At the end of that year, 1871, we were told, in rather a mysterious and solemn way, that we were going to play a piece of Victor Hugo’s. My mind, at that time of my life, was still closed to great ideas. What with my somewhat cosmopolitan family, their rather snobbish acquaintances and friends, and the acquaintances and friends I had chosen in my independent life as an artiste, I was living in rather a bourgeois atmosphere. I had heard Victor Hugo spoken of ever since my childhood as a rebel and a renegade, and his works, which I had read with passion, did not prevent my judging him with very great severity. And I blush to-day with anger and shame, when I think of all my absurd prejudices, nourished by the imbecile or insincere little court which flattered me. I had a great wish, nevertheless, to play in “Ruy Blas.” The rôle of the queen seemed so charming to me.
I mentioned my wish to Duquesnel, who said he had already thought of it. Jane Essler, an artiste then in vogue, but a trifle vulgar, had great chances, though, against me. She was on very friendly terms with Paul Meurice, Victor Hugo’s intimate friend and adviser. A friend brought Auguste Vacquerie to my house. He was the other friend, and even a relative of the “illustrious master.”
Auguste Vacquerie promised to speak for me to Victor Hugo, and two days later he came again, assuring me that I had every chance in my favor. Paul Meurice himself, a very straightforward man with a delightful mind, had proposed me to the author. Then, too, Geffroy, the admirable artiste taken from the Comédie Française to play “Don Salluste,” had said, it appears, that he could see only one little Queen of Spain worthy to wear the crown, and I was that one. I did not know Geffroy, and I did not know Paul Meurice, and was rather astonished that they should know me.
The reading was to be at Victor Hugo’s the next day at two o’clock. I was very much spoiled and very much praised and flattered, so that I felt hurt at the unceremoniousness of a man who did not condescend to disturb himself, but asked women to go to his house, when there was neutral ground, the theater, for the reading of plays. I told this unheard of thing at five o’clock to my little court, and men and women alike exclaimed: “What! That man who was only the other day an outlaw! That man who has only just been pardoned! That nobody dares to ask the little Idol, the Queen of Hearts, the Fairy of Fairies to inconvenience herself!”
All my little sanctuary was in a tumult, men and women alike could not keep still. “She must not go,” they said. “Write him this ... write him that.” And they were composing impertinent, disdainful letters when Marshal Canrobert was announced. He belonged at that time to my little five o’clock court, and he was soon posted by my turbulent visitors. He was furiously angry at the imbecilities uttered against the great poet.
“You must not go to Victor Hugo’s,” he said to me, “for it seems to me that he has no reason to deviate from the regular customs. But make an excuse of sudden illness—follow my advice, and show the respect for him that we owe to genius.”
I followed my great friend’s counsel and sent the following letter to the poet:
Monsieur: The Queen has taken a chill and her Camerara Mayor forbids her to go out. You know better than anyone else the etiquette of this Spanish Court. Pity your Queen, Monsieur.
I sent the letter, and the following is the poet’s reply:
I am your valet, Madame.