“You are not to move,” I told her. “Do you understand? Not one inch.”
She nodded, her eyes gone wide as she took in the company in their extravagant historical costumes, all portraying roles from Molière’s most famous plays.
The company advanced in pairs to the stage, where Beauvallet oversaw their palm frond offerings like sacrifices. Suddenly an outraged cry rang out—“This brat is on my train!”—followed by Régine shouting, “Vache! Leave me alone.”
Reeling about, I saw the redoubtable Madame Nathalie, garbed in a pompadour wig and colossal gown, gesturing angrily at Régine. Determined to obey me, my sister refused to step aside, though she had somehow ended up on Madame’s immense train. With a cry of indignation, Madame Nathalie yanked at her train and upset my sister’s balance, causing her to stumble backward into the entry pillar.
Régine let out a shriek as she toppled the plaster pillar, falling to the stage and cutting her forehead. I flung aside my wreath to rush to her.
Madame Nathalie swerved to me, gripping my arm. “This lowborn urchin you’ve brought here—it’s an outrage. Who are you to insult the House of Molière thus?”
“You told me not to move,” cried Régine. “The fat cow shoved me.”
I saw red. My long-simmering anger at my mother, my failed debut, the humiliation of my exams and my audition, where this woman had treated me with such contempt—it all came boiling to the surface. Before I could stop myself, I threw out my hand and delivered a stinging blow across Madame’s overly rouged cheek.
It reverberated like a thunderclap. As she stood stunned, the imprint of my fingers on her jowl, the entire company let out a horrified gasp. It was Madame’s cue; flinging an arm to her forehead as if she were a doomed heroine, she dropped in an epic swoon—right upon hapless Coquelin, a fellow actor.
I went immobile, my hand still lifted. Pandemonium erupted. The callboys and stagehands rushed to assist Coquelin, flattened under Madame’s bulk. Beauvallet barked, “Water! Someone fetch a glass of water!” Someone obliged, only they misinterpreted his intent and tossed the contents of the glass on Madame, smearing her makeup and eliciting a yelp from Coquelin: “Mon Dieu, must you drown me? Get her off me before I’m crushed.”
Régine let out a cackle. I looked over at her, splayed on the floor, her skirts crested over her pantalettes, and I couldn’t resist my own giggle. It was a farce worthy of Molière himself. Even the invited public, who’d abandoned their seats to crowd to the front of the stage, began to laugh, the journalists scribbling in their notepads as fast as they could, while the stagehands hauled Madame to her feet. She was moaning as if she’d been struck by a mortal blow.
Helping Régine up, I wiped the blood from her forehead with my sleeve, not hearing Provost’s approach until he said, “God help you, this time you’ve gone too far.”
I met his stare as he motioned. “Apologize to Madame Nathalie this instant.”
“I certainly will not.” I turned from him to smooth Régine’s disheveled skirts. “She should be the one to apologize, for being so beastly to a child.”
From behind us, Madame Nathalie blared: “We are dishonored. La maison de Molière is defiled. Remove that filthy Hebrew and her devil sister from my sight this instant.”
Provost’s shoulders slumped. “Sarah, if you don’t make amends, your career will be over. You’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”
I took my sister by the hand. “So be it,” I said, and I led Régine out of the theater—for all I knew, forever.
IV
“She refuses to heed reason,” exclaimed Julie. She’d forced me out of my room, where I’d sat brooding for days, informing me that Morny had arrived to see me. Dragging myself into the salon, I avoided his sardonic gaze as I sank into a chair, braced for his outrage. Although I’d never solicited his help, he had given it. He’d put in a word for me at the Conservatoire and at the Comédie; he’d petitioned his friends to help me, and I’d repaid him with scandal.
To my surprise, he let out a chuckle. “Let’s not pretend we are on the verge of ruin. I’ve read about it in the newspapers. As has all of Paris by now.”
“It’s in the newspapers?” My entire being went cold at the thought. But of course there had been journalists present, who’d witnessed everything.
“Did your mother not tell you?” said Morny. “Your name is on everyone’s lips—the brazen ingénue who dared to strike a senior sociétaire. Le Gifle, they’re calling it: ‘the Slap.’ No one,” he added, with a smile, “claims you were unprovoked.”
I couldn’t believe he actually appeared amused. I’d never liked him, not since he’d tried to finagle a kiss from me years before, but at this moment, I was very grateful for his wit.
“Thierry sent us a letter.” Julie shot a glare at me. “If she makes an apology, he’ll reinstate her. It’s the least she can do. No one can get away with such intolerable behavior.”
“The apology is a formality,” said Morny. “The Comédie hasn’t enjoyed this kind of publicity in years, and Thierry knows it. Everyone now wants to see the young actress who—”
“Struck a sociétaire,” I interrupted. “Not the publicity I’d hoped for.”
“Ah, but you have it. I’m suggesting we do something with it.”
“Such as what?” said Julie, and I steeled myself for his repetition of the litany my mother had already heaped on me: that I must abase myself before Madame Nathalie and do penance. Julie didn’t care if the renewal of my contract would seal my relegation to minor roles till the end of my days. All she cared about were the ramifications, for she had a horror of any attention that might cast her in an adverse light. A courtesan like her relied on discretion, the illusion of respectability, not on the wives of her suitors or her suitors themselves gossiping about her daughter’s defiance.
Instead, he said, “May we assume an apology is out of the question?”
“She put her hands on Régine first—” I started to say, and Julie cried, “Impossible! She thinks she can do as she pleases, whenever she pleases, and there’ll be no—”
Morny cleared his throat, bringing my mother to a standstill. “Sarah is wise to not risk further humiliation. Even if she makes her apology and returns to the Comédie, Madame Nathalie will not tolerate her reinstatement. Madame is a pensioned member, with a reputation to uphold; she will make it her mission to ruin Sarah’s career.”
“What career?” snapped Julie. “She never had one to begin with.”
“True,” he replied. “Yet she might have one now.”
I felt a jolt of interest. After Julie’s tirades and her threats to throw me into the gutter, where it seemed I was determined to end up, any hope, however thin, was welcome.
Morny said, “Her name holds some recognition. Others will wish to hire her.”
“Others?” echoed Julie doubtfully.
“The Gymnase, to be precise. I’m acquainted with its proprietor, Monsieur Montigny. He’s staging clever farces for a less discerning clientele and making quite the profit. He has inquired about Sarah’s availability.”
Julie let out a gasp. “But it’s on the Right Bank, a common music hall for the rabble.”
“Indeed. Montigny is an astute businessman. His establishment has become very popular with the rabble, as you call them, and they can make a reputation.”
“No.” Julie was trembling. “She can never perform in such a place. I forbid it.”
“Then what, my dear, would you have her do?” Morny’s unspoken intimation hung between us. “My offer stands. If you wish to pursue it, you must let me know. Montigny is always looking for fresh talent. Only,” he said, retrieving his cane, “don’t wait too long. The Slap will not stay fresh indefinitely.”
After he departed, Julie paced the salon. I watched her warily until she whirled to me. “Before I will conse
nt to another kindness from Morny, you must prove your willingness to deserve it. Otherwise, I shall write to Berenz in Lyons and see you wed within the month. You’re not twenty. You require my signature on any contract you sign.”
“You can’t force me to marry,” I said, although I feared she might.
“Perhaps. I can, however, put you out of this house. And you’ll not last a month on the street, I assure you.” She paused. “If you do as I ask, I shall see your dowry paid to you in full, to use however you like.”
“I thought my dowry was dependent on my marriage,” I said, immediately suspicious of her unexpected offer. “Didn’t that notary say the terms of my father’s testament were irrevocable?”
“What does he know?” she replied. “A notary is not a solicitor. A skillful Parisian lawyer can challenge the terms of any testament. But in order to hire one, you’ll need money—and not the kind of money you’ll make in clever farces at the Gymnase.”
I clenched my teeth. She regarded me, unblinking as a snake.
“What,” I finally said, “would you have me do?”
“Engage a suitor at the Opéra, but not someone we already know: he must be a new acquaintance, and one wealthy enough to demonstrate your value.”
I swallowed my revulsion, wondering when she’d grown so cold, so ruthless as to pander her own daughter. But as I also recognized I had no other option, to my surprise, it didn’t seem so terrible. I remembered how it had been with Paul, how easy. Surely one way was much like the other; it was only a matter of perspective. I couldn’t crawl back to the Comédie—Morny was right, Madame Nathalie wouldn’t tolerate it—and the Gymnase was the last place an actress wanted to be. If I could secure the money that my father had left me, it would give me the freedom to seek a respectable acting position elsewhere.
“Very well.” I stood. “One time. After that, I decide my own future.”
V
Julie and Rosine spent weeks grooming me. Between the subtle gestures, the complicated use of my lorgnette and fan, and Rosine’s repeated exhortation that “when he’s present, your suitor must be your lord and master,” I began to regret my submission. I should have accepted Morny’s offer on the spot. But he didn’t return to the flat for the entire month, no doubt advised by Julie to make himself scarce while she prepared me. And he must have been satisfied enough by the prospect, for when he next appeared, it was in full evening attire, with his carriage and footmen at the ready.
When I emerged in the sumptuous white satin gown that Julie had had altered for me, along with her prized suite of pearls, my hair styled in a loose coiffure to highlight my slim neck, Morny crooned, “Mademoiselle, you are ravishing. Like a virginal swan.”
Were it up to him, he would have been my first suitor, but it wasn’t up to him; this was to be my test, my punishment for humiliating myself at the Comédie. I must attract someone worthy, whom we didn’t know. Those were the rules, imposed by Julie.
We proceeded to the Opéra, that bastion of tradition, where between arias and aperitifs, the demimondaines plied their illicit trade. Morny put his box at our disposal. As the curtain lifted and the opera began, Julie elbowed me. Removing my lorgnette from my beaded bag, I raised it to my eyes with a practiced curve of my glove-sheathed arm.
“Now,” she whispered, “search the crowd as if you are looking for no one in particular, and see if someone in particular is looking at you.”
Since this was to be in essence a performance, I decided to exploit it, inhabiting my new persona in all her freedom and bondage, thinking if I ever managed to step onstage again, I could use what I’d learned. But my hand quivered as I wielded the lorgnette; I didn’t see anything at first, only a haze of shadowy figures. I was about to shift the glasses to the stage and enjoy the opera when I caught sight of someone staring back at me.
I started, training my lorgnette with a casual air toward the person in question. Dumas’s expansive smile filled my eyes. He was sitting across the house from us in the opposite box. But he wasn’t the one I focused on; beside him sat a dark-haired man with a proud forehead and raptor-like stare, who returned my appraisal in blatant candor.
“Who are you looking at?” hissed Julie. She shifted her lorgnette; I heard her mutter, “God save us. Dumas.” Then she went still. “Rosine, who is the gentleman with the writer?”
As Morny chortled under his breath, my aunt peered through her glasses. She gave a stifled exhale. “Comte Émile de Kératry. A lieutenant colonel in the Imperial Guard.”
“Is he rich?” said Julie, making me wince.
“Very,” drawled Morny. “And extremely adept at employing it.”
Julie lowered her glasses with a sigh. At intermission, she and Morny vanished, leaving me with Rosine. The opera resumed. I didn’t want to search the house again like a flower vendor. Instead, I reclined in my seat and shut my eyes, letting the music wash over me. I’d had so little comfort these past weeks, so little peace….
A voice murmured near my ear: “Monsieur Dumas tells me you are an actress.”
Turning my head, I found myself gazing into deep-set green eyes with impossibly long lashes.
The man smiled. “Are you?”
My mouth went dry. “I…I was.”
His smile widened, displaying perfect teeth. “I understand you recently had an altercation with a certain sociétaire, as well. Congratulations.”
“Congratulations?” I thought he must be mocking me. It was only then that I noticed Rosine had disappeared, leaving me at the mercy of this Comte de Kératry.
“Why, yes.” He was obviously well bred, with high aristocratic cheekbones and thin lips that managed to appear supple. His hair, which had looked dark from a distance, was actually light auburn, slicked to his scalp with brilliantine. “It was high time someone gave her a proper dressing-down.”
I suddenly let out a laugh. “You tease me, monsieur,” I said, almost not recognizing the seductive vibrato in my voice, though I’d been perfecting it for weeks in anticipation of just such a moment.
“I would do more,” he said. I froze as I felt him reach across my seat to touch my hand. Then he withdrew. I looked down to see a calling card on my lap.
“I will send a carriage for you tomorrow at noon,” he said, as I stared at the expensive cream card embossed with his address. “I trust we are in agreement, Mademoiselle Bernhardt?”
He knew my name. He knew about the Slap. It sent a chill through me; I felt as if he’d singled me out in the way a wolf sets its sights on the most vulnerable prey, the one most likely to be brought down by a quick clamp of its jaws.
I forced myself to lift my eyes to him. “I believe we are.”
“Demain, then.” He bowed, departing the box.
Moments later, Rosine returned to me in a fluster. “Well?” she asked, tugging anxiously at her necklace, as if I’d just received a long-dreaded diagnosis.
I handed her the card. “He says he’ll send a carriage for me tomorrow.”
Tears surfaced in her eyes. “Oh, my child. Just wait until Julie hears of it. You’ve outdone yourself on your very first night. Not even she in her prime could have snared such a prize.” Rosine leaned to me with a confidential whisper. “She put you to the test and now she’ll be beside herself with envy. She was quite certain you would fail tonight.”
“Then I’m delighted to disappoint her,” I replied.
* * *
—
The comte sent his carriage to take me to his palatial townhouse by the Tuileries, where he had a luncheon served for just the two of us by a host of liveried servants who never looked at me.
His seduction was practiced, but not routine. He did not behave as if anything proposed was his due, but rather made me feel as if I were the only woman in the world he’d ever desired. I wasn’t deceived. Julie had spared me nothing, assuring me
he was one of the most sought-after gentlemen in Paris, with a wealthy family and title, in addition to a position at court—all of which made him the consummate rake.
When he led me upstairs to his bedchamber, where the linen sheets were already turned down on the bed and the window shutters half-closed, lending the sumptuous gilded room a watery shadow that I assumed was intended to enhance the mood, my heart was pounding so hard, I could feel it against my ribs. His lips felt cool on my nape as he leaned in to me from behind to kiss my skin.
“No perfume,” I heard him murmur.
I froze. I hadn’t even thought of scenting myself in the painstaking hours before his carriage came to fetch me, closeted with Rosine as the two of us agonized over which dress and hat I should wear, while Julie made herself absent, declaring she had an engagement—a deliberate ploy, for now that I’d accomplished what she had thought impossible, she wasn’t pleased that, in turn, she must honor her end of our pact.
With a knot in my throat, I said, “I didn’t know which perfume you’d prefer, my lord.”
“Ah, no.” He took me by my shoulders, turning me about to face him. His cravat was undone about his lean neck. Up close, his eyes were so green, they reminded me of cat eyes. Or wolf eyes, I reminded myself. I must never forget that I was now his prey in every way. He was going to get his money’s worth. “Don’t pretend to be a woman you aren’t,” he said, his fingertips tracing the line of my jaw. “Perfume isn’t your style. Nor is any of this. Is it?”
“No,” I whispered. And I raised my hands to his chest, setting my palms against it, hard to the touch, sculpted from horseback riding and fencing practice, or whatever it was men like him did to pass the time. As I felt my fear uncoiling, I was determined to contain it.
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