“Our Marguerite,” observes an emaciated old fellow, “will have an extraordinary reception. We shall all cry: ‘Vive la de Brémont!’”
“Ma chère,” puts in a faded, wrinkled woman, with bright (and bad) gold hair, “I have always said that yellow was your colour. All women have their hair, but the actresses of to-day wear any colour, and the result is deplorable.”
“Yes, yes,” says the de Brémont, “I shall appear in yellow.” And she powders her face feverishly, at the prospect of once again appearing in yellow and pearls.
“C’est bien, ça”: exclaims old Cottin, at the conclusion of an anecdote. A charming anecdote, related thus, by a little imp of a man, with the comedian’s large mouth and ever-changing expression.... In an actor’s charitable home the doyen of them all is an old fellow of eighty-four, who was a favourite in his day. He passes the time pleasantly enough, in toddling about the garden on a stick, and in reading faded, yellow Press criticisms of years and years ago that describe him as “marvellous,” “incomparable,” “irresistible.” But, one morning, he hears that his sister-in-law—once a brilliant vaudeville actress—is homeless and penniless, at the tragic age of seventy-nine, and he becomes gloomy and silent: and he asks to see the manager of the home. “We are full,” replies the manager, “and so we cannot receive your sister-in-law.” The old fellow’s eyes become dim, and at last the old fellow explains: “I wish to marry my sister-in-law.” Gently the manager observes: “But even if you marry her, there will be a difficulty. Our rations are limited, and if you marry her there will only be one portion for the two.” A meeting between the old fellow of eighty-four and the old woman of seventy-nine. And a marriage between the old fellow of eighty-four and the old woman of seventy-nine, attended by all the old actors and old actresses of the Home, not one of whom tells less than sixty, not one of whom can toddle about without a stick. Bottles of champagne, from the manager of the Home. An address, from the aged inmates of the Home. And to-day the old couple toddle about together in the garden, and together read the Press criticisms of years and years ago, and together recall the days when the one was a brilliant vaudeville actress, and the other was a “marvellous, an incomparable, an irresistible” comedian.
A flashy-looking young man in a check suit and pink shirt looks in, and tells old Cottin and others that “there is nothing to-day”—an agent for the suburban, the provincial theatres.
“By all means, yellow,” he says carelessly, in reply to Madame Marguerite de Brémont’s anxious question as to what colour she should wear. Then, more amiably: “I subscribe for twenty francs, and if you receive a bouquet of roses, yellow roses, preserve it in memory of your devoted Jules.”
“Ce bon Jules!” exclaims the de Brémont, as Jules, the agent, hurries out of the café. “Il a du cœur, celui-là.” And opens the black bag. And scribbles down something—probably “20 francs”—in a little greasy book, with a stump of a pencil. And heaves a deep sigh of satisfaction. And expresses the hope that she will not be too émotionnée on the night of her benefit.
At least thirty old actors and old actresses in the café: and most of them with empty glasses. A lull, during which many look vacantly before them, while others tap with their boots on the floor and drum with their fingers on the tables. Great yawns, and occasional stretching of arms, and often the exclamation: “Mais je m’ennuie, je m’ennuie!” In a corner, a dingy waiter is sprawled over a racing paper, and behind the counter, the burly proprietor, in his shirt sleeves, dozes. Outside, the hoarse shouts of the camelots, selling the evening papers. Outside, the animation of the boulevards.
“Messieurs, Mesdames.”
A quick, brusque voice, and a short, stout little man, with a huge watch-chain, an umbrella, a thick black moustache, a double chin and a great swollen neck.