“What is it, this Camille?” she exclaimed furiously. “I know no Camille!”
“Oh yes, you do,” said Jarrett, smiling urbanely. “Camille is—La Dame!”
“Oh!” cried Sarah, and burst into uncontrollable laughter.
The theatre was packed to the roof, this time with a most representative crowd of Americans. The publicity of the morning had done its work. Sarah Bernhardt was playing immoral pieces? Well, New York didn’t know what to do about it, but New York decided to go and see for itself.
This sort of theatrical psychology is now a well-understood thing. Even in Paris, when a revue is not making expenses, they bribe the police to make a complaint about the immorality of one of the scenes—and then its success is assured. But it was the first time such a thing had been known in America.
New York liked Camille—it liked it enormously!
The critics were not fools, though. Every paper announced the next day that Camille was in reality La Dame aux Camélias, but with an American name!
They also said that the play had been forbidden in London by Queen Victoria, which was true; and were very severe on the “prudish Queen” for her “narrow-mindedness.” Completely forgetting their fulminations of only twenty-four hours before, they said that it was an unthinkable crime that such a beautiful play should ever have been banned anywhere. It was rather “Frenchy,” they admitted, but Sarah’s magnificent acting more than made up for that.
Sarah Bernhardt made more than a dozen tours in America, and Camille was invariably her greatest success there. It broke all records for receipts in New York City.
The reputation of the play crossed the Atlantic before Sarah did. Alexandre Dumas did not know whether to be delighted or dismayed. The “barbarians” had liked his play!