by Stella Riley
So she had remained at the Marais and generally managed to overlook its drawbacks. The first of these was that the repertoire consisted largely of old-fashioned farces. This week, for example, they were doing Rotrou’s La Bague de L’Oubli which was forty years old and had been played so often that audiences were apt to chorus the best lines along with the actors. The second was that she was frequently required to act opposite a temperamental old fart who wasn’t nearly as good as he thought he was and smelled perpetually of garlic.
Athenais spat a pip into the musician’s gallery and reflected that she was heartily sick of Arnaud Clermont. He had played (as he was fond of reminding everyone) with all the Greats. What he chose to ignore – and what no one quite dared to point out – was that acting alongside Montdory and Jodelet didn’t necessarily mean he shared their stature. And, as far as Athenais was concerned, the only notable things about Clermont were his dragon’s breath and his sheer bloody arrogance – both of which were likely to stop her enjoying her first chance to play Corneille.
The news that, sixteen years after having premiered it, the Marais was to present a revival of Le Cid had stunned the company because Corneille had been sending his plays to the Hôtel de Bourgogne for the last fifteen. Before that, the late Cardinal Richelieu had supported the Marais while the King favoured the Bourgogne – resulting in often violent rivalry between the two theatres. But when Montdory retired from the stage after suffering an apoplexy on it, Richelieu had withdrawn his patronage … resulting in the Marais’ swift decline to second-rate status.
On the other hand, people came and the house was never less than two-thirds full. Athenais wondered what the Cid would do for the takings – and how much Manager Laroque was having to pay for the privilege of staging it. Hopefully, not too much. Corneille’s last play had been a failure and the one before, not much better. Rumour had it that the Bourgogne had lost faith in his ability which, if it was true, accounted for the playwright’s sudden willingness to deal with the poor relation he’d abandoned a decade and a half ago.
Behind her on the stage, Clermont’s tantrum droned on.
‘I cannot,’ he ranted, ‘tolerate working with amateurs. While lack of presence and talent may be excused in the young – an absence of any knowledge of stage-craft cannot. Perhaps Etienne should go back to doing walk-ons until he has mastered the basics of our art.’
Athenais tossed her apple-core into the pit and contemplated her ankles. Like the rest of her diminutive person, they were shapely. Indeed, it was largely her looks – coupled with the business of the feathers – which had taken her from six-line cameos to leading roles in just under a year. But it was aggravating to be regarded as just another pretty face when one also had a sound grasp of one’s craft. Worse still, public taste was notoriously fickle; and though la petite Galzain was currently in fashion, there was no guarantee of it lasting.
The delay was lasting too long. Athenais swung her feet back on to the boards and stood up. The rest of the cast were either propping up the proscenium with expressions of profound irritation or standing about in pairs, muttering. Athenais knew how they felt. It was usually best to let Clermont run his course; but with only a week to go and the play still in shreds, they could ill-afford to waste an entire afternoon. Antoine Froissart, in charge of directing the rehearsal, obviously thought so too and was attempting, without noticeable success, to get a word in edgeways. Athenais decided that a more direct approach was called for.
Summoning her sweetest smile and ignoring Froissart’s warning frown, she crossed to Clermont’s side and tucked her arm through his.
‘Arnaud … naughty as it was of Etienne to cross in front of you, you shouldn’t be wasting your energies in this fashion. It was a mistake and he won’t do it again. Meanwhile, we’ve a performance tonight – and what chance has it got if our leading man is too weary to give of his best?’ She paused and laid her free hand over his. ‘Think how the rest of us rely on you, Arnaud. Above all, think of your public.’
Clermont clasped her hand and, in a voice quivering with anguish, exclaimed, ‘You are right! I do have a duty to preserve myself. But what can one do? Selfishness is an anathema to me and the play must come first. Etienne is an imbecile!’
‘I know.’ Caught in a wave of foul breath, Athenais struggled not to grimace. ‘I know. But you’ve shown him his mistake and now you must spare yourself. No – you must listen to me. If you won’t have a care for yourself, the rest of us must do it for you.’ She smiled again and, making the ultimate sacrifice, added, ‘Would it soothe you to rehearse our love scene?’
Clermont hesitated and everybody else held their breath. Then he said, ‘I’m sure it would, beloved … and your empathy overwhelms me. Sadly, however, I am far too agitated to continue … and I shudder to think what my performance may be like this evening if I don’t rest. Forgive me!’ He silenced Athenais with one hand and clutched his brow with the other. ‘I must leave you to manage as best you may whilst I retire to my couch for the benefit of all.’ And still clasping his head, he stalked from the stage and disappeared.
There was a long silence. Then, from his corner, Etienne Lepreux muttered bitterly, ‘If you ask me, it would be a mercy if the old bugger retired completely.’
The tension disintegrated into a ripple of laughter. Athenais met Froissart’s slightly desperate stare and, with a tiny shrug, said, ‘Sorry, Monsieur. It went wrong.’
‘It did,’ agreed the assistant-manager, long-sufferingly. And then, a sudden smile breaking through, ‘But it was a nice try. A trifle over-played perhaps … but beautifully scripted.’
‘Mademoiselle de Galzain is a positive mine of accomplishments,’ drawled a female voice from the wings. ‘One is constantly amazed. In time, we shall doubtless see her picking up her pen and aping that scribbler, Molière.’
Athenais looked across at her arch-rival. Tall, dark-haired and deep-bosomed, Marie d’Amboise had been playing tragic leads for nearly a full decade before Athenais had struck the public fancy; and since she was by no means ready to retire from her position as first lady of the company, she had naturally conceived a violent dislike for her successor.
Athenais understood this and sympathised. She was even ready to admit that Marie’s statuesque appearance was probably better suited to roles like Chimène than her own petite slenderness. She was not, however, prepared to be trodden on; and consequently she said gratefully, ‘Thank you, Madame. I fear you flatter me … but encouragement from one of your superior age and experience is always welcome.’
An angry flush touched Marie’s cheek and, seeing it, Froissart said quickly, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve wasted enough time for one day. Arnaud’s departure is unfortunate but there are still those scenes in which he doesn’t appear. Mademoiselle de Galzain, Madame d’Amboise – we’ll begin on page twenty-six.’
‘Why?’ exploded Etienne. ‘I’m understudying Rodrigue – and I could play him, too. At least I’m the right age – unlike that fat old arse-worm!’
‘Youth,’ observed Marie d’Amboise coldly, ‘isn’t everything. Experience and talent still count for something.’
‘I know that – and so does Clermont. Basically, he’s got the experience and I’ve got the talent. Why else do you think he refuses to let me rehearse – if not because he’s shit-scared I’ll act him off the sodding stage?’
There was some truth in that, thought Athenais. Meeting Froissart’s gaze, she said persuasively, ‘Couldn’t Etienne stand in, Monsieur? Just this once, to help the rest of us?’
‘I don’t see the point of rehearsing around stand-ins,’ yawned Marie. ‘And Clermont would be furious. He doesn’t permit anyone to read in for him. Ever.’
‘Then he ought to have stayed,’ shrugged Athenais. ‘He said himself that the play comes first. And if we start now, we’ve got time to get through the first act.’
Froissart thought about it. Part of him was eager to see what young Lepreux made of the Cid; another par
t said it might be better not to know. Lacklustre as Clermont’s performances often were, he still commanded a certain following among the middle-aged matrons he’d captivated twenty years ago. Consequently, supplanting him with a newcomer of remarkable stage-presence but undistinguished appearance wasn’t likely to do much for the takings – particularly in these uncertain times.
The so-called Princes’ Fronde – caused by the late Cardinal Richelieu’s determination to crush the power of the nobility – had boiled over the previous autumn and swiftly become a power-struggle between Louis de Bourbon, the Prince de Condé and Richelieu’s successor, Cardinal Mazarin. Since then, Condé had taken Paris and forced both Court and Cardinal into exile at St. Germain. Froissart suspected that this situation was likely to be temporary. On the other hand, it was the kind of thing which could be very bad for business unless one turned it to one’s advantage. And that was why he and Pierre Regnault Petit-Jean Laroque had decided to echo Condé’s triumph with a piece about another great warrior.
Clermont was the devil one knew. Lepreux was a gamble and allowing him to rehearse Rodrigue would conjure up a storm – for which Manager Laroque was unlikely to thank him. Sighing, Froissart opened his mouth on a sensible refusal … and, instead, heard himself say curtly, ‘Very well. Act one, scene one. Begin.’
* * *
An hour or so later when everyone else had left to snatch a brief rest before the evening performance, Athenais de Galzain – whose home lay on the far side of the Seine – sat in the Green Room with her feet up and nibbled absently on an almond cake whilst having her hair brushed.
‘Etienne was good, Pauline,’ she remarked meditatively, at length. ‘Really good. If Froissart had any sense, he’d ask Monsieur Laroque to give him the part.’
‘And lose Clermont to the Hôtel de Bourgogne? Don’t be ridiculous. Froissart knows which side his bread is buttered,’ returned the wardrobe-mistress cum dresser tersely. Then, on a small explosion of breath, ‘Pity the same can’t be said of you.’
‘Why? What have I done?’
‘Opened your mouth when you should have kept it shut. You know what will happen. D’Amboise will tell Clermont it was your idea to let Etienne read in – and he’ll throw a fit.’
‘Let him,’ sniffed Athenais. And, with a grin, ‘He’s always going on about his old friend Montdory. Perhaps he’ll do us all a favour and go the same way – though preferably not mid-performance.’ She paused and, when Pauline didn’t laugh, added, ‘It was a joke.’
‘One you’d better not repeat.’
‘I wouldn’t – except to you.’
‘You would. You’d say it to Clermont himself if he pushed you far enough. And unless somebody else upsets him first and worse, he’s quite likely to do that tonight. So you’d better be ready to hold your tongue and deal with whatever he throws at you on stage.’
‘I’m always ready. The daft old bugger fluffs his lines so often, I have to be.’ Athenais settled back and took another bite of the cake. ‘Don’t worry. I can handle Clermont. And if he tries any of his little tricks, I’ll have the pit on my side.’
‘Don’t rely on it. The pit can break you as easily as it made you.’
‘So if I’m ever to get out of the Rue Benoit, I can’t afford to disappoint my public,’ recited Athenais obediently. ‘Yes. I know.’
This remark was less flippant than it sounded. The Rue Benoit was the tiny, insalubrious alleyway between St. Severin and St. Julien-le-Pauvre where Athenais lived with her father in a three-roomed hovel … and which she was desperate to leave.
Pauline said slowly, ‘Yes. Well, you know my views on that. Quite apart from it being inconvenient living so far from the theatre, the world judges by appearances. If your admirers knew how you live, they’d die laughing.’
Athenais sighed.
‘There’s a house on the Rue des Rosiers that would be perfect. But I can’t afford it. And even if I could, I’d never talk Father into moving. Squalor doesn’t bother him as long as he’s got enough money to spend most of his waking hours in the tavern.’
Frowning, Pauline laid down the hair-brush and, keeping her tone perfectly neutral, said, ‘Perhaps you should consider leaving him to stew in his own juice, then.’
An odd expression, half-stubborn and half-regretful, stirred in the luminous smoke-dark eyes and it was a while before Athenais said wryly, ‘I consider it several times a day. But I can’t do it. The drunken old sod’s the only family I’ve got.’
* * *
Precisely as Pauline had predicted, Clermont used that night’s performance of La Bague de L’Oubli to show Athenais the error of her ways. He threw her incorrect cues or none at all; he cut her lines, then paused where she had none before continuing with an air of subtle reproof; and he altered his moves so as to alternatively up-stage or mask her. By the end of the first act, Athenais thought she’d parried every trick in the book; after the second, she was fraught with the effort of re-arranging her speeches so they made sense and giddy from circling the stage like a blowfly; and, at some point in the third, she lost her temper.
She hid it from the audience. But as soon as the play was over she rounded on Clermont in full view of the company and, using the gutter vernacular of her childhood, told him what she thought of his acting, his professionalism and his stinking breath. Then, leaving him white with fury, she turned on her heel and stalked away.
The audience was still leaving the theatre and the street outside was thronged with carriages and chairs. Athenais found her own shabby hire-coach on the corner of the Rue de la Perle. Its driver was enjoying a leisurely pipe but as soon as she appeared, he grinned and said, ‘You’re early tonight. Place on fire, is it?’
‘Something like that,’ she agreed aridly. And then, from inside the carriage, ‘Martin – I’ve had a downright evil evening. Can we just go?’
‘Suits me,’ he shrugged. And, slamming the door shut, hoisted himself on to the box and set the horses in motion.
The cobbled, tooth-rattling route took them down the Rue Vieille du Temple, then past the Hôtel de Ville and the Place de Grève to the Tour St. Jacques. From there they crossed the Pont au Change to the Ile de la Cité before leaving it again by means of the crumbling Petit Pont below the Hôtel Dieu. Athenais clung to the strap, wearily regretting her outburst at the theatre and longing for her bed. Then the coach plunged to a halt.
‘Now what?’ she muttered irritably and stuck her head out of the window.
Inexplicably, the Petit Pont was blocked with fallen scaffolding and chunks of masonry beneath which lay a cart. A handful of people were attempting to remove the debris but, since it would plainly take hours to clear the road, Martin gloomily observed that they would either have to pay the toll on the Pont au Double or go right round via the Pont Neuf.
‘Merde!’ breathed Athenais bitterly. Then, descending from the coach, ‘Go home, Martin. I’ll walk.’
Hefrowned. ‘You can’t.’
‘Yes, I can. It won’t take more than ten minutes – and I can take care of myself,’ she replied, tying her hood firmly beneath her chin. ‘Goodnight, mon vieux. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ And she walked on to the bridge and started clambering over the wreckage.
It wasn’t difficult and she managed well enough until her skirt got caught – reminding her that, in her haste to leave the theatre, she hadn’t bothered to get changed and was therefore still wearing her costume. This in itself was a fineable offence. If she also damaged the wretched thing, it was likely to cost her a day’s wages.
She gave her skirt an experimental tug and heard an ominous tearing sound. A colourful expletive escaped her lips and she twisted round, trying to locate the source of the problem without making matters any worse. Her balance faltered.
Two capable hands grasped her about the waist and a rich, seductive voice, rippling with amusement, said, ‘If you stand still for a moment, Mademoiselle, I’ll disentangle you.’
Athenais found herself sta
ring down on a tall fellow in a wide-brimmed hat and trailing black cloak. His face, no more than a pale blur in the darkness, disappeared abruptly as he bent to free her skirt from the nail-studded piece of scaffolding which had ensnared it. Then, straightening his back and holding out his arm to her, he said, ‘May I help you down?’
Ignoring both arm and offer, Athenais jumped down and pulled her cloak more firmly about her. Then, uttering a frigid ‘thank you’, she waited for him to step aside.
He didn’t do so. Instead, still on that annoying note of laughter, he said, ‘Since you’ve been forced to abandon your conveyance, I’d be happy to escort you to your door.’
‘And beyond it no doubt,’ snapped Athenais witheringly. Then, ‘Get out of my way. I didn’t come down with the last shower – and if you want a whore, I suggest you try the Pont Neuf.’
The man stepped back and accorded a small, sardonic bow.
‘Thank you for the advice. I’ll bear it in mind. Just now, however, I was merely offering my protection. At this time of night, the St. Severin quarter is no place for a lady.’
Some half-dozen steps past him, Athenais halted again and turned her head.
‘I know that. I live there. And fortunately, I’m no lady. So don’t try your tricks on me. I’ve heard them all before – plus a few you haven’t yet thought of.’
‘I doubt that.’ Laughter drifted after her across the bridge. ‘And you shouldn’t make so many assumptions. They’ll trip you up, one day.’
Athenais continued briskly on her way.