“No, monsieur. Oh! you needn’t be afraid; I’m used to play-acting here!”
Raymond next betook himself, with the two children, to the costume room. He found no knit flesh-colored tights, because such costumes are rarely used by amateurs. He was obliged to be content with nankeen trousers, over which they were to wear their little white tunics: these, with the girdle, the band, the bow, and the quiver, should make the illusion complete. After urging the wig-maker, who had come from Montmorency for the occasion, to outdo himself in dressing the Cupids’ locks, Raymond forgot everything but his rôles, and set about learning them for the evening. A numerous and select party of guests had arrived from Paris, and they strolled about the house and gardens. Madame de Marsan, despite the necessary preparations for the play, did the honors of her house with no less grace than good breeding. Monsieur de Marsan did not arrive until a few moments before dinner on the day of the fête. He was detained in Paris by business on the Bourse; he knew that his wife was spending a lot of money, and he had to devote his attention to making an equal amount in order to maintain the equilibrium. In the evening, many of the people of the neighborhood, carefully selected from the most eligible, who had received invitations for the performance, were on hand promptly. Thus the auditorium was certain to be entirely filled, for the last rows of chairs were thrown open to some of the villagers. It is much more agreeable to act before a large audience; empty benches are never flattering to the actor, even at an amateur performance.
The hour to begin had arrived. Our little hall was full. Raymond kept looking through the hole in the curtain, to see where the ladies were sitting whom he proposed to ogle.
“Time to begin!”—Such was the cry of all who were ready; but everybody was not ready, and it seemed as if Raymond would never finish dressing. After each garment that he put on, he ran to look through the hole, with his jar of rouge in one hand and his rôle in the other.
“Hurry! hurry!” we shouted at him from all sides, and pushed him back toward his dressing room; then someone ran to Madame de Marsan’s room, to ask if Rosine was ready. The four amateurs who formed the orchestra had twice played through the overture to Richard Cœur de Lion, which served as overture to Le Barbier. They were about to begin it a third time, because they had no other music with them; the audience began to lose patience and some faint murmurs were heard. But at last we were ready, and Raymond, who was the machinist, raised the curtain.
I knew my lines very well, and my feeling for Madame de Marsan, who looked prettier than ever in the costume of Rosine, imparted to my acting the warmth and genuineness which befit the rôle of a lover like Almaviva. The young man who played Figaro was spirited, good-looking, and daring. We played with great verve, our scenes went off excellently, and the audience was delighted. At the moment when Bartholo was to appear at the window with Rosine, Raymond, trying to raise the blind, jerked it so violently that it was detached and fell on the lamps which did duty as footlights; luckily, the sight of Madame de Marsan, who was delicious in her Spanish costume, covered Raymond’s awkwardness. The first act went without a hitch. In the second, Raymond, whose memory was fatigued already, could not say a word without the prompter, and he stood in front of his box all the time, with his eyes fixed upon it and his ears strained to hear. Often the prompter had to repeat the words three times, Raymond meanwhile abusing him when he did not prompt, and telling him to be quiet when he did prompt him in some speech that he thought he knew. Thus he made of Bartholo a veritable Cassandra; but such an audience as ours could not fail to be indulgent; moreover, all the other rôles were well done; we entered into the spirit of our parts and filled the stage with animation. We were wildly applauded; and Raymond assumed his share of the applause, although he confused us terribly when he was on the stage with us.
The third act began with Raymond on the stage. He walked forward and took his stand in front of the prompter’s box.
“‘What temper! what temper! [To the prompter: Why don’t you prompt me?] She seemed appeased! Will someone tell me [Don’t prompt me.]—will someone tell me who in the devil put it into her head to—to [Prompt me, will you?]—to refuse [What’s that? I don’t hear you.]—to refuse to take lessons from Don Basile. [Don’t prompt me!] She knows that he is interfering about my marriage. Do everything in the world—do—do—[What? what do I say next? What the devil! you don’t know how to prompt at the right time!]’”
The audience concluded to laugh at our Bartholo; whereat Raymond rubbed his hands with a satisfied air, and, whenever he returned to the wings, exclaimed:
“How pleased they are! how it amuses them! No audience at the Français ever laughed so much!”