The First Actress

by C. W. Gortner

  “What do you want of me?” As soon as I spoke, I realized I’d made a mistake. I had revealed the one weakness that bared my inexperience, but his smile only widened.

  “I want you to be yourself, Sarah,” he said, his voice pausing on my name. “I can have women like your mother any time I like. But someone like you is rare.”

  “I’m not a virgin,” I told him impulsively. Rosine had equipped me with a tiny skin-bag of pig’s blood, which she’d explained I must keep hidden on my person and somehow prick open at the appropriate time to stain the sheets. I’d left the little falsehood in my cloak, thinking there was no way to accomplish it. How on earth was I supposed to hide the bag if he undressed me completely?

  He laughed low in his chest; I felt it under my hands before he turned me back around to deftly undo my stays. “Virgins don’t interest me,” he said, as my dress slipped off to pool at my feet. “Rarity, on the other hand…When one can have anything one desires, rarity becomes very special. It is the only thing that is most difficult to acquire.”

  I heard him divest himself of his clothes, standing still as he pressed his naked length against me, his mouth at my ear: “Now, tell me what you want. Tell me how I can please you.”

  I almost blurted out another inappropriate truth—I wanted his money, of course—except that as he guided me to his bed, I found I didn’t care about that anymore. I’d never been treated like this by a man. None save for Dumas and Provost had ever regarded me as someone who mattered; even Paul, for all his fumbling ardor, had only wanted to possess me, to marry me and call me his wife, without ever asking what I might desire in return. The very fact that this stranger with his exquisite manners and intrepid tongue, who’d purchased me like a piece of furniture for the afternoon, would ask what I wanted sent a bolt of triumphant flame through me.

  This was true power. The power Marie had cited when she told me at Grandchamp about our mothers, only she’d misunderstood it as much as me. This was a power that most women, especially those like Julie, squandered, cheapened in transactions cloaked by salon propriety, because they couldn’t comprehend that power like this was priceless. No matter what it might cost to obtain, to exert such power was to command respect—and respect was worth more than gold to a woman.

  “I wish to be seen,” I heard myself say, as he lowered his head between my thighs.

  He went still, his eyes lifting to me. “Seen?” he repeated.

  “Yes.” I met his gaze. “If I’m so rare to you, show me. Make me feel it.”

  He chuckled. “You do realize we already have an agreement?”

  I nodded, putting my hands on his head. “But rarity can’t truly be bought, can it?”

  “It depends,” he replied. “In your case…we shall see.”

  After that, there was no more conversation. For several hours, I basked in the ardor of a man who knew exactly how to arouse me. Nothing I’d experienced with Paul could compare; for the first time in my life, I felt the hot rush of blood in my veins, my thighs clasped around his waist as he drove into me, filling me with pleasure. After it was done and I lay splayed on his now-rumpled sheets, feeling as though I drifted in a warm sea, he rose and went to a cabinet, still naked, so confident in his allure as he lit a match to a cigarette and stood at the window, the ebbing daylight rimming his musculature in gilt.

  I had to ask him. “Why do you do this?”

  “This?” He didn’t look at me as he blew out a plume of smoke.

  “Yes.” I righted myself on my elbows. “A man like you—you could have any woman you want for free.”

  He ran his hand over his chin. “That is precisely why I do this.”

  I felt myself frown. “I don’t understand.”

  “You do.” He glanced over his shoulder at me. “You just showed me how much you understand. You wish to be seen for who you are. Is it so strange for me to want the same?” He gave me a quiet smile when I didn’t reply. “Women always think that men like me hold every advantage. And in most respects, we do. But we aren’t immune to the same needs that women have, only we’re never allowed to admit it.”

  I considered for a moment. “You want to be loved?” I said, thinking it highly unlikely; he didn’t seem like a yearning romantic to me.

  He let out a throaty chuckle, extinguishing his cigarette in a crystal bowl on the cabinet. “ ‘Love’ is a term we use to claim exclusive ownership. My horse probably knows more about love than most people. It’s not love I seek, but freedom, to be whoever I am. Women see my title, my family name and net worth—to them, I’m but a means to an end. You can never be loved by those who think you’ll be their salvation. If I choose to pay for my pleasure, then the line is clear: there can be no confusion or expectations.”

  “Well, I don’t know about love or horses,” I replied carelessly, “but your means can certainly be my salvation.”

  As he threw back his head and laughed again, making me cringe at my crassness, at my breaking of some intimate spell, I saw gratitude in his eyes and heard it in his voice.

  “This is your rarity, Sarah: honesty. And you are right, it cannot be bought. You must never try to sell it.” He gestured past the bed to a set of double doors in the wall paneling. “My bathing quarters are in there. Please, take your time. I’ll wait for you in the library downstairs.”

  I availed myself of his facilities, which were luxurious, with hot running water, a bidet (both Rosine and Julie had stressed the importance of this to avoid “complications”), and enough lotions and oils to stock an emporium. After I dressed, he escorted me to his carriage. With an insouciant smile, he said, “Your mother has invited me to her salon next week for a musical soirée. Should I attend?”

  “She sent you an invitation?” I suppressed a snort of derision. “When?”

  “This morning. Before I sent my carriage for you.”

  “In that case,” I said, “you mustn’t deprive her of your company.”

  “I look forward to it.” He reached into his robe pocket. Without fanfare or explanation, he extracted an envelope. On the ride home, I opened it.

  He had paid me thirty thousand francs.

  * * *

  He attended the soirée. Morny was there too, along with Rosine and her suitor. Though Kératry’s rank was comparable to Morny’s, he did not flaunt it. He laughed and told lewd jokes that made Rosine blush. He played with Régine, who found him fascinating, and complimented simpering Jeanne. Julie sat at the pianoforte that she’d had installed in the renovated salon and had me sing chansons from the Conservatoire, music lessons having formed part of my curriculum to strengthen my voice, while he watched from the settee with Régine, his indolent eyes never wavering from me.

  I did not depart my mother’s house with him; that would have been indiscreet. But I went to see him the next afternoon and many afternoons thereafter. Within three months, I’d earned several hundred thousand francs, more than in my entire time at the Comédie.

  Then one afternoon as I took my leave from his townhouse, Kératry handed me the envelope and said, “The Prince of Ligne is a friend of mine from Flanders. He’s coming here to visit Paris on his annual trip. Would you be amenable?”

  I was fastening my cloak. “Of course. You must spend time with your friends.”

  “Sarah.” The mirth in his voice made me pause. “That isn’t what I mean.”

  It took me a moment to comprehend; when I did, I felt sick. “You want me to…?”

  He said, “Not if you’re averse. You said my means can be your salvation. He has more means than I do.” His voice softened. “Remember what we spoke of: no confusion or expectations. I have no desire to claim exclusive ownership of you.”

  “Yes,” I said, struggling to recover my composure. “If he’s so inclined.”

  “I believe he will be. Allow me to make the arrangements.”


  I should have been elated. I knew from what Marie had told me years ago, and from what I’d witnessed with my own mother, who held fast to Morny as if she otherwise might drown, that obtaining a suitor of wealth and constancy was a coveted feat; to be recommended to others of his ilk heralded a courtesan’s certain rise to fame. And when I told Julie of what Kératry had suggested, despite her sour look, she had the grace to say, “I never thought I’d hear these words coming out of my mouth, but you’ve shown yourself to be more resourceful than I supposed. Perhaps I can now rest assured that once I find myself obliged to retire, I’ll be seen through my old age in the comfort to which I am accustomed.”

  She vanquished any elation I felt. It wasn’t only the thought that she believed I’d carry on the family profession indefinitely, but my shame at the savage pride her admission brought me. Quite unwillingly, I had surpassed her and begun to enjoy myself; it was too easy, this business of pleasure and money. I now understood why so many women braved the perilous arena, as the deed itself was nearly as enticing as its rewards.

  The realization brought me to my senses.

  I brought my tin stuffed with francs to the table where Julie and Rosine sat over breakfast. “I have enough to hire a solicitor,” I declared, as Julie frowned. “I want my dowry released. And have Morny speak with the Gymnase. It is time for me to return to the stage.”

  VI

  The Gymnase was indeed a frivolous establishment, one of Paris’s ubiquitous so-called boulevard theaters, where nightly brawls competed with whatever nonsense played onstage. There was no Racine or Voltaire on the playbill; no one would have understood them or cared. Comedic farces of mistaken identity and lurid tales of crime, infidelity, and fatal affairs, penned by unknown playwrights, were performed instead for an uncouth and inebriated crowd.

  The pay was pitiful, the roles equally so. And I did not like the managing director, Montigny. A circus entrepreneur, he believed theater should be entertainment, not art. Despite my scandalous departure from the Comédie, I had been trained by its instructors at the Conservatoire, where actors were deemed professionals with a tradition to uphold. Montigny only hired me at Morny’s recommendation because my name had been in the newspapers, and he believed it had marquee value. Yet, as such matters went, my name disappeared from the papers soon enough, and he didn’t capitalize on whatever value remained, relegating me to secondary roles, which, he said, “make the best of your odd looks.” He was astute in this regard. His other actresses were all buxom and pert. I stood out among them like a waif.

  Nevertheless, I took the undeniable step down in my fortunes as an opportunity to escape the courtesan trade, if not to hone my craft. The rigid expectations of the Comédie had felled me; here, with lamplighters bustling about and vats of water readied overhead lest the footlights ignite a conflagration, with ringing bells to capture the audience’s fickle attention, often in vain, I wasn’t expected to do much of anything.

  The terror of le trac deserted me. No one cared if my gestures lacked precision or if I missed a line. No one noticed if I turned my back. Indeed, as the other actresses advised me, the audience preferred to see our backsides whenever possible.

  What mattered was that I was performing again.

  In between appearances in such forgettable productions as Madame Steals a Kiss, I met with Kératry and his friend, the Prince of Ligne—not together of course. Soon, a few others approached me, based on Kératry’s recommendation. None were boors or brutes; they made generous offers, which I accepted, but I refused to sacrifice whatever principles I had left. I must make ends meet, but that, I vowed, was as far as it could go.

  Julie didn’t contain her disappointment. “Why must you debase yourself at that dreadful place? I fail to understand it, when you’re having such success elsewhere.” But that was all she said. No doubt she thought my time at the Gymnase would come to a premature end, as it had at the Comédie—not because I’d find myself in any trouble (performing there was demeaning enough, as she never ceased to point out) but because my other activities would prove more lucrative. In a rare display of magnanimity that betrayed her motivation, she offered me the newly renovated apartment next door, intended for Rosine. My aunt located another flat nearby, courtesy of her suitor, allowing me privacy to conduct my affairs—or as much privacy as I could find with my sister Régine underfoot, scowling at the various gentlemen who arrived to escort me about town.

  Occupied from dawn to midnight, rushing from my afternoon liaisons to the Gymnase at night to throw on whatever horrid costume had been assigned so I could prance onstage to recite inane lines like “Un baiser? O non! Non!” I was too distracted to notice anything was amiss.

  Until Marie Colombier did.

  * * *

  We met at the brasserie by the Conservatoire; she was about to take her final exams, she told me, and Samson had assured her of a contract at the Théâtre du Châtelet.

  “It’s not the Comédie,” she said airily. “But then, I never intended to be an actress.”

  “No?” I eyed her over my cup of coffee.

  She toyed with the ruffles of lace at her throat. “Girls like us have two choices. Or three, if you include marrying the first rogue who comes our way. I’m not suited to the first choice—not like you, chère Sarah. My mother left that pursuit years ago, as you know, and unlike yours, she offered me no encouragement. So, the theater it must be.”

  “There are other choices,” I said.

  Marie laughed. “I suppose so, but shop-keeping is so tedious. No, acting suits me for the moment. As I said, I’ve no wish to be another Rachel. And I’m prepared for what comes next. Even if I’m not engaging suitors at the Opéra, I’ve found a protector who can ensure I live as comfortably as possible. Given the meager salary at the Châtelet, I’ve no intention of subsiding on gruel. I’ll perform onstage and save whatever I can on the side, until a suitable husband comes my way, like my mother before me.”

  “Is Samson your protector?” I asked, knowing full well what he was capable of doing to promote his ingénues and her equal lack of compunction in bedding him for a contract.

  “What of it?” Her voice sharpened as she directed her gaze over my new green wool walking dress and smart hat. “You’re hardly one to judge. You seem to be doing quite well for yourself these days, despite that unpleasant incident with Madame Nathalie. I sincerely hope your protector cares as much for you in return. Otherwise, your dismissal from the Comédie will feel like a blessing by comparison.”

  I laughed. “He’s a suitor, nothing more.”

  “So, you’re indulging others than the dashing comte?”

  “Naturally. Émile is generous, but neither of us seeks a permanent arrangement.”

  “Oh?” She curled her hand at her chin. “You might tell yourself that. You might even believe it. But it’s plain to me that while there may be others, you desire only him.”

  I went silent, biting my lip before I reached for my cup. “It is true that I prefer him,” I admitted. “In fact, I’m considering forgoing my other engagements. With my obligations at the Gymnase, I have no time, and Émile offers more than enough.”

  “And are you taking precautions?” she said. When I failed to reply to this unexpected question, she exclaimed, “Sarah, are you mad? Do you want to get with child?”

  Incredulous laughter burst from me. “Don’t be so dramatic, Marie. It’s impossible.” Yet even as I spoke, I knew it wasn’t. Both Julie and Rosine had inculcated in me the importance of thoroughly rinsing my private parts after my encounters—and for the most part, I’d done so. But there had been occasions when I’d wondered if those hasty splashes of water were sufficient. Julie had advised keeping a close eye on my menses and adding vinegar to my bidet douches whenever possible, which made me scoff. I could hardly ask Émile to go down to the kitchens to fetch me a bottle of vinegar from his pantry after an after
noon of passion. And while I could bring a small bottle of the stuff in my bag, the thought of emerging from his bathroom smelling like a salad was equally unappealing.

  “It is not,” Marie said, reading my thoughts. “It’s not only possible, but probable if you let him spill inside you. Men like Émile de Kératry do not fulfill obligations to girls like us. You’d best be prepared.” She regarded me with discomfiting intensity. “And regardless of whether you’ve realized it yet, I believe you are already with child.”

  I recoiled from her so fast that I knocked over my cup. As I heard coffee dripping off the table onto the tile floor, I said angrily, “I most certainly am not!”

  “I wish it were so. But you have all the signs: Your skin is glowing. You have color in your cheeks that I’ve never seen before. You’ve put on weight. Have you been tired of late? Do you feel nauseous or bloated? Have you missed your menses?”

  I paused, thinking it was a mistake to have met with her. “Of course I’m tired,” I said after the waiter came over with a scowl, obliged to mop up the mess I’d made. “I run from my apartment to the theater every day. My sister Régine practically lives with me, so I must attend to her in addition to everything else. It’s only to be expected I should…”

  As my voice faded into sudden silence, I recalled that I’d recently vomited before two of my performances at the Gymnase. I’d thought it an inopportune return of le trac, although I did not feel the accompanying panic that rendered me immobile, just an odd queasiness that persisted for several hours. As for my menses, surely it had been last month or the month before….

  “Dear God,” I whispered in dawning horror.

  Marie nodded. “Indeed. Sarah, whatever are you going to do now?”

  I came to my feet, clutching at my parasol, moving outside as if a rough wind buffeted me. She followed me. I stood gazing at nothing, lost in an inner storm.