Old and New Paris: Its History, Its People, and Its Places, v. 1

by H. Sutherland Edwards

The name of the Secretary of State, de la Vrillière, for whom the mansion, afterwards occupied by Marshal de l’Hôpital, was originally built, is still preserved in the title of the remarkable and picturesque Rue de la Vrillière. Little more need be said about that portion of Paris which separates the quarter of the markets from the Seine; though here and there many a house might be pointed out which suggests interesting associations. Thus, in the Rue Saint-Honoré, at the corner of the Rue Sauval, is a butcher’s shop surmounted by an inscription to the effect that in this house Molière was born “in 1620.” To be quite accurate, he was born in 1622, not in the house which bears the announcement of his birth, but in one on the same site, which long ago fell into ruin.

Close by is the Rue de l’Arbre Sec, where at one time lived the famous Mme. de Saint-Huberty, for whom in opera, as for Mdlle. Sallé in ballet, Mdlle. Clairon in tragedy, and Mme. Favart in comedy and comic opera, is claimed the honour of having played parts for the first time in the costumes historically appropriate to them. The costumes worn at that time on the French stage (nor were they much better on our own) were simply ludicrous. But the public was accustomed to them, and the managers found it more economical to keep to costumes already in the wardrobe than to order new ones for every fresh piece. Actresses representing queens were entitled to two trains and two pages, who followed them everywhere. “Nothing is more amusing,” writes a critic of the time, “nothing more comic, than the perpetual movement of these little rascals, who have to run after the actress when she is tearing about the stage in moments of distress. Their activity keeps them in a constant state of perspiration. Their embarrassment, their blunders, excite general laughter. Thus, a farce is always going on, which diverts the spectator in an agreeable manner if the situation is too touching or too sad.” When she appeared as Dido, Mme. de Saint-Huberty would have no little boy running after her—ready to pursue her even {323} to the funeral pyre. She at the same time threw off the conventional train and all the trappings which had habitually accompanied it, to appear only in the tunic designed for her by an artist of the period who had studied archæology. The operatic directors strongly objected to the introduction of archæologists and other costly pretenders into their domain. “If,” one director is accused of saying, “this fury for truthfulness of costume only enabled us to save a little money! But, on the contrary, models must be brought in, men of learning consulted, artists paid; and all this costs money, much more money than the dresses to which we are accustomed. Besides, when the piece is laid aside, all the costumes appropriate to it must be laid aside too.” M. de la Ferté, the Intendant of the Opera, says in one of his letters on this subject:—“I have just ordered Saint-Huberty’s dress. This is terrible. The consulting committee of the Opera held one day a special general meeting to consider whether Mme. de Saint-Huberty could really be allowed to have the costume she desired for the part of Armida.” “Madame de Saint-Huberty,” said the report on the subject addressed to the Minister, “has sent us the design of a dress she requires for the character of Armida. The committee, considering that this character in which Mme. de Saint-Huberty has not yet been seen, might give to the work the charm of novelty, and procure for the Opera advantageous receipts during a series of representations, has thought it right to agree to Mme. de Saint-Huberty’s expressed wish; the more so as she has no objection to share the part with Mdlle. Levasseur, it being arranged that in case of illness the costume made for this opera shall be worn by the substitutes, as well as by Mme. de Saint-Huberty herself.”

In the margin of the report the following observation of the Minister appears:—“Good for this time only, and without the establishment of a precedent. All the members of the company must, without distinction, wear the dresses furnished to them by the administration of the Opera, {324} so long as they are considered in a fit state to be worn.”

“You must be convinced,” wrote M. de la Ferté to Mme. de Saint-Huberty on another occasion, “of our desire to satisfy you in all reasonable things and to be generally agreeable to you. But, at the same time, you ought to understand that you are obliged to conform to established rules like all the other members of the company, and like those who played the first parts before you; for if, instead of accepting the appointed costume, each one wished to dress according to individual taste, the {325} result would be hopeless confusion, together with an expenditure both useless and ruinous for the King and for the Opera.”

The end of this celebrated representative of tragic personages was tragic indeed. After marrying Count d’Antraigues, engaged in secret diplomacy on behalf of the exiled royal family, she went with her husband to England, where they lived together for many years, the Count being during this time in constant relations with the Foreign Office, until in July, 1812, they both fell victims to a murderous attack on the part of one of their servants.

A faithful account of the horrible affair appeared in the Times of July 23rd, 1812, from which the following may be extracted:—

“The Count and Countess d’Antraigues, members of the French noblesse, and distantly related to the unfortunate family of the Bourbons, resided,” says the English newspaper, “on Barnes Terrace, on the banks of the Thames. They lived in a style which, though far from what they had formerly moved in, yet was rather bordering on high life than the contrary. They kept a carriage, footman, coachman, and a servant out of livery. The latter was an Italian or Piedmontese, named Lawrence; and it is of this wretch that we have to relate the following particulars. The Count and Countess, intending to visit London yesterday, ordered the carriage to be at the door by eight in the morning, which it accordingly was; and soon after that hour they were in the act of leaving the house to get into it, the Countess being at the door, the Count coming downstairs, when the report of a pistol was heard in the passage, which, it has since appeared, took no effect; nor was it then ascertained by whom it was fired. Lawrence was at this time in the passage, and, on the smoke subsiding, was seen to rush past the Count and proceed with great speed upstairs. He almost instantly returned with a dirk in his hand, and plunged it up to the hilt into the Count’s left shoulder; he continued his course and made for the street door, where stood the Countess, whom he instantly despatched by plunging the same dirk into her left breast. This last act had scarcely been completed when the Count appeared also at the door, bleeding, and following the assassin, who made for the house and ran upstairs. The Count, though extremely weak and faint, continued to follow him; but so great was the terror occasioned that no one else had the same resolution. The assassin and {326} the Count had not been upstairs more than a minute when the report of another pistol was heard, which satisfied those below that Lawrence had finally put an end to the existence of his master. The alarm was now given, and the cry of ‘Murder, murder!’ resounded from every mouth. The Countess was still lying at the front door, by which the turnpike road runs, and at length men of sufficient resolution were found to venture upstairs, and, horrible to relate, they found the Count lying across his own bed, groaning heavily, and nearly dead, and the bloodthirsty villain lying by his side a corpse. He had put a period to his own existence by placing a pistol that he found in the room in his mouth, and discharging its contents through his head. The Count only survived about twenty-five minutes after the fatal blow, and died without being able to utter a single word.