These were the last words he should have said to me. I should have felt stronger if I had known that the public were come to oppose and not to encourage me.
I began to cry bitterly, like a child. Perrin was called and consoled me as well as he could; then he made me laugh by putting powder on my face so awkwardly that I was blinded and suffocated.
Everybody in the theater knew about it and stood at the door of my dressing-room wishing to comfort me. Mounet-Sully, who was playing Hippolyte, told me that he had dreamed: “We were playing ‘Phèdre’ and you were hissed, and my dreams always go by contraries—so,” he cried, “we shall have a tremendous success!”
But what put me completely in a good humor was the arrival of the worthy Martel, who was playing Théramène, and who had come so quickly, believing me ill, that he had not had time to finish his nose. The sight of this gray face with a wide bar of red wax commencing between the two eyebrows, coming down to half a centimeter below his nose and leaving behind it the end of the nose with two large black nostrils—this face was indescribable! And everybody laughed irrepressibly. I knew that Martel made up his nose, for I had already seen this poor nose change shape at the second performance of “Zaïre,” under the tropical depression of the atmosphere; but I had never realized how much he lengthened it. This comical apparition restored all my gayety, and from henceforth I was in full possession of my faculties.
The evening was one long triumph for me. And the Press was unanimous in praise, with the exception of the article of Paul de St. Victor, who was on very good terms with a sister of Rachel, and could not get over my impertinent presumption in daring to measure myself with the great dead artiste; these are his own words, addressed to Girardin, who immediately told me. How mistaken he was, poor St. Victor! I had never seen Rachel act, but I worshiped her talent, for I had surrounded myself with her most devoted admirers, and they little thought of comparing me with their idol.
A few days after this performance of “Phèdre,” the new piece of Bornier was read to us—“La Fille de Roland.” The part of Berthe was confided to me, and we immediately began the rehearsals of this fine piece, whose verses were, nevertheless, a little flat, but which had a real breath of patriotism. There was in this piece a terrible duel, which the public did not see, but which was related by Berthe, the daughter of Roland, while the incidents happened under the eyes of the unhappy girl, who, from a window of the castle followed in anguish the fortunes of the encounter. This scene was the only important one of my much sacrificed rôle.
The piece was ready to be passed when Bornier asked that his friend, Emile Augier, should be present at a general rehearsal. When the play was finished Perrin came to me; he had an affectionate and constrained air. As to Bornier, he came straight to me in a decided and quarrelsome manner. Emile Augier followed him. “Well,” he said to me. I looked straight at him, feeling in this moment that he was my enemy. He stopped short and scratched his head, then turned toward Augier and said:
“I beg you, cher Maître, explain to mademoiselle yourself.”
Emile Augier was a broad man with wide shoulders and a common appearance, at this time rather fat. He was in very good repute at the Théâtre Français, of which he was, for the moment, the successful author. He came near me: “You managed the part at the window very well, mademoiselle, but it is ridiculous; it is not your fault, but that of the author, who has written a most improbable scene. The public would laugh immoderately; this scene must be taken out.”
I turned toward Perrin, who was listening silently: “Are you of the same opinion, sir?”