The next day I told the poet that I had witnessed his delicate, good deed. “Oh,” said Paul Maurice, his eyes wet with emotion, “every day that dawns is a day of kindness for him!” I embraced Victor Hugo and we went to the rehearsal.
Oh, those rehearsals of “Ruy Blas”! I shall never forget them, for there was such good grace and charm about everything. When Victor Hugo arrived everything brightened up. His two satellites, Auguste Vacquerie and Paul Maurice, scarcely ever left him, and when the master was absent they kept up the divine fire. Geffroy, severe, sad, and distinguished, often gave me advice. Then, during the intervals of rest, I posed for him in various attitudes, for he was a painter. In the foyer of the Comédie Française there are two pictures representing the members of both sexes for two generations. The pictures are not of very original composition, neither are they of beautiful coloring, but they are faithful likenesses, it appears, and rather happily grouped.
Lafontaine, who was playing Ruy Blas, often had long discussions with the master, in which Victor Hugo never yielded. And I must confess that he was always right. Lafontaine had conviction and self-assurance, but his elocution was very bad for poetry. He had lost his teeth, and they were replaced by a set of false ones. This gave a certain slowness to his delivery, and there was a little odd, clacking sound between his real palate and his artificial rubber palate, which often distracted the ear listening attentively to catch the beauty of the poetry.
As to that poor Tallien, who was playing Don Guritan, he made a hash of it every minute. He had understood his rôle quite wrongly. Victor Hugo explained it to him clearly and intelligently. Tallien was a well-intentioned comedian, a hard worker, always conscientious, but as stupid as a goose. What he did not understand at first, he never understood. It was finished for life. But, as he was straightforward and loyal, he put himself into the hands of the author, and gave himself up then in complete self-abnegation. “That is not as I understood it,” he would say, “but I will do as you tell me.”
He would then rehearse, word by word and gesture by gesture, with the inflexions and movements required. This got on my nerves in the most painful way, and was a cruel blow dealt at the solidarity of my artistic pride. I often took this poor Tallien aside and tried to urge him on to rebellion, but it was all in vain. He was tall, and his arms were too long and his eyes tired, his nose was weary with having grown too long, and it sank over his lips with heartrending dejection. His forehead was covered with thick hair, and his chin seemed to be running away in a hurry from this ill-built face. A great kindliness was diffused all over his being, and this kindliness was just himself. Everyone was therefore infinitely fond of him.
The 26th of January, 1872, was an artistic fête for the Odéon. The Tout-Paris of first nights and all youthful Paris were to meet in the large, solemn, dusty theater. Ah, what a splendid, stirring performance it was! What a triumph for Geffroy, pale, sinister, and severe looking in his black costume as Don Salluste! Mélingue rather disappointed the public as Don César de Bazan, and the public was in the wrong.... The rôle of Don César de Bazan is a treacherously good rôle, which always tempts artistes by the brilliancy of the first act; but the fourth act, which belongs entirely to him, is distressingly heavy and useless. It might be taken out of the piece, just like a periwinkle out of its shell, and the piece would be none the less clear and complete.
This 26th of January rent asunder, though, for me, the thin veil which still made my future hazy, and I felt that I was destined for celebrity. Until that day I had remained the students’ little Fairy. I became then the Elect of the Public.
Breathless, dazed, and yet delighted by my success, I did not know to whom to reply, in the ever-changing stream of men and women admirers. All at once, I saw the crowd separating and forming two lines, and I caught a glimpse of Victor Hugo and Girardin coming toward me. In a second all the stupid ideas I had had about this immense genius flashed across me. I remembered my first interview, when I had been stiff and barely polite to this kind, indulgent man. At that moment, when all my life was opening its wings, I should have liked to cry out to him my repentance, and to tell him of my devout gratitude.
Before I could speak, though, he was down on his knee, and, raising my two hands to his lips, he murmured: “Thank you! Thank you!”
And so it was he who said thank you. He, the great Victor Hugo, whose mind was so fine, whose universal genius filled the world! He, whose generous hands flung pardons like gems to all his insulters. Ah, how small I felt, how ashamed and yet how happy! He then rose, shook the hands that were held out to him, finding for everyone the right word.