The First Actress

by C. W. Gortner

  Her little face with its piquant features took on a concentrated expression. She didn’t hasten to reassure me, as I expected, that she had no experience to draw upon, but that the lead actress of the Odéon mustn’t be demeaned even by the great Victor Hugo. Instead, she appeared to grant my request every bit of consideration before she said, “A note informing him of how one ought to treat a queen might suffice.”

  “A note?” I let out a sudden laugh. “Only that?”

  “It depends on what the note conveys, Mademoiselle Bernhardt.”

  She lifted her gaze. Such eyes. Like an ancient in a child’s soul. She couldn’t be more than fifteen; in the wake of the siege and collapse of our empire, many young women were now obliged to earn their keep, but she had an air of privilege about her, which she would have to possess to choose art as an occupation. Female artists were usually denigrated for their inferior work, with few admitted to the coveted annual exhibition at the Salon des Artistes—although judging by what I’d seen, I thought she might prove an exception.

  “You must paint me one day, Louise,” I said impulsively. “And please, call me Sarah.”

  “I would like nothing better, Sarah,” she replied, and a frisson of something akin to pleasure trembled in my veins. It surprised and disconcerted me.

  I returned to my settee, retaining my pose long enough for Clairin to capture his sketch. After he and Louise packed up their utensils and bade me farewell, the youth slinking at their heels, Meyer came up to me, his hat in hand. “Ma chère, you should be more careful on whom you bestow your affections, if you wish to impress Victor Hugo.”

  I tapped his shoulder. “She’s but a child. Besides, I’m not inclined that way.”

  He smiled with a hint of teeth. “Children grow up. And inclinations change.”

  * * *

  —

  I delayed until the evening. I had the night free, so I supped with Caroline, Régine, and Maurice, tucked my son into bed, read to him, then paced my empty salon, where Caroline had drawn the drapes before retiring for the night.

  Tugging back the heavy curtains, I gazed into the dark streets, where handheld lanterns bobbed like spectral lights in the winter mist.

  It depends on what the note conveys, Mademoiselle Bernhardt.

  Turning to my desk, I inked my pen and, before I lost my nerve, wrote:

  The Queen has caught a chill, and her lady-in-waiting forbids her to go out. You, better than anyone, should know the etiquette of our court. Pity your Queen, monsieur!

  No signature. It was unnecessary. Sealing my small note in an envelope, I wrote the address of Meurice’s home on it and left it for Caroline to deliver.

  I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking I should submit to the demand, berate Duquesnel for keeping it from me, and agree to read wherever and however Hugo ordained.

  But when I woke in the morning, Caroline had left with the note and Madame G. had arrived to tend to Maurice and Régine, though my younger sister approached her fifteenth year and required some occupation in life other than playing with my son or driving Julie mad with her tantrums.

  Caroline returned hours later, with sacks of groceries. I couldn’t believe it. “You went all the way to the market?” I said in dismay.

  “Yes.” She looked confused. “We have fresh vegetables and fruit now. And meat.”

  “Never mind that,” I snapped. “What about my note?”

  She removed a crumpled envelope from her pocket. “His reply,” she said, and she hurried into the kitchen to avoid my fury at her disregard for the urgency of the matter.

  Tearing open the envelope with trembling fingers, I unfolded his note.

  I am Your Majesty’s devoted servant.

  II

  In keeping with his reputation, Victor Hugo was a lion of a man, with cropped silver hair and a weathered countenance that belied the intensity of his stare. Despite his paunch and stiffened gait, Hugo behaved much younger than his sixty-nine years, drilling us for hours on end on the stage, growling out the specific intonations required for his verse.

  Upon signing the contract at the Odéon, Hugo informed de Chilly and Duquesnel that I’d won my coveted role “with a mere note.” De Chilly gave a sour smile. What else could he do? Hugo’s novel Les Misérables was enjoying a massive revival, after having set off a storm of controversy upon its publication during his exile, with outraged cries among the aristocracy calling for his head, in much the same way the novel portrayed the gross injustice between rich and poor. It was selling thousands of copies in its latest edition, renewing Hugo’s iconic status. To stage his Ruy Blas was a coup that de Chilly couldn’t deny, as evidenced by his immediate printing of advance playbills and advertisements.

  HUGO RETURNS, his newspaper headlines blared, and in smaller print than pleased me: WITH SARAH BERNHARDT AS THE QUEEN.

  Every day, I arrived for rehearsal full of excitement. As soon as Hugo appeared in his rumpled waistcoat, his battered copy of the play under his arm as he took his seat in an armchair before the stage, I feigned indifference. But I was very much aware that while he was merciless with the cast, he appeared oblivious to me. Not once did he suggest an improvement to my delivery, though I overplayed my lines just to see if I could capture his attention. Instead, he waved me aside and proceeded to harangue the others, stabbing his hands in the air—“This year, if you please. We open in less than four weeks”—while the players hastened to fulfill his exacting instructions.

  Perched on a nearby table one morning during our final week of rehearsal, I swung my legs and gnawed my fingernails, pretending boredom, letting out a loud sigh as he made adjustments to the scene in question, in which I didn’t appear. I kept my gaze on anything but him, until one of the stagehands approached to slip a folded paper into my fingers.

  When I read it, I burst into laughter, bringing the rehearsal to a halt.

  A Queen of Spain, honest and respectable, shouldn’t sit in that fashion on a table.

  Lifting my eyes to him, I saw Hugo hadn’t turned around, but when the time came for me to take my mark, he criticized me with vehement focus.

  Two days later, he requested that I pay a visit to his home.

  * * *

  —

  “Should I emote like this?” I stood center stage in his parlor. “ ‘To shun despair, I gave my soul to dreams, and sought for their indulgence the solitude of lonely walks. In one of these I found, while resting for a moment, a bouquet of the flowers I most loved. I wondered whence they came, but I knew someone cared to please me; and with their fragrances inhaled a sense of ecstasy—a thought that someone loved me.’ ” I paused. “She’s both melancholic and hopeful in this scene. Which emotion should I emphasize more?”

  He regarded me with a curious smile. “Which do you think?”

  “I’m asking you. You are the playwright. You must have a preference for how you wish to see the scene performed.”

  His smile widened. “Ah, but you don’t truly want my advice. I don’t believe I’ve met an actress who wanted advice less.”

  “I most certainly do,” I said indignantly. “Why else would I have come here?”

  He reached up a hand to stroke his impressive beard. “Mademoiselle Bernhardt, as you can imagine, given my age I’ve enjoyed quite my share of feminine attention.”

  I saw it then, the lustful spark in his eyes, which until that moment I hadn’t recognized. I set my hand on my hip. “Monsieur Hugo, I can’t imagine who you suppose I am.”

  “A magnificent actress,” he said. “Judging by this performance. You needn’t go to such trouble, however. I believe we are of the same mind.”

  I held his stare. “And as you can imagine, I, too, have enjoyed my share of attention. I’m not so easily satisfied.”

  His laughter rumbled in his chest. “I expect nothing less.”

 
* * *

  February 19, 1872. Opening night. Dressed in a white-silver brocade gown and filigree coronet, I drew in slow breaths, battling a resurgence of le trac. Knowing why I was afflicted by the near-incapacitating fear didn’t alleviate its upheaval; I felt as if I stood on a sinking ship as the first act began and I assumed my place for my entrance.

  At his post nearby, de Chilly looked frantic, as always. The house was full to capacity. We’d sold out weeks in advance, abetted by his publicity and the fact that Hugo himself was attending this long-anticipated revival of a play that, at its premiere years before, hadn’t garnered any notice. No one had paid it any mind, in fact, until Louis-Napoléon came down against it. Now, with all of Paris embarking on a new era, all of Paris had purchased tickets to attend.

  “No one’s applauding,” de Chilly whispered to me. “Listen. The first act is nearly over and no one’s made a sound. They hate it.”

  “They do not,” I hissed back. “They’re waiting.” For me. Everyone was waiting for me. Although Ruy Blas was the titular character, the play depended on its queen—and on my rendition of her.

  At my cue, I walked onto the stage under a red canopy borne by livery-clad pages, into the papier-mâché garden, with my chin held high.

  Tonight, I must conquer every heart in Paris.

  * * *

  —

  “You were sublime, Sarah. Tonight, you proved your talent to the world,” exulted Sarcey, pressing my hands in his. “No one before has given Hugo’s prose such vigor.”

  We stood in my overcrowded dressing room, every tabletop drowning in flowers as well-wishers crammed through the narrow door to congratulate me. I was still in my regal costume, having barely finished my curtain calls before de Chilly motioned me backstage. It seemed as if everyone who’d seen the play was now attempting to fit into my dressing room. I felt cornered but not unhappy as I smiled at Sarcey—this same man who’d ruined my fledging career with his indifference, now fawning over me—and sneaked glances over the milling crowd toward the door, anticipating Hugo’s entrance.

  De Chilly was trying to curtail the invasion, if not very well, while Duquesnel stood to one side, smoking with an air of immense satisfaction. Our premiere had been a rousing success; the applause at the end of the final act thunderous, the audience leaping up to shout my name. For a dazed moment, I hadn’t known how to react; I’d felt the performance in my bones, the yearning and despair of my betrayed queen, but to hear such acclaim, the cry of “Sarah, our Sarah!” hoisted to the Odéon’s newly gilded rafters—it kindled a sensation unlike any I’d felt before. This wasn’t Le Passant, a ditty performed for charity, which had earned unexpected acclaim; I had just performed a role written by the most respected writer in France. I felt as if I were floating when I emerged to take my curtain calls, the very air bursting alive with petals, every bouquet in the house tossed at my feet.

  At my side, Sophie, who had played my lady-in-waiting, said, “They’ll devour you now, Sarah. I sincerely hope Marie Colombier hears of this night.”

  “Oh, she’ll hear of it,” I replied, as Sarcey turned away and Meyer came forth with a wry, knowing smile. “Let her be warned.”

  “Warned?” Sophie shot me a puzzled look, but before she could say anything else, I saw Hugo at last, his silvery hair and black-clad bulk pushing through the door as the crowd parted before him like the Red Sea.

  He had to stop, accept homage from all those eager to bask in his triumph. For it was his triumph as much as mine—more so, in truth. I’d proven my talent, but Hugo had proven his resiliency. From disgraced exile to returning hero, he’d regained his status. Watching him smile at the effusive compliments, I recalled his rough hands on my bare skin. I’d enjoyed our liaison; despite his age, he had extraordinary stamina. Of course, it must end. He had other mistresses, and neither of us was inclined to exclusivity, but for its brief duration, it had been one of the most gratifying interludes of my life. Once, as he’d teased me toward la petite mort, he whispered in my ear, “I think you’re not nearly as satisfied as often as you should be,” and I’d laughed through my climax.

  He was right. And he’d taken pains to remedy my lack.

  Impatient, I watched him trace his trajectory as hands reached out to touch his sleeve and oblige him to pause. Just as I thought I’d have to make my way to him, I caught sight of a dark-eyed man by the dressing room door, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed at his chest. He wore a costume from the play, though I couldn’t for the life of me recall which role he’d performed. Under his mane of curly black hair, his magnetic eyes were fixated on me. I wondered how I’d failed to notice him before, with that muscular build, sculpted jawline, and Roman nose, like a classical statue come to life. Nonetheless, I found his heavy-lidded stare unsettling. I couldn’t tell whether he regarded me in admiration or disdain.

  “Who is that?” I asked Sophie, through the side of my mouth.

  “Have you gone blind? That’s our own Hugo.”

  “Not him. Beside Duquesnel.”

  She followed my gaze. “Surely, you can’t be serious. He’s an actor with our company: Jean Mounet-Sully. He’s performing the role of Ruy Blas’s page.”

  “Is he?” I forced myself to look away. “Why is he looking at me like that?”

  She laughed. “Perhaps because he’s in the play and you don’t know who he is. Duquesnel only hired him for the season, but I believe he’s done well enough tonight to earn a contract. He’ll make an impressive leading man one day, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose so.” Sailing forth, I went to Hugo, accepting his whiskered kisses on my cheeks and feeling his furtive pinch on my backside.

  “You’ll always be my queen now,” he chuckled in my ear. He turned to the crowd, lifting our clasped hands. “Wasn’t she everything a Queen of Spain should be?”

  The room broke into applause. A sudden rush, more pleasurable than anything he’d done to me in bed, overcame me. I saw myself at Hugo’s side, the daughter of a courtesan, whom no one save my dear Dumas had believed would amount to anything, the defamed girl of the Slap, of the frivolities of the Gymnase, the frightened mother who nearly lost everything to bear her illicit child. Every humiliation had brought me to this hour; I could revel in my achievement. I was the toast of Paris. I’d made my theatrical mark.

  Except that as Hugo beamed and I feigned humility, even as I couldn’t repress my proud smile, I saw that brooding actor, to whom I’d never said a word, turn and disappear through the door into the passageway beyond, like a reproach.

  III

  It was inevitable, Meyer said. After two hundred sold-out performances of Ruy Blas and countless columns dedicated to my emergence as “a passionate revelation”—as if I hadn’t been toiling on the stage for years—the command to return to the Comédie, thinly veiled as an invitation, was only to be expected.

  “You’ve become our most celebrated actress,” he said, as I paced my otherwise empty salon, for of course he’d ignored my abrupt cancellation of my habitual gathering so I could have some time to myself. “You were declared a heroine of our Republic for your valiant efforts during the war, and souvenir shops are selling thousands of those portrait postcards of you as the Queen of Spain. The Française can’t afford to ignore you any longer. I should think you’d be pleased. This is what you wanted all along, is it not?”

  “Surely not.” I turned to him. “The Comédie threw me out into the street.”

  “As I recall, you left them after you slapped a sociétaire.”

  “They still never believed I had any talent. The only reason they want me back now is because I’ve proved them wrong.”

  “With a considerable increase in salary to atone for their error.”

  “How would you know that?” I demanded, immediately suspicious. Was he responsible? I wouldn’t put it past him to have extolled my merits to
the managing director of the House of Molière. If I left the Odéon to return to the Comédie, he could take credit for it and score another victory in his ongoing battle against his rival Sarcey.

  “My dear, if they hadn’t, you wouldn’t be in such a state. One doesn’t cancel one’s entire day for a minor sum. And regardless of the Odéon’s success with Ruy Blas, I doubt they can match whatever the Comédie has to offer.”

  “Twelve thousand a year,” I breathed. “Twice my current salary.” I couldn’t hide the unwitting satisfaction in my voice, that the very company that nearly ruined my career now wanted me so desperately they had offered a fortune.

  “You’re worth every franc,” said Meyer. “Unlike de Chilly, the Comédie knows it.”

  I turned from his remorseless expression, looking upward as Régine and Maurice chased each other upstairs, their footsteps pounding on the floorboards and threatening to crack my salon’s ceiling plaster. Both of them should have been in school, but they’d begged me to let them have the day off, and I’d been too beset by my turmoil to argue. Downstairs, Caroline was instructing my maids—I’d hired two neighborhood girls to assist with the endless cooking and cleaning, as well as a butler—while Madame G. oversaw the enterprise, for she’d taken permanent residence with us, her aged bones faring better in my well-warmed flat than in her decrepit garret across town.

  I had to pay the bills, see to everyone’s welfare. And while my mother and I staked our mutual distance, I must pay for her upkeep, too. Rosine had settled in with her suitor, but from what my aunt told me whenever she came to visit, my sister Jeanne suffered more than scars from her near brush with death. The trauma lingered and she’d resorted to opium, which clouded her judgment and ability to conduct herself as required. Julie had thrust her back into her salon, but Jeanne was attracting few suitors, with none constant or wealthy enough to grant our mother any peace of mind.