“Ah, we must arrange something,” said the manager soothingly. “Yes, yes, we must make a little alteration. I think you only come in together during the fourth act, before you wind up that magnificent scene of yours under the pyramid. The voice is that of the little Circassian slave, which reminds the princess of her youth. Ah, yes! I thought it went very well last night. I might tell Selba to sing just a little more slowly, perhaps. You find the tune too light, too gay? A suggestion of the Princess’s tragedy, hein? Madame has always such talent for les nuances. One cannot expect a young girl like Selba to make the most of her part. They are as ignorant as fleas, these young girls, all of them! It must often appal the creative genius of Madame!”
“Mon Dieu!” said Liane, with a brusque movement of her whole body. “It is useless that you should try to put me off! You enrage me with your stale compliments! Make them to this season’s ingénue, not to Liane de Brances! You have heard what I have to say; nor am I alone in saying it. I do not come before you with personal complaints, I speak always for the good of the theatre.”
“The consideration of Madame touches me to the heart,” murmured Monsieur Picot, who detested her. Liane gave him a baleful look and swept on with her speech.
“It is possible that you have some respect for the opinions of Manet of the Comœdia, and Danton from the Journal; they took supper with me last night, they were trembling with rage. ‘Madame,’ they said, ‘that little one distracts the part. The song is an intrusion—it is a thing behind the age, totally unworthy of the Odéon and of you! It is an atrocious blunder, an infamy!’ I have only this to ask you, Monsieur Picot, am I to be exposed to the blunders of underlings in this theatre? If so, let me know it at once. I suppose there are possibly other theatres in Paris where the name of Liane de Brances is not utterly unknown, nor her capacities entirely despised.”
Monsieur Picot turned sulky; no man likes to hear his flattery taken for what it is worth, especially if it is worth nothing, and no Parisian manager will bear to be spoken of as old-fashioned.
“Voyons, De Brances,” he snarled viciously, entirely dropping his voice of oil and honey. “There are such things as contracts, I would have you remember!”
Liane rose from her seat with a magnificent gesture of scorn.
“You appear to forget,” she said, “that for the new play I am en représentation, and that the present one runs, I think I am not wrong in saying, for ten nights longer. I have not as yet signed the contract for this fresh play. I wish you all success in it! No doubt Marguérite la Vaillance will make her name and yours in the principal part. She will render you famous, parbleu, that fine, fat, forty-year-old hack! It remains only that I felicitate you, Monsieur. I take pleasure in doing so before the public, who will, without doubt, be swift to follow my example.”
Monsieur Picot wrung his hands in a confusion of rage and terror. How he would have loved it to have been the neck of the brutally indispensable woman before him! He had never dealt with any actress so insolent, so jealous, so terrifically shrewd about business! She had none of the pleasant failings of the real artist; only success, a success that reduced him, cowering and malignant, to any terms, even her own.
“Madame!” he cried, as Liane swept past him towards the door, “pray do not let us part like this. You know well that Marguérite la Vaillance is incapable, or any other actress in Paris, of undertaking a part written especially for you! As to this affair of little Selba’s song, it is true I should regret greatly having to dismiss her. I tell you frankly she will get a better place elsewhere if I do. She has a voice like a little country bird, and in Paris just now they have a rage for simplicity. Of course, if it is your wish to push her into notice, I say no more. But you know, De Brances, as well as I do that it is just these little things—a dismissal on the heels of a success, a story of jealousy and revenge, that send the public wild about an actress. If Selba succeeds after I send her away, she will owe her success to you! Voilà tout!” And the diplomatic Manager, certain of his triumph, shrugged his shoulders. Liane hesitated.