The Idol of Paris by Sarah Bernhardt

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THE IDOL OF PARIS

by SARAH BERNHARDT

1921
(English Edition)

CONTENTS

PART ONE: PARIS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

PART TWO: BRUSSELS

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

PART THREE: THE COUNTRY

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

PART FOUR: THE CHATEAU

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

PART I. PARIS

CHAPTER I

In the dining-room of a fine house on the Boulevard Raspail all the
Darbois family were gathered together about the round table, on which
a white oil cloth bordered with gold-medallioned portraits of the line
of French kings served as table cover at family meals.

The Darbois family consisted of Francois Darbois, professor of
philosophy, a scholar of eminence and distinction; of Madame Darbois,
his wife, a charming gentle little creature, without any pretentions;
of Philippe Renaud, brother of Madame Darbois, an honest and able
business man; of his son, Maurice Renaud, twenty-two and a painter, a
fine youth filled with confidence because of the success he had just
achieved at the last Salon; of a distant cousin, the family
counsellor, a tyrannical landlord and self-centered bachelor, Adhemar
Meydieux, and the child of whom he was godfather, and around whom all
this particular little world revolved.

Esperance Darbois, the only daughter of the philosopher, was fifteen
years old. She was long and slim without being angular. The flower
head that crowned this slender stem was exquisitely fair, with the
fairness of a little child, soft pale-gold, fair. Her face had,
indeed, no strictly sculptural beauty; her long flax-coloured eyes
were not large, her nose had no special character; only her sensitive
and clear-cut nostrils gave the pretty face its suggestion of ancient
lineage. Her mouth was a little large, and her full red lips opened on
singularly white teeth as even as almonds; while a low Grecian
forehead and a neck graceful in every curve gave Esperance a total
effect of aristocratic distinction that was beyond dispute. Her low
vibrant voice produced an impression that was almost physical on those
who heard it. Quite without intention, she introduced into every word
she spoke several inflections which made her manner of pronounciation
peculiarly her own.

Esperance was kneeling on a chair, leaning upon her arms on the table.
Her blue dress, cut like a blouse, was held in at the waist by a
narrow girdle knotted loosely. Although the child was arguing
vigorously, with intense animation, there was such grace in her
gestures, such charming vibrations in her voice, that it was
impossible to resent her combative attitude.

"Papa, my dear papa," she was asserting to Francois Darbois, "You are
saying to-day just the opposite of what you were saying the other day
to mother at dinner."

Her father raised his head. Her mother, on the contrary, dropped hers
a little. "Pray Heaven," she was saying to herself, "that Francois
does not get angry with her!"

The godfather moved his chair forward; Philippe Renaud laughed;
Maurice looked at his cousin with amazement.

"What are you saying?" asked Francois Darbois.

Esperance gazed at him tenderly. "You remember my godfather was dining
with us and there had been a lot of talk; my godfather was against
allowing any liberty to women, and he maintained that children have no
right to choose their own careers, but must, without reasoning, give
way to their parents, who alone are to decide their fates."

Adhemar wished to take the floor and cleared his throat in
preparation, but Francois Darbois, evidently a little nonplused,
muttered, "And then after that--what are you coming to?"

"To what you answered, papa."

Her father looked at her a little anxiously, but she met his glance
calmly and continued: "You said to my godfather, 'My dear Meydieux,
you are absolutely mistaken. It is the right and the duty of everyone
to select and to construct his future for himself.'"

Darbois attempted to speak....

"You even told mama, who had never known it, that grandfather wanted
to place you in business, and that you rebelled."

"Ah! rebelled," murmured Darbois, with a slight shrug.

"Yes, rebelled. And you added, 'My father cut off my allowance for a
year, but I stuck to it; I tutored poor students who couldn't get
through their examinations, I lived from hand to mouth, but I did
live, and I was able to continue my studies in philosophy.'"

Uncle Renaud was openly nodding encouragement. Adhemar Meydieux rose
heavily, and straightening up with a succession of jerky movements,
caught himself squarely on his heels, and then, with great conviction,
said: "See here, child, if I were your father, I should take you by
the ear and put you out of the room."

Esperance turned purple.

"I repeat, children should obey without question!"

"I hope to prove to my daughter by reasoning that she is probably
wrong," said M. Darbois very quietly.

"Not at all. You must order, not persuade."

"Now, M. Meydieux," exclaimed the young painter, "it seems to me that
you are going a little too far. Children should respect their parents'
wishes as far as possible; but when it is a question of their own
future, they have a right to present their side of the case. If my
uncle Darbois's father had had his way, my uncle Darbois would
probably now be a mediocre engineer, instead of the brilliant
philosopher who is admired and recognized by the entire world."

Gentle little Madame Darbois sat up proudly, and Esperance looked at
her father with a world of tenderness in her eyes.

"But, my lad," pursued Adhemar, swelling with conviction, "your uncle
might well have made a fortune at machinery, while, as it is, he has
just managed to exist."

"We are very happy"--Madame Darbois slipped in her word.

Esperance had bounded out of her chair, and from behind her father
encircled his head with her arms. "Oh! yes, very happy," she murmured
in a low voice, "and you would not, darling papa, spoil the harmony of
our life together?"

"Remember, my dear little Esperance, what I said to your mother
concerned only men--now we are considering the future of a young girl,
and that is a graver matter!"

"Why?"

"Because men are better armed against the struggle, and life is, alas,
one eternal combat."

"The armour of the intellect is the same for a young girl as for a
young man."

Adhemar shook his shoulders impatiently. Seeing that he was getting
angry and was like to explode, Esperance cried out, "Wait, godfather,
you must let me try to convince my parents. Suppose, father, that I
had chosen the same career as Maurice. What different armour should I
need?"

Francois listened to his daughter affectionately, drawing her closer
to him. "Understand me, my dearie. I am not denying your wish as a
proof of my parental authority. No, remember this is the second time
that you have expressed your will in the matter of the choice of your
career. The first time I asked you to consider it for six months: The
six months having passed, you now place me under the obligation of--"

"Oh! papa, what a horrid word!"

"But that is it," he went on, playing with her pretty hair, "you have
put me under the obligation of answering you definitely; and I have
called this family council because I have not the courage, nor,
perhaps, the right, to stand in your way--the way you wish to go."

Adhemar made a violent effort to leap to his feet, declaiming in his
heavy voice, "Yes, Francois, you must try and prevent her from going
this way, the most evil, the most perilous above all, for a woman."

Esperance began to tremble, but she stood resolutely away from her
father, holding herself rigid with her arms hanging straight at her
sides. The rose tint of her cheeks had disappeared and her blue eyes
were dimmed with shadows.

Maurice hastily made a number of sketches of her; never before had he
found his cousin so interesting.

Adhemar continued, "Pray allow me to proceed with what I have to say,
my dear child. I have come from the country for this purpose, in
answer to your father's summons. I wish to offer my experience for
your protection. Your parents know nothing of life. Francois breathes
the ether of a world peopled only by philosophers--whether dead or
living, it makes little difference; your mother lives only for you
two. I expressed at once my horror at the career that you have chosen,
I expatiated upon all the dangers! You seem to have understood
nothing, and your father, thanks to his philosophy, that least
trustworthy of guides, continues futilely reasoning, for ever
reasoning!"

His harangue was cut short. Esperance's clear voice broke in, "I do
not wish to hear you speak in this manner of my father, godfather,"
she said coldly. "My father lives for my mother and me. He is good and
generous. It is you who are the egoist, godfather!"

Francois started as if to check his daughter, but she continued, "When
mama was so sick, six years ago, papa sent me with Marguerite, our
maid, to take a letter to you. I did so want to read that letter, it
must have been so splendid.... You answered...."

Adhemar tried to get in a word. Esperance in exasperation tapped the
floor with her foot and rushed on, "You answered, 'Little one, you
must tell your papa that I will give him all the advice he wants to
help him out of this trouble, but it is a principle of mine never to
lend money, above all to my good friends, for that always leads to a
quarrel.' Then I left you and went to my Uncle Renaud, who gave me a
great deal more even than we needed for mama."

Big Renaud looked hot and uncomfortable. His son pressed his hand so
affectionately under the table that the good man's eyes grew wet.

"Ever since then, godfather, I have not cared for you any more."

The atmosphere of the little room seemed suddenly to congeal. The
silence was intense. Adhemar himself remained thunderstruck in his
chair, his tongue dry, his thoughts chaotic, unable to form a reply to
the child's virulent attack. For the sake of breaking up this general
paralysis, Maurice Renaud finally suggested that they should vote upon
the decision to be given to his brave little cousin.

They gathered together around the table and began to talk in low
tones. Esperance had sunk into a chair. Her face was very pale and
great blue circles had appeared around her eyes. The discussion seemed
to be once more in full swing when Maurice startled everyone by
crying, "My God, Esperance is ill!"

The child had fainted, and her head hung limply back. Her golden hair
made an aureola of light around the colourless face with its dead
white lips.

Maurice raised the child in his arms, and Madame Darbois led him
quickly to Esperance's little room where he laid the light form on its
little bed. Francois Darbois moistened her temples quickly with Eau de
Cologne. Madame Darbois supported Esperance's head, holding a little
ether to her nose. As Maurice looked about the little room, as fresh,
as white, as the two pots of marguerites on the mantel-shelf, an
indefinable sentiment swelled up within him. Was it a kind of
adoration for so much purity? Philippe Renaud had remained in the
dining-room where he succeeded in keeping Adhemar, in spite of his
efforts to follow the Darbois.

Esperance opened her eyes and seeing beside her only her father and
mother, those two beings whom she loved so deeply, so tenderly, she
reached out her arms and drew close to her their beloved heads.
Maurice had slipped out very quietly. "Papa dearie, Mama beloved,
forgive me, it is not my fault," she sobbed.

"Don't cry, my child, now, not a tear," cried Darbois, bending over
his little girl. "It is settled, you shall be...." and the word was
lost in her little ear.

She went suddenly pink, and raising herself towards him, whispered her
reply, "Oh! I thank you! How I love you both! Thank you! Thank you!"

CHAPTER II

Esperance, left alone with her mother, drank the tea this tender
parent brought to her, and the look of health began to come back to
her face.

"Then to-morrow, mother dearest, we must go and be registered for the
examinations that are soon to be held at the Conservatoire."

"You want to go to-morrow?"

"Yes, to-day we must stay with papa, mustn't we? He is so kind!"

The two--mother and daughter--were silent a moment, occupied with the
same tender thoughts.

"And now we will persuade him to go out with us, shan't we, mother
dear?"

"That will be the very best thing for both of you," agreed Madame
Darbois, and she went to make her preparations.

Left alone, Esperance cast aside her blue dress and surveyed herself
in the long mirror. Her eyes were asking the questions that perplexed
her whole being. She raised herself lightly on her little feet. "Oh!
yes, surely I am going to be tall. I am only fifteen, and I am quite
tall for my age. Oh! yes, I shall be tall." She came very close to the
mirror and examined herself closely, hypnotizing herself little by
little. She beheld herself under a million different aspects. Her whole
life seemed passing before her, shadowy figures came and went--one of
them, the most persistent, seemed to keep stretching towards her long
appealing arms. She shivered, recoiled abruptly, and passing her hand
across her forehead, dispelled the dizzy visions that were gathering
there.

When her mother returned she found her quietly reading Victor Hugo,
studying "_Dona Sol_" in _Hernani_. She had not heard the opening
of the door, and she started at finding her mother close beside her.

"You see, I am not going to lose any time," she said, closing the
book. "Ah! mama, how happy I am, how happy!"

"Quick," said her mother, her finger to her lips. "Your father is
waiting for us, ready to go out."

Esperance seized her hat and coat quickly and ran to join her father.
He was sitting as if thinking, his head resting in his hands. She
understood the struggle between love and reason in his soul, and her
upright little soul suffered with his. Bending gently beside him she
murmured, "Do not be unhappy, papa. You know that I can never suffer
as long as I have you two. If I am quite mistaken, if life doesn't
bring me any of the things that I expect, I shall find comfort in your
love."

Francois Darbois raised his head and looked deep into the lovely eyes,
"God keep you, my little daughter!"

Next morning Esperance was ready to go to the Conservatoire long
before the appointed hour. M. Darbois was already in his study with
one of his pupils, so she ran to her mother's room and found her busy
with some papers.

"You have my birth certificate?"

"Yes, yes."

"And papa's written consent?"

"Yes, yes," sighed Madame Darbois.

"He hesitated to give it to you?"

"Oh! no, you know your father! His word is sacred, but it cost him a
great deal. My dear little girl, never let him regret it."

Esperance put her finger across her mother's lips. "Mama, you know
that I am honest and honourable, how can I help it when I am the child
of two darlings as good as you and papa? My longing for the theatre is
stronger than I can tell. I believe that if papa had refused his
permission, it would have made me unhappy and that I should have
fallen ill and pined away. You remember how, about a year ago, I
almost died of anaemia and consumption. Really, mother dear, my
illness was simply caused by my overstrung nerves. I had often heard
papa express his disapproval of the theatre; and you, you remember,
said one day, in reference to the suicide of a well-known actress,
'Ah, her poor mother, God keep me from seeing my daughter on the
stage!'"

Madame Darbois was silent for a moment; then two tears rolled quietly
from beneath her eyelids and a little sob escaped her.

"Ah! mama, mama," cried Esperance, "have pity, don't let me see you
suffer so. I feared it; I did not want to be sure of it. I am an
ungrateful daughter. You love me so much! You have indulged me so! I
ought to give in. I can not, and your grief will kill me. I suffered
so yesterday, out driving, feeling papa so far away. I kept feeling as
if he were holding himself aloof in an effort to forget, and now you
are crying.... Mama, it is terrible! I must make myself give you back
your happiness--at least your peace of mind. Alas!--I can not give you
back your happiness, for I think that I shall die if I cannot have my
way."

Madame Darbois trembled. She was familiar with her daughter's nervous,
high-strung temperament. In a tone of more authority than Esperance
had ever heard her use, "Come, child, be quick, we are losing time,"
she said, "I have all the necessary papers, come."

They found at the Conservatoire several women, who had arrived before
them, waiting to have their daughters entered for the course. Four
youths were standing in a separate group, staring at the young girls
beside their mothers. In a corner of the room was a little office,
where the official, charged with receiving applications, was
ensconced. He was a man of fifty, gruff, jaundiced from liver trouble,
looking down superciliously at the girls whose names he had just
received. When Madame Darbois entered with Esperance, the
distinguished manner of the two ladies caused a little stir. The group
of young men drew nearer. Madame Darbois looked about, and seeing an
empty bench near a window, went towards it with her daughter. The sun,
falling upon Esperance's blonde hair, turned it suddenly into an
aureola of gold. A murmur as of admiration broke from the spectators.

"Now there is someone," murmured a big fat woman with her hands
stuffed into white cotton gloves, "who may be sure of her future!"

The official raised his head, dazzled by the radiant vision.
Forgetting the lack of courtesy he had shown those who had preceded
her, he advanced towards Madame Darbois and, raising his black velvet
cap, "Do you wish to register for the entrance examinations?" he said
to Esperance.

She indicated her mother with an impatient movement of her little
head. "Yes," said Madame Darbois, "but I come after these other
people. I will wait my turn."

The man shrugged his shoulders with an air of assurance. "Please
follow me, ladies."

They rose. A sound of discontent was audible.

"Silence," cried the official in fury. "If I hear any more noise, I
will turn you all out."

Silence descended again. Many of these women had come a long way. A
little dressmaker had left her workshop to bring her daughter. A big
chambermaid had obtained the morning's leave from the bourgeois house
where she worked. Her daughter stood beside her, a beautiful child of
sixteen with colourless hair, impudent as a magpie. A music teacher
with well-worn boots had excused herself from her pupils. Her two
daughters flanked her to right and left, Parisian blossoms, pale and
anaemic. Both wished to pass the entrance examinations, the one as an
ingenue in comedy, the other in tragedy. They were neither comic nor
tragic, but modest and charming. There was also a small shop-keeper,
covered with jewels. She sat very rigid, far forward on the bench,
compressed into a terrible corset which forced her breast and back
into the humps of a punchinello; her legs hanging just short of the
floor. Her daughter paced up and down the long room like a colt
snorting impatiently to be put through its paces. She had the beauty
of a classic type, without spot or blemish, but her joints looked too
heavy and her neck was thrust without grace between her large
shoulders. Anyone who looked into the future would have been able to
predict for her, with some certainty, an honourable career as a
tragedian in the provinces.

Madame Darbois seated herself on the only chair in the little office.
When the official had read Esperance's birth certificate, he
exclaimed, "What! Mademoiselle is the daughter of the famous professor
of philosophy?'"

The two women looked at each other with amazement.

"Why, ladies," went on the official, radiantly, "my son is taking
courses with M. Darbois at the Sorbonne. What a pleasure it is to meet
you--but how does it happen that M. Darbois has allowed...?" His
sentence died in his throat. Madame Darbois had become very pale and
her daughter's nostrils quivered. The official finished with his
papers, returned them politely to Madame Darbois, and said in a low
tone, "Have no anxiety, Madame, the little lady has a wonderful future
before her."

The two ladies thanked the official and made their way toward the
door. The group of young men bowed to the young girl, and she inclined
her head ever so slightly.

"Oh, la-la," screamed the big chamber-maid.

Esperance stopped on the threshold and looked directly at the woman,
who blushed, and said nothing more.

"Ho, ho," jeered one of the youths, "she settled you finely that time,
didn't she?"

An argument ensued instantly, but Esperance had gone her way,
trembling with happiness. Everything in life seemed opening for her.
For the first time she was aware of her own individuality; for the
first time she recognized in herself a force: would that force work
for creation or destruction? The child pressed her hands against her
fluttering heart.

M. Darbois was waiting at the window. At sight of him, Esperance
jumped from the carriage before it stopped. "What a little creature of
extremes!" mused the professor.

When she threw her arms about him to thank him, he loosed her hands
quickly. "Come, come, we haven't time to talk of that. We must sit
down at once. Marguerite is scolding because the dinner is going to be
spoiled."

To Esperance the dinner was of less than no importance, but she threw
aside her hat obediently, pulled forward her father's chair, and sat
down between the two beings whom she adored, but whom she was forced
to see suffer if she lived in her own joy--and that she could not, and
would not, hide.

CHAPTER III

The weeks before the long-expected day of the examination went
by all too slowly to suit Esperance. She had chosen, for the
comedy test to study a scene from _Les Femmes Savantes_ (the
role of "_Henriette_"), and in tragedy a scene from _Iphygenia_.
Adhemar Meydieux often came to inquire about his goddaughter's
studies. He wished to hear her recite, to give her advice; but
Esperance refused energetically, still remembering his former
opposition against him. She would let no one hear her recitations, but
her mother. Madame Darbois put all her heart into her efforts to help
her daughter. Every morning she went through her work with Esperance.
To her the role of "_Henriette_" was inexplicable. She consulted
her husband, who replied, "'_Henriette_' is a little philosopheress
with plenty of sense. Esperance is right to have chosen this scene
from _Les Femmes Savantes_. Moliere's genius has never exhibited
finer raillery than in this play." And he enlarged upon the psychology
of "_Henriette's_" character until Madame Darbois realized with surprise
that her daughter was completely in accord with the ideas laid down
by her father as to the interpretation of this role. Esperance was
so young it seemed impossible that she could yet understand all the
double subtleties....

Esperance had taken her first communion when she was eleven, and after
her religious studies ended, she had thought of nothing but poetry,
and had even tried to compose some verses. Her father had encouraged
her, and procured her a professor of literature. From that time the
child had given herself completely to the art of the drama, learning
by heart and reciting aloud the most beautiful parts of French
literature. Her parents, listening with pleasure to her recitations of
Ronsard or Victor Hugo, little guessing that the child was already
dreaming of the theatre. Often since then, Madame Darbois had
reproached herself for having foreseen so little, but her husband,
whose wisdom recognized the uselessness of vain regrets, would calm
her, saying with a shake of his head, "You can prevent nothing, my
dear wife, destiny is a force against which all is impotent! We can
but remove the stumbling-blocks from the path which Esperance must
follow. We must be patient!"

At last the day arrived! Never had the young girl been more charming.
Francois Darbois had been working arduously on the correction of a
book he was about to publish, when he saw her coming into his library.
He turned towards her and, regarding her there in the doorway, seemed
to see the archangel of victory--such radiance emanated from this frail
little body.

"I wanted to kiss you, father, before going ... there. Pardon me for
having disturbed you." He pressed her close against his heart without
speaking, unwilling to pronounce the words of regret that mounted to
his lips.

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