“It is a contemptible thing,” cried he, vehemently. “The Bastile must be destroyed before the representation of this piece would not appear as a dangerous inconsequence. This man ridicules every thing which in a state ought to be esteemed and respected.”
“This piece will not then be represented?” asked Marie Antoinette, at the close of the reading.
“No, certainly not!” exclaimed Louis, “you can be convinced of it; this piece will not be represented.”
But the clamor, the longings for this representation were more and more loudly expressed, and more and more pressing. It was in vain that the king by his decree forbade its already-announced representation in the theatre of the menus plaisirs. Beaumarchais cried aloud to the murmuring audience, who complained very loudly against this tyranny, against this oppression of the king, the consoling words: “Well, sirs, the king desires that my drama be not represented here, but I swear that it will be represented, perhaps even in the chancel of Notre Dame.”
It was soon apparent that Beaumarchais’ words and the wishes of the public opinion were stronger than the words and the wishes of the king and of his highest officers. The king himself felt it and acknowledged it soon; he shrugged his shoulders compassionately when the chancellor of the seal, adhering still to his opposition, would by no means consent to the performance of the drama.
“You will see,” said Louis, with his own soft, good-natured smile—“you will see that Beaumarchais’ credit is better than that of the great-seal bearer.” [Footnote: “Memoires de Madame de Campan,” vol. i., p. 279.]
The king’s prophecy was correct—Beaumarchais had more credit than the chancellor! His powerful patrons in high places, and all those who made opposition to the king and queen, and at their head the Count de Provence, banded together to have this piece publicly represented. The king’s consent was elicited from him by the assurance made public that Beaumarchais had stricken out of his drama all the offensive and captious parts, and that it was now a mere innocent and somewhat tedious piece.
The king gave his consent, and “The Wedding of Figaro” was represented at the Theatre Francais.
The effect of this drama on the public was a thing unheard of; so enthusiastic that Beaumarchais himself laughingly said: “There is something yet more foolhardy than my piece, and that is, its result”—that the renowned actress Sophie Arnold, in allusion to this, that the opponents of this drama had prophesied that it would fall through, exclaimed: “The piece will fall through to-day more than fifty times one after another!”
But even this prophecy of the actress did not reach the full result, and the sixtieth representation was as crowded as the first. All Paris wanted to see it, so as to hiss the government, the nobility, clergy, morality. There was a rush from the provinces to Paris for the sake of attending the representation of “Figaro’s Wedding;” and even those who hitherto had opposed the performance, pressed forward to see it.