I was still on friendly terms with an actor from the Porte Saint Martin Theater, who had been appointed stage manager there. Marc Fournier was at that time manager of this theater. A piece entitled “La Biche au Bois” was then being played. It was a fairyland story, and was having great success. A delicious actress from the Odéon Theater, Mlle. Debay, had been engaged for the principal rôle. She played tragedy princesses most charmingly. I often had tickets for the Porte Saint Martin, and I thoroughly enjoyed “La Biche au Bois.” Mme. Ulgade sang admirably in her rôle of the young prince, and amazed me. Then, too, Marquita charmed me with her dancing. She was delightful in her dances, which were so animated, so characteristic, and always so full of distinction. Thanks to old Josse I knew everyone; but to my surprise and terror, one evening, toward five o’clock, on arriving at the theater to take our seats, he exclaimed on seeing me:
“Why, here is our princess, our little “Biche au Bois.” Here she is! It is the Providence that watches over theaters who has sent her!”
I struggled like an eel caught in a net, but it was all in vain. M. Marc Fournier, who could be very charming, gave me to understand that I should be doing him a veritable service and keeping up the receipts. Josse, who guessed what my scruples were, exclaimed:
“But, my dear child, it will still be your high art, for it is Mlle. Debay from the Odéon Theater who is playing this rôle of Princess, and Mlle. Debay is the first artiste at the Odéon, and the Odéon is an imperial theater, so that it cannot be any disgrace after your studies.”
Marquita, who had just arrived, also persuaded me, and Mme. Ulgade was sent for to rehearse the duos I was to sing. Yes, and I was to sing with a veritable artiste, one who was considered to be the first artiste of the Opéra Comique.
The time passed by, and Josse helped me to rehearse my rôle, which I almost knew, as I had seen the piece often, and I had an extraordinary memory. The minutes flew, and the half hours made up entire hours. I kept looking at the clock, the large clock in the manager’s room, where I was studying my rôle. Mme. Ulgade rehearsed with me. She thought my voice was pretty, but I kept singing wrong, and she helped and encouraged me all the time.
I was dressed up in Mlle. Debay’s clothes, and finally the moment arrived and the curtain was raised. Poor me! I was more dead than alive, but my courage returned after a triple burst of applause for the couplet which I sang on waking, in very much the same way as I should have murmured a series of Racine’s lines.
When the performance was over Marc Fournier offered me, through Josse, a three years’ engagement; but I asked to be allowed to think it over. Josse had introduced me to a dramatic author, Lambert Thiboust, a charming man who was certainly talented, too. He thought I was just the ideal actress for his heroine, La Bergère d’Ivry, but M. Faille, an old actor who had become the manager of the Ambigu Theater, was not the only person to consult. A certain M. De Chilly had some interest in the theater. He had made his name in the rôle of Rodin in the “Juif Errant,” and, after marrying a rather wealthy wife, had left the stage, and was now interested in the business side of theatrical affairs. He had, I think, just given the Ambigu up to Faille. De Chilly was then helping on a charming girl named Laurence Gérard. She was gentle and very bourgeois, rather pretty, but without any real beauty or grace. Faille told Lambert Thiboust that he had spoken to Laurence Gérard, but that he was ready to do as the author wished in the matter. The only thing he stipulated was that he should hear me before deciding. I was willing to humor the poor fellow, who must have been as poor a manager as he had been an artiste. I acted for him at the Ambigu Theater. The stage was only lighted by the wretched servante, a little transportable lamp. About a yard in front of me I could see M. Faille balancing himself on his chair, one hand on his waistcoat and the fingers of the other hand in his enormous nostrils. This disgusted me horribly. Lambert Thiboust was seated near him, his handsome face smiling, as he looked at me encouragingly.
I was playing in “On ne Badine pas avec l’Amour,” because the play was in prose, and I did not want to take poetry. I believe I was perfectly charming in my rôle, and Lambert Thiboust thought so, too; but when I had finished, poor Faille got up in a clumsy, pretentious way, said something in a low voice to the author, and took me to his own room.
“My child,” remarked the worthy but stupid manager, “you are not at all suitable for the stage!”