This second Christine had been written by a M. Brault, formerly a prefect and a friend of M. Decazes, who supported him with all his might. The principal rôle in this new tragedy, namely, that of Christine, had been deputed to Madame Valmonzey. In case you do not know anything about Madame Valmonzey, I will tell you who she was. Madame Valmonzey was not a good actress, but she was a very good-looking woman, the mistress of M. Évariste Dumoulin, editor of the Constitutionnel. It may, perhaps, be asked why I mention this fact. I reply that it is because I must. Heaven forbid I should rake up a scandal needlessly and needlessly speak ill of the dead; but I am writing the history of art and the history of literature and the history of the theatre, and in order that this history may be history the truth must be told.
This was what happened on the receipt of a second Christine at the Théâtre-Français and in consequence of the amours of M. Évariste Dumoulin and Madame Valmonzey. M. Évariste Dumoulin let it be known that if they did not perform the play of his friend M. Brault before that of M. Alexandre Dumas he would ruin the Théâtre-Français by means of his journal. This declaration of war greatly frightened the Théâtre-Français; nevertheless, as it was a serious and unprecedented thing that M. Évariste Dumoulin demanded of the Committee, they replied that they were quite ready to play M. Brault's Christine, but that, in order to do so, my consent to cede my turn to him would first have to be obtained. M. Brault, moreover, was ill of an incurable disease, from which he died some time after, and it would be a comfort to the poor dying man to see his play acted before he died. This was the way the request was put to me by his son, in a most polite and affable letter, and by the Duc de Decazes in the most friendly terms, making me also offers of help. On their side, the Comedians of the Théâtre-Français guaranteed, after a Committee meeting, to play my piece after they had performed M. Brault's, upon the first request I should make them to do so.
I have always been easily moved by appeals of this kind. But this postponement was a serious matter to my mother and to me, for we were literally looking to the production of this play for the wherewithal to live. The bonuses of which I had told my mother had been distributed, but my share was fifty francs less than those my fellow-clerks received—a warning that I must behave myself better. Furthermore, I was under M. Deviolaine, who had predicted that my piece would never be played, and who pretty well leapt for joy when he saw that his prophecy was likely to be fulfilled. Finally, this promise to play my piece as soon as I should ask for it was illusory, for after the first Christine had been performed I could hardly ask the Comedians to play a second until at least a year had passed by. But, as a matter of fact, I could not do anything save yield, for I was surrounded on all sides by solicitations, even among the Villenave family, and besides, my own instinct fell into line with these solicitations. So I gave way and yielded place to M. Brault.
No reward attended my sacrifice. The very next day, the papers announced that the Committee of the Théâtre-Français, having discerned more chances in M. Brault's play than in mine, had decided that M. Brault's piece should be performed, while mine was to be indefinitely postponed. I could have objected publicly, produced the letter of M. Brault's son and revealed the engagement entered into by the Comédie-Française. I did nothing of the kind, and from that day to this, I have never taken any notice of the petty intrigues of the papers; I can boast with pride, and without fear of contradiction, that I have never soiled my hands either to gain my own ends or to injure other people. Of course, neither M. Brault, the poor dying poet, nor his son, nor M. Decazes, had any hand in all these intriguing announcements. I even believe that M. Brault's son had the decency to write and tell the true version of the facts, and to thank me publicly, as he had thanked me privately. But although I treated these hardships with disdain, they had their annoyances. My mother never read the papers, but the Deviolaine family read them, and everybody in the offices read them, and charitable souls took care to say to my mother—
"Upon my word, your son is getting himself talked about!"
"What about?" my mother would ask, trembling with fright.
And then they hastened to inform her, and saddened her poor heart, for I was her all in all, and she was far more anxious about me than I was about myself.
The rehearsals of M. Brault's Christine were pushed on as fast as mine had been delayed—though everybody knows what rapidity means at the Théâtre-Français; M. Brault had ample time in which to die before the representation of his play, which had only an indifferent success. As to Madame Valmonzey, she did not even achieve any success. All the same, my piece was delayed indefinitely.
Soulié had finished his Christine and got it accepted at the Odéon, with Mademoiselle Georges and Ligier to play the principal parts. And what was happening to me all this time?...