January 26, 1872, was an artistic fête for the Odéon. The Tout-Paris of first nights and the vibrating younger elements were to meet in the large, solemn, dusty theatre. Ah, what a splendid, stirring performance it was! What a triumph for Geffroy, pale, sinister, and severe-looking in his black costume as Don Salluste. Mélingue rather disappointed the public as Don César de Bazan, and the public was in the wrong. The rôle of Don César de Bazan is a treacherously good rôle, which always tempts artists by the brilliancy of the first act; but the fourth act, which belongs entirely to him, is distressingly heavy and useless. It might be taken out of the piece, just like a periwinkle out of its shell, and the piece would be none the less clear and complete.

This 26th of January rent asunder, though, for me the thin veil which still made my future hazy, and I felt that I was destined for celebrity. Until that day I had remained the students’ little fairy. I became then the Elect of the public.

Breathless, dazed, and yet delighted by my success, I did not know to whom to reply in the ever-changing stream of male and female admirers. Then, suddenly, I saw the crowd separating and forming two lines, and I caught a glimpse of Victor Hugo and Girardin coming towards me. In a second all the stupid ideas I had had about this immense genius flashed across me. I remembered my first interview, when I had been stiff and barely polite to this kind, indulgent man. At that moment, when all my life was opening its wings, I should have liked to cry out to him my repentance and to tell him of my devout gratitude.

Before I could speak, though, he was down on his knee, and raising my two hands to his lips, he murmured, “Thank you! Thank you!”

And so it was he who said “Thank you.” He, the great Victor Hugo, whose soul was so beautiful, whose universal genius filled the world! He, whose generous hands flung pardons like gems to all his insulters. Ah, how small I felt, how ashamed, and yet how happy! He then rose, shook the hands that were held out to him, finding for every one the right word.

He was so handsome that night, with his broad forehead, which seemed to retain the light, his thick, silvery fleece of hair, and his laughing luminous eyes.

Not daring to fling myself in Victor Hugo’s arms, I fell into Girardin’s, the sure friend of my first steps, and I burst into tears. He took me aside in my dressing-room. “You must not let yourself be intoxicated with this great success now,” he said. “There must be no more risky jumps, now that you are crowned with laurels. You will have to be more yielding, more docile, more sociable.”

“I feel that I shall never be yielding nor docile, my friend,” I answered looking at him, “I will try to be more sociable, but that is all I can promise. As to my crown, I assure you that in spite of my risky jumps, and I feel that I shall always be making some, the crown will not shake off.”

Paul Meurice, who had come up to us, overheard this conversation, and reminded me of it on the evening of the first performance of Angelo at the Sarah Bernhardt Theatre, on February 7, 1905.

On returning home, I sat up a long time talking to Madame Guérard, and when she wanted to go I begged her to stay longer. I had become so rich in hopes for the future that I was afraid of thieves. Mon petit Dame stayed on with me, and we talked till daybreak. At seven o’clock we took a cab and I drove my dear friend home, and then continued driving for another hour. I had already achieved a fair number of successes: Le Passant, Le Drame de la Rue de la Paix, Anna Danby in Kean, and Jean-Marie, but I felt that the Ruy Blas success was greater than any of the others, and that this time I had become some one to be criticised, but not to be overlooked.

I often went in the morning to Victor Hugo’s, and he was always very charming and kind.

When I was quite at my ease with him, I spoke to him about my first impressions, about all my stupid, nervous rebellion with regard to him, about all that I had been told and all that I had believed in my naïve ignorance about political matters.

One morning the Master took great delight in my conversation. He sent for Madame Drouet, the sweet soul, the companion of his glorious and rebellious mind. He told her, in a laughing but melancholy way, that the evil work of bad people is to sow error in every soil, whether favourable or not. That morning is engraved for ever in my mind, for the great man talked a long time. Oh, it was not for me, but for what I represented in his eyes. Was I not, as a matter of fact, the young generation, in which a bourgeois and clerical education had warped the intelligence by closing the mind to every generous idea, to every flight towards the new?

When I left Victor Hugo that morning I felt myself more worthy of his friendship.

I then went to Girardin’s, as I wanted to talk to some one who loved the poet, but he was out.

I went next to Marshal Canrobert’s, and there I had a great surprise. Just as I was getting out of the carriage, I nearly fell into the arms of the Marshal, who was coming out of his house.

“What is it? What’s the matter? Is it postponed?” he asked, laughing.

I did not understand, and gazed at him rather bewildered.

“Well, have you forgotten that you invited me to luncheon?” he asked.

I was quite confused, for I had entirely forgotten it.

“Well, all the better!” I said; “I very much wanted to talk to you. Come; I am going to take you with me now.”

I then related my visit to Victor Hugo, and repeated all the fine thoughts he had uttered, forgetting that I was constantly saying things that were contrary to the Marshal’s ideas. This admirable man could admire, though, and if he could not change his opinions, he approved the great ideas which were to bring about great changes.

One day, when he and Busnach were both at my house, there was a political discussion which became rather violent. I was afraid for a moment that things might take a bad turn, as Busnach was the most witty and at the same time the rudest man in France. It is only fair to say, though, that if Marshal Canrobert was a polite man and very well bred, he was not at all behind William Busnach in wit. The latter was worked up by the chafing speeches of the Marshal.

“I challenge you, Monsieur,” he exclaimed, “to write about the odious Utopias that you have just been supporting!”

“Oh, Monsieur Busnach,” replied Canrobert coldly, “we do not use the same steel for writing history! You use a pen, and I a sword.”

The luncheon that I had so completely forgotten was nevertheless a luncheon arranged several days previously. On reaching home we found there Paul de Rémusat, charming Mlle. Hocquigny, and M. de Monbel, a young attaché d’ambassade. I explained my lateness as well as I could, and that morning finished in the most delicious harmony of ideas.

I have never felt more than I did that day the infinite joy of listening.

During a silence Mlle. Hocquigny turned to the Marshal and said:

“Are you not of the opinion that our young friend should enter the Comédie Française?”

“Ah, no, no!” I exclaimed; “I am so happy at the Odéon. I began at the Comédie, and the short time I remained there I was very unhappy.”

“You will be obliged to go back there, my dear friend—obliged. Believe me, it will be better early than late.”

“Well, do not spoil to-day’s pleasure for me, for I have never been happier!”

One morning shortly after this my maid brought me a letter. The large round stamp, on which are the words “Comédie Française” was on the corner of the envelope.

I remembered that ten years previously, almost day for day, our old servant Marguerite had, with my mother’s permission, handed me a letter in the same kind of envelope.

My face then had flushed with joy, but this time I felt a faint tinge of pallor touch my cheeks.

When events occur which disturb my life, I always have a movement of recoil. I cling for a second to what is, and then I fling myself headlong into what is to be. It is like a gymnast who clings first to his trapeze bar in order to fling himself afterwards with full force into space. In one second what now is becomes for me what was, and I love it with tender emotion as something dead. But I adore what is to be without seeking even to know about it, for what is to be is the unknown, the mysterious attraction. I always fancy that it will be something unheard of, and I shudder from head to foot in delicious uneasiness. I receive quantities of letters, and it seems to me that I never receive enough. I watch them accumulating just as I watch the waves of the sea. What are they going to bring me, these mysterious envelopes, large, small, pink, blue, yellow, white? What are they going to fling upon the rock, these great wild waves, dark with seaweed? What sailor-boy’s corpse? What remains of a wreck? What are these little brisk waves going to leave on the beach, these reflections of a blue sky, little laughing waves? What pink “sea-star”? What mauve anemone? What pearly shell?

So I never open my letters immediately. I look at the envelopes, try to recognise the handwriting and the seal; and it is only when I am quite certain from whom the letter comes that I open it. The others I leave my secretary to open or a kind friend, Suzanne Seylor. My friends know this so well that they always put their initials in the corner of their envelopes.

At that time I had no secretary, but mon petit Dame served me as such.

I looked at the envelope a long time, and gave it at last to Madame Guérard.

“It is a letter from M. Perrin, director of the Comédie Française,” she said. “He asks if you can fix a time to see him on Tuesday or Wednesday afternoon at the Comédie Française or at your own house.”

“Thanks. What day is it to-day?” I asked.

“Monday,” she replied.

I then installed Madame Guérard at my desk, and asked her to reply that I would go there the following day at three o’clock.

I was earning very little at that time at the Odéon. I was living on what my father had left me—that is, on the transaction made by the Hâvre notary—and not much remained. I therefore went to see Duquesnel and showed him the letter.

“Well, what are you going to do?” he asked.

“Nothing. I have come to ask your advice.”

“Oh well, I advise you to remain at the Odéon. Besides, your engagement does not terminate for another year, and I shall not allow you leave!”

“Well, raise my salary, then,” I said. “I am offered twelve thousand francs a year at the Comédie. Give me fifteen thousand here and I will stay, for I do not want to leave.”

“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 Comédie, 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 Gaîté 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 Comédie Française. He felt awkward, and mumbled:

“Well then, you are of my opinion?”

“No,” I answered; “you have forgotten the Comédie.”

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 Comédie. I dined the other night with Maubant, and when some one said that you ought to be engaged at the Comédie Française he nearly choked with rage. I can assure 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 Comédie 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 Comédie Française.”

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 Théâtre Français 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 Odéon 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 Comédie Française.”

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

On arriving at the Comédie 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 arm-chair. 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 butterfly 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 attitude 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 butterfly 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 Odéon. 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 Théâtre Français?”

“Here, read for yourself,” I said, handing him my engagement with the Comédie.

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

A few weeks later Victor Hugo invited the artistes who performed in Ruy Blas 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 illustrious poet was another poet, Théophile 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 nobility 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.

What a difference! He was just himself, the great poet—the most ordinary of beings except for his luminous forehead. He was heavy-looking, although very active. His nose was common, his eyes lewd, and his mouth without any beauty; his voice alone had nobility and charm. I liked to listen to him whilst looking at Théophile Gautier.

I was a little embarrassed, though, when I looked across the table, for at the side of the poet was an odious individual, Paul de St. Victor. His cheeks looked like two bladders from which the oil they contained was oozing out. His nose was sharp and like a crow’s beak, his eyes evil-looking and hard; his arms were too short, and he was too stout. He looked like a jaundice.

He had plenty of wit and talent, but he employed both in saying and writing more harm than good. I knew that this man hated me, and I promptly returned him hatred for hatred.

In answer to the toast proposed by Victor Hugo thanking every one for such zealous help on the revival of his work, each person raised his glass and looked towards the poet, but the illustrious master turned towards me and continued, “As to you, Madame——”

Just at this moment Paul de St. Victor put his glass down so violently on the table that it broke. There was an instant of stupor, and then I leaned across the table and held my glass out towards Paul de St. Victor.

“Take mine, Monsieur,” I said, “and then when you drink you will know what my thoughts are in reply to yours, which you have just expressed so clearly!”

The horrid man took my glass, but with what a look!

Victor Hugo finished his speech in the midst of applause and cheers. Duquesnel then leaned back and spoke to me quietly. He asked me to tell Chilly to reply to Victor Hugo. I did as requested. But he gazed at me with a glassy look, and in a far-away voice replied:

“Some one is holding my legs.” I looked at him more attentively, whilst Duquesnel asked for silence for M. de Chilly’s speech. I saw that his fingers were grasping a fork desperately; the tips of his fingers were white, the rest of the hand was violet. I took his hand, and it was icy cold; the other was hanging down inert under the table. There was silence, and all eyes turned towards Chilly.

“Get up,” I said, seized with terror. He made a movement, and his head suddenly fell forward with his face on his plate. There was a muffled uproar, and the few women present surrounded the poor man. Stupid, commonplace, indifferent things were uttered in the same way that one mutters familiar prayers. His son was sent for, and then two of the waiters came and carried the body away, living but inert, and placed it in a small drawing-room.

Duquesnel stayed with him, begging me, however, to go back to the poet’s guests. I returned to the room where the supper had taken place. Groups had been formed, and when I was seen entering I was asked if he was still as ill.

“The doctor has just arrived, and he cannot yet say,” I replied.

“It is indigestion,” said Lafontaine (Ruy Blas), tossing off a glass of liqueur brandy.

“It is cerebral anæmia,” pronounced Talien (Don Guritan), clumsily, for he was always losing his memory.

Victor Hugo approached and said very simply:

“It is a beautiful kind of death.”

He then took my arm and led me away to the other end of the room, trying to chase my thoughts away by gallant and poetical whispers. Some little time passed with this gloom weighing on us, and then Duquesnel appeared. He was pale, but appeared as if nothing serious was the matter. He was ready to answer all questions.

Oh yes; he had just been taken home. It would be nothing, it appeared. He only needed rest for a couple of days. Probably his feet had been cold during the meal.

“Yes,” put in one of the Ruy Blas guests, “there certainly was a fine draught under the table.”

“Yes,” Duquesnel was just replying to some one who was worrying him, “yes; no doubt there was too much heat for his head.”

“Yes,” added another of the guests, “our heads were nearly on fire with that wretched gas.”

I could see the moment arriving when Victor Hugo would be reproached by all of his guests for the cold, the heat, the food, and the wine of his banquet. All these imbecile remarks got on Duquesnel’s nerves. He shrugged his shoulders, and drawing me away from the crowd, said:

“It’s all over with him.”

I had had the presentiment of this, but the certitude of it now caused me intense grief.

“I want to go,” I said to Duquesnel. “Kindly tell some one to ask for my carriage.”

I moved towards the small drawing-room which served as a cloak-room for our wraps, and there old Madame Lambquin knocked up against me. Slightly intoxicated by the heat and the wine, she was waltzing with Talien.

“Ah, I beg your pardon, little Madonna,” she said; “I nearly knocked you over.”

I pulled her towards me, and without reflecting whispered to her, “Don’t dance any more, Mamma Lambquin; Chilly is dying.” She was purple, but her face turned as white as chalk. Her teeth began to chatter, but she did not utter a word.

“Oh, my dear Lambquin,” I murmured; “I did not know I should make you so wretched.”

She was not listening to me, though, any longer; she was putting on her cloak.

“Are you leaving?” she asked me.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Will you drive me home? I will then tell you——”

She wrapped a black fichu round her head, and we both went downstairs, accompanied by Duquesnel and Paul Meurice, who saw us into the carriage.

She lived in the St. Germain quarter and I in the Rue de Rome. On the way the poor woman told me the following story.

“You know, my dear,” she began, “I have a mania for somnambulists and fortune-tellers of all kinds. Well, last Friday (you see, I only consult them on a Friday) a woman who tells fortunes by cards said to me, ‘You will die a week after a man who is dark and not young, and whose life is connected with yours.’ Well, my dear, I thought she was just making game of me, for there is no man whose life is connected with mine, as I am a widow and have never had any liaison. I therefore abused her for this, as I pay her seven francs. She charges ten francs to other people, but seven francs to artistes. She was furious at my not believing her, and she seized my hands and said, ‘It’s no good yelling at me, for it is as I say. And if you want me to tell you the exact truth, it is a man who supports you; and, even to be more exact still, there are two men who support you, the one dark and the other fair; it’s a nice thing that!’ She had not finished her speech before I had given her such a slap as she had never had in her life, I can assure you. Afterwards, though, I puzzled my head to find out what the wretched woman could have meant. And all I could find was that the two men who support me, the one dark and the other fair, are our two managers, Chilly and Duquesnel. And now you tell me that Chilly——”

She stopped short, breathless with her story, and again seized with terror. “I feel stifled,” she murmured, and in spite of the freezing cold we lowered both the windows. On arriving I helped her up her four flights of stairs, and after telling the concierge to look after her, and giving the woman a twenty-franc piece to make sure that she would do so, I went home myself, very much upset by all these incidents, as dramatic as they were unexpected, in the middle of a fête.

Three days later Chilly died, without ever recovering consciousness.

Twelve days later poor Lambquin died. To the priest who gave her absolution she said, “I am dying because I listened to and believed the demon.”