The First Actress

by C. W. Gortner

  The increase in my salary would satisfy all of it, but I still couldn’t bring myself to consider it, even if I knew Meyer was right in asserting that the Odéon couldn’t possibly hope to match the offer. As if he sensed my hesitation, he said, “Surely you don’t intend to decline their invitation? The Comédie will only abase itself once.”

  “Is it an abasement?” I turned my gaze to him. “Or merely an opportune way to increase their receipts? I hardly think Marie Colombier is attracting record audiences.”

  “Does it matter? You know very well the Comédie is still considered our most prestigious theatrical venue. We’ve all fallen on hard times since the end of the empire, but their status remains inviolate. How can you refuse them?”

  “How can I not, after everything the Odéon has done for me?”

  “You’ve done far more for them. You forget you were the one who lured Hugo to their stage.” He stood, gathering his coat. “I cannot tell you what to do, but I will suggest that you think very carefully on it. To become a sociétaire at the Comédie will gain you a prestige you can never achieve at the Odéon. It may be harsh, but it’s true nonetheless.”

  I saw him to the door. Once he departed, I started back to my salon when Maurice, his hair disheveled and face flushed, my pack of dogs at his heels, came running to the top of the staircase. He called down breathlessly, “Mama, can we have a pony?”

  “A pony!” I looked up at him in amazement. “Whatever for?”

  “So I can ride it,” he said, with a puzzled look.

  Régine appeared beside him, equally disheveled. “He keeps wanting to ride me,” she sneered. “I told him boys should only ride putaines or ponies, and I am neither.”

  Seeing the mounds of her small breasts indenting her bodice, her black tresses tumbled about her sharp-boned face, I was struck in that instant by my failure to mark her transition into womanhood. Her enrollment in school hadn’t brought about the change I’d hoped for. She was not an adept student and had failed to discover an interest to sustain her; indeed, her instructors had informed me that my sister suffered from a distortion of the mind that would, in time, require institutionalization. I refused to countenance the possibility, insisting she merely needed to grow out of her childhood. Now, the abrupt realization that she might never grow out of it made my decision. If Régine couldn’t support herself or live unsupervised, she would require a full-time companion, which only I could provide. In order to do so, I must negotiate with the Odéon. I couldn’t take on the extra expense on my current salary.

  “Get to your books at once,” I said. “I don’t want to hear another sound out of either of you until supper. Am I understood?”

  Maurice scowled at me. Régine let loose a cackle, but the laughter strangled her and incited one of her increasingly frequent coughing fits. She bent over, hacking, pressing a hand to her chest as if she lacked for air.

  “Ma petite dame!” I cried, and Madame G. rushed out from the kitchen. Climbing the staircase behind me, she went to my sister as I instinctively pulled Maurice aside, blocking his view. Madame G. assisted Régine into the small parlor off my bedroom, where I’d set up my neglected sculpting and painting, along with my battered coffin. Here, she sat Régine on the settee as my sister, gone so pale that I could see the veins in her temples, struggled to draw a full breath.

  I felt Maurice wince under my hands on his shoulders when Madame G. lifted her face to me. “We must summon the doctor.”

  “No,” croaked Régine, still defiant as she gasped for air. “I hate that old goat.”

  “He examined her last month.” I resisted the urge to shove Maurice behind me. “He told us it’s another of her summer agues, nothing to be concerned about.”

  “It’s not an ague.” Madame G. held out her hand; I froze at the sight of blood spotting her fingertips. I knew what it meant, but my mind shrank from it. It wasn’t possible. Régine was just sixteen.

  “Yes. Send for him at once.” Swallowing a surge of tears in my throat, I steered Maurice to his room down the hall, which looked as if a storm had ripped through it, books and clothes and toys strewn everywhere. “Clean this mess up. Then finish your lessons. Tomorrow, you’ll return to the academy, and every day thereafter. No”—I held up my hand—“enough, my son. It is time you stop running about with Régine and attend to your studies. Don’t you want to grow up to be a proper gentleman?”

  “I want to grow up to be a player like you,” he said.

  I smiled. “How can you know what you wish to do in life until you finish your education and learn everything there is to know?” I wanted to dissuade him, to cite the toil and travails of a player’s life, which often never amounted to anything but sacrifice and disillusionment. But I’d never heard him mention any ambition until now, and when he said, “Don’t you want me to be a player?” I replied, “Only if it’s your calling.”

  He considered. “Régine says I write wonderful stories. Maybe I could be a writer instead? Do I need to go to the academy to be a writer?”

  “You write stories?” I was taken aback. How had this happened? How had I failed to notice this about my own child?

  Going to his upended bureau, he took out a small parcel of notebooks. Untying the ribbon binding them, he spread them on the floor at my feet. I knelt down to open their pages, filled with his handwriting and accomplished illustrations that brought a gasp to my lips. “You did all of this?” I said in amazement.

  He nodded. “My teachers say it’s not a proper occupation, but I like writing stories.”

  I thought suddenly of Dumas, of his rescue of me while I was pregnant. Had the spirit of my late benefactor somehow imprinted his essence on my unborn child?

  “I must read these,” I said, gathering up the notebooks.

  He pouted. “If you like them, can I have a pony then?”

  “If you complete this year with outstanding marks, I’ll consider it.”

  He gave a dejected nod. As I turned to the door, he said quietly, “Is Régine going to die?”

  I went still, unable to speak for a moment. “She has weak lungs; that’s what the physician told us. You mustn’t force her to exert herself.”

  “She’s the one who forces me.” He collected an armful of his clothes, trudging to the bureau. “She comes here and empties out the drawers, then makes me chase after her.”

  “Yes, she’s untamed. Like—like a pony,” I said haltingly, “before it learns to accept the saddle.” My metaphor was clumsy and I didn’t want to say more, but the unsettling way he contemplated me brought the unbidden question to my lips. “Has she ever…?”

  He frowned. “Ever what?”

  “Touched you,” I whispered, overcome by a deep sense of guilt and shame. But I had heard Régine’s earlier remark about putaines. She’d been raised in my mother’s household, where she’d been exposed to things no girl like her should see. She was now at an age when the sexual impulse was natural, and where else might she experiment?

  “All the time,” he said, without hesitation, as any seven-year-old boy would with a tempestuous older sister, which was how he regarded Régine. There was no abashment in his reply; what I’d feared had not come to pass, despite her callous comment.

  I forced out another smile. “Very well. Mama must go to the theater now, but I’ll be back later tonight. See that you complete your lessons. Or no pony.”

  “What about a new turtle?” he said hopefully.

  I had to laugh, even if mirth was the last thing I felt.

  * * *

  —

  That evening, I gave my final performance in Ruy Blas. I waited until after the curtain calls, bouquets of flowers, and endless backstage greetings; once everyone from the cast had departed for the late supper party at a popular restaurant arranged by Duquesnel to celebrate the end of our season, I went upstairs to his office, hopin
g to catch him alone before he left. Instead, I found de Chilly hunched at the desk with a pile of receipts and pen in hand, his shirtsleeves held up by armbands as he prepared for a long night of tallying the profit. Heaving a sigh at the sight of me, he said, “Sarah, why are you still here? Much as you abhor punctuality, Duquesnel expects you to be on time tonight. Need I remind you that you and Hugo are his guests of honor? A needless expense, which he insisted on.”

  I would have preferred to conduct this difficult transaction with Duquesnel first, but in the end, de Chilly had the final word. Only he had the authority to increase my pay. To counter my trepidation, I remembered what Meyer had said about my contributions.

  He went still as I set the Comédie’s offer before him. “What is that?”

  “Read it for yourself.”

  His gaze narrowed. “I have no need.” He brushed the letter aside. “I’m in no temper for whatever you and Sarcey have concocted for my entertainment.”

  “Sarcey?” I said, curbing my ire at his supercilious tone.

  “Oh? Have we suddenly ceased to read our own notices? Your friend the critic has been lamenting to all and sundry that the Comédie has failed to live up to its standards by having no one to match your peerless splendor,” he said with a sneer.

  “I didn’t know.” And I hadn’t, to my chagrin, believing Meyer to be behind it. But of course, it made sense. Meyer had only incited me to action because he knew that regardless of the vitriol in Sarcey’s pen, the venerable critic valued his reputation too much to personally persuade me to abandon the Odéon. Meyer decided to do it instead, knowing that if he succeeded, he could still assume full credit.

  “And here I thought you and the critic were the best of friends,” de Chilly said. “In any event, lest you think I’m a fool, let me also inform you that the Comédie wants nothing to do with you. I know their managing director, Monsieur Perrin, personally and he cringes at the mere mention of your name.”

  I sensed at once that he sought to incite my doubt, yet still I had to take a moment to collect myself. De Chilly and I had never been on good terms, but he’d allowed Duquesnel to rescue me from ignominy; begrudging as he may have been, he’d given me the means to return to the stage when no one else would. I owed him that much.

  “For a company that wants nothing to do with me, they’re offering a considerable sum,” I said. “Six thousand more, in fact—”

  “Impossible. They are in no position, not if Rachel herself came back from the dead. And certainly not after their dismal run this season.”

  “They’ve offered it, regardless. I have my future to consider.”

  His face flushed red; he half rose out of his chair, stabbing the pen in his hand at me. “You only have a so-called future because of us. You also have a contract here to consider. We made you whoever you think you are, and have allowed you more latitude than any respectable company should.”

  His deprecatory manner squashed my hesitation.

  “My latitude brought Victor Hugo himself to this house—”

  “With a mere note. Yes, I’m very aware of your persuasive charm. As is, no doubt, all of Paris by now.” He eyed me with derision. “I have no idea how you manage it, but I suppose some men prefer to pick their teeth after a meal. In my time, we preferred our women with actual meat on their bones.”

  “How dare you.” I took an enraged step toward him.

  “I dare,” he retorted, “because you trespass beyond decency. Did you think playing the whore with Hugo would allow you to swing this guillotine over our heads? If so, you are very much mistaken. You’ve earned some acclaim, for the moment, but it is not cause for anything more than we’ve given, regardless of how much you choose to give others.”

  My efforts to remain composed faltered as I recognized the depth of the resentment he nursed toward me. He refused to take pride in my accomplishments because had it been up to him, I would never have accomplished anything, so he must resort to degradation instead. I’d prepared to cite my mounting household costs—for as the first actress of the Odéon I must be seen to live in style—as well as the upkeep of my family; even, if necessary, the tragic situation looming over Régine, though I still held out hope that the physician would prescribe a remedy. I’d rehearsed it all in my head as I’d removed my paint and costume; now my entire script went from my head as I heard him demeaning my importance—an importance I had earned with my sacrifices, regardless of who had provided the means. In his inflexible stance, I heard my mother, berating me for my foolishness. I heard Kératry, telling me he couldn’t be held responsible for my mishap. I heard everyone who’d set obstacles in my path and forced me to surmount them.

  “I know you never wished to hire me,” I said. “Yet here we are. And you cannot expect me to stay for another season when I can earn twice what you pay elsewhere.”

  “Like you, what I want is of no account,” he replied. “I do, however, expect your compliance. Moreover, our contract demands it.”

  “Then I shall break our contract.”

  His expression darkened. “Let me warn you now, do not test me further.”

  “You’re the one testing me,” I exclaimed. “If you will not increase my salary, what else can I do?”

  “And you think you’ll find success at the Comédie?” he snarled. “You have no idea of what awaits you, if you dare. Monsieur Perrin will never tolerate your caprices as we have. He cannot afford it. And you cannot afford to go against us.”

  “You give me no other choice,” I said, my voice trembling with rage.

  “Oh, but I do. Attend your celebratory party and report here in a week for our next season. That is your choice, as detailed in our contract.”

  Meeting his stare, I whirled to the door.

  “Mademoiselle Bernhardt,” he bellowed.

  I paused, hearing his next words aimed like knives at my back.

  “If you sign a contract anywhere else, I will pursue legal recourse. Have no doubt, your name will be in every newspaper, though in far less laudatory terms. And I can assure you, the Comédie will not be amused. You will regret this hour for the rest of your life.”

  I couldn’t feel my legs as I took the staircase to the lobby and out the back door to my fiacre. Only once I was being driven toward my flat did I realize my hands were clenched so tight, every one of my fingers ached. My entire person felt taut, about to snap.

  I had no doubt de Chilly would do exactly what he threatened.

  Nor what I must do, regardless.

  IV

  The Comédie smelled of stagnant repertories and yellowed playbills, overlaid by funereal solemnity as the company assembled in the greenroom, with its sacred bust of Molière, to receive their assignments for the upcoming season.

  It was my first appearance as its new member, although my return had been heralded in the newspapers, with Meyer and Sarcey dueling in rapturous anticipation over what my return to France’s most venerated stage would signal for its diminished fortunes. Neither spared the superlatives, declaring, “Sarah Bernhardt’s engagement at the Française is a revolution. Poetry has entered the domain of dramatic art,” and other similar statements of grandiosity that did nothing to endear me to the company director, Monsieur Perrin.

  Upon signing my contract, Perrin—a slender man with angular features and a rigid demeanor—regarded the inkblot spilled in haste under my signature as if it were a criminal offense before he said, “Allow me to welcome you to the Française. I trust this unfortunate situation with the Odéon will not delay your commitment.”

  “Not at all,” I replied, appalled that he’d already heard of de Chilly’s suit against me for six thousand francs, the exact amount of my increase in salary, which he claimed was the loss the Odéon would incur due to my illegal voiding of our contract.

  “I should hope not. Duquesnel sent me a chastising letter, a
s apparently you were deemed under contract. I must insist all my players in this company avoid extraneous publicity.”

  As I left his office, Marie Colombier appeared in the corridor as if on cue. She must have been lying in wait for me, but she pretended to be surprised, though it was obvious she was not.

  “Sarah. Why, this is…”

  I took some satisfaction in her effort. “My engagement here has been in the newspapers for weeks, as Monsieur Perrin just informed me.”

  Never one to hide her antipathy for a perceived rival or disguise her current position of favor, she abandoned the pretense. “Yes, but none of us actually thought you’d forsake the Odéon or incite such a scandal.”

  “De Chilly refused to let me depart amicably,” I replied. “And there’s no need for concern. I’ve worked here before. I am aware of how things are done.”

  “Are you?” She gave a tight smile. “Because your ensemble suggests otherwise.”

  I smiled back at her. “My ensemble is by Jacques Doucet. Isn’t it charming? He designs the most current fashions. Look, no bustle.”

  I could tell by her prim light-blue dress with its oversized bustle and lace-trimmed neckline that she had no idea Doucet was Paris’s most innovative couturier, nor that I’d had a personal hand in designing my tailored shirtwaist and narrow skirt, along with the belt studded with talismans that was slung on my narrow hips. But the pièce de résistance was my hat, featuring a desiccated bat nested in coiled black velvet ribbon. Given the popularity of my image from Ruy Blas, I’d sat for a portrait by Nadar in the hat and he’d had it reproduced for the shops, where it was earning us a tidy profit, with the extra bonus of steering public conversation away from my professional imbroglios to my unfathomable eccentricity.

  “And do you think that hat is charming, too?” said Marie. “Because let me assure you, Madame Nathalie will not be impressed. She protested your contract here most vigorously.”