“I can’t. I won’t.” But the undeniable reality of her words deflated my rage. The truth was cruel. And unavoidable. “I could run away,” I suddenly said. “To Spain or Italy. I’ll make a new life for myself. Become an artist.”
“With what, my child? You haven’t a coin of your own to buy a train ticket.”
“I could sell my painting supplies—”
“Didn’t you unearth those supplies from a coffer in your aunt’s closet? They were already used. Only a tinker would buy them and it won’t be nearly enough to make a new life for yourself.”
I sank to my knees before her. “Can’t you help me?”
She gave me a sad smile. “I would go with you, ma petite. But I don’t have that kind of money. I receive a small pension as a widow, plus whatever Julie pays me on occasion—just enough to maintain this roof over my head. We wouldn’t reach Vichy with what I have saved, much less Spain or Italy.”
I struck my fist against my knee in frustration. “There must be a way. I—I’ll pawn some of Julie’s jewels. That hideous Morny—he’s always bringing her baubles she never wears unless she’s going to the Opéra. She has plenty of jewels, and he has plenty of money. Didn’t you tell me he’s the illegitimate brother of Louis-Napoléon? He’s practically royalty. He can replace whatever I sell.”
“He is royalty. And if you show up at a pawnshop with your mother’s jewels, which are gifts from Monsieur de Morny, they’ll brand you for a thief and throw you into prison.” She patted my clenched hands and murmured, “Now would be the time for a nice cup of hot chocolate, yes?”
As she returned to the kitchen, I looked over my shoulder at Froufrou, who watched me with baleful eyes. “Shoo!” I hissed, and the cat lunged from the sofa to scurry under Madame G.’s bed.
If only it were so easy to do the same with my future.
* * *
—
With my belly full of hot chocolate and my ears full of Madame G.’s reassurances, I returned to the flat at the hour my mother had cited.
I entered the salon to find her guests sipping cognac and conversing as if they weren’t about to destroy my life. I stood in the doorway, until Morny noticed me and inclined his head to Julie. She turned about with a smile as false as her greeting.
“Ah, there you are. Upstairs with your petite dame again?”
Thinking that flinging myself out the window, as I’d tried to do once before, might prove a satisfactory resolution, I saw the duc give me an unctuous smile. “All grown up, I see. But I vow, the claws are still just as sharp.”
My mother’s fingers snaked around my arm. “What do we say to monsieur le duc?”
“Pleased to meet you, my lord,” I muttered.
“Pleased to meet me, she says!” He let out a guffaw. He’d grown stout and florid, and his mustachios were now entirely gray. “Clearly she doesn’t remember we have met before.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to assure him I most certainly did remember, but Julie had me in her grip, turning me to the other man in the room—a scrawny scowl of a man with wire-rim spectacles and the strict bearing of someone who thought himself very important. “This is Maître Clement from Le Havre. He was your father’s solicitor and represents his estate.”
Monsieur Clement cut short my sudden interest in someone who’d personally known my father: “So, we are all here on your account, are we?” he said, with a distinct lisp. “All these people with better things to do than find themselves beset by a rebellious daughter who ought to know what is best for her. You must be very pleased with yourself, mademoiselle.”
I loathed him on the spot. I expected Julie to at least say something in my defense, as I was, after all, her rebellious daughter, but she only laughed in that glazed manner of hers and motioned me to a chair.
I sat, feeling as though I awaited the drumroll to my execution.
In an irritated tone, as if he’d been interrupted in mid-declamation, Monsieur Clement said, “The hundred thousand francs left to her in her father’s will are intended as a temporal dowry. Therefore, it is incumbent to finalize these negotiations—”
“A hundred thousand francs!” I leapt up from my chair. I had money, left to me by my father. An inconceivable sum—a treasure, the very godsend I required to save myself.
Monsieur Clement stared at me as if in dismay to discover I had a voice. “To be paid upon the signatures of both parties,” he continued, “upon the signing of the marriage contract and posting of the banns. Only these two items, notarized and witnessed by me, are considered binding terms for the release of the dowry from Monsieur Therard’s trust.”
“But it’s my money,” I declared, bringing everyone to a standstill. I turned to Julie, whose jaw was set. “I can return to the convent. I can pay to be accepted as a novitiate.”
It was the only thing I could think of, my sole escape. With an exasperated wave of her hand, Julie said to the men, “Again with the convent. Do you now see what I must contend with? She is utterly without reason.”
“Rosine told me a dowry was required to enter the convent,” I said. “If so, we can offer the hundred thousand francs to Grandchamp and—”
“Offer?” interrupted Monsieur Clement. “Did you not hear it is a temporal dowry?”
“What does that mean?” I was doing my utmost to not lunge at him with my sharp claws, as Morny had called them. “It is still my father’s bequest to me, is it not?”
“Not to do with as you please. A temporal dowry must be paid to your husband upon your marriage.” Monsieur Clement eyed my mother. “Yes, I do see. Entirely without reason. I propose we move the matter to its conclusion. Monsieur Berenz is willing to take her sight unseen. Therefore, I’ve had his notary draw up the papers, which I’ll witness today—”
“No.” My voice, to my surprise, was calm. “I refuse to marry him.”
He regarded me in astonishment as Morny chuckled. “Careful, lawyer. She has a temper. I’ve experienced it for myself.”
“This—this is preposterous.” Monsieur Clement directed his indignation at Julie. “You must tell your daughter to mind her tongue. When has such a thing been seen, a mere chit dictating what we should do with—”
“My money,” I cut in. “I’m telling you what to do with my money, monsieur.” I didn’t know where my will sprang from, how I found the strength, much less the courage, to scold my father’s solicitor. “He left that money to me. I can indeed do with it as I please.”
“Enough!” snapped Julie. She never showed anger in public, let alone before a suitor as constant as Morny, but she’d gone beyond reason herself, enraged by my defiance. “You will marry him, even if I must drag you by your hair to the altar. You will never enter a convent. Never, do you hear me?”
Rosine bleated, “Sarah, please. You must marry, if you will not work.”
“Who says I won’t work?” I rounded on my aunt, causing her to flatten herself against her chair. “I never said it. I simply will not work as you do, on your backs.”
My mother crossed the room in seconds, the swift blow of her hand against my cheek rocking me back on my heels. “Ungrateful,” she hissed. “Ungrateful. Selfish and willful. Just like him. Only thinking of yourself, never considering the consequences of your actions.”
In the stunned silence, as I felt the burn of her palm on my face, Monsieur Clement sneered.
With a yawn, Morny stood. “Mon Dieu. Such drama. I’m quite exhausted by it. Chère Julie, have your maid fetch my cloak and cane; I do not wish to stay for the second act.”
Still quivering in rage, my mother started to reach for the porcelain bell on the side table when, to my disbelief, Morny shifted his watery gaze to me. I saw amused benevolence in his regard. “I fear we’ve reached an impasse. If the girl refuses to marry and a convent is out of the question, perhaps, given her evident talents, w
e should see her enrolled in the Conservatoire. Sarah Bernhardt, tragedienne. It has a certain appeal, don’t you think?”
“The Conservatoire?” Julie’s hand froze on the bell. “Does Monsieur imply she should become an actress?” She uttered the word in horror, as if he’d suggested I become a charwoman.
“Why not?” Morny approached the table beside her to tinkle the bell himself. “I understand she performed rather well in that little Nativity production at the convent, yes? The director of the Beaux-Arts is a good friend of mine; he’s on the board of the Conservatoire. It can be arranged. She’ll have to audition and complete the two years of training, but once she earns a place in the company, she’ll earn a modest salary and have the means to support herself. Preferably,” he said, sliding his mordent gaze back to me, “on her feet.”
I whispered, “I never said I wanted to be an actress, my lord.”
“Indeed. However, what you should now ask yourself is whether you want to be an actress less than a wife. It is a dilemma that only you, mademoiselle, can resolve.”
The maid brought Morny his belongings. As he slipped on his cape and gloves, and my mother collected her shattered composure, he said, “It so happens that tomorrow night, I’ll be attending Racine’s Britannicus, staged by the Comédie. I’ll send my footman with tickets and my carriage. I do hope you will join me.”
Julie accompanied him out. I looked at Rosine, who appeared relieved, as if the matter were decided, even as Monsieur Clement gave a contemptuous snort. “An actress? This scarecrow in a dress? Not unless she can play the Grim Reaper every night.”
I ignored him. What else was there to say? Morny was right.
An actress or a wife. My choices had just been laid out before me.
X
I had never attended the theater.
I knew of it, of course. The Comédie-Française, also known as the House of Molière for the esteemed seventeenth-century playwright who founded it, was one of only two state-sponsored acting companies in France, and it was where the actress Rachel, our Jewish icon, had made her debut and attained legendary fame as a leading interpreter of classical and contemporary roles. During the past listless months, with so little to occupy my time, I’d wandered our neighborhood and passed by the local theater, where the Comédie performed matinées. I’d seen the actors loitering outside smoking (a vice I found enticing) and painted scenery lugged through the back entrance. But I’d never seen an actual play, as only the privileged and fashionable could afford to indulge in such entertainment.
Julie must have had her own opinion, being a woman about town. She surely had an idea of what working in a theater entailed. I might have asked her, but she’d gone silent as a statue around me, as if I’d ceased to exist, and I avoided her the next day as much as possible, sitting in on my sisters’ lessons and then creeping upstairs after lunch while my mother took her nap, to tell Madame G. what had occurred.
“Oh, that’s a wonderful idea!” she exclaimed, to my surprise. “Acting would be the ideal profession for you. You can be independent and do as you like. And you needn’t marry someone you do not love if you’re performing onstage.”
I observed her carefully, trying to detect whether the note of relief I heard in her voice was sincere. It was much like the expression I’d seen on Rosine’s face—as if anything that eased the tension and set me on my path must be embraced, regardless of its actual benefits.
“Is it a profession?” I said suspiciously. “Surely, donning a costume to parade about for the public’s amusement is but a step above doing the same in a salon.”
Ma petite dame sighed. “Perhaps. But you needn’t actually parade about a salon if you don’t want to. And you’ll have no need for a husband to please, either.”
At this, I went downstairs to lie awake in bed until the time came to prepare for the evening. Rosine brought me a dress—one of hers, a castaway of gawdy blue taffeta, hastily adjusted with enough bows and ruffles to hide the tucked-in seams, as she was a good deal larger about the waist and bust. As soon as she laced me into it, I groaned. “I look like a bone in a lampshade. Must I wear this?”
My aunt nodded. “I’m afraid Julie insists. We are attending a performance with Morny. You must look as if you belong in his company.”
On the ride in Morny’s fiacre, I sat wedged between Julie and Rosine, both of whom were dressed to the teeth, jewels flashing about their throats and wrists, their cleavage amply revealed by the wide lace-trimmed scoop of their bodices. At the theater entrance, where distinguished members of society descended from lacquered black carriages gilded with family insignias, Julie seized my white-gloved hand. In a sibilant voice, she said, “Should you cause me any embarrassment tonight, I’ll dispatch you to Lyons on the next train.”
Her warning was unnecessary. My mouth hung open as we entered the Palais Royal, where the Comédie was holding that night’s performance. I’d never seen such opulence and was dazzled by the lavish red carpeting, so soft under my uncomfortable shoes, and by the bluish hue of the gas jets mounted in swirled-gold lamps on the white silk-papered walls. Scarlet silk flared on the undersides of the gentlemen’s ankle-length capes, their damask-patterned vests peeking from under their tailcoats, while the women swanned about in gowns so wide their skirts filled entire doorways, all in soft hues of cream, peach, and white.
The duc had his own box, naturally. Sitting beside him was a bear of a man, with shocking (at least, to me) caramel skin and piercing blue-gray eyes below a thicket of wiry red-brown hair. It astonished me. I’d never have thought to see someone like Morny, a titled aristocrat, with a man of obvious mixed racial blood.
“Mesdemoiselles Bernhardt!” the bearlike man boomed, rising to offer my mother and Rosine the front seats in the box. “Such a pleasure to see you.” He spoke as if it were commonplace to encounter them here, rather than in Julie’s salon. Then he lowered his gaze to me. “Can this be the scintillating Sarah Bernhardt I’ve heard so much about?”
Morny gave a lazy smile. “Mademoiselle, allow me to introduce my friend Monsieur Alexandre Dumas.”
Even though I knew Morny had been the one telling stories about me, I couldn’t curb my awestruck intake of breath. “The writer?” I said. For I knew who he was, and now understood his association with Morny: Alexandre Dumas was a celebrated novelist, his books serialized in the newspapers and taking Paris by storm. After Victor Hugo, he was considered to be France’s greatest living writer.
“The same.” He smiled. “Have you read my work, mademoiselle?”
“Yes,” I whispered, and then I strengthened my voice, not wanting to sound like the gauche girl that I was. “The Count of Monte Cristo is one of my favorites—”
He clasped a big paw-like hand to his chest. “Why, she has the voice of an angel!”
Morny’s smile widened. “Trust me, mon ami, you haven’t begun to hear it. Wait till she raises it. A bassoon has less power.”
Julie shot me a glacial look. “She always has her nose in a book,” she said, sweeping to the seat vacated for her. “I keep telling her, it’s very bad for a woman’s intellect to read so much.”
“Her intellect looks well enough to me,” replied Dumas. He gave me a covert wink.
I took my seat beside my mother while the duc and Dumas settled behind us. The enormous crystal chandelier suspended like an icy sunrise above the house dimmed its gaslight. Three resounding thumps rang out, making me jump.
Leaning forward, Dumas said in my ear, “Pay attention, mon ange. The show is about to begin.”
As the rustling of handbills and fans whispered throughout the theater, the orchestra began to play. The heavy gold-fringed velvet curtain rose with a whoosh to reveal a new world—pilasters and pastel clouds suspended over the seven hills of ancient Rome, populated by striding figures in togas and ivy wreaths. The emperor Nero was played by an actor of impr
essive stature, whose powerful voice reverberated thunderously. But it was the woman playing his mother, Agrippina, who most impressed me. Heavyset and swathed in a purple mantle, her fleshy arms encircled by serpentine bracelets, she was past her youth. Yet in her role as the vengeful empress-mother, her commanding presence eclipsed everyone around her, her encompassing gestures imbued with a majestic malice as she stalked the stage.
I was overcome in that moment by the realization that these were ordinary people, transformed by the alchemy of costume and lighting into epic figures, with the ability to transport those of us who beheld them to another realm, where passions erupted with volcanic force—grander and more tempestuous than anything I’d experienced in life. Here was a world where the commonplace ceased to exist, where mundanity had no place.
The theater was a world of magical escape.
Gripping the edge of the box with an audible moan, I leaned so far forward in my seat that I might have tumbled into the rows far below had my mother not pulled me back.
“Be still,” she hissed. “Are you an idiot, to stare and moo like a cow?”
Dumas chuckled. “How can she not be enthralled? No one plays Agrippina like our Madame Nathalie.”
Julie didn’t even bother to watch the play. With her lorgnette fixed at her eyes the entire time, at intermission she turned to whisper to Morny: “Did you see Princess Mathilde? I hear she left her lover to take up with a degenerate. And Madame de Castiglione certainly has a nerve to show herself in public after the scandal. And was that the insufferable writer George Sand in the second tier? It was? Well, at least she had the decency to wear a dress tonight and not those intolerable trousers. Whatever is the world coming to, when a woman sees fit to go about in society in men’s attire?”
I barely paid mind to her condescending comments. Neither did Rosine, who rose to partake of aperitifs before returning to the box for the final act, during which she nodded off. Clashing cymbals preceded a dénouement that had me straining to stand, to cry out at the magnificence of a spectacle that had swept me into the ancient past, so that I’d forgotten everything around me, the tumult of my existence, and the choice I still had to make.
The First Actress Page 7