It was a pretty sight as we got to the Place. Quantities of people walking about—many evident strangers, seeing the ruins for the first time. There was a band of schoolboys, about twenty, with a priest, much excited. They wanted to go in the tent and get good places, but were afraid of missing something outside, and were making little excursions in every direction, evidently rather worrying their Director. The tent, fairly large, looked small under the shadow of the great walls. We looked in and found a good many people already in their places, and saw that the first two or three rows of red arm-chairs were being kept for the quality. One of the sights was our two tall men standing at the door of the rather dirty, dilapidated "Cafe des Ruines," piloting our friends past the groups of workmen smoking and drinking in the porch, and up the dark, rickety staircase. I don't think any one would have had the courage to go up, if Henrietta hadn't led the way—once up, the effect of our banqueting-hall was not bad. The servants had made it look very well with china and silver brought from the house, also three or four fresh pictures taken from the illustrated papers to cover those which already existed, and which looked rather the worse for smoke and damp. We were actually obliged to cover General Boulanger and his famous black charger with a "Bois de Boulogne le Matin," with carriages, riders, bicycles, pretty women and children strolling about.
The view from the windows was charming, and it was amusing to watch all the people toiling up the path. We recognised many friends, and made frantic signs to them to come and have tea. We had about three-quarters of an hour before the Comédie began, and when we got to the tent it was crowded—all the dignitaries—Bishop, Préfet, Senator, Deputy (he didn't object to the theatrical performance), M. Henri Houssaye, Académician; M. Roujon, Directeur des Beaux Arts, sitting in the front row in their red arm-chairs, and making quite as much of a show for the villagers as the actors.
The performance began with the third act of "Les Plaideurs," played with extraordinary entrain. There were roars of laughter all through the salle, or tent—none more amused than the band of schoolboys, and their youthful enjoyment was quite contagious. People turned to look at them, and it was evident that, if they didn't see, they heard, as they never missed a point—probably knew it all by heart. Then came a recitation by Mlle. Moreno, who looked and spoke like a tragic muse the remorse and suffering of Phèdre. The end of the performance—the two last acts of Bérénice—was enchanting. Mme. Bartet looked charming in her floating blue draperies, and was the incarnation of the resigned, poetic, loving woman; Paul Mounet was a grand, sombre, passionate Titus, torn between his love for the beautiful Queen and his duty as a Roman to choose only one of his own people to share his throne and honours. The Roman Senate was an all-powerful body, and a woman's love too slight a thing to oppose to it. Bartet was charming all through, either in her long plaintes to her Confidante, where one felt that in spite of her repeated assurances of her lover's tenderness there was always the doubt of the Emperor's faith or in her interviews with Titus—reproaching him and adoring him, with all the magic of her voice and smile. It was a triumph for them both, and their splendid talent. With no décor, no room, no scenic illusions of any kind, they held their audience enthralled. No one minded the heat, nor the crowd, nor the uncomfortable seats, and all were sorry when the well-known lines, said by Mme. Bartet, in her beautiful, clear, pathetic voice
"Servons tous trois d'exemple à l'Univers
De l'amour la plus tendre et la plus malheureuse
Dont il puisse garder l'histoire douloureuse,"
brought to a close the fierce struggle between love and ambition.
As soon as it was over, I went with Sebline to compliment the actors. We found Bartet, not in her dressing-room, but standing outside, still in her costume, very busy photographing Mounet, superb as a Roman Emperor. He was posing most impatiently, watching the sun slowly sinking behind the ruins, as he wanted to photograph Bérénice before the light failed, and the time was short. They were surrounded by an admiring crowd, the children much interested in the "beautiful lady with the stars all over her dress." We waited a few moments, and had a little talk with them. They said the fête had interested them very much and they were very glad to have come. They were rather taken aback at first when they saw the tent, the low small stage, and the very elementary scenery—were afraid the want of space would bother them, but they soon felt that they held their audience, and that their voices carried perfectly. They were rather hurried, as they were all taking the train back to Paris, except Bartet, who had promised to stay for the banquet. I had half hoped she would come to me, but of course I was obliged to waive my claim. When I saw how much the Préfet and the official world held to having her—when I heard afterwards that she had had the seat of honour next to the Bishop I was very glad I hadn't insisted, as she certainly doesn't often have the opportunity of sitting next to a Bishop. It seems he was delighted with her.
We loitered about some little time, talking to all our friends. The view from the terrace was beautiful—directly at our feet the little town, which is literally two streets forming a long cross, the Grande Rue a streak of light and color, filled with people moving about, and the air alive with laughter and music. Just beyond, the long stretches of green pasture lands, cut every now and then by narrow lanes with apple trees and hawthorn in flower, and the canal winding along between the green walls of poplars—the whole hemmed in by the dark blue line of the Villers-Cotteret forest, which makes a grand sweep on the horizon.
It was lovely driving back to Mareuil, toward the bright sunset clouds. We had a gay dinner and evening. I never dared ask where the various men dressed who came to dinner. The house is not very large, and every room was occupied—but as they all appeared most correctly attired, I suppose there are resources in the way of lingerie and fumoir which are available at such times, and Francis's valet de chambre is so accustomed to having more people than the house can hold that he probably took his precautions. Francis started off for the banquet at the Sauvage in his voiturette, but that long-suffering vehicle having made hundreds of kilomètres these last days, came to grief at the foot of "la Montagne de Marolles," and he was towed back by a friendly carter and arrived much disgusted when we were half through dinner.
We heard all the details of the dinner from the Abbé Maréchal. Certainly the banqueting hall of the Sauvage will not soon again see such a brilliant assembly. Madame Bartet was the Queen of the Fête, and sat between the Bishop and the Préfet. There were some pretty speeches from M. Henri Houssaye, M. Roujon—and of course the toast of the President accompanied by the Marseillaise.
The departure to the train was most amusing—all the swells, including Bartet, walking in the cortége, escorted by a torch-light procession, and surrounded by the entire population of La Ferté.