Chapter VI

My agreements with Dorval--I read _Antony_--Her
impressions--She makes me alter the last act there
and then--Merle's room--Bocage as artist--Bocage as
negotiator--Reading to M. Crosnier--He falls into a profound
slumber--The play nevertheless is accepted

I returned that night and found Dorval alone and expecting me.

"Upon my word!" I exclaimed, "I did not dare hope for a tête-à-tête."

"I said I had a reading."

"Did you say who the reader was?"

"Oh no! but first come here, sit down by me and listen to what I have to say, good dog!"

I let her lead me to an arm-chair and I sat down.

She stood in front of me with both her hands in mine and she looked gently and kindly at me.

"You love me, don't you?" she said.

"With all my heart!"

"You love me really?"

"Don't I say so?"

"For myself?"

"For yourself."

"You do not wish to cause me pain?"

"Good God, no!"

"You wish me to play your part?"

"Of course, since I have brought it to you."

"You do not want to spoil my career?"

"Why! you must be mad to suggest such a thing!"

"Very well, then, do not tease me again as you did this morning. I should not have strength enough to defend myself, and ... and I am happy as I am; I love de Vigny and he worships me. You know there are certain men one cannot deceive, men of genius who, if they are once deceived,--well, so much the worse for the women who deceive them!"

"My dear Marie," I said to her, "you are the noblest and best-hearted woman I know. Here is my hand upon it--I will not exceed the bounds of friendship."

"Oh! let us understand one another: I do not say such a condition shall last for ever."

"It shall last, at all events, until you give me back my promised word."

"Agreed. If, some day, I am tired of our bond, I will write to tell you."

"To me?"

"To you."

"Before all others?"

"Before all others, for you know quite well how I love you, my good dog!... Oh! now we will read--I hear it is splendid. Why would not that stuck-up minx Mademoiselle Mars play the part?"

"Oh! because she had spent fifteen hundred francs on her dresses and the chandelier does not give sufficient light to show them off."

"You know, I cannot afford to spend as much as fifteen hundred francs on my dresses; but you need not be anxious, I will find means to bedeck myself properly! Adèle, then, is a society woman? How I shall enjoy playing such a part! How well you must know how such a type should be acted! I, who have never played anything but the fishwife kind of woman!... Come, quick, sit down there and begin reading."

I began to read, but she had not the patience to sit in her chair: she got up and leant on my back and read over my shoulder with me. After the first act I looked up and she kissed me on my forehead.

"Well?" I asked her.

"Well, it seems to start very oddly! Things will come to a pretty pass if they go on in the same way as they have begun."

"Wait and see."

I began the second act. As I proceeded with my reading I could feel the agitated heaving of the excellent actress's bosom against my shoulder; at the scene between Adèle and Antony, a tear dropped on my manuscript, then a second and a third. I raised my face to kiss hers.

"Oh! how vexatious of you!" she said, "to interrupt in the middle of my enjoyment, do go on!"

I continued, and again she wept.

It will be recollected that Adèle flies at the end of the act.

"Ah!" said Dorval, sobbing, "there's an honest woman! I should never have been able to do that!"

"You," I said, "are a love!"

"No, monsieur, I am 'an angel'! Let us go on with the third act!--ah! my goodness! if only he rejoins her!"

I read the third act and she listened, trembling with excitement. It ends with the broken window and the handkerchief applied to Adèle's mouth, and by Adèle being flung into her room, after which the curtain falls.

"Well, what next?" said Dorval.

"Of course you know what Antony does after that?"

"Why, he ravishes her, I suppose."

"Rather! only she does not ring----"

"Oh!"

"What?"

"Good! ... What an ending to a third act! You do not mince matters! This act will be a little bit difficult to play. You just see how I will say, 'This door will not shut!' and 'No accident has ever happened in this inn!' There is only the cry when I catch sight of Antony; I think Adèle would be too delighted to see him again to cry out."

"She must utter a cry, though."

"Yes, I understand; it sounds more moral.... Come! go on, go on, good dog!"

I began the fourth act. At the scene where the insult takes place, she put her hands round my neck and I felt her bosom rising and falling, as well as her heart beating against my shoulder; I could feel it almost bursting through her garments. At the scene between the vicomtesse and Adèle, where Adèle three times repeats, "But I have done nothing to injure this woman!" I stopped.

"Good Lord! man, why do you keep on stopping?" she exclaimed.

"I stop because you are strangling me!" I replied.

"Why, so I am," she said; "but such things have never been done on the stage yet. Oh! it is too real, it is horrible, it stifles one, oh!..."

"But you must listen to the end, nevertheless."

"Willingly enough."

So I finished reading the act.

"Oh!" she said, "you may be quite at rest, I can answer for myself. Oh! how feelingly I will say, 'She is his mistress!' Your plays are not difficult to act, but they break one's heart.... Oh! let me have my cry out!... You great big dog, where have you learnt to know women like this? You know them through and through!"

"Come, pick up your courage. We shall soon have finished it now."

"Go on!"

I began the fifth act. To my intense astonishment, although she wept much, it seemed to produce a less moving effect upon her than the others.

"Well?" I asked.

"Oh! it is splendid, I think, excellent!"

"That is not the truth: you do not like it, really."

"Yes, I do."

"No, you do not!"

"Well, then, do you honestly want my opinion?"

"Yes."

"I think the last act is a little too mild."

"See what differences of taste people have! Mademoiselle Mars thought it too strong."

"I wager it was not like this to begin with?"

"No, I ought to confess it was not."

"She made you change it?"

"From beginning to end!"

"Come now!"

"But, if you like, I will alter it back again."

"Indeed, I do wish it!"

"Oh! it will be easy enough to do."

"But when can you do it?"

"To-morrow, or the day after, or some day."

She looked at me, turned my chair round on one of its legs and fell on her knees in front of me.

"Do you know what you ought to do, good dog?" she said.

"What ought I to do? Tell me."

She took out one of her little combs and began combing her hair while she talked.

"I will tell you: you ought to re-write that act for me this very night."

"I am willing; I will go home and set to work."

"No, without going home."

"Why."

"Listen: Merle is in the country; take his room, they shall bring you some tea there; from time to time I will come in and see how your work goes on. You will have finished by the morning and will then come and read it to me, by my bedside. Ah! that will be most delightful."

"What if Merle should come back?"

"Bah! we would not let him in."

"Very well: you shall have your act to-morrow before your breakfast."

"Oh! good dog, how very charming you are! But, you know?..."

She raised her finger.

"Since it is agreed between us!"

"All right! What are you going to do this evening? Will you have supper first or begin working?"

"I prefer to set to work."

She rang.

"Louise! Louise!"

Louise came in.

"Well, madame, again?" she asked.

"No.... Make a fire in Merle's room."

"But Monsieur said he would not return."

"It is not for him, but for Alexandre."

The maid looked at me.

"Yes," said I, "it is all right; it is for me."

"Oh! how funny!" she said. "But--"

"You see," I said to Dorval, "it is improper."

"You need not be shocked, Louise. He has a bill of exchange and fears arrest at his own house to-morrow morning, so he will sleep here--that is all; only, you must not mention it."

Worthy Dorval! she could only think of two motives for not sleeping in one's own home--a mistress, or a bill of exchange.

"Oh!" said Louise, "all right! I see it ought not to be spoken about!"

"Specially not to M. le Comte, you understand?... The more so that there is no harm in it."

Louise smiled.

"Oh! Madame takes me for an ordinary lady's-maid, I suppose.... Has Madame any other orders for me?"

"No."

Louise went out.

We were left alone. I, as always, filled with admiration for that naïve, impulsive-natured woman who ever obeyed the first instincts of her heart, or the first dictates of her imagination; she, like a gleeful child who takes an unexpected holiday, or tastes some hitherto unknown pleasure. Then she stood up before me, unaffectedly, in attitudes delightfully natural and, in fittingly sorrowful accents, she went through the whole of her part, without forgetting one salient feature in it, saying each word as she felt it, with striking correctness, bringing out effects, even in the most commonplace of my scenes (those which were put in merely as connecting links with the main ones), that I never thought of when I wrote them, and, every now and then, jumping for joy and clapping her hands and exclaiming--

"Oh! you will see, my good dog, you will see what a grand success we shall make of it!"

Oh! splendid personality, which death thought to obliterate when it struck her down in my arms! I swore the memory of her genius should not be destroyed by death. I will make thee live again, as I promised thee, and, as those who had a right to exact a false version from me have authorised me to tell the truth, I will indeed do so: at every flourish of my pen thou shalt rise from the dead, throbbing with life, with the womanly weaknesses that belonged to thee and the qualities which made thee the artist thou wast; exactly, in short, as God created thee, without veil or mask: to treat such a personality like any ordinary being would be to insult thy genius!

Louise re-entered in a quarter of an hour's time: everything was ready in Merle's room. It was fated that I should from henceforth create my plays at the houses of those for whom they were intended.

At half-past eleven I set myself to work upon my fifth act; by three in the morning it was re-written; by nine o'clock Dorval was clapping her hands rejoicingly and crying--

"How I will act it! 'But I am lost!' Wait a bit; now hear: 'My daughter, I must kiss my daughter!' and then: 'Kill me!' and so on to the end!"

"Then you are quite satisfied?"

"I should think so, indeed! Now we must send and fetch Bocage to breakfast with us and hear it all."

I knew very little of Bocage's talents. I had only seen him act the curé in _l'Incendiaire_ and the sergeant in _Napoléon à Schoenbrünn_, two rôles which did not at all assist me to imagine him in _Antony._ I was, therefore, prejudiced against him, and spoke of Lockroy and of Frédéric, of the ease with which we could obtain the services of either of them at the reopening of the theatrical year; but Dorval stuck to her point: she maintained that Bocage was the only actor who could give to Antony the necessary appearance suitable to the part of Antony; so she sent to fetch him.

Bocage was then a handsome fellow of about thirty-four or thirty-five, with dark hair and fine white teeth, and beautiful mysterious eyes, which could express three things essential on the stage--roughness, determination and melancholy: among his physical defects were that he was knock-kneed, his feet were too large, he had a dragging gait and he spoke through his nose. As Dorval's letter was urgent, he rushed off to us at once. We breakfasted, and afterwards I read _Antony_ through again.

"Well, what do you think of it, Bocage?" Dorval asked, directly I had pronounced the concluding words, "She resisted me, so I killed her!"

"Upon my word," replied Bocage, "I really hardly know what I have been hearing. It is neither a play, nor a drama, nor a tragedy, nor a novel; it is something of them all, and certainly most striking! Only, can you imagine me as Antony?"

"You will be superb!" replied Dorval.

"What do you say, Dumas?"

"I know too little of you to say anything; but Dorval knows you and is ready to answer for you."

"Good! But I should need a special make-up for the part. I could not act it in ordinary everyday clothes."

"Oh! don't trouble yourself about that," I replied; "we will discover a suitable costume between us."

"What is our next move?"

"You must inform Crosnier that you have just been listening to a drama that suits you and Dorval; that it is by me, and that I am willing to sign the same agreement with him that Hugo did."

"Capital!"

"But, understand, Bocage--there must be no official reading before acceptance; the piece is to be taken whatever happens: there can be a semi-official reading to the manager after its acceptance."

"All right, I understand! Dispense with reading before the other members of the company: you bring your plays and they are simply to act them. What are your terms?"

"The same as Hugo's."

"It shall be settled to-night."

I took a cab and went to tell Hugo what had happened. I received a little note from Bocage that very evening; it only contained these few lines:--

"I have seen Crosnier. It is all settled; you are to read
to-morrow at 11 a.m. in his office _semi-officially_--he
quite understands.--Yours, BOCAGE"

Next day I presented myself at the appointed hour to M. Crosnier. I scarcely knew him; for I had only seen him once or twice. He had taken a third or fourth share in five or six pieces; amongst others, in a parody of Schiller's _Intrigue et Amour_, played under the title of _La Fille du Musicien._ I do not even know whether this piece, which was very successful, was not acted later than the time I am now talking of. He was an accomplished, clever man, with fair hair and little of it, grey eyes, a mouth but scantily furnished with teeth and his manners were nice and affable: he has since amassed a very large fortune, I believe, to which his relations with Cavé have done no harm. In conclusion, his was exactly the temperament to understand _La Petite Ville_, and the least suited to understand _Antony_.

I began my reading. By the third act, M. Crosnier was politely striving against his drowsiness; by the fourth, he was sleeping as comfortably as possible; by the fifth, he was snoring.

I went out without his hearing me do so, I have no doubt. Bocage was waiting for me in the salon to hear the result of the reading: I showed him his sleeping manager through the half-open door and left him a receipt for a thousand francs. According to our agreement, M. Crosnier owed me a thousand francs for the reading.

"Diable!" exclaimed Bocage, "is the agreement signed, then?"

"No; but I have your letter of yesterday's date, which is as good as a contract, and I will await your reply at Dorval's house."

Bocage alone could divulge what passed between himself and Crosnier. I fancy there was some friction between them. However, half to three-quarters of an hour later, he arrived at Dorval's house with the thousand-franc note. But Crosnier deferred the play for three or four months: he did not wish to risk his winter's successes with a work he considered _so uncertain of pleasing the public._

"Never mind, _certain or not_, that will not prevent its making money, my good dog, I will answer for that!" said Dorval.

So that is the story of _Antony_, of its withdrawal from the Théâtre-Français and its appearance at the théâtre de la Porte-Saint-Martin, with your humble servant as its father, and Bocage and Dorval as its godfather and godmother.