L’Opinion Nationale, September 12th.... “The same evening ‘Les Femmes Savantes’ was given. This was Mlle. Bernhardt’s third appearance, and she took the rôle of Henriette. She was just as pretty and insignificant in this as in that of Junie (he had made a mistake, as it was Iphigénie I had played) and of Valérie, both of which rôles had been entrusted to her previously. This performance was a very poor affair, and gives rise to reflections by no means gay. That Mlle. Bernhardt should be insignificant does not so much matter. She is a débutante, and among the number presented to us it is only natural that some should be failures. The pitiful part is, though, that the comedians playing with her were not much better than she was, and they are Sociétaires of the Théâtre Français. All that they had more than their young comrade was a greater familiarity with the boards. They are just as Mlle. Bernhardt may be in twenty years’ time, if she stays at the Comédie Française.”
I did not stay there, though; for one of those nothings which change a whole life changed mine. I had entered the Comédie expecting to remain there always. I had heard my godfather explain to my mother all about the various stages of my career.
“The child will have so much during the first five years,” he said, “and so much afterwards, and then at the end of thirty years she will have the pension given to Associates, that is, if she ever becomes an Associate.” He appeared to have his doubts about this.
My sister Régina was the cause, though quite involuntarily this time, of the drama which made me leave the Comédie. It was Molière’s anniversary, and all the artistes of the Français had to salute the bust of the great writer, according to the tradition of the theater. It was to be my first appearance at a “ceremony” and my little sister, on hearing me tell about it at home, besought me to take her to it.
My mother gave me permission to do so, and our old Marguerite was to accompany us. All the members of the Comédie were assembled in the foyer. The men and women, dressed in different costumes, all wore the famous doctor’s cloak. The signal was given that the ceremony was about to commence, and everyone hurried to the corridor where the busts were. I was holding my little sister’s hand, and just in front of us was the very fat and very solemn Mme. Nathalie. She was a Sociétaire of the Comédie, old, spiteful, and surly.
Régina, in trying to avoid the train of Marie Roger’s cloak, stepped on to Nathalie’s, and the latter turned round and gave the child such a violent push that she was knocked against a column holding a bust. Régina screamed out, and, as she turned back to me, I saw that her pretty face was bleeding.
“You miserable creature!” I called out to the fat woman, and, as she turned round to reply, I slapped her in the face. She proceeded to faint; there was a great tumult, and an uproar of indignation, approval, stifled laughter, satisfied revenge, pity from those artistes who were mothers, for the poor child, etc. Two groups were formed, one around the wretched Nathalie, who was still in her swoon, and the other around little Régina. And the different aspect of these two groups was rather strange. Around Nathalie were cold, solemn-looking men and women fanning the fat, helpless lump with their handkerchiefs or fans. A young, but severe-looking Sociétaire was sprinkling her with drops of water. Nathalie, on feeling this, roused up suddenly, put her hands over her face and muttered in a far-away voice:
“How stupid! You’ll spoil my make-up!”
The younger men were stooping over Régina, washing her pretty face, and the child was saying in her broken voice:
“I did not do it on purpose, sister, I am certain I didn’t. She’s an old cow, and she just kicked for nothing at all!”