My Double Life: The Memoirs of Sarah Bernhardt Part 36

"Listen to me," said the charming manager in a friendly way. "You know that I am not free to act alone. I will do my best, I promise you." And Duquesnel certainly kept his word. "Come here to-morrow before going to the Comedie, and I will give you Chilly's reply. But take my advice, and if he obstinately refuses to increase your salary, do not leave; we shall find some way.... And besides--Anyhow, I cannot say any more."

I returned the following day according to arrangement.

I found Duquesnel and Chilly in the managerial office. Chilly began at once somewhat roughly:

"And so you want to leave, Duquesnel tells me. Where are you going? It is most stupid, for your place is here. Just consider, and think it over for yourself. At the Gymnase they only give modern pieces, dressy plays.

That is not your style. At the Vaudeville it is the same. At the Gaite you would spoil your voice. You are too distinguished for the Ambigu."

I looked at him without replying. I saw that his partner had not spoken to him about the Comedie Francaise. He felt awkward, and mumbled:

"Well then, you are of my opinion?"

"No," I answered; "you have forgotten the Comedie."

He was sitting in his big arm-chair, and he burst out laughing.

"Ah no, my dear girl," he said, "you must not tell me that. They've had enough of your queer character at the Comedie. I dined the other night with Maubant, and when some one said that you ought to be engaged at the Comedie Francaise he nearly choked with rage. I can a.s.sure you the great tragedian did not show much affection for you."

"Oh well, you ought to have taken my part," I exclaimed, irritated. "You know very well that I am a most serious member of your company."

"But I did take your part," he said, "and I added even that it would be a very fortunate thing for the Comedie if it could have an artiste with your will power, which perhaps might relieve the monotonous tone of the house; and I only spoke as I thought, but the poor tragedian was beside himself. He does not consider that you have any talent. In the first place, he maintains that you do not know how to recite verse. He declares that you make all your _a_'s too broad. Finally, when he had no arguments left he declared that as long as he lives you will never enter the Comedie Francaise."

I was silent for a moment, weighing the pros and cons of the probable result of my experiment. Finally coming to a decision, I murmured somewhat waveringly:

"Well then, you will not give me a higher salary?"

"No, a thousand times no!" yelled Chilly. "You will try to make me pay up when your engagement comes to an end, and then we shall see. But I have your signature until then. You have mine, too, and I hold to our engagement. The Theatre Francais is the only one that would suit you beside ours, and I am quite easy in my mind with regard to that theatre."

"You make a mistake perhaps," I answered. He got up brusquely and came and stood opposite me, his two hands in his pockets. He then said in an odious and familiar tone:

"Ah, that's it, is it? You think I am an idiot, then?"

I got up too, and said coldly, pushing him gently back, "I think you are a triple idiot." I then hurried away towards the staircase, and all Duquesnel's shouting was in vain. I ran down the stairs two at a time.

On arriving under the Odeon arcade I was stopped by Paul Meurice, who was just going to invite Duquesnel and Chilly, on behalf of Victor Hugo, to a supper to celebrate the one hundredth performance of _Ruy Blas_.

"I have just come from your house," he said. "I have left you a few lines from Victor Hugo."

"Good, good; that's all right," I replied, getting into my carriage. "I shall see you to-morrow then, my friend."

"Good Heavens, what a hurry you are in!" he said.

"Yes!" I replied, and then, leaning out of the window, I said to my coachman, "Drive to the Comedie Francaise."

I looked at Paul Meurice to wish him farewell. He was standing stupefied on the arcade steps.

On arriving at the Comedie I sent my card to Perrin, and five minutes later was ushered in to that icy mannikin. There were two very distinct personages in this man. The one was the man he was himself, and the other the one he had created for the requirements of his profession.

Perrin himself was gallant, pleasant, witty, and slightly timid; the mannikin was cold, and somewhat given to posing.

I was first received by Perrin the mannikin. He was standing up, his head bent, bowing to a woman, his arm outstretched to indicate the hospitable armchair. He waited with a certain affectation until I was seated before sitting down himself. He then picked up a paper-knife, in order to have something to do with his hands, and in a rather weak voice, the voice of the mannikin, he remarked:

"Have you thought it over, Mademoiselle?"

"Yes, Monsieur, and here I am to give my signature."

Before he had time to give me any encouragement to dabble with the things on his desk, I drew up my chair, picked up a pen, and prepared to sign the paper. I did not take enough ink at first, and I stretched my arm out across the whole width of the writing table, and dipped my pen this time resolutely to the bottom of the ink-pot. I took too much ink, however, this time, and on the return journey a huge spot of it fell on the large sheet of white paper in front of the mannikin.

He bent his head, for he was slightly short-sighted, and looked for a moment like a bird when it discovers a hemp-seed in its grain. He then proceeded to put aside the blotted sheet.

"Wait a minute, oh, wait a minute!" I exclaimed, seizing the inky paper.

"I want to see whether I am doing right or not to sign. If that is a b.u.t.terfly I am right, and if anything else, no matter what, I am wrong."

I took the sheet, doubled it in the middle of the enormous blot, and pressed it firmly together. Emile Perrin thereupon began to laugh, giving up his mannikin att.i.tude entirely. He leaned over to examine the paper with me, and we opened it very gently just as one opens one's hand after imprisoning a fly. When the paper was spread open, in the midst of its whiteness a magnificent black b.u.t.terfly with outspread wings was to be seen.

"Well then," said Perrin, with nothing of the mannikin left, "we were quite right in signing."

After this we talked for some time, like two friends who meet again, for this man was charming and very fascinating, in spite of his ugliness.

When I left him we were friends and delighted with each other.

I was playing in _Ruy Blas_ that night at the Odeon. Towards ten o'clock Duquesnel came to my dressing-room.

"You were rather rough on that poor Chilly," he said. "And you really were not nice. You ought to have come back when I called you. Is it true, as Paul Meurice tells us, that you went straight to the Theatre Francais?"

"Here, read for yourself," I said, handing him my engagement with the Comedie.

Duquesnel took the paper and read it.

"Will you let me show it to Chilly?" he asked.

"Show it him, certainly," I replied.

He came nearer, and said in a grave, hurt tone:

"You ought never to have done that without telling me first. It shows a lack of confidence I do not deserve."

He was right, but the thing was done. A moment later Chilly arrived, furious, gesticulating, shouting, stammering in his anger.

"It is abominable!" he said. "It is treason, and you had not even the right to do it. I shall make you pay damages."

As I felt in a bad humour, I turned my back on him, and apologised as feebly as possible to Duquesnel. He was hurt, and I was a little ashamed, for this man had given me nothing but proofs of kindliness, and it was he who, in spite of Chilly and many other unwilling people, had held the door open for my future.

Chilly kept his word, and brought an action against me and the Comedie.

I lost, and had to pay six thousand francs damages to the managers of the Odeon.

A few weeks later Victor Hugo invited the artistes who performed in _Ruy Bias_ to a big supper in honour of the one hundredth performance. This was a great delight to me, as I had never been present at a supper of this kind.

I had scarcely spoken to Chilly since our last scene. On the night in question he was placed at my right, and we had to get reconciled. I was seated to the right of Victor Hugo, and to his left was Madame Lambquin, who was playing the Camerara Mayor, and Duquesnel was next to Madame Lambquin. Opposite the ill.u.s.trious poet was another poet, Theophile Gautier, with his lion's head on an elephant's body. He had a brilliant mind, and said the choicest things with a horse laugh. The flesh of his fat, flabby, wan face was pierced by two eyes veiled by heavy lids. The expression of them was charming, but far away. There was in this man an Oriental n.o.bility choked by Western fashion and customs. I knew nearly all his poetry, and I gazed at him with affection--the fond lover of the beautiful.

It amused me to imagine him dressed in superb Oriental costumes. I could see him lying down on huge cushions, his beautiful hands playing with gems of all colours; and some of his verses came in murmurs to my lips.

I was just setting off with him in a dream that was infinite, when a word from my neighbour, Victor Hugo, made me turn towards him.