos, ou l'Inquisition_, a drama from which they were expecting great things, but whose author desired to preserve his anonymity at the first performance; and with good reason too.

Meanwhile Hugo had sought me out; he had come to realise that we should never be looked upon at the Théâtre-Français by its actors and frequenters, and even by the public itself, as anything but usurpers; the stupid heresies that they had attributed to us concerning Molière, Corneille and Racine had sprung up in the orchestra; and everyone who was above the age of fifty came nightly to bask voluptuously under the shadow of our audacity! Consequently, Hugo had looked about for and found a theatre which was not an Olympus, where our triumphs would not be regarded as sacrilege, and where those he should cater for would be plain ordinary mortals and not gods. This theatre was the Porte-Saint-Martin. He had entered into negotiations with its manager, M. Crosnier, for the taking of _Marion Delorme._ Thus was realised the prophecy made by Crosnier to Hugo when, on 16 July 1829, the latter had said to him--

"Monsieur, you have come too late; there are two plays of mine accepted, which have priority over yours."

To which Crosnier had replied--

"By Jove! monsieur, who knows? In spite of these two acceptances I may, after all, be the one to play your works!"

When treating with Crosnier, Hugo had negotiated in my name as well as his own, subject to my agreement thereto. I thanked him for his friendly attention; but the only two plays I possessed were in rehearsal, one at the Odéon and the other at the Théâtre-Français. I should therefore have to wait till I had produced another piece. But I did not need to wait for this. The nearer the day of the first representation of _Antony_ approached, the more I became conscious of the ill feeling throughout the theatre. On the other hand, those of my friends who had been present at the rehearsals had gone away shaking their heads, and when urged by me to give them opinions they frankly confessed that _they could not see any play in it at all._ I was completely demoralised, for the further I advanced in my dramatic career the more I lost that early confidence in myself which had kept me up through all the tribulations connected with _Henri III._ I began to think I must be deceived, and that there could be absolutely nothing in _Antony._

Two things happened at the time which ought to have driven me to the extreme of discouragement, but which, on the contrary, restored all my determination. The day of the _première_ was fixed for the following Saturday, and it was then Tuesday or Wednesday, when Firmin took me aside.

"My dear friend," he said to me, "I did not want to refuse to act the part of Antony for you, first, because I will play all the parts you assign me; secondly, because having given me the rôle of Saint Mégrin, which is a good one, you acquired the right to give me a bad one after it...."

He waited for me to stop him midway, but I, on the contrary, let him say his say out. So he went on--

"But you see, I represent the principal character, and I do not wish to take the responsibility of the failure of the play upon myself."

"So you believe it will be a failure?"

"It is my firm conviction.... I do not know how it comes to pass that you, who know the theatrical world intimately, have ventured to risk such a monotonous part.... Antony is a heavy twaddler, who from the first to the fifth act does nothing but repeat the same thing over and over again; who gets angry for no reason at all, a species of monomaniac who rages unceasingly, and wages furious warfare against his fellow-men."

"So that is the effect Antony produces on you?"

"Yes."

"It does not surprise me; it is exactly what I wished it to do."

"Well, that does not matter; I have warned you, remember."

"Yes, but it is not enough to warn a man of his fall: you should afford him a means of escaping his fall."

"Oh!" said Firmin, "I, as you know, am an actor and not an author; I act pieces, but I don't create them."

"But have you no suggestion to make?"

"Yes, I have ... but I dare not say it."

"Say it, of course."

"You will jump as high as the ceiling!"

"What matter, if I do not come down on your feet!"

"Well, then!"

"Well, what?"

"If I were in your place I would take the play to Scribe."

"No," I replied, "but I will take it to Crosnier."

And, going up to the prompter, I said--

"Garnier, please give me my manuscript; there's a good fellow."

The prompter handed me the manuscript; and Firmin watched me take it, astonished. Mademoiselle Mars was waiting all this time until I was free.

"Well, my good fellow," she said in the dry tone she always used when she wished to prepare an author for something disagreeable, "have you done talking with Firmin? And have you a word left for anybody else?"

"Oh madame!" said Firmin, "you had but to speak; I am not in the habit of taking your authors away from you."

"As far as parts such as this man gives me are concerned, you can take him away from me as much as you like."

"Good!" I said,--"this sounds promising!"

Then, going up to Mademoiselle Mars--

"Madame," I said to her, "I am at your service."

"Ah! that is fortunate! Do you know what I am going to tell you?"

"No, madame, I do not know; but if you will be so good as to inform me, I shall."

"I do not intend to act my part in your play on Saturday."

"Oh! why not, if you please?"

"Because I have spent fifteen hundred francs on my dresses, and wish them to be seen."

"But why can they not be seen on Saturday as well as on any other day?"

"Because we had been promised a new chandelier for Saturday, and the man has just put us off for another three months. When there is another chandelier I will play in your piece."

"Ah! madame," I said to her, "there is only one thing likely to put a stumbling-block in the way of your kind intention...."

"What is that?"

"In three months my play will have been acted."

"How can it?"

"It will be."

"Where?"

"At the Theatre Porte-Saint-Martin.... Adieu, madame--Au revoir, Firmin!"

And out I went, carrying my manuscript with me. As I went down the stairs that led from the theatre to the orchestra I turned my head round and saw Mademoiselle Mars and Firmin together, each exchanging questioning glances and gestures. I regret I am unable to transmit the conversation that ensued between them to posterity. I ran off at once to Madame Dorval, who was then residing in the boulevard Saint-Martin, in a house with an exit to the rue Meslay. By chance she happened to be quite alone. When I was announced she had my name repeated twice to her.

"All right!" I shouted from the dining-room; "it is I. But perhaps you wish to have me shown outside the door?"

"Oh! you're a pretty fellow!" she said to me, in those drawling accents that were sometimes such a charm in her; "I have not seen you for six months!"

"What would you have me do, my dear!" I said, entering and throwing my arms round her neck,--"during that time I have produced a child and a revolution, without reckoning that I have been nearly shot twice.... Is this how you greet the ghosts?"

"I cannot embrace you, my _good dog._"

This was the pet name of friendship--even, I may say, of love--that Dorval had given me.

Her _good dog_ has remained faithful to his poor Dorval to the end!

"Why cannot you greet me more warmly?" I asked.

"Because, like _Marion Delorme_, I am renewing my virginity."

"Impossible!"

"True, on my word of honour! I am becoming respectable."

"Ah! my dear, I mentioned making a revolution, here is another one. Who the devil caused this to come about?"

"Alfred de Vigny."

"Do you love him?"

"I cannot speak of it; I am mad over him!"

"What has he done to keep you to such good resolutions?"

"He composes little _Élévations_[1] for me."

"In that case, my dear, accept my sincere compliments; for, in the first place, de Vigny is a poet of very great talent; next, he is a true nobleman: both these attributes are better worth having than a mulatto like myself."

"Do you think so?" Dorval said, in a tone of voice she alone knew how to use.

"It is my turn now to swear on my word of honour!"

"Then you didn't come to make love to me?"

I burst out laughing, and made some exclamation or other.

"No, I could not have received your attentions ... fancy, he treats me like a duchess."

"He is perfectly right."

"He calls me his angel."

"Bravo!"

"The other day I had a small lump on my shoulder, and he told me wings were beginning to sprout."

"You must be immensely amused, my dear."

"Yes, indeed! Piccini did not accustom me to such treatment as that."

"And Merle?"

"Still less so.... By the way, you know Merle and I have married?"

"Really?"

"Yes; it was a means of getting separated from one another."

"But he ought to be the happiest man on earth?"

"You think so! He has his _café au lait_ in the morning, and his slippers by his bedside at night.... Do you wish to say good-day to him?"

"Thanks, no! I have come for you."

"Ah! you are very cunning, my big dog.... But I had forgotten, he is not here, he is away in the country."

"I have some news to tell you."

"What is it?"

"That I have withdrawn _Antony_ from the Théâtre-Français."

"Oh! you have done well! It was the same with Hugo, you know; he took _Marion Delorme_ from them and brought it to us. I am playing the part of Marion."

"Well, what do you think of the piece?"

"I think it extremely fine.... I do not know how I shall get on, however. Just think-verses. Can you imagine me as a tragedienne"

"But I do not think it is your first attempt."

"Oh! in _Marino Faliero_, you mean?"

"Goodness! how the part of Helena did bore me! You saw me in that, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"I was pretty bad in it, was I not?"

"Honestly, you were not very good; but I hope you will do better in Adèle."

"What is Adèle?"

"Antony's mistress, my dear."

"Are you bringing _Antony_ to us, then?"

"Why, of course!"

"And am I to take the part of Adèle, my good dog?"

"Of course!"

"Three cheers, then! Upon my word, no matter what happens I must kiss you.... Oh! how bad it is of you when I told you I mustn't ... Hullo! what is that in your pocket?"

"The manuscript."

"Oh! give it me to look at."

"I am going to read it to you."

"What! do you really mean it?"

"Certainly I do."

"Like this, to me alone?"

"Certainly."

"Oh! Why, then, you must think me a great actress?"

"De Vigny only treats you like a duchess; but I mean to treat you like a queen."

She rose and made me a curtsey.

"The queen shall be your servant for ever, monsieur, in proof whereof I am going to give you a table and offer you ... what shall it be? What do you like best while you are reading? Will you have eau-de-vie, rum or kirsch?"

"I prefer water."

"All right, then; wait a moment."

She went into her bedroom, where I followed her.

"Oh! why do you follow me in here?"

"Why should I not?"

"It is forbidden."

"Even to me?"

"To everybody!... Alexandre! I give you warning I will ring my bell!"

"Ah! indeed!"

"Alexandre!"

"I would like to settle that question. I bet you will not ring."

"Alexandre!"

She hung on to the bell-rope and rang loudly. I flung myself into an arm-chair and began laughing like a madman. The chambermaid came in.

"Louise!" said Dorval, with perfect dignity, "fetch a glass of water for M. Dumas."

"Louise! ... in a wash-hand basin," I added.

"Impertinent fellow!" said Dorval.

She threw herself upon me and hit me with all her strength. Just when she was beating me with the greatest avidity, someone rang the outdoor bell. She stopped short.

"Ah!" she said, "do go quickly into the salon before anybody sees you here, there's a good dog!"

"Suppose I take myself off altogether?"

"What?"

"Suppose we put off our reading till this evening?"

"That would be better still."

"Shall I go out by the way you know?"

"Yes, yes.... Till to-night! Would you like me to give Bocage a hint?"

"No. I want to read it over to you first."

"As you like.... But come, off with you!"

"Oh! how tiresome it is of de Vigny to come just at this moment!"

"What can you expect, my poor friend! We are not to have everything our own way in this world.... Good-bye until to-night."

"Until to-night, then."

She shut the door of her bedroom quickly just as the sitting-room door opened.

"Oh! good-day, my dear Comte," she said; "come and sit here by me ... I was expecting you impatiently...."

Meanwhile, Louise lifted the Persian portière curtain and beckoned me to follow her. I put a louis in her hand. She gazed at me in astonishment.

"Well, what is the matter?" I asked.

"Things are to be, then, as though Madame had not rung?"

"Precisely."

"Shall we not see you again?"

"Oh yes, I return to-night."

"Ah! now I understand."

"Well, no, you do not."

"That is possible too: I can't help it. What is to be done? For the past six months the world has been topsy-turvy here. Ah! monsieur, you whom Madame loves so much, you ought indeed to tell her that she is lost!"

She was right, poor Louise!.. But we will explain in another place why she was right.

[1] Alfred de Vigny published his delightful poems called _Élévations_ at this time.