Great crowds attended all of Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s performances at the Théâtre Français; and in spite of her weakness, the fire of genius carried her through her parts with a supernatural strength. When it was over, though, she was no more the great artist, but poor, ailing, dying Adrienne Lecouvreur. On the days when she lay on her couch in her chamber, she was sometimes kind enough to ask for me. When I would go in I would be asked to take a chair within the ruelle and she would talk to me with her old kindness. Often her mind went back to her childhood days; for this woman was far above the paltriness of being ashamed of her origin, as Monsieur Voltaire was. She once said to me, Count Saxe sitting by:
“Babache, how merry we were as children—though we were often ragged, and I, for one, had not always as much as I would have liked to eat. But we were not troubled with governesses or masters, were we, Babache?” She laughed as she said this, her beautiful tired eyes lighting up.
“Indeed we were not, Mademoiselle, and I believe the children of the poor are, in general, happier than the children of the rich,” I answered.
Count Saxe, a king’s son, who had been brought up at court, listened to the recitals of us, the children of 198 the poor, and I believe, learned some things he had not known before.
Not even Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s sad situation could disarm the jealousy of the women who envied her Count Saxe’s devotion. There was one of them, the Duchesse de Bouillon, who, like Jacques Haret, was one of the devil’s darlings, and kept shop for him. Every night that Mademoiselle Lecouvreur acted, during that last winter, Madame de Bouillon was present blazing with jewels, and with the air of gloating over the great artist who was already serenely looking into the quiet land. This duchess was a handsome creature, and a Circe; she turned men into beasts.
Whenever Mademoiselle Lecouvreur played, there was always a great attendance of her friends—although for that matter, all Paris was her friend. It was amazing how this woman’s spirit mastered her body. When she would be carried to and from her coach, tottering as she stepped upon the stage, the very first sight of the sea of sympathizing faces, the roar of many approving voices, seemed to pour life into her veins. She would become erect and smiling—at once Art and Genius appeared like sustaining angels to her—and she would resume her power as a queen assumes her scepter.
Toward the end of February it was plain she was going fast. Monsieur Voltaire and Count Saxe were with her every day, now only choosing separate hours for their visits. One mild March evening, at the door of her house in the Marais, I met Count Saxe coming out. He had a strange look on his face. I asked if Mademoiselle Lecouvreur would be able to act that night.
“No,” he said. “She will act no more.”
He passed on, without another word. I noticed how pale he was. He walked to the corner of the street, where a splendid coach was waiting—Madame de Bouillon’s coach. That woman watched for him and waylaid him on his way from Adrienne’s house.