So he had migrated to the Porte-Saint-Martin, because we were at the Théâtre-Français, and now he returned to the Théâtre-Français because we were at the Porte-Saint-Martin. He returned to it with one of his mixed works, half classical and half romantic, which do not belong to any sort of school; literary hermaphrodites, which bear the same relation to intellectual productions as, in Natural History, do mules, i.e. animals which cannot reproduce themselves, to the ordinary productions of nature: they make a species, but not a race.
The work that Casimir Delavigne brought back to the Théâtre-Français was Louis XI.,—according to our opinion, one of his most mediocre dramas, the least studied as history, and one which, engineered by a clever artifice which we will shortly relate, through the frail sickly period of its youth to its maturity, only owes its patent of longevity to the rather egotistic favour accorded by a player who was crazy to play this rôle because it was an unusual type which suited him. Do not be deceived, it is not Louis XI. that lives to-day, but Ligier.[1] We will refer again to Casimir Delavigne's drama on the occasion of its first performance.
The first performance of Teresa was announced for the 5th or 6th of February. Meanwhile the Odéon gave Jeanne Vaubernier. It was thus that certain authors conceived the idea of reviving the name of the Comtesse du Barry, that poor woman who was neither worthy of her high prosperity nor her deep misfortune, and who, according to Lamartine's fine expression, dishonoured both the throne and the scaffold. MM. de Rougemont, Laffitte and Lagrange were the authors of Jeanne Vaubernier. Rougemont was a clever man who, towards the close of his life, had a strange fate. The Duchesse de la Vaubalière brought him a septuagenarian reputation. It was Rougemont who translated the military substantive flung by Cambronne in the face of the English, on the terrible night of Waterloo, into the pompous, redundant and pretentious phrase which has become of European and world-wide fame: "The Guard dies, and does not return!" As far as I can remember, the drama of Jeanne Vaubernier—such as it was, with six tableaux, its Zamore, the ungrateful traitor, its prison and its executioner—was a very poor concern. I have not seen it, and will not therefore discuss it any further. But, from the ghost of this drama, from the fallen statue, from the least broken fragments which could be made to do duty, the authors composed a little comedy in which Madame Dorval's wit was charmingly light. Dear Dorval! I can see her as she was that successful night, a night which, thanks to her, was saved from being a failure: she was enchanted, never suspecting that the comedy of Jeanne Vaubernier would be a chain she would have to wear for eighteen months at the Porte-Saint-Martin, from six to eight o'clock in the evening, before the benches which did not fill up until the beginning of the great drama! To Georges—especially after her reconciliation with Dorval—it was to be a matter of keen remorse, this punishment which she inflicted on her rival in expiation of her triumphs, and which compelled her to leave the Porte-Saint-Martin theatre to go and bury herself in the Théâtre-Français.
The day of the first performance of Teresa arrived. The confusion of styles, the beginning of drama at the Opéra-Comique, had piqued the curiosity of the public, and people clamoured to get in. I have already said that the thing was not worth the trouble. Laferrière had given me a good idea with his story of Vesuvius; the exhibition was highly applauded. I recollect that when I entered the wings, after the first act, that excellent fellow Nourrit, who had just been praising the description of the town wherein he was to die, threw himself upon my neck in his enthusiasm. The piece unfolded itself slowly, and with a certain majestic dignity, before a select audience. The character of Amélie, which was very well carried out, made a great hit, and did not fail in any of its appearances. Madame Moreau-Sainti was ravishingly beautiful, and as sympathetic as a bad part allowed. Laferrière came and went, warming up the parts taken by others by his own enthusiastic warmth. Bocage was superb. A misfortune happened to the actor recommended by my son. Unfamiliarity with stage-craft had obliged Guyon to give up the part of Paolo to go more deeply into dramatic studies. Féréol had taken his place; they had added some barcarolle or other for him to sing whilst he was acting, and he played the rest of his rôle singing. Alexandre found himself with two tutors instead of one!
The curtain went up for the fourth act. From that moment the piece was saved; in it are the letter scene between the father and the daughter, and that of the quarrel between the father-in-law and son-in-law. These two scenes are very fine, and produced a great sensation. This fourth act had an amazing triumph. Usually, if the fourth act is a success, it carries the fifth one with it. The first half of the fifth act of Teresa is, moreover, remarkable in itself; it is the scene of the excuses between the old man and the young one. It does not become really bad till Teresa asks Paolo for poison. All this intriguing between the adulterous woman and the amorous lackey is vulgar, and has not the merit of being really terrible. But the impression of the fourth act and of the first half of the fifth was so vivid that it extended its influence over the imperfections of the dėnoûment. In short, it was a success great enough to satisfy amour-propre, but not to satisfy the claims of art. Bocage was really grand at times. I here pay him my very sincere compliments for what he then performed. He had improved as a comedian, and was then, I think, at the height of his dramatic career. I think so, now I have somewhat outgrown my youthful illusions; I will therefore tell him, in all frankness, at what moment, according to my opinion, he took the wrong road and adopted the fatal system of nervous excitement under the dominion of which he now is.
When the first rage for Teresa had passed they made me a proposal to change the play into one of three acts, so that it might become a stock piece. I refused to do it; I did not wish to make a mutilated play out of a defective one. Anicet, who had a half-share in the work, urged me so pressingly that I suggested he should perform the operation himself. He set to work bravely, pruned, cut, curtailed, and one day I was invited by some player or other, whose name I forget, who was coming out in the rôle of Arthur, to go and see the piece reduced to three acts. I went, and I found it to be more detestable and, strange to say, longer than at first! Lengthiness does not exist on the stage, practically speaking. There are neither long plays nor short; only amusing plays and wearisome ones. The Marriage de Figaro, which lasts five hours, is not so long as the Épreuve nouvelle, which lasts one hour. The developments of Teresa taken away, the play had lost its artistic interest, and, having become more boresome, seemed longer.
One day Cordelier Delanoue came to me looking depressed.
"What is the matter?" I asked him.
"I have just been reading to the Théâtre-Français."
"What!"