“Who is taking the part of Florentin?” inquired Durville of Romilly.
“Regnard: he’ll be no worse in it than Chevalier.”
Pradel plucked Trublet by the sleeve, and said:
“Dr. Socrates, I beg you to tell me whether as a scientific man, as a physiologist, you see any serious objections to the immortality of the soul?”
He asked the question as a busy and practical man in need of personal information.
“You are doubtless aware, my dear friend,” replied Trublet, “what Cyrano’s bird said on this very subject. One day Cyrano de Bergerac heard two birds conversing in a tree. One of them said, ‘The souls of birds are immortal,’ ‘There can be no doubt of it,’ replied the other. ‘But it is inconceivable that beings who possess neither bill nor feathers, who have no wings and walk on two legs, should believe that they, like the birds, have an immortal soul.’”
“All the same,” said Pradel, “when I hear the organ, I am chock-full of religious ideas.”
“Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine.”
The celebrated author of La Nuit du 23 octobre 1812 appeared in the church, and no sooner had he done so than he was everywhere at one and the same moment — in the nave, under the porch, and in the choir. Like the Diable boiteux he must, bestriding his crutch, have soared above the heads of the congregation, to pass as he did in the twinkling of an eye from Morlot, the deputy, who, being a freethinker, had remained in the parvis, to Marie-Claire kneeling at the foot of the catafalque.
At one and at the same moment he whispered into the ears of all a few nimble phrases:
“Pradel, can you imagine this fellow going and chucking his part, an excellent part, and running off to kill himself? A pumpkin-headed fool! Blows out his brains just two days before the first night. Compels us to replace him and sets us back a week. What an imbecile! A rotten bad egg. But we must do him justice; he could jump, and jump well, the animal. Well, my dear Romilly, we rehearse the new man to-day at two o’clock. See to it that Regnard has the script of his part, and that he knows how to climb on to the roof. Let us hope he won’t kick the bucket on our hands like Chevalier. What if he, too, were to commit suicide! You needn’t laugh. There’s an evil spell on certain parts. Thus, in my Marino Falieri, the gondolier Sandro breaks his arm at the dress rehearsal. I am given another Sandro. He sprains his ankle on the first night. I am given a third, he contracts typhoid fever. My little Nanteuil, I’ll entrust you with a magnificent rôle to create when you get to the Français. But I have sworn by the great gods that I’ll never again have a single play performed in this theatre.”
And immediately, under the little door which shuts off the choir on the right hand side of the altar, showing his friends Racine’s epitaph, which is let into the wall, like a Parisian thoroughly conversant with the antiquities of his city, he recalled the history of this stone, he told them how the poet had been buried in accordance with his desire at Port-Royal-des-Champs, at the foot of Monsieur Hamon’s grave, and that, after the destruction of the abbey and the violation of the tombs, the body of Messire Jean Racine, the King’s secretary, Groom of the Chamber, had been transferred, all unhonoured; to Saint-Étienne-du-Mont. And he told how the tombstone, bearing the inscription composed for Boileau, beneath the knight’s crest and the shield with its swan argent, and done into Latin by Monsieur Dodart, had served as a flagstone in the choir of the little church of Magny-Lessart; where it had been discovered in 1808.
“There it is,” he added. “It was broken in six pieces and the name of Racine was effaced by the shoes of the peasants. The fragments were pieced together and the missing letters carved anew.”
On this subject he expatiated with his customary vivacity and diffusiveness, drawing from his prodigious memory a multitude of curious facts and amusing anecdotes, breathing life into history and endowing archæology with a living interest. His admiration and his wrath burst forth in swift and violent alternation in the solemnity of the church, and amid the pomp of the ceremony.
“I would give something to know, for instance, who were the stupid bunglers who set this stone in the wall. Hic jacet nobilis vir Johannes Racine. It is not true! They make honest Boileau’s epitaph lie. The body of Racine is not in this spot. It was laid to rest in the third chapel on the left, as you enter. What idiots!” Then, suddenly calm, he pointed to Pascal’s tombstone.
“That came here from the museum of the Petits-Augustins. No praise can be too great for Lenoir, who, in the days of the Revolution, collected and preserved.”
Thereupon, he improvised a second lecture on lapidary archæology, even more brilliant than the first, transformed the history of Pascal’s life into a terrible yet amusing drama, and vanished. In all, he had remained in the church for the space of ten minutes.
Over those heads full of worldly cares and profane desires the Dies iræ rumbled like a storm:
“Mors stupebit et natura,
Quum resurget creatura
Judicanti responsura.”
“Tell me, Dutil, how could that little Nanteuil, who is pretty and intelligent, get herself mixed up with a dirty mummer like Chevalier?”
“Your ignorance of the feminine heart surprises me.”
“Herschell was prettier when she was a brunette.”
“Qui Mariam absolvisti
Et latronem exaudisti
Mihi quoque spem dedisti.”
“I must be off to lunch.”
“Do you know anyone who knows the Minister?”
“Durville is a has-been. He blows like a grampus.”
“Put me in a little paragraph about Marie Falempin. I can tell you she was simply delicious in Les Trois Magots.”
“Inter oves locum presta
Et ab hædis me sequestra,
Statuens in parte dextra.”
“So then, it is for Nanteuil’s sake that he blew out his brains? A little ninny who isn’t worth spanking!”
The celebrant poured the wine and the water into the chance, saying:
“Deus qui humanæ substantiæ dignitatem mirabiliter condidisu....”
“Is it really true, doctor, that he killed himself because Nanteuil wouldn’t have any more to do with him?”
“He killed himself,” replied Trublet, “because she loved another. The obsession of genetic images frequently determines mania and melancholia.”
“You don’t understand second-rate actors, Dr. Socrates,” said Pradel. “He killed himself to cause a sensation, and for no other reason.”
“It’s not only second-rate actors,” said Constantin Marc, “who suffer from an uncontrollable desire to attract attention to themselves at whatever cost. Last year, in the place where I live, Saint-Bartholomé, while a threshing-machine was at work, a thirteen-year-old boy shoved his arm into the gear; it was crushed up to the shoulder. The surgeon who amputated it asked him, as he was dressing the stump, why he mutilated himself like that. The boy confessed that it was to draw attention to himself.”
Meanwhile, Nanteuil, with dry eyes and pursed lips, had fixed her eyes upon the black cloth with which the catafalque was covered, and was impatiently waiting until enough holy water, candles and Latin prayers should be bestowed upon the dead man for him to depart in peace. She had seen him again the night before, and she thought he had returned because the priests had not yet bidden him to rest in peace. Then, reflecting that one day she, too, would die, and would, like him, be laid in a coffin, beneath a black pall, she shuddered with horror and closed her eyes. The idea of life was so strong within her that she pictured death as a hideous life. Afraid of death, she prayed for a long life. Kneeling, with bowed head, the voluptuous ashen cloud of her buoyant hair falling over her forehead, she, a profane penitent, was reading in her prayer-book words which reassured her, although she did not understand them.
“Lord Jesus Christ, King of Glory, deliver the souls of all the faithful dead from the pains of hell and from the depths of the bottomless pit. Deliver them from the lion’s j
aws. Let them not be plunged into hell, and let them not fall into the outer darkness, but suffer that St. Michael, the Prince of Angels, lead them to the holy light promised by Thee to Abraham and to his posterity.”
At the Elevation of the Host the congregation, permeated by a vague impression that the mystery was becoming more sacred, ceased its private conversations, and assumed a certain appearance of reverent devotion. And as the organ fell silent all heads were bowed at the tinkling of a little bell which was shaken by a child. Then, after the last Gospel, when, the service being over, the priest, attended by his acolytes, approached the catafalque to the chanting of the Libera, a sense of relief was experienced by the crowd, and they began to jostle one another a little in order to file past the coffin. The women, whose piety, grief and contrition were contingent upon their immobility and their kneeling posture, were at once recalled to their customary frame of mind by the movement and the encounters of the procession. They exchanged amongst themselves and with the men remarks relating to their profession.
“Do you know,” said Ellen Midi to Falempin, “that Nanteuil is going to join the Comédie-Française?”
“It’s not possible!”
“The contract is signed.”
“How did she manage it?”
“Not by her acting, you may be sure,” replied Ellen, who proceeded to relate a highly scandalous story.
“Take care,” said Falempin, “she is just behind you.”
“Yes, I see her! She’s got a cheek of her own to show herself here, don’t you think?”
Marie-Claire whispered an extraordinary piece of news into Durville’s ear:
“They say he committed suicide. Well, there’s not a word of truth in it He didn’t commit suicide at all. And the proof of it is that he is being buried with the rites of the Church.”
“What then?” inquired Durville.
“Monsieur de Ligny surprised him with Nanteuil and killed him.”
“Come, come!”
“I can assure you that I am accurately informed.”
The conversations were becoming animated and familiar.
“So you are here, you wicked old sinner!”
“The box-office receipts are falling off already.”
“Stella has succeeded in getting herself proposed by seventeen Deputies, nine of whom are members of the Budget Commission.”
“Yet I told Herschell, ‘That little Bocquet fellow isn’t the man for you. What you need is a man of standing.’”
When the bier, borne by the undertaker’s men, passed through the west door, the delicious rays of a winter sun fell on the faces of the women and the roses lying on the coffin. Grouped on either side of the parvis, a few young men from the great colleges sought the faces of celebrities; the little factory girls from the neighbouring workshops, standing in couples with arms round each other’s waists, contemplated the actresses’ dresses. And standing against the porch on their aching feet, a couple of tramps, accustomed to living under the open sky, whether mild or sullen, slowly shifted their dejected gaze, while a college lad gazed with rapture at the fiery tresses which coiled like flames on the nape of Fagette’s neck.
She had stopped on the topmost step in front of the doors, and was chatting with Constantin Marc and a few journalists:
“...Monsieur de Ligny? He danced attendance upon me long before he knew Nanteuil. He used to gaze upon me by the hour, with eager eyes, without daring to speak a word to me. I received him willingly enough, for his behaviour was perfect. It is only fair to say that his manners are excellent. He was as reserved as a man could be. At last, one day, he declared that he was madly in love with me. I told him that as he was speaking to me seriously I would do the same; that I was truly sorry to see him in such a state; that every time such a thing happened I was greatly upset by it; that I was a woman of standing, I had settled my life, and could do nothing for him. He was desperate. He informed me that he was leaving for Constantinople, that he would never return. He couldn’t make up his mind either to remain or to go away. He fell ill. Nanteuil, who thought I loved him and wanted to keep him, did all in her power to get him away from me. She flung herself at his head in the craziest fashion, I found her sometimes a trifle ridiculous, but, as you may imagine, I did not place any obstacle in her path. For his part, Monsieur de Ligny, with the object of inspiring me with regret, with vexation, or what not, perhaps in the hope of making me jealous, responded very visibly to Nanteuil’s advances. And that is how they came to be together. I was delighted. Nanteuil and I are the best of friends.”
Madame Doulce, hedged in on either side by the onlookers, came slowly down the steps, indulging herself in the illusion that the crowd was whispering, “That’s Doulce!”
She seized Nanteuil as she was passing, pressed her to her bosom, and with a beautiful gesture of Christian charity enveloped her in her mantle, saying through her sobs:
“Try to pray, my child, and accept this medal. It has been blessed by the Pope. A Dominican Father gave it to me.”
Madame Nanteuil, who was a little out of breath, but was growing young again since she had renewed her experience of love, was the last to come out. Durville pressed her hand.
“Poor Chevalier!” he murmured.
“His was not a bad character,” answered Madame Nanteuil, “but he showed a lack of tact. A man of the world does not commit suicide in such a manner. Poor boy, he had no breeding.”
The hearse began its journey in the colossal shadow of the Panthéon, and proceeded down the Rue Soufflet, which is lined on both sides with booksellers’ shops. Chevalier’s fellow-players, the employés of the theatre, the director, Dr. Socrates, Constantin Marc, a few journalists and a few inquisitive onlookers followed. The clergy and the actresses took their seats in the mourning coaches. Nanteuil, disregarding Madame Doulce’s advice, followed with Fagette, in a hired coupé.
The weather was fine. Behind the hearse the mourners were conversing in familiar fashion.
“The cemetery is the devil of a way!”
“Montparnasse? Half an hour at the outside.”
“Do you know Nanteuil is engaged at the Comédie-Française?”
“Do we rehearse to-day?” Constantin Marc inquired of Romilly.
“To be sure we do, at three o’clock, in the green-room. We shall rehearse till five. I am playing to-night; I am playing to-morrow; on Sunday I play both afternoon and evening. Work is never over for us actors; one is always beginning over again, always putting one’s shoulder to the wheel.”
Adolphe Meunier, the poet, laying his hand on his shoulder said:
“Everything going well, Romilly?”
“How are you getting on yourself, Meunier? Always rolling the rock of Sisyphus. That would be nothing, but success does not depend on us alone. If the play is bad and falls flat, all that we have put into it, our work, our talent, a bit of our own life, collapses with it. And the number of ‘frosts’ I’ve seen! How often the play has fallen under me like an old hack, and has chucked me into the gutter! Ah, if one were punished only for one’s own sins!”
“My dear Romilly,” replied Meunier sharply, “do you imagine that the fate of dramatic authors like myself does not depend as much upon the actors as upon ourselves? Do you think it never happens that actors, by their carelessness or clumsiness, ruin a work which was meant to reach the heights? And do not we also, like Cæsar’s legionary, become seized with dismay and anguish at the thought that our fate is not assured by our own valour, but that it depends on those who fight beside us?”
“Such is life,” observed Constantin Marc. “In every undertaking, everywhere and always, we pay for the faults of others.”
“That is only too true,” resumed Meunier, who had just seen his lyric drama, Pandolphe et Clarimonde, come hopelessly to grief. “But the iniquity of it disgusts us.”
“It should not disgust us in the least,” replied Constantin Marc. “There is a sacred law which governs the world, which we are forced to
obey, which we are proud to worship. It is injustice, holy injustice, august injustice. It is everywhere blessed under the name of happiness, fortune, genius and grace. It is a weakness not to acknowledge it and to venerate it under its true name.”
“That’s rather weird, what you have just said!” remarked the gentle Meunier.
“Think it over,” resumed Constantin Marc. “You, too, belong yourself to the party of injustice, for you are striving for distinction, and you very reasonably want to throttle your competitors, a natural, unjust and legitimate desire. Do you know of anything more stupid or more odious than the sort of people we have seen demanding justice? Public opinion, which is not, however, remarkable for its intelligence, and common sense, which nevertheless is not a superior sense, have felt that they constituted the precise contrary of nature, society and life.”
“Quite so,” said Meunier, “but justice — —”
“Justice is nothing but the dream of a few simpletons. Injustice is the thought of God Himself. The doctrine of original sin would alone suffice to make me a Christian, while the doctrine of grace embodies all truths divine and human.”
“Then are you a believer?” asked Romilly respectfully.
“No, but I should like to be. I regard faith as the most precious possession which a man can enjoy in this world. At Saint-Bartholomé, I go to Mass every Sunday and feast day, and I have never once listened to the exposition of the Gospel by the curé without saying to myself: ‘I would give all I possess, my house, my acres, my woods, to be as stupid as that animal there.’”
Michel, the young painter with the mystic’s beard, was saying to Roget, the scene painter:
“That poor Chevalier was a man with ideas. But they were not all good ones. One evening, he walked into the brasserie radiant and transfigured, sat himself beside us, and twirling his old felt hat between his long red fingers, he cried: ‘I have discovered the true manner of acting tragedy. Hitherto no one has realized how to act tragedy, no one, you understand!’ And he told us what his discovery was. ‘I’ve just come from the Chamber. They made me climb up to the amphitheatre. I could see the Deputies swarming like black insects at the bottom of a pit. Suddenly a stumpy little man mounted the tribune. He looked as if he were carrying a sack of coals on his back. He threw out his arms and clenched his fists. By Jove, he was comical! He had a Southern accent, and his delivery was full of defects. He spoke of the workers, of the proletariat, of social justice. It was magnificent; his voice, his gestures gripped one’s very bowels; the applause nearly brought the house down. I said to myself “What he is doing, I’ll do on the stage, and I’ll do it better. I, a comic actor, will play tragedy. Great tragedy parts, if they are to produce their true effect, ought to be played by a comedian, but he must have a soul.”’ The poor fellow actually thought that he had imagined a new form of art. ‘You’ll see,’ he said.”
Complete Works of Anatole France Page 192