The First Actress

by C. W. Gortner

  “There are ways to rid yourself of it,” said Marie. “Herbs and such. Your mother or aunt must know. If it’s early enough, it will require only minor discomfort.”

  She spoke as if she knew from experience. I thrust out my hand. “Please. Say nothing more.” I walked away from her toward the boulevard, thinking I should hire a hansom to take me home. I was due at the Gymnase in a few hours. I should lie down and rest.

  Instead, I wandered aimlessly until I found myself poised on a bridge over the Seine, staring down into the murky waters and thinking of Marie and the Conservatoire boys, stealing down to the riverbank to fondle and grope.

  I wasn’t one of those girls. I would never be so careless as to—

  Except I was. And now that the possibility had been broached, there was no escaping it.

  * * *

  —

  That night, I performed the role of a jilted Russian princess. It required me to skip about like an idiot, blithely unaware until the dénouement that a temptress had connived to steal away my husband. It was a terrible play and I was terrible in it. My mind was elsewhere; I moved like a sleepwalker, uttering my lines without conviction.

  Montigny scolded me. “You’ve been appalling before, mademoiselle, but tonight you exceeded your own low standard. I don’t pay you to perform as if you were dead.”

  “You barely pay me at all,” I retorted. “And your own standard is execrable.”

  “If your fine Conservatoire sensibilities are so offended by our common stench, I suggest you take them back to the maison de Molière. I can find ten other girls in a minute to perform as badly as you.”

  I stormed out, only to find that Julie and Morny had come to see me in the play on a whim, lauding it over the masses and amused by the spectacle.

  “My poor Sarah,” Julie clucked when we arrived home. “You were so ridiculous as that foolish princess. And before Morny, too. Don’t you think it’s time you admitted you’ll never amount to anything as an actress?”

  Ignoring her, I went to my apartment. Régine had fallen asleep on my settee in the little parlor. As I drew a shawl over her, I gazed at her face, so innocent in repose. When I sat beside her, she instinctually reached for me, nestling her cheek against my hip.

  I finally allowed my dismay to overwhelm me. I’d never wanted this. Régine was more than enough to make me think I must never bear a child of my own. Children were so fragile, so easily wounded and deeply scarred. My own childhood played before my eyes; how I’d longed for a mother’s love even when I didn’t know it, to feel that someone strived for my happiness before their own. I had no example to emulate; I knew nothing of rearing a babe. I was nineteen. If I gave birth now, how would I cope? How would I protect my child from the very sorrows I had endured?

  By the night’s end, I’d reached my decision. As Madame G. came in with our breakfast tray—“Sarah, you look as if you haven’t slept”—I went to the desk where I kept paper and ink, and wrote a missive to Kératry.

  Then I saw Régine to her lessons, tidied up my apartment, and asked Madame G. to sit down. Quietly, I confessed my predicament.

  “Oh, my poor girl,” she said. We sat for a long moment in silence before she asked, “Can you inform the father, if you know who he is?”

  Her voice was so devoid of condemnation, I almost started to cry. I showed her the letter.

  “What if he refuses to have any part of it?” she said.

  “I don’t know.” I knotted my hands in my lap. “Julie will disown me. She’ll refuse to release my dowry. I’ll forsake any chance I might have at a theatrical career. Everything tells me I should not keep this child, but God help me”—my voice fractured—“I cannot bring myself to be rid of it. I want it, even if everything tells me I shouldn’t.”

  “Then you shall have it.” She embraced me. “You are not alone. I am here.”

  * * *

  After dispatching my letter to Kératry, I waited. I thought he must be the father—I’d spent more time with him than anyone else—but I couldn’t be certain, as I’d entertained others, such as his friend the Prince of Ligne, who’d spent a week with me during his trip to Paris. I didn’t even know how far along I was. Madame G. had me recline so she could probe my abdomen like a midwife, but she had no experience to determine it, either.

  I performed at the Gymnase every night. The situation with Montigny grew unbearable as he threatened to sack me because I didn’t appear to even be trying anymore, reciting my lines as if I were “dusting the props.” I told him I wasn’t trying because his productions didn’t deserve the effort, but I knew I was sabotaging myself, that my humiliation and fear of what lay ahead were clouding my judgment. If I was going to bear a child, I would need the means to support it. Kératry’s willingness to help remained uncertain, and this job was the only means I had.

  The other actresses were sympathetic. Sensing my plight, they fussed over me and brought me endless cups of chamomile tea, warning Montigny to make himself scarce whenever he appeared at the dressing room door, as if he had a mind to throw me out.

  After an entire month passed without word from Kératry, I made my way to his townhouse under a torrential July downpour. It was early evening, the time when he was most likely to be at home, but as I neared, the house appeared shut up. Many aristocrats left the city in the summer for their country estates, and my heart sank at the thought that he’d not only ignored my letter but absconded to avoid an encounter with me. Yet as I moved into the front courtyard, my mantle drenched about my shoulders, I discerned the sound of faint laughter coming from an upstairs window and glimpsed telltale gaslight flickering between the closed white shutters.

  I went still. He had warned me that he wasn’t a man from whom I should expect anything but payment in full. Despite our few confidences and mutual physical ardor, we barely knew each other. And he hadn’t sent a reply to my letter, though he must have received it if he was here, as it seemed he was. Still, I had to allow him the opportunity, I thought, recalling Julie’s words to me about my father: At least he was honorable enough to admit his mistake.

  Perhaps Kératry would prove honorable, too. It couldn’t be uncommon for men like him to find themselves in this situation, just as it wasn’t uncommon for girls like me. I would never know unless I directly addressed it with him. He had to be told. He might not want anything more to do with me or the child, but he’d been generous thus far, and I needed money, as much as I could get. Julie had appropriated what I’d given her to hire a solicitor, as requested, but nothing had resulted thus far from our suit to claim my dowry. Whatever I earned, I spent on living expenses and my so-called career, as I had to pay for my costumes and makeup at the Gymnase. If Kératry elected to end our association, he might at least compensate me with a large bank draft.

  Bracing myself, I rang the doorbell.

  I waited a long while, ringing again several times before the door finally opened. The bland-faced butler intoned, “Does Mademoiselle have an appointment?”

  I was shivering, soaked to my skin. “Please tell my lord the comte that I wish to—”

  “The comte is not presently at home. If Mademoiselle cares to leave her card, I will see it delivered once he returns.”

  A burst of distant feminine laughter from upstairs made me push past him into the black and white marble foyer. “Émile!” I called out.

  “Mademoiselle Bernhardt, you do not have an appointment,” protested the butler. “My lord is—”

  “You do know my name.” I turned to him. “After all this time of serving me luncheons, I’d begun to think you were deaf, as well as blind.”

  The butler gaped at me. Behind me, footsteps came down the staircase. Kératry said quietly, “Sarah. What are you doing here?” He wore his silk robe de chambre, fastened hastily at the waist so that his muscled chest was exposed. His hair was tousled, his lips br
uised. I knew that look; I had seen it many times. He was entertaining a lover.

  “Can we speak in private?” I said, grappling with my sodden mantle.

  He gestured to his library. As I stood with my teeth chattering, more from nerves than cold, he poured me a brandy. “Well?” he said, in faint impatience. “Unless I’m mistaken, we do not have an appointment today.”

  “I sent you a letter.” I gulped the brandy. “Didn’t you receive it?”

  He assented, taking the glass to refill it. Without looking at me, he said, “I regret that I cannot be of assistance. I can’t imagine what you expect.”

  “But the child is yours,” I exclaimed.

  His smile, when it surfaced, was icy. Snatching the glass from him, I drank it down again. “Sarah,” he chided, as if I’d tracked mud in on my boots, “it seems you have forgotten our arrangement. Must I be the one to remind you this is an unfortunate result of your profession? I suggest you discuss it with your mother and do whatever needs to be done.”

  “Whatever needs to done? I’m going to bear a child. Our child!”

  “How can you be so certain?” His smile widened, cruel now, like the wind outside. “Because when one sits on a rosebush, one can hardly tell which thorn gave the prick.”

  I had known this might be his response. It didn’t surprise me, but I was still incensed. Throwing the glass aside and hearing it shatter, I said, “You are no gentleman.”

  “And you were never a lady. I’ve said all I intend to say on this matter. Now, if you will excuse me, I have other matters to attend to.” He started to move past me. “Will you require my fiacre?”

  “I will not require your fiacre,” I replied, my voice rising despite my efforts to control it. “But perhaps you should introduce me to your other matter upstairs. She might be interested in discovering your true character.”

  He paused. When he returned his gaze to me, I recoiled.

  “I suggest you be careful henceforth,” he said, in a voice that by its very lack of emotion exuded menace. “Do not test my patience, for I will deny whatever claims you care to make. Not only will I deny it, but I will ensure all my friends hear of how you sought financial gain at my expense. It will end your engagements, not to mention those of your mother and aunt. If you cannot exercise restraint for their sake, consider your sisters. They, too, will no doubt be launched in due time. If you persist in this untenable stance, they shall have to be launched elsewhere than in Paris.”

  I regarded him in horrified disgust. I had known from the start that this was my ultimate peril: to be discarded as a toy that no longer served. But the sordid reality of it, the callous indifference, felt as if he had tossed acid in my face.

  “You—you bastard,” I whispered.

  He stepped aside. “The only bastard here is the one you say you carry. Now, please leave my house. Needless to say, our association is over.”

  I pulled up my mantle. “I never want to see you again.” I tried to sound haughty, as uncaring as him. But my voice caught and he heard it, for he replied, “I’m relieved that at least in this regard, we are in perfect agreement.”

  He did not follow me as I marched through the foyer, out the door into the twilight.

  The thunderstorm crouched over the city. Trudging back to rue Saint-Honoré, my feet sopping in my ankle boots, my hands numb as I clutched the wet mantle at my throat, I did not feel my tears, mingling with the rain like droplets of ice.

  VII

  “I must leave,” I told Madame G.

  We sat in my parlor, hovering over the charcoal brazier. Outside, rain blanketed the world, flooding the Seine’s embankments and turning the streets into rivers. The worst storms in twenty-odd years; Paris had become a swamp, the sky a thundering mass of black cloud hurling fury down upon us. It fit my mood to perfection.

  She let out a worried sigh. “An unwed woman with child. Where can you go?”

  “I don’t know. I cannot stay here. My reputation will be ruined. Besides,” I said wearily, for as my pregnancy advanced, it seemed perpetual exhaustion was to be my bane, “no one wants to see a girl enceinte onstage, much less in their bed.”

  “But your contract…didn’t you sign for a year at the Gymnase?”

  “I’ll resign. I missed my matinée yesterday, so Montigny will sack me anyway. He’s been threatening to do so for weeks and now I’ve given him the perfect excuse.”

  She gnawed at her lip. “Sarah, can’t you speak to your mother? She herself has borne children under similar circumstances. I should think she, of all women, would understand.”

  My smile felt bitter on my lips. “She’ll make me pay in blood. She’ll lock me in this apartment until the child is born and give it away to the ragman.” I met Madame G.’s perturbed eyes. “You’ve seen how she treats Régine. To her, Jeanne is her only child.”

  “Then your aunt. Rosine has always been tenderhearted. Surely she will help you.”

  I had considered telling my aunt, but shied away from her uncertain mercy. She’d left me that night in the box so Kératry could make his advance; she was beholden to the rules that governed a demimondaine’s existence. If Kératry learned I’d kept the child, he might see it as a threat. Rosine wouldn’t risk her livelihood by incurring the comte’s wrath.

  “Rosine is preoccupied with her suitor,” I said. “And she always defers to Julie.”

  Madame G. went quiet before she ventured, “I do have some savings. Not much, but whatever I have is yours.”

  I reached for her hand. “You’ve been a true mother to me. I shall never forget it. If ever a time comes when I can repay you, I will. Every last sou.”

  “It’s not necessary. I love you as if you were my own. And this babe you carry—I want to help you raise it. I always wanted a child. I lost two in the womb. Then my Henri fell ill, and the chance to be a mother passed me by.”

  I felt close to tears again. “For now, you must promise to look after Régine. She’ll need you more than ever. She won’t understand why I’ve left her.”

  “You needn’t ask. Régine can live with me.” She rose, kissing my forehead. “It’s late. Do try to get some rest. You must keep up your strength.”

  I went to my damp bed, but I lay awake for hours, listening to the rain pebbling on the rooftop, running my options over in my head. I tallied the few francs I had; together with whatever Madame G. gave me, it might be enough to purchase a one-way coach ticket to Brittany or Normandy, and a room in a cheap boardinghouse. I could work in a tavern until I started to show. By then, I’d have saved enough to—

  I had no idea what came next. The future yawned before me like a chasm, a jagged pit where I might fall endlessly, tumbling into darkness without reaching bottom.

  You’ll not last a month in the street, I assure you.

  Hearing Julie’s words like a prophecy, I rose to gaze out the garret’s narrow window. The rain was falling in blinding sheets.

  With any luck, it would drown us all.

  * * *

  I sent my letter of resignation to the Gymnase and feigned a cold. Julie expressed no concern. She knew Madame G. would tend to me, and she was occupied preparing for her annual autumn soirée, when all her suitors, having returned to town from their summer holiday, came to be entertained.

  “I trust you’ll have recovered by then,” she remarked to me. “I want you to perform chansons. Morny likes it so much when you sing.”

  I nodded, thinking she and Morny were in for an unpleasant surprise. But I couldn’t leave immediately; the storms had created chaos for travelers, and I hadn’t yet decided where to go. In my mirror, I examined myself. My stomach was still flat, though the nausea had worsened along with my fatigue, especially in the morning. I shouldn’t have resigned so impulsively from the Gymnase. I might have made amends to Montigny, toiled a few more weeks for the extra pay
. I considered contacting one or two of my suitors, but quailed at the thought. I had no desire to play the courtesan now, even if I doubted Kératry had said anything hostile about me. I was certain he’d put the entire incident from his mind, an unsavory episode not to be discussed—unless I went about declaring my discontent or was seen with a babe on my hip that I claimed was his.

  One evening after I saw Régine to bed—she sensed my distress and clung to me, wanting me to read stories to her and play with her shattered dolls—a knock came at my door. When I opened it, Dumas stood on the threshold in his great wet overcoat, an astrakhan hat crammed about his head. I smelled the rain and the faint odor of spirits about him, but he otherwise appeared sober, and the penetrating look he gave me made me step back and say faintly, “Isn’t Julie at home?”

  I hadn’t seen him in months, though I knew he still attended my mother’s salon whenever he felt the urge. In fact, I realized with a surge of guilt, I hadn’t seen him since the Opéra and my first encounter with Kératry. He must have heard through my mother’s salon that the comte and I had become lovers and no doubt, knowing Julie, of my subsequent success elsewhere; seeing me now, like this, he would quickly discern that my much-vaunted achievements had amounted to nothing. I didn’t want him to see it. I couldn’t bear for him, of all people, to be disappointed in me—his little star, of whom he’d had such hope.

  “I didn’t come to see her.” He trudged into my room, too big for its narrow confines, removing his hat and gloves but not his coat. “God’s teeth, it’s like Siberia in here.”

  “I’m sorry.” I tried to rouse a smile, tugging my shawl about me. These days, I went about in layers because I couldn’t afford to waste money on coal for heat. “It’s going to be a harsh winter,” I added, thinking I should offer him coffee, which I also didn’t have. “If it’s started to rain this early.”