The First Actress

by C. W. Gortner

  Beside me was my latest affaire de coeur, a robust, green-eyed Irish lieutenant in the Republican Army. I’d met Arthur O’Connor in the spring of 1871, during the social rounds I’d undertaken to attempt to restore my theatrical career in the brief lull following the siege. In addition to our incineration of our seating and scenery for heat, the Odéon had been badly damaged by the shellings, and we had no means to repair it. To raise the necessary funds, I’d set myself to paying visits to our patrons—many of whom demurred, citing France’s precarious state—and attending political galas, where I delivered passionate appeals about the urgent need to safeguard our irreplaceable artistic institutions. O’Connor was at one of these galas and introduced himself; like many foreign adventurers, he’d enlisted in our army in an international demonstration of solidarity.

  Word of my efforts during the siege had preceded me, allowing me to be well received and obtain some donations, but I soon learned our Third Republic and the National Guard, which defended Paris from the Prussians, were at odds, the Guard vehemently opposed to the disarmament. When National Guard soldiers who’d joined a socialist groundswell in Paris calling itself the Commune murdered two Republican generals, the entire Guard declared itself autonomous from Republican authority, initiating our semaine sanglante, the Bloody Week—plunging us once more into chaos.

  I had found O’Connor a charming and useful diversion, until I now heard him chuckle. “Sarah, my pet, the Communards are a radical nest of vermin, but they take their cause very seriously. They’ll not see the emperor restored under the Third Republic.”

  “Who said anything about the emperor?” I replied, wondering if the raging fires would reach the Odéon and consume what little was left. “You know I’ve spoken to those now overseeing our government, and not one of them mentioned wanting Louis-Napoléon back on the throne. All agree it’s best if he remains in exile. Surely there are more sensible ways to decide who is most suitable to guide us without torching the Tuileries?”

  As I spoke, I thought of Kératry, whom I’d seen at a charity event where I’d performed for those left destitute by the siege. He’d looked much like himself again, impeccably groomed in evening wear. Kissing my hand after my curtain call, he said, “I’m relieved to see our heroine of Paris survived her voyage to Bad Homburg.”

  I’d gone still with dread that he’d ask about Maurice. He did not. He merely smiled, informing me he had resigned his post and was departing on an extended continental tour. “You might consider doing the same,” he said. “I fear the siege was only the start of our downfall. Many in Paris are calling for the city to declare its independence from our new government. Even that traitor Hugo has declared his intent to return from abroad, no doubt to incite the rabble to revolutionary fervor.”

  Kératry’s disparagement of our lionized writer didn’t surprise me; he’d always been an ardent Bonapartist, like most aristocrats, and Louis-Napoléon had detested Victor Hugo. But the unexpected news that our greatest living playwright, whose plays had been banned under the empire and in which I longed to perform, was returning to France sent me racing to O’Connor, who arranged for me to attend a planned reception for Hugo. If I could meet the playwright in person and secure his agreement to stage one of his works at the Odéon, a slew of donations would surely follow.

  Only days before the event, word came that my beloved Dumas had died of heart failure, having lived long enough to see his beloved France torn asunder. He left behind a legacy of over thirty novels, numerous plays, and other works, as well as four surviving children, his bereaved wife, and countless mistresses. My mourning for him, whose generosity had set me on my path, was cut short by a sudden swell of violence, with mobs of working-class Parisians storming down the boulevards waving red flags and chanting “La république démocratique et sociale!”—a slogan that must have frozen the aristocracy’s collective blood. Civil war soon broke out between the National Guard and the Republican Army, which vehemently opposed the Commune’s equalitarian ideology.

  With fighting once again in the streets, thousands had to flee Paris. I’d had no choice but to accept a benefactor’s offer to move my family, including irate Julie, Rosine, and Jeanne, to his petit château in Saint-Germain. My benefactor was a wealthy Jewish banker who’d donated a significant sum to the Odeon’s restoration; he was also elderly and not overly inclined to bed-sport, which suited me. I had no intention of resuming the courtesan trade on a permanent basis, but for the moment, I had to protect my family and shore up my own decimated finances, without excessive demands on my time. O’Connor sniffed out my trail and installed himself in the vicinity during his leave, displeased by my other arrangement, though I’d never given him an intimation that our affair was to be exclusive.

  From my saddle, I now turned to regard him. He sat aside his horse like a living statue, a splendid specimen of manhood, with his thick red-gold hair and muscular shoulders. He took me riding in the afternoons, seeing as my evenings were occupied, and I enjoyed his rugged ease on horseback. Indeed, I enjoyed much about his rugged ease, but I found his careless sarcasm infuriating.

  “Seeing as you care so much,” I said, “shouldn’t you be down there with your fellow soldiers, defending Paris from this nest of vermin?”

  “What? And miss my delightful argument with you?” he replied, smiling.

  “It is not an argument. That city is my home. I’d barely started to perform again, and now this—another catastrophe. What if they burn down all the theaters?”

  He gave a hearty laugh. “Sarah, you are truly heartless. Are you angry because Paris is again under siege or because they’ve had the effrontery to interrupt your career?”

  “How dare you!” I kicked my mare’s sides to canter away, but his hand shot out to seize the reins from my hands. “Let go this instant,” I cried. “You are a cad!”

  “I’ve never denied it. But you didn’t answer my question.”

  “Your question doesn’t deserve an answer.” I glared at him. “Needless to say, our association is at an end.”

  He started to laugh again, then suddenly went quiet. He did not release my reins.

  “Did you hear me?” I said. “Let me go. Contrary to what you think, I am not your pet.”

  “Sarah.” He was staring past me toward the woods. “Be still.”

  I swiveled about in my saddle. A rustling in the bushes preceded what looked like a harmless vagrant staggering from the forest—but then I saw that he held a rusted pistol, and was croaking out a patriotic stream of vengeance made unintelligible by the sudden pounding of my heart. His wavering shot missed me by a handspan, causing my mare to rear and throw me to the ground. As I blinked in pain from the stony impact, I heard another shot and looked up to see O’Connor had dismounted, his rifle leveled at the vagrant.

  “No!” I cried, as the cowering man fell by a tree, a bullet wound in his thigh. “You brute,” I shouted at O’Connor. “He’s French! Don’t shoot him.”

  “He shot at us,” said O’Connor. “Filthy Communard.”

  The man—who wore a near-unrecognizable uniform coated in filth—moaned, blood spurting from the wound in his thigh. I could see he was beyond exhaustion, that he’d made his way here from the savagery in the city, no doubt witnessing countless horrors along the way. I made a soft soothing sound, as I might to a wounded animal, while he regarded me with pain-clouded eyes. The pistol went limp in his fingers. “I won’t harm you,” I said, moving toward him, tugging up my habit to rip at my petticoat. “I’m a nurse. Let me bind—”

  The shot tore into his forehead, slamming him against the tree. I stared in horrified disbelief as blood streamed down his dead face, then turned in rage to O’Connor.

  “He wasn’t going to shoot at us again. You…you murdered him.”

  “I did.” O’Connor sheathed his rifle under his horse’s saddle, wiping his gun-powdered fingers on his tro
users. “He would have burned down all your theaters.”

  I swayed in sudden light-headedness. When O’Connor reached out to me, I slapped his hand away and then saw the blood spattering my hand. I could also feel it on my face—the blood of a countryman, shot by a foreigner.

  “Sarah,” I heard O’Connor say, “this is war. I am sworn to defend the Third Republic.”

  Mounting my quivering mare, I turned to the château. I did not say another word to him. He was right, but I had just seen the beast lurking under his skin. Men, I had learned, were capable of any excuse to do evil.

  I

  “Must I play that insipid shepherdess till the end of my days?” I made a disparaging motion from where I reclined in a high-necked tea gown in the salon of my flat, my dogs at my side, as my new friend, the painter Georges Clairin, sketched me for a portrait. “The prose is execrable. De Chilly and Duquesnel seem to have lost all concern for our reputation in their zeal to see us in business again.”

  My other attendees sat on my overstuffed couches, among tasseled pillows and animal pelts. I had returned to Paris to resume my shattered life. The Commune had ended in bloodshed, mayhem, the familiar barricades, and wanton destruction. With our Third Republic established, evidence of our insanity was all around us—our ample boulevards created by Napoleon III’s favored minister, Haussmann, strewn with debris from fallen buildings; storefronts gaping like open wounds, shattered and looted; the Tuileries a charred ruin and the column in the Place Vendôme torn down, leaving a jagged pit in its place. With gas lines in dire need of repair, we had to rely on handheld lanterns, and transportation was so unreliable that hiring a public cab was a feat. Everywhere, the fetid stench of death lingered in the air like a noxious reminder of our folly.

  It would take years for Paris to regain her luster, but patience was not a Parisian virtue. I’d certainly wasted no time in reestablishing my salon and my theatrical footing, just as those with the means set themselves to reviving their own particular versions of civilization. Restaurants and cafés reopened, featuring menus that, while not a horn of plenty, at least offered more than minced rat or pigeon à la carte. Charity galas were held, and the Odéon, cobbling our repairs as best we could, finally opened its doors, doused with a new patina of gilt and offering seating for our 1871 autumn season, our first in over a year.

  “And what does Duquesnel have to say to your complaints?” drawled Arthur Meyer, another new friend and a rising critic, who was giving Sarcey a run for his rapier wit. Plump and short as Sarcey was slim and tall, Meyer enhanced his bohemian flair by donning knotted cravats, pearl-studded shirt cuffs, and voluminous frock coats, along with an incongruous peasant-style beret.

  “He defers to de Chilly,” I grumbled, waving my hand in annoyance. “Nothing controversial or exacting. According to them, we’ve had enough exacting controversy.”

  Georges cast a despairing look at me from his easel, imploring me to retain my serene countenance, required for his art. Duquesnel and I were no longer lovers; that had ended with the siege, just as my liaison with O’Connor ended with the Commune. I was in no mood for love or its approximation, though I still found myself obliged to entertain my banker on occasion, to afford the expense of setting my household to rights. I had my family to feed, and my contractual salary at the Odéon was well in arrears.

  “Such a pity,” Meyer said with a pout, though he didn’t sound sympathetic; he was distracted by the languid dark-haired youth—an aspiring actor—posing for Clairin’s apprentice by the windows. The young man, whose name escaped me, indulged the critic’s infatuation. Meyer might be on the rotund, acerbic side, but he commanded esteem among his peers and was thoroughly detested by Sarcey. With Paris in shreds, Meyer’s recommendation could be the difference between a living onstage and starvation.

  As the young man shifted his sultry gaze toward him, Meyer said, “Execrable as it may be, your Jean Marie has been a success, with all your notices, including mine, praising your performance as that insipid shepherdess.”

  “It’s a comedic trifle,” I replied. “What we need to stage now is something important. Times have changed. Even the Comédie has had to adjust its playbill.”

  Meyer gave a malicious smile. “The House of Molière must certainly have lowered its standards if they saw fit to hire Marie Colombier.”

  I felt a scowl crunch my face, prompting another look of despair from Georges. It had come as a shock to learn that Marie, who’d earned no praise for her acting, had absconded to the Comédie—at their invitation. At first, I couldn’t believe it, until I’d seen her on their playbill, featured in a dramatic role she was entirely unsuited to perform.

  Extracting a silver case from his waistcoat, Meyer lit a cigarette, though he knew I loathed the smell in my flat. “Perhaps de Chilly requires more time to get his house in order.” He paused, to lend his words emphasis. “What might you suggest instead, Sarah?”

  “Hugo’s Ruy Blas,” I said at once. “We were going to stage it before the siege. His Queen of Spain is ideal for me and I know the role by heart; I was memorizing it before we had to replace it with Dumas’s Kean and those student louts rioted in the house.”

  “Well, the louts won’t be rioting now. Their university is a crater. Not to mention Louis-Napoléon despised that play, but with our emperor gone and Hugo back where he belongs, hailed as a heroic defender of our liberté, it would indeed be the perfect opportunity.”

  “Precisely what I told Duquesnel. Yet he keeps saying it’s not the right time.”

  Meyer cast his gaze about the room, as if he might glean a solution behind my potted ferns and painted screens. “Like you, I believe Duquesnel is mistaken. I happen to know Hugo would be very much in favor of seeing his Ruy Blas revived in Paris.”

  “Oh?” I eyed him. Like every critic who relished lambasting us onstage, he had an equally avid ear for our backstage gossip.

  “Hugo is residing with his friend Meurice,” Meyer went on, though I already knew as much. “I’ve been invited to dine with them on occasion. After all, Meurice is his devoted ally, and he confided to me that Hugo is very eager to see his work on a French stage.”

  I forced out a smile, even if I wanted to wring his neck for not seeing to it that I, too, was invited to Hugo’s house. “I’m well aware of their years-long friendship. Meurice is also a writer; I happen to know he collaborated with my dear Dumas.”

  “Do you also happen to know his current mistress is Jane Essler?”

  I froze. “The actress?”

  “The same.”

  I took a moment to compose myself. “Does Hugo want her to play the role?”

  “Meurice hasn’t said as much. But she’s enjoyed tremendous acclaim in London and has performed at the Odéon in the past, as you must also well know. I think it likely that Meurice is pressing Hugo to allow her to make her mark here, once they secure the appropriate venue.”

  “Not at the Odéon,” I snapped. “I am the lead actress there.”

  Meyer exhaled smoke, his commiserative air unable to disguise his glee that he’d caught me unawares. “I assume that’s why Duquesnel and de Chilly have delayed answering Hugo’s request to stage the play—”

  “They delay answering Victor Hugo?” My voice rose in outrage, as much at the news as the revelation it had been kept from me. “Have they lost their reason, along with their spine? We’d be the first French company to stage one of Hugo’s plays in nineteen years! It would make the Odéon more renowned than the Comédie.”

  “Not to mention make you our most renowned actress,” added Meyer.

  I unclenched my hands, just as Clairin threw up his in exasperation at my inability to stay still. “What else?”

  “Only that Hugo wants the players to audition for their roles.” Meyer grimaced. “At his home. Apparently, he won’t allow the play to be read in the theater.”

&n
bsp; “But that’s preposterous. We always audition in the house; it’s where our roles will be performed.”

  Meyer tapped ash into my Limoges teacup. “And there we have it.”

  “Can’t he be persuaded otherwise?” I said. “He wasn’t in exile so long as to forget how we conduct business.”

  “I assume Duquesnel and de Chilly have tried. According to Meurice, either the Odéon agrees to the terms or Hugo will apply elsewhere.”

  “He’ll go to the Comédie.” I was overcome by panic.

  Meyer drew on his cigarette. “That is a possibility. But what can you do? You cannot audition outside the theater. It would set an appalling precedent, both for the theater and for you, as Meurice would waste no time in comparing you unfavorably to Mademoiselle Essler.”

  I swallowed, looking at Clairin standing there in his smock, with his fingertips smeared with charcoal and a lock of chestnut hair tumbled across his forehead. I might have taken him for a lover were I in the mood; he’d certainly expressed his willingness. Now, he returned my gaze in mute sympathy. He wasn’t an actor, so he had no insight to offer.

  From the corner where the young man was posing, Clairin’s apprentice said in a voice so low I almost failed to hear it, “Perhaps you might persuade Monsieur Hugo.”

  I peered at her. She was a mouse of a young woman, with overpoweringly melancholic dark eyes in a pinched face, and the long-fingered hands of a sculptress. What was her name? Louise something…Abbey? No. Abbéma. Louise Abbéma. I couldn’t see her work from where I was sitting, so I stood and went to her easel, Clairin declaring that at this rate, he wouldn’t complete my portrait until the next century.

  She’d captured the youth’s sinuous indifference in a few bold charcoal lines.

  “This is remarkable,” I said. “You’re very talented, Louise.”

  She lowered her eyes. As the youth slipped away to whisper what no doubt amounted to an offer in Meyer’s ear, I asked her, “How do you think I could persuade him?”