I accepted everything. I was anxious to leave Paris. Jarrett immediately sent a telegram to Mr. Abbey, the great American impresario, and he landed on this side thirteen days later. I signed the contract made by Jarrett, which was discussed clause by clause with the American manager.
I was given, on signing the contract, one hundred thousand francs as advance payment for my expenses before departure. I was to play eight pieces: Hernani, Phèdre, Adrienne Lecouvreur, Froufrou, La Dame aux Camélias, Le Sphinx, L’Etrangère, and La Princesse Georges.
I ordered twenty-five modern dresses at Laferrière’s, of whom I was then a customer.
At Baron’s I ordered six costumes for Adrienne Lecouvreur and four costumes for Hernani. I ordered from a young theatre costumier named Lepaul my costume for Phèdre. These thirty-six costumes cost me sixty-one thousand francs; but out of this my costume for Phèdre alone cost four thousand francs. The poor artist-costumier had embroidered it himself. It was a marvel. It was brought to me two days before my departure, and I cannot think of this moment without emotion. Irritated by long waiting, I was writing an angry letter to the costumier when he was announced. At first I received him very badly, but I found him looking so unwell, the poor man, that I made him sit down and asked how he came to be so ill.
“Yes, I am not at all well,” he said in such a weak voice that I was quite upset. “I wanted to finish this dress, and I have worked at it three days and nights. But look how nice your costume is!” And he spread it out with loving respect before me.
“Look!” remarked Guérard, “a little spot!”
“Ah, I pricked myself,” answered the poor artist quickly.
But I had just caught sight of a drop of blood at the corner of his lips. He wiped it quickly away, so that it should not fall on the pretty costume as the other little spot had done. I gave the artist the four thousand francs, which he took with trembling hands. He murmured some unintelligible words and withdrew.
“Take away this costume, take it away!” I cried to mon petit Dame and my maid. And I cried so much that I had the hiccoughs all the evening. Nobody understood why I was crying. But I reproached myself bitterly for having worried the poor man. It was plain that he was dying. And by the force of circumstances I had unwittingly forged the first link of the chain of death which was dragging to the tomb this youth of twenty-two—this artist with a future before him.
I would never wear this costume. It is still in its box, yellowed with age. Its gold embroidery is tarnished by time, and the little spot of blood has slightly eaten away the stuff. As to the poor artist, I learnt of his death during my stay in London in the month of May, for before leaving for America I signed with Hollingshead and Mayer, the impresarii of the Comédie, a contract which bound me to them from May 24 to June 24 (1880).