I was dressed up in Mlle. Debay’s clothes, 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 not without talent. He thought I was just the ideal actress for his heroine in La bergère d’Ivry, but M. Faille, an old actor, who had just become manager of the Ambigu Theatre, was not the only person to consult, for a certain M. de Chilly had some interest in the theatre. De Chilly had made his name in the rôle of Rodin in Le 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 bourgeoise, rather pretty, but without any real beauty or grace.
Faille told Lambert Thiboust that he was negotiating with 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 humour the poor fellow, who must have been as poor a manager as he had been an artiste. I gave a short performance for him at the Ambigu Theatre. 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 had selected On ne badine pas avec l’amour; I did not want to recite verse, because I was to perform in a play in prose. I believe I was perfectly charming, 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 office.
“My child,” remarked the worthy but stupid manager, “you are no good on the stage!”
I resented this, but he continued:
“Oh no, no good,” and as the door then opened he added, pointing to the new-comer, “here is M. de Chilly, who was also listening to you, and he will say just the same as I say.”
M. de Chilly nodded and shrugged his shoulders.
“Lambert Thiboust is mad,” he remarked. “No one ever saw such a thin shepherdess!”