An old man-servant came in.
"Give me all my clothes, Pierre."
Then turning to me, he said, "You will excuse me?"
"Oh, there is nothing to excuse!..." I replied.
On the following Thursday (for Taylor would not wait until the Saturday, but had called a special Committee) the Committee, whether from chance or because Taylor had praised my play extravagantly, was a very large one; there were as many well-dressed men and women present as though a dance were on the way. The ladies decked out in gay hats and flowers, the gentlemen in fashionable dress, the large green carpet, the inquisitive looks which were fixed upon me, every detail down to the glass of water which Granville solemnly placed by my side—which struck me as very ludicrous—all this combined to inspire me with profound emotion.
Christine was then quite different from what it is to-day: it was a simple play, romantic in style, but founded on classical traditions. It was confined to five acts; the action took place entirely at Fontainebleau, and it conformed with the unity of time, place and action laid down by Aristotle. Stranger still! it did not contain the character of Paula, which is now the best creation in the play, and the real dramatic mainspring of the whole work. Monaldeschi betrayed Christine's ambition, but not her love. And yet I have rarely known any work to have such a successful first reading. They made me read the monologue of Sentinelli and the scene with Monaldeschi three times over. I was intoxicated with delight. My play was received with acclamation. Only, three or four of the agenda papers contained the following cautious phrase:—
"A second, reading, or the manuscript to be submitted to an author in whom the Committee has confidence."
The result of the deliberations of the Comédie-Française was that the tragedy of Christine was accepted; but, on account of the great innovations which it contained, they would not undertake to perform it until after another reading, or the manuscript had been submitted to another author, to be named by them.
The whole thing had passed before my eyes like a mist. I had seen face to face for the first time the kings and queens of the tragic and comic stage: Mademoiselle Mars, Mademoiselle Leverd, Mademoiselle Bourgoin, Madame Valmonzey, Madame Paradol and Mademoiselle Demerson, an engagingly clever soubrette, who played Molière with great freshness, and Marivaux with such finished style as I never saw in anyone else. I knew I was accepted and that was all I wished to know: the conditions I would fulfil, the difficulties I would overcome. Therefore I did not wait until the conclusion of the conference. I thanked Taylor, and I left the theatre as proud and as light-hearted as though my first mistress had said to me, "I love you." I made off for the faubourg Saint-Denis, ogling everybody I met, as much as to say, "You haven't written Christine; you haven't just come away from the Théâtre-Français; you haven't been received with acclamation, you, you, you!" And, in the joyful preoccupation of my thoughts, I did not take care to measure my steps across a gutter but stumbled into the middle of it; I took no notice of carriages, I jostled in and out among the horses. When I reached the faubourg Saint-Denis I had lost my manuscript; but that did not matter! I knew my play by heart. With one leap, I bounded into our rooms, and my mother cried out, for she never saw me back before five o'clock.