Adrienne lay in her great purple silk bed, pale, but looking more weary and sad than ill. I had often seen her look worse. She greeted us kindly, and the shadow of a smile came into her face when she saw Monsieur Voltaire bringing me in. He seated himself by her, and tried by gentle raillery to interest her, but it was in vain. For the first and last time, she let fall some words of lamentation about the fate which was coming upon her with giant strides. But she made a brave effort to rally her soul, and even forced a smile to her pale lips. The curtains were withdrawn from the window, and the soft beauty of the spring night shone in the half-darkened room. Monsieur Voltaire began to describe this soft beauty to her as only he could describe it; but she seemed careless of it and said:
“I saw it but a little while ago—and thought how unlovely it was—the moon looked brazen and haughty, 201 like some of those fine ladies who come to see me act when they have nothing better to do. The stars seemed more unfeeling and farther off than ever, and they are always unfeeling and far off—and the first object that met my eyes was an enemy in health and beauty and splendor—while I lie here dying.”
Then I knew she had seen Count Saxe beguiled into Madame de Bouillon’s coach.
“But,” she cried, her voice ringing sweet and clear, as if in perfect health, and raising herself with surprising strength, “they will see that I am not yet gone. I will act once more. Yes, Voltaire, the good God will let me act once again. I know, I feel it. Do you hear me, good Babache?”
Monsieur Voltaire replied to her that he hoped the good God in which she trusted would let her act many times more. I suppose I appeared like a lump of clay, because I was so overcome with remorse at Count Saxe’s action in going off with Madame de Bouillon, that I could not say a word.
“It will be in Phèdre—a part worthy of the greatest artist in the world. It has sometimes been said I knew how to play that part. If ever I could play it, I shall show this when I play it—the next and the last time. Monsieur Voltaire, I charge you to go this night to the director of the Théâtre Français and say to him that I shall be ready to play Phèdre four days from now, as announced.”
“I promise with all my heart,” cried Monsieur Voltaire, “and talk not of its being the last time—oh, Adrienne!” He stopped, choked by his emotion, and not a word was spoken for a time.
“Mademoiselle,” said I, seeing my betters keep silence, “those who have once seen you in that part can never forget you. Often, in those dreary days in Courland, in anxious nights upon the island in Lake Uzmaiz, my master, Count Saxe, would recall the noble beauty of those lines as you spoke them—and many other of those plays in which you had bewitched the world.”
Poor soul! I knew what would give her a moment’s ease.