The First Actress Page 18

  * * *

  —

  I proceeded directly to the Odéon on the Left Bank, near the Luxembourg Gardens, arriving with sweat dripping down my temples beneath my hat from the simmering July heat. Monsieur Duquesnel greeted me as if he’d been expecting my imminent arrival—an elegant man in a beige linen suit, with tousled fair hair and indolent hazel eyes, appearing to be only in his early thirties—younger than I’d supposed—and evidently versed in wielding his considerable charm. Taking my hand, he lifted it to his lips. “Enchanté, mademoiselle. I’ve heard much about you, but your beauty is gravely underreported.”

  A practiced voluptuary, but I could tell by his smile that I was hired, reference or not. I was about to ask when I might sign the contract when he inclined toward me, his breath tinged with tobacco and mint. “My partner Monsieur de Chilly insists on meeting you. A mere formality, you understand, but required to conclude our arrangement.”

  He guided me to an upstairs office heaped with scripts and playbills, colorful posters of past attractions framed on the walls. From behind the desk, a small, bespectacled ferret of a man in a frock coat, with a bald pate and the demeanor of a banking official, snarled, “And who is this, if I may ask? Another of your strays?”

  “My dear de Chilly,” lilted Duquesnel, his hand still cupping my elbow, “this is the lovely young actress I mentioned to you earlier: Mademoiselle Sarah Bernhardt.”

  “Ah.” De Chilly’s scowl deepened. “The infamous girl of the Slap. I’ll have you know, Mademoiselle Bernhardt, I don’t believe you possess any talent. Scandalous ladies who wish to perform abound in this city, and we cannot hire every one. Were it up to me alone,” he went on, with an accusatory look at Duquesnel, “you would not be offered a position here.”

  His supercilious tone brought back unwelcome reminders of every theater manager I’d encountered thus far, prompting me to say, “And were it up to you alone, I would not accept it.”

  Duquesnel chuckled, as if such acrimony between his players and his business partner was routine. “Now, now. Let us save the drama for the stage, shall we?” He motioned to de Chilly. “The contract.” Then he paused, with some drama of his own, turning to me with an air of bewilderment. “I trust you are of age?”

  I nearly laughed in his face. “Monsieur, I’m in my twenty-second year.”

  “You do not look it,” he said, and de Chilly snapped, “The reference first. That is my condition. Either she provides a suitable reference or there’s no contract.”

  Removing the envelope from the bag, I handed it to Duquesnel. He did not open it. “You see?” he said to de Chilly. “I have no doubt it’s in perfect order.”

  “It’s from Monsieur Provost,” I said. “You will indeed find it in perfect order.”

  “Order or not, Provost owes me for this,” retorted de Chilly. He yanked a paper from the stack by his side. Duquesnel inked a pen. Leaning over the desk, I signed, my belly fluttering as if I had swallowed a thousand butterflies.

  I was an actress once more, employed at the Odéon.

  “Now.” Taking me by my arm, Duquesnel led me from the office, away from de Chilly’s malevolent stare. “We must discuss the roles I’m considering for you. I believe we should start with…” With his murmur in my ear, I allowed myself to be seduced.

  I understood. My roles were secondary. Sophie Croizette had recommended me as promised, and imparted extra incentive to pique his interest. He had heard of my salon and apparent willingness to perform, both onstage and off.

  I did not care. If this, too, was the price required of me, I would pay it. He wasn’t unattractive, and I sensed that, much like my suitors, he had no interest in permanent arrangements. No doubt, bedding new hires was a ritual he indulged by rote.

  All that mattered was that I now build a career to eclipse all others.

  IV

  “I don’t understand why you’re so concerned,” said Sophie. We walked in the Luxembourg Gardens, swathed in our cloaks as we took a brief respite from rehearsal. The chill of late autumn frosted the air, the chestnut trees shedding their foliage to lay a brittle carpet of russet and gold at our feet. “Yes, your performances haven’t caused much of a stir thus far, but Duquesnel is steadfast in his support. He allowed you to interpret your roles as you see fit and even offered to pay your salary out of his own purse to keep you on, over de Chilly’s objection.”

  I glanced at her. Sophie was vivacious and ambitious, but with none of the undercurrent of rivalry that characterized Marie, with whom we’d renewed our friendship and whose first comment upon seeing me again was an astonished “Why, Sarah, you’re looking so well! I thought you’d given up acting.”

  She herself had not looked well. I noticed her bonnet was frayed at the edges, and she was diminished in appearance, betraying that she wasn’t living as well as she’d planned, despite Samson’s patronage—which she ought to have anticipated, given that actors, even those with senior status, were hardly paid well. As I recalled Sophie’s warning about her, I also did not fail to mark her disappointment that I had resurfaced; nevertheless, she admitted her time at the Châtelet had been as inauspicious as mine at the Comédie, and she wasted no time in entreating us for a referral, saying she urgently required a change of venue.

  I told her I was in no position yet to suggest new hires but once we returned to the theater, I asked Sophie to do so, instead.

  “Sarah, why on earth would you want me to refer her?” said Sophie in surprise. “Marie only wants to come here to seek opportunity in whatever you may achieve.”

  I sighed. “Perhaps. But I can’t forget we were once friends in our childhood. I refuse to be petty. Her silly jealousy hasn’t served her at all, as you saw. She’s barely making ends meet, and none of us should willingly cast a fellow player out into the streets.”

  “Your generosity is admirable,” Sophie said. “I fear she’ll not appreciate it.”

  De Chilly proved amenable enough, encouraged by a personal recommendation from Marie’s patron, Samson, at the Comédie, though he might have questioned why Samson couldn’t secure Marie a position there. And Sophie was right, for no sooner did Marie sign on at the Odéon than she set herself to making eyes at Duquesnel. As he and I were lovers, he ignored her advances, driving a deeper wedge between Marie and me. I might not have cared had there been mutual attraction between them; I hardly expected Duquesnel’s fidelity, but I knew Marie had only attempted to seduce him to usurp my place in his bed and secure her tenuous new rank at the theater.

  “I regret my generosity now,” I told Sophie as we paused by a bench near the palace. “Marie seems determined to upstage me at every turn.”

  Sophie laughed. “I did warn you. Fortunately, Duquesnel oversees casting and Marie was hired only to play secondary roles. She can never challenge your position.”

  “What position? Duquesnel’s affection thus far hasn’t extended to my roles: Marivaux’s Jeu de l’amour, with lines as ancien régime as the costumes. Then Armande in Molière’s Femmes savantes—another ignominy.” I blew out my breath in frustration. “I thought we were supposed to be an innovative playhouse.”

  “Sarah, you’ve been here less than a season.” By the fountains, a gaggle of schoolchildren was being herded by nuns, making me think of Grandchamp. “Your role as Zachariah promises to be very innovative indeed,” she went on. “No one has staged Athalie like this in ages, with the Greek chorus. Tickets have sold out weeks in advance.”

  I gave her a weak smile. I had campaigned mercilessly for the role of the high priest’s young son. While it wasn’t the lead, which Sophie had secured, it still required considerable skill, as I would be playing an adolescent boy murdered at Athalie’s command. Many, including Voltaire, considered Athalie to be Racine’s finest work, his final play about the King of Judah’s widow, who abandons her Jewish faith—something I was familiar with—in
order to rule. I’d been rehearsing obsessively, hoping my incarnation of Zachariah would finally earn me the notice I craved, if only to silence de Chilly’s frequent demands that Duquesnel void my contract and put Marie in my place, for she had wasted no time ingratiating herself into de Chilly’s good graces.

  “You’re going to be sublime.” Sophie linked her arm in mine again. “You’ve been shining at every rehearsal. The entire company thinks so.”

  I didn’t want advance praise from my fellow players. Praise was treacherous when I felt as though I might never amount to more than second-rate. I missed Maurice, whom I’d left in Madame G.’s care in Auteuil, rarely setting eyes on him, as my obligations required me to spend most of my time at the theater or in Duquesnel’s townhouse. I missed Régine, now eleven years old and miserable with Julie. I missed my salon and my artistic pursuits, for which I no longer had the spare time. Looking back over the past four months, I doubted my willingness to return to this cloistered world where I so rarely felt at ease, where my every flaw was laid bare for others to scrutinize and tear apart.

  “We’ll see,” I muttered, as we started to return to the theater. A swirl of snowflakes suddenly powdered the air. As I saw the nuns flapping their arms at their errant charges, the children ignoring them as they jumped about in delight at this magical manifestation of winter, I felt a pang, thinking that I was missing the chance to be together with Maurice during his first snowfall.

  Sophie nudged my ribs. “You’d best do more than see. Marie is playing your sister Salomith. You must outshine her. Otherwise, she may take it into her head again to upstage you both in the play and in Duquesnel’s bed. Now, that would be disastrous.”

  I had to laugh, despite the sense of peril her words sent through me.

  Survival required that I make myself indispensable.

  * * *

  On opening night, I stood in the wings, dressed in Zachariah’s tunic, oblivious to the chaos around me as I swallowed an acidic taste and fought off an inopportune resurgence of le trac. I hadn’t experienced it since my return to the stage; I now understood it only beset me when I was about to embark on a role upon which I’d pinned too much hope.

  De Chilly burst upon us moments before the curtain was due to rise. “Half the students for the chorus have failed to appear,” he gasped, always in a fluster on opening night. “Some illness felled them, tonight of all nights. And with Sarcey in the front row!”

  I froze. “Sarcey is here?” For a second, I feared I might actually vomit.

  “Of course he’s here,” said de Chilly impatiently. “After all the attention lavished on this production, all the publicity Duquesnel insisted on, what else did you expect?”

  Hearing his name, Duquesnel strolled over to us, as serene as de Chilly was not. “We’ll have to adjust the chorus. Can we make do with whoever has shown up?”

  “No,” de Chilly snarled. “Two boys with a cough do not a chorus make. We’ll look ridiculous; the audience will jeer us out of the house.” He started to swerve away when Duquesnel said, “Sarah can sing the refrain. She has exquisite tonality, and the training.”

  De Chilly gaped at him. “The entire chorus? She has her role to perform.”

  “There is no chorus when the players are onstage,” Duquesnel reminded him.

  Glancing at Duquesnel, I realized his intent. He sought advantage in the turmoil to exalt me, but surely he must also know Sarcey had savaged me when I was at the Comédie. To put me in such an untenable position might bring about the premature end to my career, as de Chilly himself declared:

  “Have you lost your mind? A woman singing the chorus? Impossible.” He scowled at Duquesnel. “I’ll not abide doling out refunds for tonight’s performance. It would be a disaster, after everything invested in the production. We’d have to close our very doors. Gather up the male players who are not in the first act and have them sing it. It won’t be perfect, so we can only hope the play makes up for the defect. And do it fast.”

  He stalked off, leaving me with Duquesnel, who looked after him with a lazy smile.

  “You can’t be serious,” I said, as he turned his smile to me. “The future of the house depends on this play. I’ll make a fool of myself—”

  “You will not make a fool of yourself,” he said calmly. “None of the male players has your voice. I’m not sure they even know the entire refrain. You do. Best take your mark.”

  “But I’m not wearing a chorus robe,” I protested, my dismay spiraling into panic. “I’m already in my costume!”

  “Never mind that. There’s no time. Sarah,” he said, “I trust you.”

  I turned to the cast. Sophie gave me an encouraging nod, having overheard, while Marie, her face lathered in white pigment as my older sister, seemed about to break into a gloating smile. I hadn’t seen it until now, not fully, her envy and secret hope that I’d fall flat on my face, clearing her way of a rival. The girl who’d once declared she never aspired to become a great actress had evidently lied.

  Gathering my resolve as the orchestra tuned their instruments, I hastened to the other side of the curtain, where the chorus was meant to stand. I drew a deep breath, closing my eyes as the rush of velvet and creaking ropes announced the curtain’s rise.

  The cavernous vastness beyond, the sudden loss of sensation that always left me feeling as though I were submerged in dark water, overwhelmed me. Sarcey was here, the very man who’d helped ruin my fledging career. He would recognize me, the disgraced pensionnaire whose sole accomplishment to date had been to strike a senior actress.

  I missed my cue. As the music faltered, laughter drifted from the audience. Then the orchestra began the refrain anew and I stepped forward, envisioning my salon, my dogs running about, nipping at legs; the laconic men on my white settee, smiling, sipping brandy, as I regaled them with a music recital or declamation of poetry.

  I began to sing.

  The sound of my voice was disconcerting, seeming too light for the enormity of the house, lost in the muted maelstrom that made up an audience. Yet when no jeers ensued, no catcalls or insults, I grew bolder, lifting my voice higher, chanting of the sultry heat of Judea, the soughing of palm trees, and the buttresses of Athalie’s fortress. I’d never believed I had a talent for singing, but the chorus music swept me up in its beauty, so that I forgot I stood alone on the stage, singing verses composed for more than a single voice—and not a woman’s. Duquesnel had revived the play’s original staging from the time of Louis XV, adhering to the purity of form Racine had intended, but to use only one person to sing the entire chorus—it was unheard of. In doing so, he had turned what was supposed to be an homage to the playwright into a controversy.

  When I finished, I braced for the uproar. Sudden applause rocked me back on my heels. I stood, incredulous, as voices bellowed, “Brava!” and then a hiss came from behind me—“Off! The play is about to start”—and I scrambled backstage for the first act.

  I didn’t have any lines until the second act, when Zachariah made his entrance. But as I stood shivering, sweat dripping down my nape, Duquesnel looked at me from where he stood in the wings and his sardonic smile conveyed everything I needed to know.

  * * *

  “ ‘Sarah Bernhardt is a revelation,’ ” I read aloud from Sarcey’s latest newspaper column as Duquesnel reclined naked in bed. “ ‘She charmed the audience like Orpheus.’ ” I pirouetted to his desk, retrieving the personal note I’d received from Sarcey after my numerous curtain calls. “And he wrote me this private message. He thinks I have a bright future ahead, should I continue in my present vein.”

  “Extraordinary,” drawled Duquesnel, his eyes at half-mast. Reaching to the side table for one of his noxious cigarillos, he struck a match to it. “He has forgiven you. But, my darling, de Chilly will not soon forgive me for defaming Athalie.”

  “Why ever not? You saved th
e production. No refunds were required.”

  “Nevertheless.” Duquesnel blew out smoke. “He gave me quite the scolding for setting you to singing the chorus alone. He believes it was too great a risk and now insists we must stage something entirely orthodox for our spring season.”

  Flushed by my success, I would not let de Chilly’s sourness spoil the moment. “But he’s already consented to Hugo’s Ruy Blas, hasn’t he? You’ve had the advance announcements distributed.”

  When he’d first told me about his ambition to bring Hugo’s venerable drama to our stage, it plunged me into excitement. Performing one of the playwright’s works was the crowning ambition of every player, and Ruy Blas, set in seventeenth-century Spain, where an indentured poet dares to love the queen, was considered his finest. Though ill-received by critics at its debut in 1838, it had gained immense popularity among companies and audiences alike for the beauty of its verse, and I’d begun to memorize my lines, determined to win the role of the queen.

  Duquesnel sighed. “Sarah, not even we can ignore that play’s message of political reform. Hugo took himself into exile to protest Louis-Napoléon and is publishing critiques of the empire from abroad; his very name has made him a rallying cry for malcontents. De Chilly is adamant. As our emperor has come down against Hugo, so must we. No Ruy Blas.”

  “But you’re our artistic director! Tell de Chilly it’s your decision.”

  He chuckled. “De Chilly has majority stake in the company: that means he controls our purse. I can’t override him. It would be the end of the company if I made a habit of flouting him at every turn. Instead,” he went on, before I could express my outrage, “he’s agreed to Dumas’s Kean. I trust you will be satisfied if I cast you as Anna Damby?”

  I let out a gasp. “She’s the female lead. De Chilly won’t abide it. What about Sophie?”