All the pieces performed at Pantin were not nearly so unobjectionable in character as Collé’s charming comedy; indeed the dialogue, songs, and dances of the majority of them were exceedingly free, and in some cases disgracefully licentious[77]; while the farewell address pronounced from the stage, at the temporary closing of the theatre in September 1770, was one of the most outrageous pieces of double entendre ever uttered in public.[78]
Mlle. Guimard’s house at Pantin has long since disappeared; even its site is a matter for conjecture, and no contemporary description of it unfortunately exists. Some of its contents, however, have come, from time to time, into the market, from which we know that it must have been one of the most charmingly-appointed houses of the time, with its painted wainscots, its marble floors, its fluted pilasters, and its exquisitely decorated panels; a house worthy for a queen to inhabit instead of a danseuse.
The generosity of the Prince de Soubise and the devoted La Borde, lavish though it was, failed to suffice Mlle. Guimard, who, to meet her ever-increasing expenditure, found herself reluctantly compelled to associate with them a third lover.[79] This time she turned in the direction of the Church; M. de Jarente, Bishop of Orléans, was the happy man!
It was a prudent choice; M. de Jarente held the “feuille des bénéfices” which meant that he controlled the greater part of the ecclesiastical patronage of the realm. How he had discharged that important trust previous to his liaison with the notorious ballerina we are unable to say. How he discharged it after he had succumbed to her charms is but too well known: the feuille des bénéfices became “the fief of the Opera”; the ante-chamber of Mlle. Guimard was crowded with ecclesiastics soliciting the honour of an audience, and abbeys, priories, and chapels were knocked down to the highest bidder. And the danseuse, reclining gracefully on her chaise longue, was heard to inquire ironically of a friend about to present to her a young abbé who had come to ask for a benefice: “Is this man of good moral character?”
But, with all her faults and follies, Madeleine Guimard was not without redeeming qualities. Of her, as of Madame du Barry, it might be said that, if her wealth was ill-gotten, it was not always ill-spent. No more charitable woman breathed; her purse was always open to the necessitous, and she was never happier than when relieving the wants of others. Grimm relates that during the terrible January of 1768, when whole families of the poorer inhabitants of Paris were perishing from cold and hunger, Mlle. Guimard begged the Prince de Soubise to give her her New Year’s gift in money, instead of the jewellery which was his customary offering to his enchantresses. Then, one evening, she left her house, alone and simply dressed, taking with her the 6000 livres which that good-natured libertine had sent her,[80] and distributed the money, together with a considerable sum from her own pocket, among her indigent neighbours, visiting the most squalid and miserable dwellings, in order to discover the cases most deserving of assistance. This generous act, it appears, was accomplished with the most profound secrecy, and until the inquiries of the police had penetrated the mystery, not even the objects of her bounty had the slightest clue to the identity of their benefactress.
Mlle. Guimard’s benevolence is commemorated by a rare engraving of the time, without the name of the draughtsman or the engraver, bearing the title:
Terpsichore Charitable
ou
Mademoiselle Guimard
visitant les Pauvres.