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Sardou and the Sardou plays 



Jerome Alfred Hart 




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SARDOU 

AND THE SARDOU PLAYS 



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SARDOU 

And The Sardou Plays 



BY 

JEROME A. HART 

AUTHOR OP " A LBVANTINB LOG-BOOK.*' " TWO ABGONAUT8 IN SPAIN.* 
"A VIGILANTB GIRL.** BTC. 



• PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 
1913 



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COPYRIGHT, I913* BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 



PUBLXSBBO FEBRUARY, I913 



PRINTKD BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 

AT THB WASHINGTON SQUARB PRBSS 

PHILADBLPBIA, U. 8. A. 



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PREFATORY NOTE 

The term " the Sardou plays " is used in these pages 
for various reasons. Many of these plays were written in 
collaboration with other dramatists less well known. In this 
book the names of Sardou's collaborators are given in each 
case in the text. In the chronological table of plays and 
elsewhere, to save repetition, only Sardou's name is ap- 
pended. Still, a play written in collaboration is not " z, 
play by Sardou," but it may be called "a Sardou play/' 
Such plays are usually so termed by those who have had to 
do with them, and so they are called in these pages. 

Then again, most of the versions made in English from 
Sardou's plays have been so freely "adapted" as to de- 
part widely from the original. " Dogg t," for example, was 
turned into " Diplc^ nacy " ; the scene was transferred from 
France to England; the diplomatic intrigues of the Ger- 
man foreign office were replaced by Anglo-Russian plots 
concerning the Russo-Turkish war; two strangers in the 
French play were made blood-brothers in the English ver- 
sion ; many other changes were made. So with " Divor^ons," 
and with other of Sardou's plays: the alterations in un- 
authorised versions were so numerous that he complained 
bitterly. Therefore it is perhaps fair to call such plays 
" Sardou plays " rather than " plays by Sardou." All the 
plays, therefore, are thus denominated, including those 
where authorised versions were made by Sardou's consent, 
such as " Robespierre." 

The first part of the book is devoted to a biographical 

s 



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4 PREFATORY NOTE 

sketch of the playwright Sardou; the second is made up 
of analyses of some two score of the Sardou plays — ^not 
critical but narrative analyses. In the biographical half, 
the plays are arranged chronologically; in the second half, 
they are arranged arbitrarily, in the order of their interest, 
their importance, or their success. Thus, " La Haine " is an 
important play, but was not specially successful on the 
stage ; " Madame Sans-Gene " was a great stage success, 
but not specially important from a literary point of view. 

It is perhaps needless to say that these analyses were not 
made from the English versions: the original plots, names 
of characters, etc., have been followed here. 

The part devoted to " the Sardou plays in the United 
States " is a record, but does not purport to be complete. 
Most of the first productions of the Sardou plays in the 
United States were made in New York ; if successful, they 
were played in other cities. It would be useless repetition 
to print the details of reproductions all over the United 
States. 
January, 191 3. J. A. H. 



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CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF THE 
SARDOU PLAYS AND LIBRETTI 



Datb op 
PiBcs Tmbatrb Production 

Les Amis Imaginaires Never played. 

La Reine Ulfra Never played. 

y/La Taoeme des BtudiatUs.. .Odtoi Apr. i, 1854 

Bernard PaHssy Never played. 

Fleur de Liane Never played. 

Le Bossu Never plajred 

Candide Never played. 

Les Premises Armes de 

Figaro. Th^tre-D^jaset Sept. 37, 1859 

Paris d VEnoers Never played. 

^Les Gens Nerveux Palais-Royal Nov. 4, 1859 

^Les PaUes de Mauche Gynmase May 15, i860 

Monsieur Garat. Th^tre-D6jaset May 31, i860 

Les Femmes Fortes Vaudeville. Dec. 31, i860 

VEatreuU Vaudeville Feb. 9, 1861 

PiccoUno (comedy) Gynmase July 18, 1861 

^Nos Intimes Vaudeville Nov. 16, 1861 

O La PapiUonne Th6atre-Fran$ais Apr. 11, 1862 

--La Perle Noire Gymnase Apr. 12, 1862 

• Les PrSs Saint-Gervais 

(comedy) Th^tre-D^azet Apr. 26» 1862 

' Les Ganaches Gymnase. Oct. 29, 1862 

Batailie d' Amour (libretto). Op^ra-Comique Apr. 13, 1863 

- Les DiaUes Noirs Vaudeville Nov. 28, 1863 

Le DSgd, Th^tre-D6ja2et. , Apr. 12, 1864 

Don Quichotte Gymnase June 25, 1864 

Les Pommes du Voisin Palais-Royal Oct. 15, 1864 

Le Capitaine Henriot (li- 
bretto) Op^-Comiqiie Dec. 29, 1864 

QjJjes Vieux Gordons Gymnase Jan. 21, 1865 

j/Xa FamiUe BenoUon Vaudeville. Nov. 4, 1865 

^Nos Bons ViUageois Gymnase. Oct. 3, 1866 

^Maison Neuoe Vaudeville Dec. 4, 1866 

jfSSraphine Gymnase Dec. 29, 1868 

5 



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6 SARDOU PLAYS AND LTORETTI 

Datb of 
PiBCB Thsatrb Production 

d'Patrie (drama) Porte Saint-Martin Mar. i8, 1869 

\/^Femande Gymnase Mar. 8, 1870 

Le Rot Carotte (libretto). . . . Galt^ Jan. 15, 1872 

^Rabagas yaudeville Feb. i, 1872 

AndrSa Gymnase Mar. 17, 1873 

^rOnde Sam Vaudeville Nov. 6, 1873 

^Les MerveiUeuses Vari^t^ Dec. 16, 1873 

Le Magot Palais-Royal Jan. 14, 1874 

Les PrSs Saint -Gervais 

/ (op^ra-bpuflEe libretto). Vari^t^s Nov. 14, 1874 

-JyLa Haine Galt6 Dec. 3, 1874 

^Ferriol Gymnase Nov. 17, 1875 

Piccolino (comic opera 

libretto) Vari^t^ Apr. 11, 1876 

jL'Ktitd Godelot Gymnase May 13, 1876 

. wDora Vaudeville Jan. 22, 1877 

rhe Exiles Boston Theatre Dec. 10, 1877 

'^Les Bourgeois de Pont-Arcy . Vaudeville Mar. i, 1878 

Les Noces de Femande (li- 
bretto) 1878 

AndrS Fortier Boston Theatre Mar. 11, 1879 

^ Daniel Rochai Th^atre-Fran^ais Feb. 16, 1880 

J^pivorgons Palais-Royal Dec. 6, 1880 

^f" Odette Vaudeville Nov. 17, 1881 

^Fedora Vaudeville Dec. 11, 1882 

"r^ThSodora Porte Saint-Martin Dec. 26, 1884 

Georgette Vaudeville Dec. 9, 1885 

—* Patrie (opera libretto) Opera House Dec. 17, 1886 

(^ Le Crocodile Porte Saint-Martin Dec. 21, 1886 

_ ^'La Tosca Porte Saint-Martin Nov. 24, 1887 

- Marquise Vaudeville Feb. 12, 1889 

BeUe-Maman Gymnase Mar. 15, 1889 

^ CUopdfre Porte Saint-Martin Oct. 23, 1890 

O Thermidor. Th^tre-Pran^ais Jan* 24, 1891 

Les AmSricaines d 

r£tranger Lyceum Theatre, New York 1892 

A Woman's Silence Lyceum Theatre, New York 1892 

[Both written for Daniel Frohman and produced in English. 

^JMadame Sans-GHe Vaudeville Oct. 27, 1893 

^Gismonda Renaissance Oct. 31, 1894 

Marcelle Gjmanase Dec. 21, 1895 



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BOOKS COMMENTING ON SABDOU 7 

DATS OP 

J Pncs Thbatrs Production 

-^Spiritisme Renaissance Feb. 8, 1897 

OPanUla Vaudeville Feb. 11, 1898 

^Robespierre London I^yceum. Apr. 15, 1899 

^La Tosca (opera libretto) . .Rome. Jan. 1900 

La Fille de Tabarin (libretto)Op^ra-Comique Feb, 20, 1901 

JLes Barbares (libretto) Opera House Oct. 23, 1901 

^ Dante Drury Lane» London Apr. 30, 1903 

O^.LaSordhre Th&itre Sarah Bernhardt Dec. 15, 1903 

VEspionne (" Dora " re- 
vised and revived) 1905 

FioreUa Waldorf Theatre, London . . .June ^ 1905 

La Piste Theatre des Vari^tfe Feb. 15, 1906 

^V Affaire d€s Poisons Porte Saint-Martin Dec. 7, 1907 

TALES, PAMPHLETS, ETC. 

Avant La Gloire, 
UHomme aux Pigeons. 

La Perle Noire: roman 1878 

Discours d VAcadhnie 1878 

Onte Jours de SiSge. 
Les VieiUes FiUes. 

UHeure du Spectacle 1878 

Mes Plagiats 1882 

La Maison de Robespierre (riponse d M, Hamd) 1895 

The Bonib SheU: a short story first published in English. February, 1905 
Together with a large ntunber of Prefatory Notes and Introductions. 

BOOKS COMMENTING ON SARDOU. 

The following books have been consulted and at times 
drawn on for facts. In the text the author's name alone is 
given when quoted; here, the author, the title, and the pub- 
lisher are set down in full, as some readers of this voltime 
might desire to make note of them. 

Author Titlb Publisher 

William Archer. . . . Study and Stage Ed. G. Richards. 

Adolphb Brisson . . . Portraits Intimes Ed. Colin, 5 vols. 

Hbnry Bbcqub Souvenirs d*un Auteur Ed. Bib. Art. et Lit- 

Dramatigue t^raire. 



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8 BOOKS COMMENTING ON SARDOU 

Author Titlb Pubusbbr 

Ferdinand Brunb- Les Epogues du Thiatre £d. Hachette et Cie. 

Ti&RB Francis , 

Sir Squire and Lady On and Off the Stage. 
Bancroft 

Jules Clarbtib Victor Hugo Ed. Lib. Moli^re. 

Rbn6 Doumic Ecrivadns d*Aujourd*hui, Ed. Perrin et Cie. 

J. Georges Duval. . L* Annie Thiatrale Ed. Tresse. 

Emile Paguet Notes Sur le Thiatre Con- Ed. Lec^ne & Oudin. 

temporain 
J. AND E. GoNCOURT JourtuU des Goncourts . . . Ed. Charpentier, 7 

vols. 

LEOPOLD Lacour Trots Thiatres Ed. L^vy. 

GusTAVE Larroumet Etudes Dramatiques Ed. Hadiette et Cie. 

Jules Lemaitre Impressions de Thiatre . . Ed. Lec^ne & Oudin, 

10 vols. 
Alphonse Leveaux. Thiatre de la Courd Com- Ed. Tresse. 

pi^gne 
Brander Matthews French Dramatists of the Scribners. 
iQth Century 

E. Mont£gut Dramaturges et Roman- Ed. Hachette et Cie. 

ciers 

HuGUEs Rbbell Victorien Sardou Ed. Plume. 

Prancisqub Sarcey. Quarante Ans de Thiatre. Ed. Biblioth^ue des 

Annales, 8 vols. 

Andr6 Sardou Une (Euvre d*un Demi- Iii"LeTh^tre,"i904 

Siecle 

George Bernard Dramatic Opinions Brentano's, 2 vols. 

Shaw 

Albert Soubies Almanach des Spectacles. Ed. Flammarion. 

James H. Stoddart. Recollections of a Player. . Century Co. 

Edouard Noel et| i^^ j^^n^^ ^u Thi(Ure. . Ed. Ollendorff, 33 vols. 
Edmond StoulligJ ^^ 

Ed. Tresse Foyers et Coulisses 

A. B. Walkley . Drama and Life Brentano's. 

A. B. Walkley Playhouse Impressions. . . Fisher Unwin. 

AuGtJSTE ViTU Les MiUe et Une Nuits de Ed. Ollendorff, 9 vols. 

Thiatre 

Albert Wolff Sardou et VOnde Sam. . Ed.LibrairieNouvelle. 

Thiatre de Victorien Calmann-L^vy ed. 34 vc^. LlUustration ed. 9 
Sardou vols. 



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CONTENTS 



PART FIRST 
SARDOU'S CARSBR 

CBAFTSR PAOB 

I. Childhood and Youth 17 

II. Eably Struggles and Pailubbs 24 

III. Trbachbrous Collaborators, Quarrbls, Morb 

Pailubbs 32 

IV. His First Succbss 38 

V. Succbss Brings Chargbs or Plaihabism 49 

VI. Sabdou Bbcombs a Landbd Gbntlbman, and is Callbd 

TO COUBT 61 

VII. Thb Succbss OP "Patbib" AND THB End OP THB Bmpib^ 66 t^ 
VIII. Sabdou's Plats Attackbd by Politicians and thb Cbn- 

soBSHiP Invoked 74 

IX. Sabdou Scores thbbb Successes, and Bbcombs an Aca- 
demician 82 

X. "Thbodoba" and "La Tosca*' Succeed, although 

Attacked by the Cbitics 93 

XI. " Thbbmidor " Pbohibitbd, " Sans-Gbnb " and " Cl6opa- 

tbb " SuccssspuL 99 

XII. Sabdou as a Spiritualist 105 

XIII. "Robbspiebre,** "Dante," "La Sobcibbe "—Plays op 

THE End Ill 

XIV. Ways op Living and Methods op Wobk 123 

XV. The Pbench Cbitics on Sabdou 138 



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10 CONTENTS 

PART SECOND 
THE SARDOU PLAYS 

PAGB 

Dora 149 



\ Do 



bs paytes db mou che i56 

- >A Patrib 175 

*^ "^ DivoRgoN S s/,, .V 190 

LaHain b 196 

-^^La Famillb BbnoIton !i. % 203 

' Danibl Rochat 208 

^^MADAMB SANfcGENB. y, 213 

, La Tosca ^ 221 

Thbrmidor 226 

Pbdora 234 

Rabagas 240 



Lbs Bourgeois db Pont^Arcy 260 

Th^dora . ^ C, 265 

Lbs Fbmmbs Fortes 270 

L'Onclb Sam 274 

\ Odette 284 
Lbs Vieux Gar^ons 289 

. Andr^. 299 

^ Nos Intdib s. .v^. .\J 303 

Ferrbol 316 

Spiritismb 320 

GiSMONDA 323 

\Lbs Gens Nbrvbux 328 

Maison Neuve K\ 337 

Lbs Merveillbuses 357 

Pernande 359 

La Papillonne 361 

Lbs Ganaches 363 

La Sorcibre 365 



\^ 



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CONTENTS 11 

PAGB 

robbspibrkb 368 

Dantb 371 

Pamela 373 

La Taverns dbs Btxjdiants 376 

Lb Crocodilb 378 

La FnxB db Tabarin 381 

Lbs Barbarbs 383 

PART THIRD 

THE SARDOU PLAYS IN THE UNITED STATES 

PAGB 

A Scrap of Papbr 387 

Diplomacy 388 

Pbdora 390 

La Tosca 391 

Cl^opAtre 392 

GiSMONDA 393 

Theodora 393 

Bosom Friends 394 

Agnes 394 

D1VOR90NS 395 

Fernandb 396 

Madame Sans-<^enb 397 

Daniel Rochat 398 

Thermidor 399 

Americans Abroad 399 

A Woman's Silbnce 399 

Uncle Sam 400 

Spiritisme 400 

Robespierre 400 

La Sorci&re 401 

The Love Letter 401 



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1« CONTENTS 

PAGB 

Andr^ Portibr 401 

Thb Exilbs 402 

Patrib 402 

A Man op Honor 402 

A Past Paiuly 402 

PiccoLiNo 403 

Odbttb 403 



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ILLUSTRATIONS 



PAGE 



^Sasdou at His Dxbk FronHspiees 

^Sasdou at Two Soobb 74 

rSABDOU AT ThBBB ScOBB AND TbN 118 



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PART FIRST 
SARDOU'S CAREER 



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4< ' 



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SARDOU 

AND THE SARDOU PLAYS 



CHAPTER I 
Childhood and Youth 

Nearly all our knowledge of Sardou's family and child- 
hood we owe to the veteran playwright himself. One day, 
seated in an easy chair, wearing his velvet cap and with a 
soft silken muffler wrapped round his throat, he confided to 
the attentive ear of Adolphe Brisson, then critic of Le 
Temps, some of his earliest recollections of his family 
history. 

" My name," he said, " is <mly a nickname : my ancestors 
were * Les Sardes,' * Lei Sardou,' as they are called in the 
patois of the South. They left their home and migrated to 
Le Cannet, a spot near Cannes, where they grouped them- 
selves into a village. Their cottages were arranged on 
both sides of a long street, the gates at either end of which 
were closed at nightfall. There they lived in a dose inti- 
macy, only occasionally broken by internecine feuds and 
savage vendettas." 

Sardou was wont to relate that his grandfather was at 
Nice when the young general Bonaparte passed through at 
the head of his army. The grandsire was fond of relating 
in the family circle that the hastily-tecruited regiments were 
undisciplined, ill-equipped, without cohesion, and even with- 
out proper food. Nothing but a strong g^ard of veterans 
kept them in the ranks. 

2 17 



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18 SARDOU'S CAREER 

Sardou's father, Antoine Leandre Sardou, was attending 
school at Cannes in 1815 when General Cambronne, of 
Waterloo fame, entered the place with his troops. They 
were confronted by a coast-guard in the Bourbon uniform, 
with powdered wig, cocked hat, lace ruffles, silk waistcoat 
embroidered with golden fleur-de-lis, and shoes with silver 
buckles. Brandishing his staff of office to stop the Napo- 
leonic army, the man called in a trembling voice, " Rascals, 
return at once to Elba, or the King, my master, will chastise 
you as you deserve." The old grenadiers received this 
defiance with roars of laughter. The elder Sardou used 
often to relate this story to his son as presenting a striking 
picture of the New France confronted by the Old. 

When Victorien Sardou came into the world, on Sep- 
tember 7, 1831 , his father had become a citizen of Paris, 
and occupied a modest suite of rooms in the Rue Beau- 
treilles, in the Faubourg St. Antoine. There Victorien's 
early boyhood was passed, and there, in the neighbourhood 
of tiie Place Bastille, on the scene of events still within the 
memory of middle-aged men, he must early have imbibed 
that deep interest in the g^eat drama of the French Revolu- 
tion which was destined in after-years to find expression in 
some of his most powerful plays. 

Grandfather Sardou had served as a volunteer in 1792, 
and subsequently became a surgeon in the army of Italy. 
On the conclusion of the Napoleonic wars he retired to 
Le Cannet and took to growing olives for the Marseilles 
market. But one night in 1819 a sudden frost destroyed 
his trees, and, seeing the financial ruin that had overtaken 
his father, Antoine Leandre, then sixteen years of age, 
migrated to Paris to seek his fortune. He was an energetic 
young fellow, ready to turn his hand to any work that 
offered, and became successively a tutor, a bookkeeper in a 
house of business, and finally a schoolmaster. He had not 
been long at Paris when he married a Mademoiselle Viard, 



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CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 19 

the daughter of a manufacturer at Troyes. L6andre held 
various educational appointments at the Ecole de Commerce 
et des Arts Industriels at Charonne, and at the Ecole Otto- 
mane at Paris, and elsewhere, and was also much occupied 
with the editing of school books and other literary work. 
But all his industry did not bring him much material reward, 
though, being a worthy man, he did not lack the esteem and 
affection of numerous friends. His son Victorien was thus 
brought up in a scholastic atmosphere, and to this fact no 
doubt owed much of his scholarly instincts and his feeling 
for history and archaeology. At ten years of age Victorien 
had not only read the plays of Moli^re, but had learned them 
by heart, and recited them with much enthusiasm. During 
his boyhood two severe illnesses interrupted his studies. 
One of them was a lung inflammation, another a dangerous 
attack of scarlatina: When convalescent he was sent to 
Cannes to regain his strength. On his return to Paris he 
found that his father had removed to the other side of the 
river, where he had set up a school in the Rue des Postes, 
which prospered until the critical year 1848, when he was 
forced to dose his doors. 

This was the famous " Year of Revolutions," and Vic- 
torien, then in his seventeenth year, was still a pupil at the 
College Henri IV. Even in those early days he felt impelled 
to write, and there is still in existence a curious diary in 
which the boy Victorien recorded his impressions of those 
agitated times. The entries under the date of June 22 and 
June 23, 1848, afford some personal glimpses. Louis 
Philippe abdicated on February 24th, and he and his min- 
ister Guizot were now safe in England. On February 26th 
the Second Republic was proclaimed, and a Provisional 
Government set up, controlled by a new " National Assem- 
bly." The tone of the nine hundred menibers composing 
this body was moderate — ^indeed, too moderate for the 
revolutionary elements of the faubourgs; and, unfortu- 



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20 SARDOU'S CAREER 

nately, the economic policy they adopted was radically un- 
sound. To relieve the prevailing distress and discontent, 
they set up great " National Workshops '* at Paris. Those 
who secured work were to receive two francs, while those 
for whom work could not be provided were entitled to one 
and a half francs per day. The dictates of economic 
prudence were thus thrown to the winds, and disaster fol- 
lowed. The needy and desperate were drawn, as by sc«ne 
great magnet, from every comer of France to Paris. It was 
found impossible to furnish work for all, and soon the 
mutterings of a storm were heard. Young Sardou thus 
had a personal glimpse of revolution. In this diary he tells 
us how he and a schoolfellow went, on the evening of 
Thursday, June 22, to the Place du Pantheon, after 
dinner, and there heard a mob orator addressing the 
crowd. The man wound up with the words : " Then, it is 
agreed . . . all, to-morrow morning meet here at 
eight o'clock, and we will march to the Assembly with 
arms !" 

The boys went home and to bed in a high state of ex- 
citement, wondering what the morrow would bring. Next 
morning, at a quarter before eight, Victorien duly sallied 
forth for school. On the way he met another schoolfellow, 
and the result of the conversation that ensued was a deter- 
mination to play truant that day. 

The boys rambled about the city, visiting all the radical 
quarters, but to their disappointment all was quiet. On 
their way back they entered the Church of St. Etienne, 
near Sardou's home in the Rue des Postes. Monseigneur 
Affre, the Archbishop of Paris, was holding a confirmation 
service in the church. On his return Victorien found the 
household in a state of agitation over the news of barricades 
and mobs. Sardou Pere donned his uniform as a member 
of the National Guard, and, taking his musket, sallied 
forth, but returned within three minutes. He had met a 



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CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 81 

comrade returning without his gun. The summons to the 
Place du Pantheon which he had hastened to obey was only 
a trap to disarm the defenders of the peace. But, though 
the boys saw nothing of importance, this 23d of June was 
the first of three terrible days of bloodshed. Two days 
later the good Archbishop whom they had seen in the church 
that morning, was mortally wounded by a musket-ball at 
the large barricade in the Place de la Bastille while he 
was making a noble effort to still the passions of the mob. 
In their home in the Rue des Postes the Sardous heard the 
rattle of musketry and an occasional boom of cannon, but 
the desperate fighting which ensued in other quarters of the 
city came no nearer that day. 

On the morning of Saturday, June 24, the Sardou house- 
hold awoke to the sotuid of firing as near as the Pantheon. 
Sardou Pere closed the shutters, laid in a stock of pro- 
visions, and arranged for a flight to the rear in case of 
emergency. There were two barricades in the immediate 
vicinity. One at the entrance of the Rue des Fosses- 
Saint- Jacques had been stormed, and was now held by the 
soldiers of the regular army. Another strong barricade at 
the comer where the Rue de la Vieille Estrapade and the 
Rue d'Ulm meet was still in the hands of the insurgents. 
In fact, the Sardous were in the thick of a regular battle. 
From time to time Victorien rushed into his room to write 
up his diary, "thinking that it might be valuable to me 
some day;" here we may note his foresight even in boy- 
hood. The rest of the day was spent on the roof with his 
companions. By climbing through to the attic windows 
they could even see the insurgents' barricade, and once 
Victorien had quite an adventure to record in his notes : 

" One of my friends was smoking. A shot was fired ; whence, 
I know not. The defenders of the barricade simply looked up, 
and, misled, no doubt, by the tobacco smoke, greeted it with a 
salvo of shot. Our curious friends had only just time to drop 



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88 SARDOU'S CAREER 

on all fours and scuttle back into the attic, dragging one another 
by the legs. My father was furious; he closed the skylights, 
forbade any one to enter the attics, and said that if the quarter 
remained in the hands of the insurgents it was enough to cause 
us all to be murdered." 

The fusillade lasted till late in the afternoon. From 
their coign of vantage on the roof the Sardous could watch 
the insurgent sharpshooters creeping down their street to 
fire at the soldiery. At last the revolutionists were repulsed 
at all points, though the firing was still kept up. Finally a 
cannon was brought up frc^n the Pantheon. The watchers 
heard a general ofiicer call upon the mob to surrender. A 
refusal was the sole response. The roar of a cannon shot 
was heard. No second one was necessary, for the barricade 
was immediately stormed and the noise of the conflict 
gradually died away in the distance. The inhabitants of the 
streets in that neighbourhood then ventured out to count 
their broken windows and to search for the bullet-marks 
on their walls and the splashes of blood on their pave- 
ments. There was one more alarm. All rushed indoors 
again, but finally, by nine o'clock in the evening, absolute 
tranquillity reigned, with the military in full possession of 
that quarter of the city and the Place du Pantheon lit up 
by the lurid glow of their watchfires. 

One day in 1852 the elder Sardou asked his son Vic- 
torien — ^who was now twenty-one, and had just finished his 
course at the College Henri IV. — ^what calling in life he 
would prefer to adopt. When Victorien replied "litera- 
ture," his father cynically remarked: "All idlers say the 
same thing.'* L^andre Sardou, who had intended to make 
a schoolmaster of Victorien, was disappointed with his son's 
career at college. He had won no honours and carried off 
no prizes. The father was determmed that his son should 
follow some useful profession. Victorien was cornered. 



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CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH S8 

and, being forced to choose some profession other than 
literature, selected medicine. 

Youig Sardou installed himself in a miserable garret 
in the Quai aux Fleurs, and for eighteen months walked the 
wards of the Necker Hospital mider the famous surgeon 
Dr. Lenoir. He paid slight attention, however, to the 
clinical lectures and the operations of great surgeons ; while 
listening to disquisitions on anatomy his thoughts used to 
wander to poetry and the stage. And yet the contemporary 
stage was by no means pleasing to his youthful fancy. On 
one or two occasions, when he visited the dieatre with his 
father, he had returned with a marked contempt for what 
he had seen. At that time no playwright appealed to him 
except Victor Hugo. The young man was ambitious, his 
ideas were on a lofty plane. He did not care for the ordi- 
nary prose drama, but preferred Shakespearian tragedies in 
verse. 

Before Victorien had completed his course at the hos- 
pital, however, he had the misfortune to lose two sisters, 
and, to complete his troubles, his father fell into pecuniary 
difficulties, forsook Paris, and returned to his home in the 
sunny South, where he began life over again, struggling 
valiantly to pay his debts. 



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CHAPTER II 

Early Struggles and Failures 

His father's departure from Paris left Victorien alone 
in the great city, utterly without means. He was deprived 
even of the bed and board which he had always found in 
his father's house. He therefore found it necessary to share 
with a fellow medical student his poor garret in the Quai 
aux Fleurs, near the Pont Notre Dame. In a conspicuous 
place in his study, years afterward, he still had a water- 
colour to which he often called the attention of visitors : 

"This picture represents the old Bridge of Notre Dame 
with the tall and narrow houses clinging to its sides. It was 
contemporaneous with Louis XVI. When I was living near me 
Quai Napoleon, these buildings had nearly all disappeared, but 
vestiges of them were still visible from my garret windows. Every 
morning I went down into the street and purchased some boiled 
potatoes from the peripatetic vendor at the corner, and while 
devouring my humble breakfast I used to join the anglers who 
were casting their lines along the Quai. One I remember well — 
he was a red-haired fellow who had played a leading part in 
the massacres of the Reign of Terror. His stories sometimes 
made me think of incorporating them in a play for the stage. 
In fact, it was at this time that I first turned my thoughts in 
the direction of play-writing." 

One night, during this time of bitter privation, young 
Sardou, pale, thin, and shabby, was wandering in stormy 
weather in the vicinity of the Medical School of Paris. 
Fortune had not been kind to him, and he was vaguely 
meditating suicide. To shelter himself from the rain he 
went imder the doorway of an unfinished building, leaving 
it in a few moments. A water-carrier promptly took the 
place of shelter thus vacated, audibly remarking: "Ah, 

24 



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EARLY STRUGGLES AND FAILURES 86 

man ami, you don't know when you are well oflf." The 
words were scarcely out his mouth, wh^ a block of granite 
fell with a crash and killed him. Even then Sardou was 
superstitious, and believing frcxn this accident that he had 
yet room to hope, went home and again took up his pen. 

Sardou set vigorously to work. He composed melo- 
dramas, comedies, and tragedies. Two pieces flowed from 
his pen in these his salad days. The first was *' Les Amis 
Imaginaires," a two-act piece in the style of Picard, a 
dramatist of the First Empire ; in this piece we find the first 
idea of " Nos Intimes." The second was " Queen Ulfra," 
a Swedish drama in which the princess spoke in alexan- 
drines while the ministers and ccnnmon people were given 
shorter verses proportioned to their rank; this dramatic 
freak was never repeated. He also planned an ambitious 
play of the time of the Reformation; it was to require 
three evenings of playing time, to be called respectively 
"Luther," "The Peasants' War," and "The Anabaptists." 
Naturally, he could find no manager anxious to put on his 
three-night drama. Undismayed, and in spite of the finan- 
cial straits to which he had been reduced, he devoted his 
time to the completion of " Queen Ulfra." When his piece 
was finished he dedicated it to Mile. Rachel, at that time the 
reigning tragedienne, and took it to Chotel, the director 
of the Belleville Theatre in the suburbs of Paris, who had 
in his younger days accompanied Rachel in her tours in the 
provinces as an actor. Sardou himself had never even seen 
Rachel, and had no right to feel disappointment at her not 
finding "Queen Ulfra" to her taste. "Let your friend 
write me a Greek tragedy, and we shall see," was the 
answer brought back by Chotel. 

But once more the hopes of the budding dramatist were 
revived by a strange adventure that befell his play. He was 
informed by' an acquaintance — a dealer in umbrellas who 
kept house for M. Romieu, the Director of Fine Arts — 



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26 SARDOU'S CAREER 

that a Mile. Desfosses might possibly be induced to appear 
in his play. Romieu, being iii debt and hard pressed by his 
creditors, lived in a suite of rooms in the Rue Lavalle, 
which he had engaged in the name of his umbrella-dealer 
housekeeper. Like Mbliere's housekeeper, she shone with 
a borrowed lustre reflected from her influential employer, 
and people sought to win her ear in order to reach Romieu. 
Among others the young actress Desfosses, who was about 
to make her debut at the Theatre-Franqais, was naturally 
eager to secure the patronage of the Director. It was in 
this roundabout way that Sardou had hopes of placing his 
first play. In fact the story goes that when Sardou brought 
his play to Romieu's apartment the housekeeper said to him 
curtly : " Yes, Mile. Desfosses will be here presently. You 
may leave your play. We will read it." 

The play was read, and Mile. Desfosses produced it. 
But this rival of Rachel, of whcMn readers may now hear 
for the first time, made a colossal fiasco. " What can be 
the cause of the failure?" asked the author. " It is simple 
enough," replied the vendor of umbrellas, "it is that 
nasty Rachel. She got up a cabal against Mile. Desfoss6s, 
and organised all the opera-glass peddlers in Paris into a 
clique to hiss her down. But Desfosses got even with the 
nasty Jewess after the performance. She said : * Why, that 
was not an audience, it was a synagogue!' " 

Such, at any rate, was the story that went the round 
of Paris. Some of the details may be apocryphal. But it 
is certain that Sardou wrote " Queen Ulf ra," that he had 
dreams of seeing it acted, and that his hopes were dashed 
to the ground. Mile. Desfosses did not stay at the Th&tre- 
Franqais, but suddenly left Paris, and the theatrical world 
knew her no more. 

The fiasco of " La Reine Ulfra " was a sore disappoint- 
ment, but the young author was not left long without a re- 
vival of hope. In the course of the next few days he 
received a welcome intimation that a play of his had been 



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EARLY STRUGGLES AND FAILURES 87 

accepted at the Od6on. This was the ''Taveme des 
Etudiants/' 

Before we fdlow the fortunes of this famous piece we 
must return to see how the author was faring in the mean- 
time. Sardou never doubted of the final success of this 
new production, but he was at his wits' end to find the 
wherewithal to pay his rent and to purchase clothes, were 
it only in order to be sufficiently well-dressed to call on the 
manager of the Od6on when Uiat gentleman should deign 
to send for him. To supply his necessities he accepted 
everything that presented itself in the way of employment 
He became copyist, bookseller's clerk, and professor of 
languages. When he succeeded in procuring an appoint- 
ment to undertake the educational charge of a young 
Turkish gentleman on the understanding that he was to 
give three lessons a week at five francs a lesson, he thought 
that fortune was knocking at his door. ''He was called 
Skander Bey," related Sardou. "He was the son of an 
ex-ofiicer of the Empire who had gone to Egypt to organise 
the cavalry of Ibrahim Bey. He went there a French 
colonel, but soon blossomed out into an Egyptian Pasha. 
Of all my pupils at that time my recollections of his son 
are the most agreeable. When we parted we shed tears 
and swore eternal friendship." 

Many years later, in ^569, when the Khedive gave his 
magnificent fetes to inaugurate the Suez Canal, Sardou 
was urged by Edmond About and other friends to visit 
Egypt, but was unable to carry out the suggestion. " I can- 
not accompany you," he said, " but I will give you letters of 
introduction to Skander Bey, a young Pasha, who was a 
pupil of mine and who is one of my dearest friends. He 
will receive you royally." On their return he inquired of 
his friends about their reception, not doubting that they 
would grow enthusiastic over Mahometan hospitality. But 
he was wrong. " Your friend Skander Bey !" cried About. 
" Don't talk to me of your Moslem friends. He drove us 



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28 SARDOU'S CAREER 

out of the door, calling us Christian dogs, and threatening 
to have us bastinadoed if we darkened his door again." It 
was evident that the western teaching of Sardou had not 
sunk very deep into the oriental mind of Skander Bey, who 
had become a more bigoted Moslem than his father. 

In later years, when talking of his youth, Sardou would 
often seize paper and pencil and rapidly sketch out lines 
which evolved themselves into a complicated map; streets, 
squares, and buildings grew under his deft pencil. It was 
a map of that portion of Paris which is called " the City," 
as it existed before the wholesale demolitions of Napoleon 
III. Around Notre Dame there was then a maze of narrow 
streets with ancient houses overhanging the footway. The 
street lamps on which aristocrats had been hanged and the 
gfutters in which their blood had run were still pointed out 
in the quarter near the Temple. When young Sardou was 
haunting that part of Paris, this scenery and stage setting 
of the days of the Revolution were still all in place. The 
marked taste which he showed in his maturer years for 
dramatic archaeology, and his historical plays of those 
troublous times, evidently originated in his walks and talks 
in that quarter during his youth. He often used to say 
with a sigh : " The Old Paris of my youth no longer ex- 
ists. Some of it might surely have been saved by its very 
picturesqueness. But our sanitarians and architects know 
no pity." 

One morning Sardou was breakfasting at the Hotel 
de Ville with Baron Haussmann. The playwright had 
already won fame, and his host was questioning him upon 
the hardships of his youth. Sardou led him to the window : 
" Look !" said he, " I am going to show you the garret in 
which I lived near the Quai Napoleon." But he sought in 
vain at the comer by the Pont Notre Dame for the house 
where he had been at once so happy and so wretched. It 
had been torn down, and the workmen were at that very 



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EARLY STRUGGLES AND FAILURES 89 

moment carting away the debris. Sardou sighed as he 
pointed out to the Baron the masses of stone and brick 
and the blackened beams heaped up in the ruins. '* Look/' 
said he, " it is my youth that you are destroying." 

To return to the " Students' Tavern," it was in verse, 
and the placing of this play by an unknown writer was 
said to be due to Camille Doucet, the Director of Stage 
Affairs in the Ministry of that time under the Second Em- 
pire. The Odeon was then under the management of 
Alphonse Royer and Gustave Vaez. Doucet — (so ran the 
story which gained credence among the students) — recom- 
mended Sardou and his play to these gentlemen, and it was 
accepted. In all probability, however, the acceptance of 
" La Taveme," was accidental. M. Vaez, on leaving the 
theatre with his friend Mile. Bereng^re, chanced to turn 
over the heap of plays submitted for approval. The lady 
was struck by Sardou's fine handwriting, and on glancing 
at the manuscript noticed some telling points. She had no 
difficulty in inducing Vaez to read the piece. It was ap- 
proved and finally accepted in compliance with the general 
policy favoured by Camille Doucet of encouraging budding 
talent. 

Sardou himself thus related his meeting with G>nstant, 
the Cerberus of the Odeon Theatre, when he submitted his 
manuscript in October, 1853, facing this g^ff challenge : 

"Whom do you want to see, young man?" 

"The Director," replied Sardou. 

"What for?" 

"To hand him a play." 

"Fm sorry for you, young man. Since this morning we 
have already received more than two hundred plays. Put your play 
on the heap." 

"But," objected Sardou, "I do not want to put my play 
on the heap." 

"Well, take it away to-day or to-morrow; it's all the same 
thing, for you'll have to take it away some time or other." 



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80 SARDOU'S CAREER 

But the cynical G)nstant was mistaken. Sardou did not 
take away "The Students' Tavern." The piece was ac- 
cepted and produced. It was also damned, and the terrible 
failure of the play is one of the traditions of dramatic 
Paris. Altogether apart from the intrinsic qualities of 
"The Students' Tavern," there were various reasons for 
its failure. These were partly political. It is a curious 
element in Sardou's career that the success or failure of his 
plays should so often have hinged upon political issues. 

At that time the Odeon Theatre was familiarly called the 
"Second Theatre-Franqais," for it had been placed upon 
the list of subsidised houses. Director Doucet was a mem- 
ber of the Emperor's household. Thus a household official 
of the Empire was generally believed to be responsible for 
the recommendation of this young author to the managers 
of a subsidised theatre. The fact alone was enough to 
rouse against him the animosity of all the ardent youths of 
the Latin Quarter. The studentry are always in opposition. 
So high had their feelings risen that before the piece was 
actually played it was rumoured in all the cafes of the 
quarter that it had been written to order against the students 
and paid for with money out of the imperial purse. 

The fatal evening came, Saturday, April i, 1854. The 
curtain rose on an audience already waiting to hiss, a cir- 
cumstance not unknown in the history of the French stage 
and which befell Sardou more than once. The exaspera- 
tion of the students had been inflamed by a tactless pro- 
ceeding on the part of the management. When Sardou 
handed in his play its title was simply " La Taveme." " But 
to my disgust," related Sardou, " with a view to drawing 
the students of the Quartier Latin to the Od^on, the man- 
agers added the words * des Etudiants.' " By this addition 
the students were naturally confirmed in their belief that 
the play was directed against themselves. The house was 
packed with students, and no sooner had the curtain risen 



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EARLY STRUGGLES AND FAILURES 81 

than a storm of yells and hooting burst forth. Two lines 
occurring early in the play: 

" On n'a i^us de jetuiesse, on n'a plus de pudeur, 
£t Ton se croit savant, et Ton se croit penseur," 

were judged to be specially insulting. The uproar never 
ceased until the curtain was lowered. On Monday, the 
night of the second performance, the same turmoil The 
students even went so far as to turn the gas off. After this 
the piece was summarily withdrawn. Its failure had been 
disastrous. 

Sheridan, when receiving the sympathy of some Job's 
comforter, was asked: "Can anything be worse than a 
damned play?" He replied: "Yes, a d— d fool." But 
even past-masters in stagecraft like Dumas the Younger 
and Sardou, when in their prime, have had to feel the mor- 
t^cation of failure. How much more bitter then must have 
been the vexation of young Victorien over the failure of 
what was practically his first play t Not only were all his 
hopes of that particular play blighted, but for the nonce it 
closed all stage doors against him. 



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CHAPTER III 

Treacherous Collaborators, Quarrels, More Failures 

For a time the failure of " The Students' Tavern " kept 
the stage doors closed to Sardou, but at last one door was 
put slightly on the jar again. Oddly enough, it was that 
of the Odeon, and it was M. Vaez, one of the managers 
who had produced the luckless " Students' Tavern," who 
was disposed to give Sardou another chance. The young 
pla)rwright set to work on another piece, "Bernard 
Palissy." It was composed in verse, for apparently Sardou 
still disdained prose. Unfortunately, he knew little of the 
practical side of the stage. Like most beginners, he be- 
lieved that the literary qualities of a play were the most 
important. He did not know that a good acting play may 
be by no means a model of good style, but no matter how 
well written a bad acting play may be, it will never really 
succeed. Sardou had his eyes opened by the plays of 
Scribe. At that day it was the fashion among the younger 
literary men to sneer at Scribe — as it is to-day, by the way, 
to sneer at Sardou. Scribe was called a "pot-boiler," a 
maker of mechanical plays, a man who wrote scenes to fit 
scenery, and a maker of plots rather than of plays. Ap- 
palling tales were told of him by unsuccessful playwrights. 
It was whispered that he sucked the brains of other men, 
purchased ideas, revamped them, and thus acquired the 
large fortune which he was then enjoying. How they 
accounted for the fact that with the ideas of unsuccessful 
pla)rwrights he made successful plays, tradition does not 
tell. But all were agreed that Scribe was mediocre, that his 
success was accidental, and that he was a miser. Albert 
Wolff gives these details of the opinions held with regard 
to Scribe in the fifties, and adds this anecdote: 

82 "^ 



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TREACHEROUS COLLABORATORS 88 

'' The only influential man I knew in Paris " [said Sar- 
dou] ''was Dumas the Elder. One day I said to him: 
* Won't you give me a letter of introduction to Scribe the 
playwright?' 'Scribe?' said the great romancer, 'who is 
Scribe? I never heard of him,' I sighed, and determined 
to see Scribe without the letter. So I called at his house 
that very day, and was at once received. ' Pardon my in- 
trusion,' I said, 'but I had expected to bring a letter of 
introduction to you from M. Alexandre Dumas, the cele- 
brated romancer.' 'Dumas?' interrupted Scribe, 'never 
heard of him; who is Dumas? ' " 

As Albert Wolflf tells this story seriously, it may be true 
that these two famous Frenchmen were working in the 
same city at the same time without even hearing of one 
another. 

Sardou was too sensible a man to be affected by this 
cheap depreciation of Scribe. The first and second pieces 
of Scribe that he saw had such a profound effect upon him 
that he began to study the works of the master. They were 
a revelation to him. He began a methodical system of an- 
alysis of Scribe's plays. For instance, he would read the 
first act of a play and stop there ; write the remainder him- 
self, and then compare his work with Scribe's ; or he would 
begin in the middle of a play, and endeavour from reading 
jone act to construct what had gone before and what was to 
■follow. He thus acquired that stagecraft which so puzzled 
the critics of his earlier plays, for it is usually the fruit of 
long experience. 

While he was thus studying the rudiments of his art he 
was waiting impatiently for the production of his play 
"Bernard Palissy." It was lying, buried in dust, in the 
pigeon-holes of the Odeon, which house was, as we have 
seen, managed at that time by Alphonse Royer and Gustave 
Vaez. Many years afterwards, when the Odeon was in 
other hands, Sardou was able to trace the fate of his luckless 
8 



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84 SABDOU'S CAREER 

" Palissy." The play-register of the theatre was shown to 
him by La Rounat, Royer's successor. Against " Palissy " 
in Vaez's handwriting stood the word " accepted^* Royer 
had erased "accepted'' and substituted "declined," and 
this not once but twice. It is needless to add that " Bernard 
Palissy " was never played. 

Sardou managed for a time to live by writing articles 
for a biographical dictionary whose editor was struck by 
his profound knowledge of the sixteenth century. This 
knowledge had been acquired by Sardou's five-years' study 
of that period while he was working at his proposed tragedy 
on the Reformation. Each article for this dictionary re- 
quired a month of research in libraries and thirty days of 
hard labour, which brought him in exactly one franc a 
day. He preserved an unfinished sketch of the life of 
Erasmus, which for years he kept as a relic of the struggles 
of his youth. After this biog^phical work he succeeded 
in obtaining a couple of pupils, from each of whom he 
received two and a half francs a day, walking to the house 
of one of them, two miles, in order to save the omnibus 
fare. One lesson was given in the morning, an important 
consideration to him, for his pupil frequently invited him 
to luncheon, which saved the expense of a dinner; for at 
that time Sardou looked upon dinner, on the days when he 
had taken luncheon, as a wild extravagance. 

While the play of " Bernard Palissy " was mouldering 
in the pigeon-holes of the Odeon, an old actor named 
Boudeville proposed to Sardou to introduce him and his 
plays to Paul Feval. After the performance of the famous 
five-act drama of "The Hunchback," or "Le Bossu," at 
the Porte Saint-Martin on September 8, 1862, a long dis- 
pute arose with the collaborators, Anicet-Bourgeois and 
Paul Feval, neither of whom denied that Sardou had some- 
thing to do with the play in this obscure period of his life. 
As a matter of fact, Sardou came to Feval in order to in- 



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TREACHEROUS COLLABORATORS 56 

terest him in his play '* Fleur de Liane/' the scene of which 
was laid in Canada, and to suggest the idea of adapting 
Feval's famous novel " Le Bossu," published in 1858, for 
the stage. He was careful to take with him a scenario, or 
full outline, of his proposed dramatic version. 

It so happened that Feval was looking out for some- 
thing of the kind, and readily fell in with the plan. The 
actor Fechter had come to F6val requiring from him one of 
those peculiar plays in which the player has to appear in 
various characters, somewhat after the fashion of what is 
called in stage slang a "lightning-change artist." F6val 
and Fechter began racking their brains for some character 
of this type, and finally agreed that the famous humpback 
Lagardfere afforded a promising subject Tradition says 
that at the time of the John Law speculation fever Lagar- 
dere made a fortune by letting his hump as a writing desk 
to speculators in the Rue Quincampoix. But instead of 
giving Sardou the benefit of his suggestions, F6val pre- 
ferred to collaborate with Anicet-Bourgeois, then at the 
height of his reputation. It is believed that F6val and 
Bourgeois did not hesitate to avail themselves of Sardou's 
scenario. Such was the genesis of what eventually proved 
to be Feval's only successful play. However that may be, 
a fierce quarrel broke out. In a violent article which he 
published in the Figaro in 1866, some three years after 
the production of his play, Paul Feval depicted Sardou 
in the most unflattering colours. With a lamentable lack of 
generosity he drew a picture of him at the time when, 
humble, shabbily dressed, and shivering with cold, Sardou 
came to warm himself at the fireplace of the prosperous 
novelist. Sardou did not hesitate to attack Feval with 
equal vigour in the same journal, and the quarrel became 
a famous one. This polemic became very bitter before it 
concluded, and first disclosed the hitherto unknown fact 
of Sardou's collaboration. If we accept the story of the 



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86 SARDOU'S CAREER 

original scenario brought by Sardou, there have been three 
versions of the story for the stage, the second being that 
by Anicet-Bourgeois and Feval performed in 1862. The 
third, also based on FevaPs novel, was " Le Bossu," a comic 
opera in four acts by Henri Bocage and Amaud Liorat, 
with music by Charles Grisart, which was produced at the 
Gaite on March 19, 1888. 

Such is the generally accepted and most probable version 
of what occurred. Another account put forth by some of 
Sardou's friends is that the scenario brought by him was 
actually elaborated into the play of " Le Bossu " by Feval 
and Sardou in collaboration. But unfortunately they could 
not succeed in placing it at the Porte Saint-Martin Theatre, 
the manager of which, Marc Foumier, did not even read 
it. Feval became discouraged, and converted the play into 
a long novel, which was published in serial form and made 
a great hit in 1858, though neither from the play nor from 
the novel did his young collaborator draw a penny of 
royalty. Feval was prosperous enough to wait for the 
play, but Sardou, who was living on a few francs a day by 
giving lessons, could not afford delay. At least five Eng- 
lish dramatic versions were made of this play. The most 
recent (1908) is by Justin Huntly McCarthy under the old 
title " The Duke's Motto." To add to its curious history, 
out of the play which was made out of a novel Mr. 
McCarthy has also written a novel made out of the play. 

Five or six months passed, and Sardou still had hopes 
of producing his Canadian play. In fact, " Fleur de Liane " 
was actually accepted by Charles Desnoyers at the Ambigu. 
But, unfortunately for the author, this manager died soon 
afterward, and his successor mislaid the manuscript. 

Three years had now passed since the failure of "The 
Students' Tavern." " Bernard Palissy " was still unplayed, 
and Sardou could no longer count on "Le Bossu." At 
this moment another avenue of emplojmient was suddenly 



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TREACHEROUS COLLABORATORS 87 

opened for him. The composer A. Gevaert consented to 
let Sardou write the libretto for his opera " Le Capitaine 
Henriot." But to the young man's disappointment one day 
his friend Prilleux said to him : " Sardou, I see you are 
continually with Gevaert. You think he is going to col- 
laborate with you in ' Le Capitaine Henriot ' ? You don't 
know him. He is good-natured, and does not wish to hurt 
your feelings by sending you to the right-about at once; 
but, depend upcm it, he will have nothing to do with a man 
who has made so many failures as you. You began with 
a failure, and as yet you have scored no success. You are 
only losing your time with him." What Prilleux said was 
too true. The composer did not care to venture his own 
reputation with the unsuccessful Sardou, and the opera of 
"Le Capitaine Henriot" was not produced until several 
years afterwards, in 1864, when Sardou himself had 
achieved success and was far more famous than the com- 
poser. There was no hope at the Odeon, "The Hunch- 
back " was apparently shelved, the managfer of the Ambigu 
was dead, and Gevaert was playing him false with "Le 
Capitaine Henriot." 



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CHAPTER IV 
His First Success 

When things were at their gloomiest, fate suddenly 
threw in Sardou's way the chance that was eventtially to 
lead to success. In 1857 h^ was living in a garret in deep 
distress. He contracted t3rphoid fever and was at death's 
door. By a marvellous stroke of good fortune he found a 
devoted nurse in a Mile. Moisson de Brecourt, who lived 
with her mother on another floor of the same house. This 
lady was a young actress who played under the name of 
Laurentine Leon. She no sooner heard that the shabby 
young man whom she had so often met on the staircase 
was dangerously ill than she installed herself as his nurse, 
and succeeded so well that the sick man was restored to 
health and vigour. In the following year his gentle little 
nurse became Madame Sardou, and proved a devoted wife 
till her death, nine years afterward, in 1867. Her married 
life was short, but she at least lived to see her husband in 
full possession of fame and fortune. 

Mile, de Brecourt happened to be acquainted with the 
famous actress Pauline Virginie Dejazet, who was then 
engaged at the Theatre des Variet^s under the manage- 
ment of the Cogniards. She therefore came to Sardou in 
time to reanimate his courage with the suggestion : 

" Why do you not address yourself to Dejazet, who is 
always bemoaning the fact that no one will write anything 
for her?" 

" Because I do not know her." 

" But I do. I will give you a letter of introduction to 
Dejazet. But have you a role for her?" 

" I have better than a role ; I have a play." 

Nearly four years had now passed since the failure of 
38 



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HIS FIRST SUCCESS 89 

'' La Taverne des Etudiants/' and Sardou had knocked in 
vain at many doors. However, next day — it was a bright 
sunny morning in October, 1857 — he todk his friend's ad- 
vice, and set out for Dejazet's residence at Seine-Porte. 
As he said in after years, everything seemed to smile upon 
him. When he reached the place he found the gate open 
as though to invite him in. A smiling maid received him, 
and even the garden seemed to smile a welcome. To use 
his own words, it seemed to be his " debut on the high-road 
to success." It was indeed the lot of D6jazet to give the 
young pla3nvright his start. In spite of his previous fail- 
ures, she seemed to divine his talents. 

Virginie D^jazet received the unknown Sardou in her 
drawing-room without ceremony, her hands still white with 
the plaster with which she had J>een repairing her garden 
wall. She greeted him with kindness and good nature. 
Sardou summoned up courage to plead his case urgently, 
and, as the title of the play he had brought with him was 
" Candide," he did not forget to hint how piquant it would 
be to see Dejazet collaborating with Voltaire. This was an 
allusion to the Sage of Femey's incomparable satirical tale 
" Candide, ou TOptimisme,'' written in 1758, on which in- 
deed the play was founded. She read the letter of intro- 
duction from Laurentine Leon, who was then playing minor 
parts at the Od6on, and at once promised to read his play. 
The letter appealed to the sympathy of the great comedienne 
on behalf of an unfortunate author and begged her to read 
a piece he had composed for her. 

" A piece for me," cried Dejazet, interested, " how many 
acts?" 

" Five, mademoiselle." 

Having read and approved, she went from manager to 
manager with the manuscript, but despite her fame and zeal 
she could not find one brave enough to make the venture. 
Even the Cogniards declined it. The scenes of " Candide ** 



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40 SARDOU'S CAREER 

were laid in Germany, France, Spain, Turkey, and Venice, 
and the cost of staging such a play was altogether prohibi- 
tive. " What is the use of mounting a five-act piece with 
expensive costumes and scenery, when Dejazet is making 
four thousand francs every evening with the * Chant de 
Beranger,' which lasts only forty minutes ? " Moreover, the 
managers were getting somewhat tired of Dejazet, who 
shortly afterward left the Varietes and opened the Theatre- 
Dejazet on her own account, on September 17, 1859, with 
Sardou's next venture, " Les Premieres Armes de Figaro." 

But to return to " Candide." Every manager made the 
same reply to the importunities of Dejazet, that he would 
not dare to put on a piece by an author who had failed 
so disastrously. One of the managers kept " Candide " for 
six months, and finally, when pressed by Dejazet and Sar- 
dou for his decision, returned the play with the remark 
that he did not believe that Sardou had any talent what- 
ever, and that a manager would only injure his theatre by 
putting on a piece by so unsuccessful an author. Five 
years later, when Sardou had become famous, this same 
manager came to him and begged him to write a play. 

For the past seven years Dejazet had been roaming from 
theatre to theatre, and her friends were anxious that at 
the age of sixty she should settle down in a house of her 
own. She had saved 120,000 francs in all, and it was daring 
of her to embark her little capital in a theatrical enterprise. 
But her confidence in her own powers encouraged her to 
face the risk, and when in the summer of 1859 the lease of 
the small FoHes-Nouvelles in the Boulevard du Temple was 
offered for sale she acquired it for the very sum of 120,000 
francs. Her original intention had been to open with 
" Candide," but the piece was prohibited by the censors, 
and as Dejazet was working without any reserve of capital, 
and an initial failure meant disaster, she had recourse again 
to the man in whom she felt confidence. 



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ms FIRST SUCCESS 41 

Sardou had not beai dismayed by the rejection of ** Can- 
dide" at all the theatres and its interdiction by the cen- 
sors, but taking up at Dijazet's request the outline of a 
piece by the old playwright Emile Vanderburch, worked it 
up into a comedy; and he so utterly transformed it that 
Vanderburch, who was present at the reading of the play, 
failed to recognise his own child. Unlike " Candide," this 
piece was inexpensive to mount, and when it had been 
offered to the Cogniards and declined, D^jazet had no hesi- 
tation in adopting it to inaugurate her new house. " Les 
Premieres Armes de Figaro " achieved a great success. The 
brilliancy of the comedy was, however, entirely due to the 
sparkling dialogue furnished by Sardou, for the scheme of 
the play as outlined by Vanderburch was singularly 
defective. 

The next piece prepared by Sardou was taken by Lau- 
rentine Leon, the future Madame Sardou, to Montigny, the 
manager of the Gymnase. It was called " Paris i TEnvers." 
Montigny was much struck by the talent shown in this 
piece, and sent for the author. 

" I cannot put your piece upon my stage because it is not 
suited to the Gymnase. But allow me to submit it to 
Scribe. Let us see what he has to say about it.** 

Scribe read the play, and returned it to Montigny with 
a most cruel letter. There was in the fourth act a love 
scene which shocked the old playwright. He who had 
brought so many couples together upon the stage could not 
understand that any pla)rwright could present the g^nd 
passion under any other aspect. He regarded the scene as 
scandalous [" immonde "] , believed that audiences would 
not stand it, and wound up his letter by saying that this 
particular scene was the worst kind of literature, and what 
was worse, that it was not dramatic literature. Yet five 
or six years afterward this very scene was played, and 
made the phenomenal success of " Nos Intimes." 



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42 SARDOU'S CAREER 

Some months afterward, Sardou brought another play, 
" Les Gens Nerveux," in four acts, to the manager of the 
Gymnase. Montigny read it and said : " I will give you a 
piece of advice. Go and see Theodore Barriere. This play 
is very much after his style of bright comedy. I think that 
you and he together will make a great success of it." 

The author of " Les Faux Bonshommes " received Sar- 
dou kindly, read the piece, and reported : " It is not suited 
to the Gymnase. You must give it to the Palais-RoyaL" 
It so happened that Barriere had promised, but not yet 
finished, a piece for this house. He jumped at the " Gens 
Nerveux." In two days he cut out all the passages specially 
written for the Gymnase. It was the first and last time 
that the two men collaborated, for they cwitrived to quarrel 
over the work. "Les Gens Nerveux" was produced on 
November 4, 1859, and achieved only a partial success. 

Montigny, too, was disappointed at the transfer of " Les 
Gens Nerveux " to a rival house, and told Sardou that when 
he sent him to Barriere he had no intention of presenting 
the play to the Palais-Rojral, but merely wanted to improve 
it for tibe Gymnase. 

Sardou's reply was consolatory. " Do not trouble about 
that. Here are three acts of another play which I had 
handed over to Fargueil for Lurine, the manager of the 
Vaudeville. When I went to recover my manuscript, 
Boieldieu, the secretary, found it mislaid in a comer. Here 
it is." . 

"This time," said Montigny, when he had read the 
play, *' you have no need of a collaborator." 

The new play, which was produced at the Gymnase on 
May IS, i860, was the famous " Les Pattes de Mouche " 
(laK>wn in English as "A Scrap of Paper"), the first ac- 
knowledged masterpiece of Victorien Sardou. His earlier 
pieces were to Sardou what " L'Etourdi " and " Le D6pit 
Amoureux " were to Moliere, a promise of better things to 



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HIS FIRST SUCCESS 48 

come and not in themsdves an achievement It revealed 
both the strong and the weak points of the author, his aston- 
ishing skill in construction due in all probability to his 
patient analysis of Scribe's work, his lack of emotional 
depth, the witty dialogue in which he excels, and his skill 
in hitting off the shortcomings of his contemporaries. The 
great success achieved by " Les Pattes de Mouche " proved 
a turning point in his career. ** If I fail," said the author 
when he heard that his play had been accepted, '' I shall 
start to-morrow for the United States and try my luck at 
journalism." The intrinsic merits of the play and the 
splendid interpretation which it received frc«n M'. Lafon- 
taine and Mme. Rose Ch6ri insured a triumph. In view of 
this success Sardou abandoned all thoughts of seeking 
fortune in any other country than his own. 

Apropos of its revival, years afterward Sardou told how 
he came to conceive one of the chief features of " Les Pattes 
de Mouche." The story is typical of the playwright, who 
always had a keen eye for the dramatic possibilities of ap- 
parently trivial incidents which he treasured up in his 
dossiers for future use. One day, when calling at his 
tobacconist's near the Th^atre-Beaumarchais, he picked up 
a scrap of paper to light his cigar. The paper turned out to 
be a letter from the actress Marie Laurent to her son, then 
a scholar at the Lycee Versailles. This loving letter, which 
Sardou preserved as one of his most treasured possessions, 
also suggested a type of devoted mother which is not infre- 
quently to be found in his plays. The subsequent develop- 
ment of the idea was influenced by the tales of Edgar 
Allan Poe, which always had a special attraction for him 
by reason of their imaginative power, their sensational in- 
cidents, and the skill displayed in their construction. It is 
certain that "The Purloined Letter" suggested the in- 
genious idea of the obvious hiding-place, and in all prob- 
ability "The Gold Bug" (in England known as "The 



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44 SARDOU'S CAREER 

Golden Beetle") had some unconscious connection with 
Thirion's scarab in the third act. It may be remarked that 
letters play an important part in several of Sardou's plays, 
and certain of his critics never tire^ of reproaching him 
with the employment of stale devices whenever, as in 
"Seraphine," " Dora," and " Femande," he makes the action 
hinge on the adventures of a letter. In fact, Mr. A. B. 
Walkley, critic of the London Times, once rather flippantly 
said that this was Sardou's only claim to be called a man 
of letters. 

" Les Pattes de Mouche " was composed before Sardou 
had emerged from the garret stage of his existence. " I 
recall with pleasure," he wrote to a friend, "the hours I 
spent in scribbling and erasing during the scorching 
summer weather in my quarters under the roof. The ceil- 
ing was so low that to breathe fresh air in comfort and to 
have a good light for my work I had to push my table under 
the skylight which lit up this den, and thrusting my head 
under the glazed window sash, write with my hand inside 
the attic and my forehead resting outside on the tiles* All 
these things make me smile to-day, but they did not make 
me weep even then." 

Having finished the work to his satisfaction, he wrote 
it out in his best handwriting and handed his manuscript to 
Anna Fargueil, for whom he had written the part of 
Suzanne. The reader may remember how the author's 
handwriting stood him in good stead in the case of " La 
Taveme des Etudiants" with Gustave Vaez and Mile. 
Berengere. It had been arranged that Mile. Fargueil was 
to give it to Lurine, then manager of the Vaudeville, with 
warm recommendations. 

Sardou waited in vain for a decision. Months passed, 
until at last, exasperated by delay, he called on Boieldieu, 
the secretary of the theatre. This gentleman was cold and 
phlegmatic, but polite. 



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HIS FIRST SUCX^ESS 46 

"What do you want?" 

" My manuscript" 

" What manuscript?" 

''That of a play which Mile. Fargudl handed to M. 
Lurine some months aga" 

" What is your name?" 

" Sardou. Don't trouble to hunt up my record, I have 
been hissed at the Odeon and somewhat roughly used at 
the Palais-Royal together with my collaborator Barri^re, 
but, thanks to D6jazet, I had a success with ' Les Premieres 
Armes de Figaro/ " 

" Ah, yes. I know. Wliat is the title of your play?" 

" ' Les Pattes de Mouche.' " 

Boieldieu then lapsed into silence, brdce into a smile 
of vague pity, and at last said: 

" Ah ! I have some recollection of it. Yes, it is true 
that the manuscript was handed to me, but M. Lurine has 
not yet had time to read it." 

" Well, if he has not found time in three months, he never 
will. Be good enough to give me back my manuscript" 

Sardou thus continues the narrative: "All this time 
Boieldieu was fumbling among liis papers, opening drawers, 
and rummaging in pigeon-holes. At last under a heap of 
manuscripts he found mine. Then hesitating for a moment 
to give it back to me, said : 

"'Look here, leave it with me. I promise that M. 
Lurine shall have read it before forty-eight hours are 
passed.' 

" I declined, and taking my roll of paper, jumped into 
a cab and drove to Passy, where Montigny lived. He knew 
me well. He had already declined two pieces of mine, 
and he was right. But at least he had taken the trouble 
to read them." 

Manager Montigny was a man of somewhat gruff ex- 
terior, but at bottom good-hearted enough. He had proved 



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46 SARDOU'S CAREER 

a failure as comedian and playwright, but was an excellent 
theatrical manager, a keen judge of a play, and a first-rate 
man of business. On his arrival at Passy, Sardou found 
that Montigny was at rehearsal, but sent in his card to 
Mme. Montigny (Rose Qieri). This lady received him 
graciously, and promised that Montigny should read the 
manuscript. The very next day Sardou was invited to go 
to the theatre, and welcomed with good news by Montigny. 
His play had been accepted, and it was settled that Madame 
Montigny was to play the part of Suzanne, written for 
another. 

"Les Pattes de Mouche" was first performed on the 
15th of May, i860. It was splendidly interpreted and 
proved a great success. After the fall of the curtain Mon- 
tigny and Lemoine met Scribe, and Lemoine remarked: 

" Well! This is the author of ' Paris k TEnvers.' Do 
you believe in his future now?*' 

Scribe simply replied : " I was mistaken." Scribe died 
on February 20, 1861, and did not live to see the greatest 
triumphs of his successor. 

A two-act comedy entitled " The Adventures of a Billet- 
Doux," adapted from " Les Pattes de Mouche," by Charles 
Matthews, was produced at Drury Lane, London, on No- 
vember 19, i860. 

Another version of the same play, " A Scrap of Paper," 
by J. Palgrave Simpson, was produced at the St. James's 
Theatre, London, on April 22, i86i. 

About a fortnight after the production of " Les Pattes 
de Mouche" at the Gymnase, "Monsieur Garat" was 
brought out at the Th^atre-Dejazet on May 31, i860. It 
proved one of the longest and most brilliant successes that 
ever fell to the fortune of that small house. It ran for 
three months and did much to build up the theatrical repu- 
tation of Sardou. 

For some days the two plays were in simultaneous re- 



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HIS FIRST SUCCESS 47 

hearsal, and Sardou was in a great state of anxiety — curi- 
ously enough, not at all for the fate of " Monsieur Garat," 
but about the piece that was to face the footlights at the 
Gymnase. This was not the first time Sardou had been 
under fire. In 1854 he was present in the coulisses at the 
Od^on during the disastrous failure of " La Taveme des 
Etudiants/' In his second piece, " Les Premieres Armes de 
Figaro," in 1859, D^jazet remarked that she had no 
confidence in her old pnxnpter, and distrusted her own 
memory, so Sardou squatted in the man's place and did the 
prompting himself. He had no leisure for anxiety and 
was not in a position to realise the details of that evening's 
success. His third piece, "Les Gens Nerveux," did not 
escape without " jolts and jars," but " I felt myself sheltered 
by the celebrity of my collaborator Theodore Barri^re," 
said Sardou, "who took on his own broad shoulders the 
main responsibility of failure or success." 

May 15th, which was to decide the fate of " Les Pattes 
de Mouche," was one of the most anxious evenings ever 
experienced by Sardou. He himself described his state of 
nervous tension, fright, and discouragement. The same 
emotions were experienced on subsequent occasions, but 
never with equal intensity. 

" I never step on the broad pavement by the Gjminase," 
he said, " without glancing at a certain bench, where, after 
innumerable turns on the Boulevard, I went to sit at the 
end of each act to await the news brought me from time 
to time by my friends. In spite of the success of the 
second act I had so little idea of the effect produced that, 
towards the end of the performance, seeing somebody rush- 
ing out in a hurry, I thought: ' The piece must have been a 
dead failure, the people are leaving before the end.' The 
spectator passed near me, recognised me — ^it was Berton 
Pere — ^and shouted: 'Great success, sir, my congratula- 
tions.' Reassured, I rushed into the coulisses, where I 



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48 SARDOU'S CAREER 

arrived just in the nick of time to be present at the triumph 
of my interpreters." 

The difficult problem that confronts all young play- 
wrights was now solved. Sardou had fought down the 
odium of failure. The struggle had lasted six years, but 
he was now in a position to work out his dramatic ideas 
untrammelled by constant anxiety as to the placing of his 
work. 



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CHAPTER V 

Success Brings Charges of Plagiarism 

At this period Sardou seems to have shared Moliere's 
opinion that the function of the stage is amusement ; he felt 
that plays should be written not to harrow up the soul of 
the spectator, but to hearten him up after the cares of the 
day. The result of his dranmtic activity for the next six 
years was a series of diverting comedies, among them 
"Nos Intimes," produced at the Vaudeville on November 
i6, 1861 ; " Les Ganaches," at the Gymnase on October 29, 
1862; "Les Pommes du Voisin," at the Palais-Royal on 
October 25, 1864, and " Nos Bons Villageois " on October 
3, 1866, at the Gymnase. He also brought out a group 
of three comedies satirising certain features of life under 
the Second Empire. In the four comedies named above are 
found humour with no aftertaste of bitterness; healthy 
laughter at the foibles of others; at the vulgar envy of 
the dear friends of M. Caussade in " Nos Intimes " ; at the 
blind and stubborn conservatism of the Marquis de la 
Rochepeans and his friends in "Les Ganaches/' which 
has been aptly compared with the invincible objection of the 
city of Beauvais to the advent of the railway; and the free 
thought and ultra-democratic ideas represented by Dr. 
Leonidas Vauclin. It is against these two opponents of 
Bonapartism, the Legitimists and the Democrats, that the 
satire is directed. " Les Pommes du Voisin " is a comedy 
the subject of which is the escapades of a hitherto staid 
young man who resolves to have his fling before mar- 
riage. " Nos Bon Villageois " is a skit cm the country folk 
who are not so tmsophisticated as they appear, in which 
some critics found signs of opposition to the imperial 
regime, because it laughs at the ways of the peasantry, who 
4 49 



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60 SARDOU'S CAREER 

were believed to be the mainstay of the empire of 
Napoleon III. 

The best known English version of " Nos Intimes " is 
by H, W. Wigan, and is called " Friends or Foes." It 
was produced in New York in October, 1862, only the title 
being changed to " Bosom Friends." 

An adaptation of "Nos Intimes" entitled "Our 
Friends " was produced by George March, at the Olympic 
Theatre, London, May 6, 1872. 

An adaptation of " Nos Intimes " entitled " Peril," by 
" Saville Rowe " and " Bolton Rowe " (Scott and Stephen- 
son), was produced at the Prince of Wales, London, Sep- 
tember 30, 1876. 

The appearance of "Les Pommes du Voisin" at the 
Palais-Royal on October 15, 1864, was a noteworthy event 
in the career of the playwright, as affording the first occa- 
sion on which some of his critics preferred those constantly 
recurring charges of plagiarism which were a signal of 
success. For Sardou's success could now be regarded as 
firmly established. Nearly four years had elapsed since 
"Les Pattes de Mouche" had revealed his powers to the 
Parisian public As success invariably breeds envy and 
hostility, especially when the man who achieves it does not 
readily turn his cheek to the smiter, one need not go 
further for an explanation. On this occasion Sardou wrote 
an interesting reply to his critics, in which he stated his 
belief that the possession of true dramatic talent was dis- 
played not by skill in the invention of a story but in the 
delineation of character, in the working out of the details 
of the plot, and in the dialogue. He then quoted the 
example of the great Moli^re, producing a formidable list 
of the authors laid under contribution in the creation of 
the miser, Harpagon. Yet Moliere by the fire of his genius 
had produced a masterpiece for all time, and in fact, as he 
stated in his curious defence, " took what was good wher- 



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CHARGES OF PLAGIARISM 51 

ever he found it/* in actual life or in books. After all, 
even his most bitter enemies have never accused Sardou of 
thefts equalling in daring those of Alexandre Dumas 
Senior. We are told of this great man that " he borrowed 
audaciously from such well-read authors as Schiller, Sir 
Walter Scott, Victor Hugo, Augustin Thierry, and Barante. 
He pleaded that a man of his rank was entitled to avail 
himself of what was good wherever he found it Even 
this plea of defence was borrowed irom Moliere." 

In his amusing pamphlet " My Plagiarisms," published 
in 1882, in reply to certain charges made on the aiq>ear- 
ance of "Odette" in November of the preceding year, 
Sardou tells how he triumphantly rebutted various accusa- 
tions of literary larceny : 

" One day I called on the publisher Michel L6vy, and asked for 
the address of Mme. Charles de Bernard. I explained that I had 
promised a play for the Palais-Royal, and had come across a 
promising subject in Bernard's novel 'Une Aventure de Magistrate' 
and that I desired to come to terms with the widow, to whom 
I supposed the copyright to belong. L^vy expressed his pleasure 
at this example of literary probity, and mentioned several instances 
of famous novels that had been dramatised without one centime 
of indemnity being paid. During our conversation Levy continued 
to search among his papers, and at last said: 'The address you 
want is of no use, for I am Madame Charles de Bernard.' Then, 
producing an agreement under which he had acquired all the 
rights of the novel, he ended by asking me for one-third of his 
royalties for permission to dramatise the tale. 

"If ever man thought himself safe from further claims it 
was myself. But you will see. 'Les Pommes du Voisin' was 
performed. Two days afterwards the Authors' Society wrote 
to protest against the use I had made of Charles de Bernard's 
work, and the same day 'M. de Bragelonne' [Dumas] published 
in his Journal, Le Voleur, a virulent article in which I was 
denotmced as a thief whose throat ought to be cut by the Committee 
of the Authors' Society. 

"My reply was only too easy to make. I wrote immediately 
to the Figaro to establish the facts, and to prove, agreement in 



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52 SARDOU'S CAREER 

hand, that I had loyally acquired the rights I was accused of 
having stolen. After that I awaited the compliments of the 
Committee. 

" None came. They had said their say, and shammed dead.** 

An adaptation of ''Les Pommes du Voisin" entitled 
" Themis," by H. P. Stephens, was produced at the Royalty 
Theatre, London, March 29, 1880. 

A version of "Les Pommes du Voisin*' entitled 
" Queen's Counsel," by James Mortimer, was produced at 
the Comedy Theatre, London, May 24, 1890. 

All this time Sardou was busily experimenting with 
various other subjects and types of comedy. " Les Femmes 
Fortes," just performed at the Vaudeville on December 
31, i860, was the first play in which he dealt with the 
"new woman." This study of emancipated and "Ameri- 
canised " womanhood (as Sardou believed) was originally 
written for the Gynmsist, and the leading role was in- 
tended by the author for Rose-Cheri. Montigny, however, 
vetoed this proposal, and Sardou took his play to the 
Vaudeville, where it was at once accepted. It speaks much 
for the two men that this incident was not allowed to 
interrupt the friendship existing between Sardou and 
Montigny. 

Another play of no great importance, *' L'Ecureuil," 
was produced by Sardou at the Vaudeville on February 
9, 1861, under the pseudon)rm of "Carle." 

The three act comedy in prose, " Piccolino," first played 
at the Gymnase on July 18, 1861, was written to compensate 
Montigny for the loss of " Les Femmes Fortes." It proved 
a brilliant success, and drew full houses all through the 
dc^-days. Some years afterward, in 1876, this comedy 
was rewritten and converted into a comic opera, for which 
M. Ernest Guiraud composed the music. In this form 
" Piccolino " was successfully produced at the Theatre des 
Varietes on April 11, 1876, and enjoyed a good run. It 



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CHARGES OF PLAGIARISM 6S 

was even put on the same stage again on September 30th, 
after the summer hcJidays, with a new denouement and 
a few fresh touches from the authors. 

An English version of " Piccolino," by Sydney Samuel, 
was produced at Her Majesty's Theatre, London, January 
29, 1879, ^y the Carl Rosa Opera Company. Another ver- 
sion, by Barton Hill, was produced in New York, September 
28, 1886. 

"La Papillonne," first played at the Theatre-Fran^ais 
on April 11, 1862, has only three characters of importance, 
the foremost of whom is an unfaithful husband, whose 
escapades may be said to form the staple of the play. Re- 
stricted pieces of this kind do not afford sufficient scope 
for Sardou's talents. He needs the stimulus of a wider 
stage, a greater crowd of characters, more life, and a 
more intricate plot to develcq) his resources. "La Papil- 
lonne " met with a somewhat cold reception. The habitues 
of the house of Moliere found the broadness of the piece 
distasteful, and the characters exaggerated and improbaUe. 
It is so unusual for Sardou to misjudge his public that it 
may not be out of place to explain that " La Papillonne " 
was really written for the Vaudeville, but that the manage- 
ment of the Comedie-Franqaise, prompted by Count 
Walewski, was so anxious to secure the piece that the 
author agreed to the transfer. But the cast at its new 
quarters was too staid and the audience was too fastidious. 
It fell flat, though later on, with more suitable exponents, it 
was completely successful at the Gymnase. 

An adaptation of "La Papillonne'' entitled "A Gay 
Deceiver," by James Mortimer, was produced at the Roy- 
alty Theatre, London, February 3, 1879; the scene is laid 
at Scarborough. 

A " readaptation " of " La Papillonne," entitled " But- 
terfly Fever," by James Mortimer, was produced at the 
Criterion Theatre, London, May 17, 1881. 



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64 SARDOU'S CAREER 

Ainother comparatively unimportant play of this period 
is the three-act a)medy "La Perle Noire/' which was 
performed at the Gymnase on April 12, 1862. It was 
founded on a story of the same name, written by Sardou 
in his salad days. This tale is a mere trifling sketch of 
some fifty pages, which the author himself calls a "juve- 
nile effort." "La Perle Noire" has been several times 
revived — for example, it was played for three nights at the 
Gymnase as recently as November 30, 1899. 

The two-act comedy of " Les Pres Saint-Gervais," pro- 
duced at the Theatre-Dejazet on April 24, 1862, a>ntained 
a part expressly written for Virginie Dejazet. Her im- 
personation of the Prince de Conti, who is represented as 
being shown life round the guinguettes of Paris by his 
tutor Harpin, was a masterly piece of work. At the fall 
of the curtain, the whole house called for the brilliant 
actress. " She appeared, holding Sardou by the hand, and 
tenderly kissed him, amid thunders of applause." This 
little comedy was subsequently, in collaboration with 
Philippe Gille, converted into an opera-bouffe with music 
by Charles Lecocq, in which form it was played at the 
Paris Th&tre des Vari^tes in 1874. 

An adaptation of "Les Pres St. Gervais," by Robert 
Reese, was produced at the Criterion, London, November 
28, 1874. 

On April 13, 1863, "Bataille d' Amour," written in 
collaboration with Karl Dadin, was performed at the 
Opera-Comique. It is an unimportant piece in three acts, 
in fact a mere libretto, for which Vaucorbeil composed the 
music At this period of his life Sardou was apparently 
experimenting in various types to test his powers. 

His next play, "Les Diables Noirs," is a somewhat 
sombre drama in four acts. The "black devils" are the 
vices of gambling and profligacy. The piece was pro- 
hibited by Napoleon's Minister, Count Walewski, only 



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CHARGES OF PLAGIARISM 65 

three nights before the date of the first performance. No 
reason was assigned for this action of the government, and 
the play was suspended for several months. Then came a 
sudden change of ministry. Marshal Vaillant replaced 
Walewski, the interdict was removed, and "Les Diabks 
Noirs" was performed at the Vaudeville on November 
28, 1863. It was severely handled by the critics and met 
with no success. The prcAibition had whetted the curiosity 
of the public, and there was a general expectation that the 
piece would prove to be an attadc on the clergy or to 
possess some other spice of scandal. When it was found 
that the plot was founded on an ordinary love story, the 
public interest suddenly subsided and the reaction was 
fatal to the play. The Empress Eug6nie, however, wit- 
nessed a performance incognita, attended by a single lady 
in waiting. The piece so touched her majesty, we are told, 
that it moved her to tears. Shortly afterward Sardou was 
decorated with the Cross of the Legion of Honour, and in 
August of the following year was promoted to be an 
officer of the Order. It is not easy to say whether this 
distinction is to be regarded as a personal token of the 
Empress's approval. The decoration has been, with more 
plausibility, attributed to the support accorded to the 
BcMiapartist government in October of the previous year by 
"Les Ganaches." 

" Le Degel," produced at the Theatre-Dejazet on April 
12, 1864, was the last piece by Sardou in which his old 
friend and helper Virginie Dejazet played. The veteran 
actress, now in her sixty-seventh year, played the part of 
Hector de Bassompierre, but though she managed to avert 
a failure she was not able to convert the piece into a suc- 
cess. The plot is too thin ; the piece is open to the charges 
of being meagre and monotonous. It disappointed even 
the ardent friends of the author. It struggled along for a 



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66 SARDOU'S CAREER 

time with small and dwindling receipts, and then vanished 
from the bills, not to reappear. 

On May 31, 1870, the Theatre-Dejazet closed its doors: 
" The success of the artist did not mean financial success/' 
A special farewell performance of "Les Pres Saint-Ger- 
vais" was given by Dejazet on June 3, 1870. The de- 
parture of their old favourite under these sad circumstances 
brought tears to the eyes of many among the audience. 
The theatre had been sold at a loss of 40,000 francs, and 
Dejazet was heavily encumbered with debt, only fifty per 
cent, being available for creditors. Not long after the war, 
the Gaulois organised a benefit performance; the arrange- 
ments were placed in the hands of a committee on which 
Sardou sat as the representative of the dramatic authors. 
The performance took place at the Theatre National de 
rOpera on September 27, 1874. The first item on the 
programme was Act I of " Monsieur Garat," in which 
Dejazet herself appeared. This performance and a tom- 
bola held on October 4th realised nearly 80,000 francs, 
which sum was carefully invested by the committee to save 
it from the clutches of her creditors. 

Towards the close of her life [1798-1875], soured by 
poverty and disappointment, Dejazet in a letter to her son 
in 1873 wrote rather bitterly of the supposed indifference 
of Sardou to her plight, though the benefit performance to 
which reference has been made, and of which Sardou was 
an active promoter, shows no reluctance to lend a helping 
hand. She mentioned how she had befriended " the timid 
and anxious little man whom' I then saw for the first time," 
how she had striven to induce managers to take up 
" Candide," and how she had brought about the collabora- 
tion with Vanderburch. " Finally it was I who, happy and 
triumphant, brought the bear into Sardou's den, a servants' 
attic which Laurentine's [later, Sardou's wife] mother had 
given him, for he knew not where to lay his head then. 



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CHARGES OF PLAGIARISM 57 

I can see diat attic still. A kind of camp bed, two chairs, 
and a table covered with papers on which the g^eat man, so 
little then, had planted his two elbows with his head in his 
hands. He did not even hear me enter. I threw the manu- 
script to him saying: ' Wake up; here is some work to do.' " 

On June 25, 1864, the three-act comedy of "Don 
Quichotte" was performed at the Gymnase, and did not 
cease running' till the middle of October, about the time 
of the first performance of " Les Pommes du Voisin." 

Another minor piece by Sardou was *'Lc Capitaine 
Henriot," a comic opera dealing with the reign of Henry 
of Navarre in the year 1594, for which Sardou and Gus- 
tave Vaez wrote the libretto and F. Aug^te Gevaert com- 
posed the music. It was produced at the Op^ra-Comique 
on December 29, 1864. 

Three important plays produced at this period of Sar- 
dou's life, to which reference has been already made, form 
a group by themselves. They are " Les Vieux Gar^ons," 
performed at the Gymnase on January 21, 1865; "La 
Famille Benoiton," which made its appearance at the 
Vaudeville on November 4, 1865 ; and " Maison Neuve/' 
brought out at the Vaudeville on December 4, i866. All 
three plays are pungent satires on some phase of society as 
it existed at Paris toward the end of the Second Empire. 
It was a time of inflated luxury and extravagance. At the 
hands of Baron Haussmann Paris was then undergoing that 
process of rebuilding and adornment which culminated in 
1867, the year of the Great Exhibition. Whole quarters 
of tortuous streets were demolished, and splendid new 
boulevards lined with palaces took their place. One result 
of this transformation was the sudden building up of im- 
mense fortunes by a few lucky contractors. A mania for 
money-making and speculation set in, and there is no doubt 
that the tendency of the prevalent display and extravagance 
was inimical to a healthy home life. M. Didier in "La 



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68 SARDOU'S CAREER 

Famille Benoiton" slaving away to keep pace with his 
wife's extravagance ; the slang and vulgarities of the par- 
venu Benoitons; the lax ethical code of the three old 
reprobates in " Les Vieux Garqons " — these are true pict- 
ures of the time. The last-named five-act comedy takes 
its name from the three old bachelors, de Veaucourtois, 
Clavieres, and de Mortemer, all men of different character, 
thereby affording the dramatist an excellent opportunity of 
displaying his skill in characterisation, but alike in the fact 
that apparently one of their chief occupations in life is 
to win the love of married ladies. It proved a brilliant 
success at the G}mmase. 

An adaptation of " Les Vieux Gar^ons " entitled " Re- 
claimed," by James Mortimer, was produced at the Hay- 
market Theatre, London, September 14, 1881. 

Other types of the time are Claire and Rene in 
" Maison Neuve," who are not content to enjoy a prosper- 
ous business and a competence. The life is too humdrum 
— ^they must launch out and cut a dash. The result seems 
inevitable disaster. But one peculiarity of Sardou's plays* 
is that his denouements are almost invariably happy. A 
deus ex machvna is found, and the ruin which impended 
over foolish Claire and Rene is ultimately averted. 

All three satires achieved great success: "Les Vieux 
Garqons" was directed against the false morality of the 
times, perhaps not to the same extent as "La Famille 
Benoiton," because the ways of upstarts lend themselves 
better to comic treatment. In fact " La Famille Benoiton '' 
was one of the most brilliant successes in the history of the 
Paris stage. It reminded many of Beaumarchais's "Le 
Mariage de Figaro," and earned for the author the title 
of " Petit-Neveu of Beaumarchais." By way of more 
material reward, it brought him royalties to the amotmt 
of 25,000 francs, thereby contributing towards the pur- 
chase-money of his country place at Marly. It has been re- 



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CHARGES OF PLAGIARISM 69 

vived more than once, as for instance in 1890 at the Od^on, 
a quarter-century after its original production. 

An English version of " Maison Neuve " was made for 
Mr. and Mrs. Kendal and produced by them in London in 
1885; this version, entitled "Mayfair," was the woric of 
A. W. (now Sir Arthur) Pinero. 

A version of " Maison Neuve " entitled " Vanity," by 
Justin Huntly M'Carthy, M. P., was produced at the 
Theatre Royal, Plymouth, August 11, 1886. 

All through the winter of 1865 the name " Benoiton " 
was on everybody's lips, and the popularity of the play is 
attested by the fact that all kinds of articles in the shops 
were christened " Benoiton." 

A curious little story is told apropos of the rehearsal 
of this play, which shows how keenly Sardou observed every 
indication, however trifling, bearing on the prospects of his 
piece. Anxious to find an actress to fit s<Mne minor part, 
Sardou called on a certain professor of elocution. The 
latter said to him: " I must ask you to hear little Camille, 
this amusing little creature of eight" The dnunatist was 
so struck with the drollery and self-possession of the little 
maid tbat he inserted the role of Fanfan in the play, a 
role which previously had no existence in the scheme. The 
actors looked askance at the new part, and deputed Anna 
Fargueil to deliver a protest. The addition would, it was 
thought, compromise the success of the play. Sardou 
simply replied : " We shall soon see," and kept his eyes and 
ears open. 

The rehearsal was proceeding, when suddenly roars of 
laughter were heard coming from the fireman stationed on 
the stage, who had been tickled by the acting of little Miss 
Camille. 

"That is all I want," said Sardou to the assembled 
company. "The fireman is right He is the audience." 



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60 SARDOU'S CAREER 

And Fanfan, in truth, contributed not a little to the success 
of the piece. 

In these satires Sardou handles the whip lightly. There 
is no savage invective, but gentle ridicule: customs are 
scourged laughingly. Rouxeau, a well-known critic of the 
day, said of " Les Vieux Gar5ons " : " Never has social 
sore been laid bare with a defter touch." Sardou himself 
told us what type of bachelor he most desired to hold up 
to execration in this play, "It is those wilful men who 
have never asked themselves whether life did not bring them 
any other obligation than to lead the most agreeable exist- 
ence possible, who are the slaves of their own indolence, and 
out of sheer selfishness will not be either husbands or 
fathers, but live on society like parasites." 

Not that Sardou was a writer of thesis-plays, like 
Alexandre Dumas the Younger, or Emile Augier. It is 
true that every one of his pieces is found upon examination 
to contain a moral. But Sardou never consciously sub- 
ordinated the development of his plot to the maintenance 
of any theory. In fact, his purpose in writing plays was 
to please, and not to preach, and the logical nexus between 
the diflferent scenes is only used by him to maintain the 
necessary dramatic illusion, and not to develop the stages 
of an argument. 

Sardou was always an adept in selecting the current 
idea which promised the best dramatic material and had 
the best chance of pleasing the public taste when worked 
up into a play. Given the idea, the existence of a moral is 
merely evidence of the general excellence of the workman- 
ship, not of conscious design. 



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CHAPTER VI 

Sardou Becomes a Landed Gentleman and is Called 

TO Court 

Sardou had now reached a point in his career where 
Napoleon and Eug<6nie became aware of his existence. On 
four separate occasions his plays were performed before 
the Court at Compiegne. Every autumn Napoleon III. 
and the Empress used to repair to the pleasant palace on the 
Oise. This country seat was originally constructed by 
St. Louis, and then rebuilt and enlarged by Louis XIV., 
Louis XV., and Napoleon I. It contained a handscnne 
Salle du Spectacle, capable of seating eight hundred spec- 
tators. It was the custom, when the Court was in residence, 
to "command" companies from Paris to give perform- 
ances in this theatre. The four plays of Sardou performed 
at Compiegne were: "Les Pr6s Saint-Gervais," "Les 
Ganaches/* " Nos Intimes," and " La Famille Benoiton." 
Of these pieces the only one that seemed to satisfy the 
select audience was "Les Pres Saint-Gervais," thanks to 
the sprightly acting of Dejazet, then in her sixty-fourth 
year. The other three plays failed to please. "Les 
Ganaches *' and " Nos Intimes " were but coldly received. 
Some of the scenes from the third act of the latter were 
too pungent for the members of the Court — a curious 
affectation of delicacy of feeling to be paraded in such 
notorious times. During the performance of " La Fainille 
Benoiton ** the temperature of the audience is described as 
"glacial." The very weaknesses at which the satire 
was aimed were to a great extent directly traceable to the 
• vast improvements of Paris carried on by Baron Hauss- 
mann at the Emperor's direction. The guests at 
Compiegne were scarcely likely to be in s)rmpathy with 

61 



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62 SARDOU'S CAREER 

the satirist, and did not at any time afford a very congenial 
audience for a company of players. The Emperor's guests 
were too intent on schemes to advance their own interests 
at court, or too fatigfued with htmting parties and the 
other strenuous amusements of court life, to appreciate a 
good play. Sometimes, we read, dinner was late, or tmduly 
prolonged, in which case it was customary to curtail or 
otherwise mutilate the piece. Under such circumstances 
no players can feel at their best. In the case of " La 
Famille Benoiton " we are told that something^in the play 
had given umbrage to important personages at court. It 
is, therefore, not easy to see why Count Bacciochi, the 
Emperor's chamberlain, was permitted to select this par- 
ticular play. Though the author fully expected a cold 
audience, he obeyed the summons, but when, according to 
custom, he was invited by Marshal Vaillant, the Minister 
of the Household, to present himself in the Emperor's box, 
Sardou excused himself, saying that his actors were de- 
pressed by the manner of their reception, and that he must 
remain with them to comfort them. "You, Marshal, are 
not the man to fed surprise at an officer wishing to re- 
main with his men." 

Sardou had now arrived at a stage in his career, when, 
so far from being the "petit gargon" whom his friend 
Montigny had known, he had already worked his way to 
the forefront of contemporary dramatists. Thanks to the 
excellence of his business habits, the successful playwright 
was also a prosperous man, and had already been for two 
or three years in possession of his beautiful villa at Marly- 
le-Roi, not far from Versailles. 

Though the majority of Sardou's plays have been 
pictures of contemporary life and manners in various 
aspects, he was always a diligent student of the past, and 
it was in a spot rich in historical associations that he chose 
to reside. The story goes that when Louis XIV. was jour- 



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CALLED TO COURT 68 

neying one day from Versailles, he passed through Marly. 
The King was struck with the peaceful beauty of the spot, 
summoned his architect, and bade him erect a modest villa 
there. But Madame de Maintenon did not approve, and 
by her influence a magnificent chateau was erected 

It was there that she induced the King to revoke the 
Edict of Nantes in 1685, and there that Marie Antoinette 
first saw the Diamond Necklace. The revolutionary mob 
in 1793 practically destroyed the chateau, only a ruin being 
left. To a student of history and a man of Sardou's tem- 
perament Marly presented irresistible attractions. 

"Le Verduron," as he called his residence, was once 
the site of a feudal castle occufMed by a younger branch of 
the Montmorenqr family. Louis XIV. bought the property, 
pulled down the fortress, filled up the moats, and built a 
handsome house there for the governor of Marly. After 
the Revolution the house remained untenanted for several 
years, and there is a story that when out hunting one day 
General Bonaparte passed on horsdxudc through the dining- 
room. 

This house, somewhat remodeled, at last became the 
h<»ne of Sardou. He occupied it immediately after his 
early successes as a playwright. He first saw it when he 
was spending the summer season at Louvedennes, near 
Marly. One afternoon in the summer of 1863, while jog- 
ging along on a donkey, wrapped in deep thought over 
the plot of a new play, his beast suddenly stopped at the 
gateway of the dilapidated country-house. Aroused from 
his reverie, Sardou looked up, and was so charmed by the 
venerable ruin that he yearned to possess it. He asked a 
passing peasant to whcwn it belonged. "To Madame de 
Bithune-SuUy." "Is she visible?'' "No." "Why not?'' 
" Because she died yesterday." 

Soon after this tlie property was advertised for sale, the 
t>rice fixed at 110,000 francs. Sardou oflfe|red 105,000 



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V 



64 SARDOU'S CAREER 

francs, one-half cash, the remainder in a year. Note the 
terms. At that time his entire fortune did not exceed 
50,000 francs. But the play he was constructing when the 
donkey interrupted his thoughts brought him the other 
50,000, and when the year was over Sardou owned his 
villa in fee simple. 

As is usually the case with country-houses, the purchase- 
price of Marly was the least item in the total cost. Sardou 
spent more than one fortune in improving and beautifying 
his property. It came to be one of a ntunber of beautiful 
villas. It was in Marly too that Alexandre Dumas the 
Elder built his famous " Villa Monte Cristo," and later on 
Alexandre Dumas the Son also occupied a handsome 
country-house near that of Sardou. This, by the way, 
Dumas did not purchase : it was bequeathed to him by an 
admirer. 

The Sardou villa at Marly is approached by a fine 
avenue lined by Sphinxes in rose granite. These are the 
same gorgeous sphinxes which excited so much admiration 
at the Paris exhibition of 1867. There is a magnificent 
wrought-iron gateway at the entrance of the avenue. The 
country-houses of France are famous for their beautiful* 
gateways, many of which consist of lace-like iron-work 
wrought sometimes by the craftsmen of the middle ages, 
often of good modern imitations. The house itself is a 
large mansion in the Louis XIV. style, the central block 
of whidii is but one story in height, while the wings or 
pavilions contain two. It is situated in the centre of 
grounds combining the charms of gardens, groves, and 
artificial woods, partly arranged in the style of French 
landscape gardening, and partly in imitation of the more 
unconventional parks of English country houses. 

Sardou filled the interior of his villa with beautiful and 
tmique objects. Even the antechambers and vestibules were 
crowded with curiosities. Among them visitors noticed a 



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CALLED TO COURT 66 

sleigh of the time of Louis XV.> ancient sedan-diairs, 
arquebuses, matchlocks and all kinds of mediaeval 
weap(ms, the clock which stood in Louis XVL's room, an 
ivory statue of Voltaire which came from his home in 
Pemey, and many bibelots. 

The main drawmg-room he furpished in eighteenth 
century style, and hung it with rare tapestries from 
Beauvais; paintings, prints, and drawings of great value 
he suspended on its walls. These were not only of artistic 
but also of antiquarian value, for Sardou purchased all 
manner of ''documents" to aid him in his study of the 
epoch when he was writing those plays based on the times 
of the French Revolution. He thus acctunulated a vast 
store of wood, steel, and copper engravings, of lithographs, 
and of coloured xylographic prints illustrative of this per- 
iod. Many of these he hung upon the walls of the living 
rooms, but most of them were to be seen in the library. 
There, too, were to be found many priceless autographs. 
One of these was the famous report of Camille Desmoulins 
on Danton, with comments in Robespierre's handwriting. 

The library at Marly consisted of twelve rooms, in 
which was accommodation for 20,000 volumes. This num- 
ber did not by any means represent all of Sardou's books, 
for he had another though a smaller collection at Paris, 
while at Nice he had still more books concerning the 
eighteenth century, with a vast store of accompanying 
pictures, prints, and manuscripts. He had, by the way, 
two estates at Nice — Guardamidio, a picturesque farm- 
house, and a more pretentious country-villa on a rock over- 
looking the Mediterranean which he dubbed *' Villa Theo- 
dora." Nice is but a few miles distant from Le Cannet, 
a small village near Cannes, from which, as we have seen, 
the family of Sardou originally came. 



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CHAPTER VII 

The Success of Patrie and the End of 
THE Empire 

The important group of three plays, " Les Vieux Gar- 
90ns," "La Famille Benoiton," and "Maison Neuve," 
satirising various features of life under the Second Em- 
pire toward its close, was followed by another type of 
piece, in which various ethical questions were touched 
upon rather than discussed, for Sardou consistently 
eschewed the thesis-play; his conception of the true func- 
tion of the stage was not the solution of psychological 
problems, but the presentation of life and action and the 
delineation of character. 

The landmarks of the transitional period are "Sera- 
phine," "Patrie," "Femande," "Rabagas," "UOncle 
Sam,'' " La Haine,'' " Daniel Rochat,'' and " Divorqons." 
In these plays the author was no longer content to play 
round the surface of things and set forth the ridiculous 
side of externals; he probed somewhat more deeply, and 
attempted to exhibit the underlying moral 

" Seraphine," the first of this group, was produced at 
the Gymnase on December 21, 1868. The heroine, Sera- 
phine, Baroness de Rosanges, had been guilty of folUes in 
her youth, and now with years came remorse and ill-reg- 
ulated devotion. In her spiritual pride this female Tartuffe 
proceeds to wreck the happiness of her daughters. No 
play of Sardou involved him in greater difficulties with 
the censors than "Seraphine." In 1868, the government 
grew aware that, in spite of the external glitter of apparent 
prosperity, the influence of Napolfon III. was waning, a4|d 
that the Empire seemed but a whited sepulchre. 

His ministers were inclined to be unduly sensitive to, 
66 



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THE SUCCESS OP PATRIE 67 

attacks, especially if directed against the Empress. Three 
of Sardou's plays had satirized certain features of the 
times, and already his name was not in good odour with 
the authorities. Hence the ministers were predisposed to 
find in the new play offensive allusions to the Empress. 
In deference to their wishes, the title was altered from 
"La Devote" to "Seraphine/' the name of the chief 
character in the play, and one scene was suppressed. They 
made other objections, but the piece was finally passed; 
though the earlier performances were interrupted by dis- 
turbances, it finally proved a success. 

" Patrie," one of Sardou's finest plays and the first of 
his dramas, was performed for the first time at the Porte 
Saint-Martin on March i8, 1869. It is not a thesis-play, 
though it depicts a moral conflict "I do not know," 
wrote Sardou, "how the dramatic idea is revealed to my 
confreres. My procedure is invariably the same. It 
always appears to me in the form of a kind of phil- 
osophical equation, the problem being to discover the 
unknown quantity. Directly the problem is set, it pervades 
all my thoughts, lays siege to me, and leaves me no rest 
till I have found the formula required. In 'Patrie,* for 
example, the problem took this form : * What is the greatest 
sacrifice a man can make for love of country? ' " 

The dramatist had promised a play to Raphael Felix, 
the manager of the Porte Saint-Martin, who had a piece 
by George Sand running at the time. This play proved a 
failure, and Sardou received an urgent appeal to com- 
plete his prcmiised piece. Working in his retreat at Marly, 
he finished the drama in the short space of five weeks. 

Sardou appropriately dedicated "Patrie" to John 
Lothrop Motley, the historian of the " Rise of the Ehitdi 
R€|Mblic." When once it had reached the stage of re- 
hearsal the author's only difficulty was with Anna Fargueil, 
whose exceptional talents were accompanied by a most 



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68 SARDOU'S CAREER 

intractable disposition. Finding it uncongenial, she re- 
fused point-blank the role of Dolores, and was encouraged 
in her refusal by Raphael Felix, who was ambitious of 
seeing the part played by his sister Lia. But Sardou was 
equal to the occasion; he induced Mme. Fargueil to re- 
consider her decision, and in the end she contributed not 
a little to the success of the piece. 

The psychological interest in "Patrie" centres in the 
conflict of love and duty in the same breast, while Sardou's 
subsequent dramas are, as a rule, constructed on a ground- 
work of violent passions and emotions which only come into 
conflict through the interaction of contrasted characters 
in the play. " Patrie " marked the revival of the historical 
drama from the decadence into which it had fallen at the 
end of the Second Empire. P. B, Gheusi, one of Sardou's 
collaborators, gives us some idea of the great position sud- 
denly taken by the dramatist and the ovations with which 
he was everywhere greeted. Five days after the first 
performance of "Patrie," during the last entr'acte of 
" La Diva " at another theatre, Sardou was recognized by 
the spectators. Cries of "Vive Sardou" rose from' all 
parts of the house. " He blushed like a yotmg girl, but did 
not stir from his place." Raphael Felix returned the saluta- 
tions on his behalf. When the curtain fell, many of the 
audience formed a group in the vestibule and waited for 
Sardou. There they greeted him with fresh acclamations, 
and attempted to carry him home in triumph, when he fled 
in a cab. 

Seventeen years later " Patrie " was recast by Sardou, 
with the help of Louis Gallet, and performed as a lyrical 
drama in four acts at the Paris Opera House on December 
17, 1^6, M. Paladilhe furnishing the music. The opera 
of " Patrie " was a distinct success, and was revived for 
four nights on January 7, 1891, when it reached its 60th 



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THE SUCCESS OF PATRIE 69 

performance, and again on April g, 1900, when it ran for 
thirteen nights at the Opera House. 

The operatic version of "Patrie" was performed in 
German mider the title of "Vaterland" at Hamburg in 
1889 and at La Scala at Milan in 1895, as " Patria/' 

Apropos of this event, Sardou narrated how, on July 
13, 1870, he was present at the first performance of the 
drama at the Theatre de la Monnaie at Brussels. Fresh 
from his long experience of Paris theatres, he was struck 
by the phlegmatic temperament of the Brussels burghers. 
Two notable Frenchmen happened to be present at this 
performance, the Due d'Aumale and Henri Rochefort, the 
former in the Burgomaster's box, the latter in the circle. 
The two exiles led the most vigorous applause that even- 
ing. During one of the intervals Sardou was invited into 
the Burgomaster's box to be introduced to the Due 
d'Aumale and to receive his cong^tulations. The author 
expressed to the Burgomaster the wish that his compatriots 
would not treat his work so coldly. " Coldly, young man," 
said M. Anspach in his most paternal tone, "why this is 
the ne plus ultra of Flemish warmth, and yet you com- 
plain." Then the Due d'Aumale, turning to Sardou, said 
with a melancholy smile : " These fcrfk are not our Paris- 
ians, monsieur: they rise to the occasion better than the 
good people of Brussels." 

Next morning Sardou and a friend took breakfast with 
Rochefort at the Cafe Riche. The man of the Lanterne 
did not weary of praising " Patrie." " His concluding 
words kept ringing in my ear: 'What a superb drama! 
What a marvellous opera it would make I ' " It is to this 
suggestion that the operatic version of " Patrie " was due. 
The conversion took two months, and various alterations 
were found necessary. In the second act the scene in the 
Salle des Fetes in the Duke's Palace was 'inserted merely 
^for the sake of the ballet, which was judged to be indis- 



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70 SARDOU'S CAREER 

pensable in an opera. In this form "Patrie" was very 
successful, and a performance which was given for a char- 
itable purpose realized no less than 94,000 francs. 

A revival of the drahia was in course of preparation 
at the Comedie-Frangaise at the very time when the build- 
ing erected in 1803 was burned to the gpround in the dis- 
astrous fire of March 8, 1900. The performance was thus 
postponed for more than a year, when the new building, 
erected on the same site, was opened with great ceremony 
on December 29, 1900, in the presence of the President of 
the Republic and the Ministers. 

The scene being laid in Brussels, it may well be 
imagined that the drama of " Patrie " evoked the deepest 
interest in Belgium. The gossips of the day went so far 
as to suggest that the piece was written at the inspiration 
of Napoleon III., who thus sought to curry favour with 
the Belgians with a view to paving the way to the absorp- 
tion of the little kingdom into his own empire. The union 
of Rysoor and La Tremouille was adduced in support of 
•diis theory! But it was too ridiculous to gain serious 
credence. In discussing the matter the Indipendance Beige 
said: "It is the cause of Flanders that the author has 
pleaded, and God knows if it would be possible to win it 
more triumphantly. Sardou ought to be proclaimed a 
Belgian citizen by the Chamber of Representatives." 

At the time when the original drama of " Patrie " was 
in rehearsal, early in 1869, "La Famille des Gueux," by 
Jules Claretie and Petrucelli della Gatina, the scene of 
which is also laid in Flanders, was being played at Paris. 
Though this identity of scene was the only point of 
resemblance in the two pieces, a dispute arose between 
Sardou and Qaretie with regard to priority of treatment, 
and the affair nearly came to a duel. One of Sardou's 
seconds was his friend de Najac, who afterward collabo- 
rated in " Divorgons." At the last moment the dispute was 



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THE SUCCESS OP PATRIE 71 

aimcably settled. The quarrel did not last long, for the 
two men met in the following year while the Franco- 
Prussian war was at its height. Qaretie frankly came for- 
ward, grasped Sardou by both hands, and with the remark 
that such a crisis was no fitting time for quarrels, expressed 
his desire for a reconciliation. From that time they were 
the best of friends, and in 1901 Jules Qaretie, as administra- 
tor of the Com^die-Frangaise, had the pleasure of re- 
viving "Patrie." 

When **Patrie'* was performed at Brussels some 
Flemish savants questioned the historical propriety of 
introducing the Porte de Louvain in the days of the Duke 
of Alva : '' It was not then in existence, it has only been 
built twenty years." But Sardou produced an old print 
showing the Porte as it existed at the date in question. 

An adaptation of " Patrie,'* entitled " Dolores," by Mrs. 
S. Lane, was produced at the Britannia Theatre, Hoxt<Mi, 
April 6, 1874. Another adaptation, entitled " Fatherland," 
by Henry Labouch^re, was produced at the Queen's 
Theatre, London, January 3, 1878. " A Sorceress of Love," 
an adaptation of " Patrie," by Louis N. Parker, was pro- 
duced at the Shakespeare Theatre, Liverpool, on October 
I, 1894. There is also a version entitled "Betrayed," 
by H. G. Wills. 

In "Femande," produced at the Gymnase on March 
8, 1870, the author reverted to the ethical play. It fol- 
lowed "Froufrou" at the Gymnase, where it was still 
enjoying a successful run when the Franco-German war 
broke out on July 19, 1870. The times were not propitious 
for theatrical enterprise, and the performances were sus- 
pended. They were resumed, however, during the Com- 
mune of 1871, at the request of the Communist leader 
Raoul Rigault, and the play-bills were still standing on 
the walls when the conflagrations which destroyed about 
a fourth of the city broke out on May 22-27 of that fateful 



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72 SARDOU'S CAREER 

year. Rigault was shot by a firing squad on May 24th. 
The subject of this play is borrowed from Diderot's lively 
tale " Jacques le Fataliste." The scene is laid in a gaml>- 
ling hell kept by the widowed Madame Senechal. Though 
her daughter Femande is brought up amid such depraved 
surroundings, the young girl herself remains at heart 
uncontaminated, and it is in order to save her permanently 
from her environment that M, Pomerol, the advocate, re- 
turns to the spot where he had sown his wild oats. As 
the moralist Raoul Rigault pleaded, there is nothing 
offensive in the play except the environment. The two 
plays of "Seraphine" and "Femande" aflFord excellent 
examples of Sardou's capacity for analysing the female 
character. 

An adaptation of " Femande " by Sutherland Edwards 
was played at the Royal Court Theatre, London, September 
20, 1879. 

We now come to one of the most dramatic episodes in 
the history of France. On receipt of the news of the dis- 
asters of Worth and Forbach, on August 7, 1870, the 
Empress Eugenie moved from St. Cloud to the Tuileries, 
where she lived in increasing terror of the mob, holding 
her last reception on August 14th. On the aftemoon of 
September 3d came the fatal telegram from Napoleon 
III. : " The army is defeated and captured, I myself am a 
prisoner." The next day saw that bloodless revolution 
by which the Second Empire fell and the Third Republic 
was established. As the clock of the Tuileries rang out 
half-past three the imperial flag was lowered. This was a 
signal — ^the Tuileries were stormed. The soldiers on guard 
interposed little resistance. Before the mob broke in, 
Signor Nigra, the Italian ambassador, wamed the Empress 
that she must fly. Escorted by Prince Mettemich and Dr. 
Evans, the American dentist, she left Paris in disguise 
the same night for Belgium', and later sailed from Deau- 
ville for England on Sir John Burgoyne's yacht. 



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THE SUCCESS OF PATRIE 78 

Among the crowd assembled outside the gates of the 
Tuileries on that fateful day were Sardou and a friend 
of his, a certain Armand Gouzien. The Empress was still 
in the palace and the imperial flag still flying. The build- 
ing was protected by a detachment of the Imperial Guard. 
Sardou and his friend stood watching a man engaged in 
knocking the golden eagles off the gates. The crowd be- 
came dangerously excited, the gates were stormed, and 
several hundred persons, including Sardou and his friend, 
were swept into the gardens. Foreseeing a collision with 
the troops, the two friends came to the front. Gouzien 
harangued the mob, saying that the Tuileries belonged to 
the people, and that the Empire no Icmger existed. The 
Imperial Guard, he said, must not remain, and he pro- 
posed that he and citizen Sardou go and demand the with- 
drawal of these troops. But he urged them to keep quiet, 
in order to avoid a bloody conflict. The crowd broke out 
into applause and patiently waited while Sardou, t3ring a 
handkerchief to the end of a walking-stick, hastened with 
his companion toward the soldiers and asked for the com- 
mander. Two men came forward; they were General 
Mellinet and M. de Lesseps. In the meantime the Empress 
Eugenie had left the palace, and the two ambassadors per- 
suaded the general to lower the imperial flag and to re- 
place the Imperial Guard by the National Guard and the 
Gardes Mobiles. Mellinet then mounted a chair and tried 
to address the crowd, but they were too excited to give him 
a hearing. With the arrival of the Mobiles the danger 
was averted, and when the crowd at length forced its way 
through the archway it found all safely guarded and 
surged harmlessly through the palace into the Place du 
Carrousel. This tactful handling of a somewhat critical 
moment averted a conflict, and in all probability saved the 
Tuileries for the time. It was, however, destroyed on 
May 22 and 23 of the following year. 



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CHAPTER VIII 

Sardou^s Plays Attacked by Politicians and the 
Censorship Invoked 

The comic opera of "Le Roi Carotte/' for which 
Jacques OflFenbach comjposed the music, was originally 
written before 1870, though, owing to the outbreak of the 
Franco-Prussian war, it was not produced at the Gaite till 
January 15, 1872. It was intended as a political satire, and 
the original scheme (sent to Offenbach at Baden) ridiculed 
a certain " prince who declared war against his neighbour 
on the assurance of his ministers that all was ready." The 
coincidence of this fancy with what actually happened 
is more than striking. Three days after the dispatch of the 
manuscript, war was declared. We are informed by Andre 
Sardou, the dramatist's son, that, after the siege of Paris, 
author and composer met at Bordeaux and agreed that the 
course of events had been only too truly foreshadowed and 
that the piece must be entirely recast. The critics were 
very severe with "Le Roi Carotte," and reproached the 
collaborators with an attack on the fallen emperor; the 
virulence of the Figaro nearly caused a duel between Sar- 
dou and M. de Lafevriere. Biit in spite of the critics the 
piece had a successful run of one hundred and fifty nights. 

Curiously enough, a three-act extravaganza of kindred 
subject and title, " La Reine Carotte " by Messrs. Qairville, 
Victor Bernard, and Victor Koning, was performed at the 
Theatre des Menus-Plaisirs on January 13, 1872. It seems 
to have been one of the cant sasring^ of the day. 

An English version of "Le Roi Carotte," by Henry S. 
Leigh, was produced at the Alhambra, London, June 3, 
1872. 

A fortnight after the first performance of "Lc Roi 
74 



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SARDOU AT TWO SCORB 



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r 



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THE CENSORSHIP INVOKED 76 

Carotte " Sardou produced another political piece, of which 
he predicted that the critics would exactly reverse the 
opinions expressed on *' King Carrot." " Le Roi Carotte," 
as we have seen, was a belated satire on a state of things 
which had been swept away by the war. "Rabagas," 
which was first performed at the Vaudeville on February 
I, 1872, found its subject in the political features of the 
day. France had once more thrown her constitution into 
the melting-pot. Republicanism was now in the ascendant, 
and the words "demagogue" and "democracy" were on 
everybody's lips. "Rabagas" is simply a satire on the 
unprincipled politicians of the day, who, having no real 
convictions of their own, merely followed the dictates of 
their own interest. But this was not the view commonly 
accepted. Even so able a man as Jules Simon surmised an 
mtention in "Rabagas" to ridicule lAon Gambetta, while 
others found allusions to Napoleon's fire-eating minister 
OUivier and to Napoleon himself. To attempt so close an 
identification is to narrow the author's meaning. The 
dramatist did not intend to write a lampoon, but to draw a 
typical noisy and tmprincipled demagogue. But the critic 
with preconceived theories to uphold finds no difficulty 
in tracing misleading resemblances in the words of promi- 
nent politicians of a similar type. In fact, " Rabagas " is 
only one more instance of the skill with which Sardou 
seized and turned to account whatever ideas happened 
to be uppermost in the public mind at the time. Hugues 
Rebell very plausibly identifies the prototype of a certain 
striking episode in the play. On October 31, 1870, the 
news of the surrender of Metz led to Communistic riots 
at Paris, and the members of the Defence Government were 
in5)risoned in the Hotel de Ville by bands acting under 
the direction of Ledru-RoUin, Victor Hugo, Gustave 
Flourens, and other red republicans. That same day the 
National Guard released the Defence Government and 



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76 SARDOU'S CAREER 

turned the tables on their captors. This curious series of 
incidents is probably the original of the amusing scene in 
which the revolutionary " green *' government of Camerlin 
is, after a brief period of power, expelled by a " yellow *' 
government under Vuillard, which is in its turn soon over- 
set by a ** red ** one under Chaffiou. This satire might apply 
to several other episodes in history, French and other. 
" The truth is," says M. Rebell, " that Rabagas is no more 
Emile OUivier or Gambetta, than the Prince of Monaco 
is meant for Napoleon III." Curiously enough, a French 
journalist quoted by the same writer mentions instances — 
eight and nine years afterward in 1880 and 1881 — ^in which 
Gambetta used the very words of Rabagas, possibly by 
way of a humorous allusion to the identification of Sar- 
dou's hero with himself. 

The first performance of "Rabagas" nearly led to a 
riot. The political satire in the piece was too keen not to 
evoke disturbance. The critics raved, and we are told that 
Edmond About even went so far as to advise taking 
revolvers to the theatre. No wonder so timorous a politi- 
cian as President Thiers ordered the governor of Paris to 
forbid a second performance. Fortunately General 
Ladmirault was a man of resolution, and was determined 
that the right of free speech should not be abrogated in 
deference to mob violence. The President's written order 
was left lying on the general's table unopened. Like Nel- 
son, he turned a blind eye to the letter of his order, though 
he did not neglect to take ample precautions against dis- 
order. Next morning Thiers heard to his horror that 
" Rabagas " had been played a second time. The general 
apologised for his forgetfulness, and sent word that the 
performance had passed oflF quietly. Would-be disturbers 
of the peace were simply ejected from the house, but the 
excitement gave a tremendous advertisement to the play, 
which in consequence enjoyed a splendid run. 



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THE CENSORSHIP INVOKED 77 

An adaptation of ''Rabagas/' entitled '^Robert 
Rabagas/' by Stephen Fiske, was produced at the St. 
James's Theatre, London, February 25, 1873. 

On June 25, 1872, Sardou, who had now been a 
widower for five years, married Mile. Anna Souli6, 
daughter of Eudore Soulie, curator of the Museum at 
Versailles. Edmond de Goncourt tells in his "Journal" 
how the match came about. One day an engraver who 
was engaged in copying a picture in the gallery at Ver- 
sailles consulted M. Soulie and was invited to stay to 
limcheon. He excused himself on the ground that Sardou 
was waiting for him below. The answer was a request to 
return and extend the same hospitable invitation to the 
author of " La Famille Bencwton." Sardou thus made the 
acquaintance of the curator's daughter, and fell in love with 
the young lady. 

It has been suggested that the change to wedded life 
turned the current of Sardou's thoughts toward those 
domestic studies of manners and morals which for a time 
form quite a feature of his dramatic work. Sardou was 
always, like a good barometer, very susceptible to his 
environment, as a study of the chronology of his plays will 
serve to show. 

The first play produced by Sardou after his marriage 
was the domestic drama "Andrea," played for the first 
time in Paris at the Gymnase on March 17, 1873. It 
contains some dramatic situations which might easily have 
developed to a tragic ending, for instance, the scene in 
the box of the danseuse at the opera, and the scene where 
Stephan escapes from the tnaison de santi and erroneously 
fancies that he sees a rival in his house. But, as so often 
happens in Sardou's plays, the threatened storm disappears 
as suddenly as it arose, and reconciliation comes to the 
temporarily disunited pair. The appearance of " Andrea " 
involved Sardou in charges of literary larceny, of which 



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78 SARDOU'S CAREER 

he has given an amusing account in his pamphlet on " My 
Plagiarisms." The complainant on this occasion was J. M. 
Coumier, who had sent the manuscript of a play, "Le 
Medecin de son Honneur/* to Montigny, The latter, it 
was alleged, had consulted his friend Sardou, who had 
abused his confidence by stealing the ideas of the piece 
to compose his "Andrea." Coumier's play was then re- 
turned to the author, marked "declined." These allega- 
tions were repeated in the newspapers, and finally formed 
the subject of a suit before the Tribunal of Commerce. 
Coumier formulated his accusation in court, and the judge, 
turning to Sardou, asked what answer he had to make. 

" One word only : I beg that M. Coumier will be good 
enough to say on what precise day the manuscript of his 
piece was handed in at the Gymnase." 

" Oh," said Coumier, " there is not the least doubt on 
that point. Here is the receipt : December i6, 1872." 

" Well," replied Sardou, " here are some advertisements, 
programmes, and notices from America, establishing 
the fact that 'Andrea,' which was originally written for 
America, was performed at New York under the title of 
'Agnes,' on September 17, 1872, that is to say, three 
months before the date of the deposition of M. Coumier's 
manuscript at the G)minase." 

Poor Coumier completely collapsed, and attributed his 
accusations to a failure of memory. The fortunes of 
Coumier were at a low ebb at the time, but the prosperous 
Sardou and Montigny did not press their advantage in an 
ungenerous spirit; they merely contented themselves with 
rebutting the charge of plagiarism and compelling Coumier 
to sign a declaration to the eflFect that the whole accusation 
had fallen to the ground. 

An adaptation of "Andrea," entitled "The Countess 
and the Dancer," by Charles Reade, was produced at the 
Olympic Theatre, London, Febmary 27, 1886. 



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THE CENSORSHIP INVOKED 79 

In "L'Onde Sam," which was played at the Vaude- 
ville on November 6, 1873, Sardou reverted to the vagaries 
of the new woman, which he had already handled in ** Les 
Femimes Fortes" and in "La Famille Benoiton." The 
latter play, however, differed from its predecessors in being 
a direct skit on American manners. We have seen how 
the timidity of Thiers had nearly proved fatal to " Rabagas." 
This time the official excuse was that the piece " satirized 
people who benefited our country greatly by their pres- 
ence among us." The dramatist consulted some members 
of the American colony at Paris, among them young Mr. 
Washburn, son of the American minister. Their verdict 
was that there was nothing in the piece calculated to 
wound the susceptibilities of their conq)atriots. Indeed 
" L'Oncle Sam " had even been played at New York (with- 
out any great success, it is true, but without giving unibrage 
to Americans) some eight mcmths before the interdiction 
was removed at Paris. The plot of "L'Oncle Sam" is 
of the slightest; in fact, the chief interest of the play cen- 
tres in the bright and telling dialogue and the amusing 
though exaggerated characterisation. 

"Les Merveilleuses," written in collaboration with 
Philippe Gille, and first performed at the Vari^t6s on 
December 16, 1873, had a very short run, though it pre- 
sented a charming reconstructicm of manners under the 
Directory, a period which always had special attrac- 
tions for Sardou. "Monsieur Garat," written for Vir- 
ginie Dejazet as early as i860, gave a picture of those 
times to which the dramatist was destined to revert in 
1898 with his " Pamela." Possibly the comparative failure 
of the play was due to the fact that the radical element 
owed Sardou a grudge for " Rabagas," played some months 
previously, and it was, of course, inevitable that so soon 
after the fall of the Second Empire political passions should 
be more intense than was usual even in France. 



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80 SARDOU'S CAREER 

"Le Magot," written to order for the Palais-Royal 
and produced at that theatre on January 14, 1874, proved 
a failure. 

By universal consent "La Haine" divides with 
" Patrie " the honour of being Sardou's masterpiece. Offen- 
bach^ at that time director of the Gaite, where the play was 
* produced on December 3, 1874, composed the incidental 
music The inspiring moral of the piece is that love should 
triumph over revenge, and the author found a suitable 
environment in the strife of the Guelphs and Ghibellines in 
Mediaeval Italy. In spite of its power, "La Haine" was 
an utter failure. The subject was too terrible, too sombre 
for the public taste at the time. The Parisians needed 
cheering up, not saddening, and the disastrous fighting and 
burning in Siena reminded them too poignantly of the 
horrors of the Commime. Finding that he had not hit the 
public taste, Sardou withdrew the piece after twenty-seven 
nights, with seeming unconcern, though there is no doubt 
that the failure of this play, on which he had based great 
expectations, was a sore disappointment. 

In spite of the excellence of the interpretation which 
it received, Sardou's next piece, "Ferreol," produced at 
the Gymnase on November 17, 1875, was not a success. 
The conflict between love and duty, between Ferreol's love 
for his mistress and his desire not to allow the innocent 
d'Aigremont to be condemned, did not appeal to the pub- 
lic Similarly conflicting passions in Rysoor form a weak 
spot even in " Patrie." The interest of such situations is 
too essentially subjective to lend itself to stage purposes 
with effect, and they are more suitably treated in a 
psychological novel. "Ferreol" did not do well in New 
York either, although the actor J. H. Stoddart in his 
memoirs expresses surprise at its non-success. 

An adaptation of "Ferr6ol," entitled "Ferreol de 



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THE CENSORSHIP INVOKED 81 

Meyrac," by Herbert Dausey, was produced at the Royalty 
Theatre, Lx>ndon, on February 26, 1904. 

At this time a certain slackening of Sardou's literary 
activity becomes apparent. It was almost as though the 
ill success of " La Haine " and " Ferreol," especially of the 
former, had caused a temporary discouragement. Pro- 
duction did not, indeed, entirely cease, but "L'Hotel 
Godelot/' written in collaboraticm with M. CrisafuUi and 
produced at the Gymnase on May 13, 1876, was a work of 
minor importance, and Sardou did not even witness its 
performance. 



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CHAPTER IX 

Sardou Scores Three Successes, and Becomes an 
Academician 

The shadow which seemed for a time to have obscured 
Sardou's success was at last lifted when the striking play 
called "Dora" was produced at the Vaudeville on Jan- 
uary 22, 1877. It dealt with one of the burning questions 
of the day, the spy mania. Sardou skilfully turned the 
prevalent feeling to account by laying the plot in the year 
1871. The public interest in "Dora" was still further 
enhanced by a curious coincidence. Shortly after the 
first performance there was a public scandal, concerning 
the Austrian baroness KauUa, who was said to be a Prus- 
sian spy, and who was a friend of de Cissey, the French 
minister of war. The two spies, in the play are Van der 
Kraft and the Cotmtess Zicka, and the plot turns on the 
theft of some important papers from an embassy by one 
of them. Probably the love story and marriage of Dora 
and Andre de Maurillac, the suspicion thrown on Dora, its 
triumphant rebuttal, and the reconciliation between hus- 
band and wife were the chief features that won the favour 
of the public 

Sardou always maintained that the garbled translations 
and mutilated adaptations of his work in English-speaking 
countries did him gross injustice. This can not be gain- 
said, as is shown by the circumstances concerning the 
play " Dora." It drew such large houses at the Vaudeville 
in Paris that it attracted the attention of Squire Bancroft 
in London. Clement Scott and B. C. Stephenson had 
already adapted for manager Bancroft a very free version 
of Sardou's "Nos Intimes," which they entitled "Peril." 
Another Bowdlerized version was played throughout the 
82 



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BECOMES AN ACADEMICIAN 88 

United States, by Mrs. Langtry, under the title " A Wife's 
Peril/' Bancroft engaged the two adapters to accompany 
him to Paris, where at the Vaudeville they carefully 
studied " Dora " — its action, its business, and its effect on 
French audiences. Returning to England, they jointly 
evolved the play known there and in the United States as 
" Diplomacy." They recast the plot; they cut it from five 
acts to four; they changed French army officers into Eng- 
lish army officers; the Franco-German misunderstandings 
they changed into the Anglo-Russian differences; the 
attempt of the German chancellery to set Europe's foreign 
offices swarming with spies was transmogrified into the 
eternal Eastern Question; the theft of an official dispatch 
was made to hinge on Anglo-Turkish spheres of interest 
In Sardou's play the man who discovers Dora's criminality 
is the friend of her husband; in "Diplomacy" he is made 
the husband's brother. The scene in Sardou's play in 
which Dora resents the dishonorable proposals from 
Stramir is cut out. The adapters introduced the "dock- 
scene at Berne" which was devised and written by Mrs. 
(now Lady) Bancroft. In the last scenes of " Diplomacy " 
S3mipathy is worked up for the female spy, the Countess 
Zicka; in "Dora" she is painted in the blackest colors 
to the very end. Last of all, the title was changed — for 
a time the adapters wavered between "The Mousetrap" 
and "Diplomacy," finally selecting the latter. The pro^ 
gram stated that the play was "adapted" from Sardou 
"by the brothers Rowe":— Mr. "Saville Rowe" (Scott) 
and Mr. "Bolton Rowe" (Stephenson). Mrs. Kendal 
played Dora; Mr. Kendal, Captain Julian Beauderc. 
Bancroft was the Count Orloff and Mrs. Bancroft the 
Countess Zicka. With such a cast the play ran for months 
to crowded houses. This Bancroft-Scott-Stephenson ver- 
sion has since held the stage in English-speaking countries. 
Hundreds of writers, in these countries, have critidsed 



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84 SARDOU'S CAREER 

this play as if it were Sardou's. But in the light of the 
preceding facts it scarcely seems fair to hold 'Sardou 
responsible for such a mutilated version of his work. This 
adaptation was first produced at the Prince of Wales's 
Theatre, London, January 12, 1878. 

On October 26, 1893, "Diplomacy" was played at 
Balmoral before Queen Victoria, the ex-Empress Eugenie, 
Princess Beatrice, Princess Louise, the Duchess of Fife, 
Prince Aribert of Anhalt, Prince Henry of Battenberg, and 
the Duke of Fife. 

In June, 1877, Sardou was honoured by his election as 
one of the forty members of the Academie-Franqaise in 
succession to the distinguished poet and author, Joseph 
Autran. It is said that " Dora " nearly caused the failure 
of Sardou's candidature to the vacant seat. Rightly or 
wrongly, ex-President Thiers had identified the Countess 
Zicka with a certain influential foreign princess with whom 
he was on intimate terms, and endeavoured to frustrate 
the candidate's election. Sardou had now been before 
the playgoing public for upwards of twenty years, and as 
the author of such works as " Nos Intimes," " Les Pattes 
de Mouche," " La Famille Benoiton," ** Maison Neuve," 
" Patrie," " La Haine," and " Dora " might be deemed to 
have worthily earned his Academy fauteuil. On May 23d 
of the following year he was formally received, and on that 
occasion, in conformity with the usual custom, he delivered 
his " Discours a TAcademie," which was afterward pub- 
lished in the form of a pamphlet. The task of formally 
welcoming the new academician fell to Charles Blanc, the 
distinguished critic. The speaker's general tone was 
frankly eulogistic, though he did not hesitate roundly to 
express disapproval of plays like " L'Oncle Sam " and 
" Rabagas," as these sentences which M. Blanc delivered 
will show: "Permit me then to tell you that your occa- 
sional incursions into the domain of politics have not 



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BECOMES AN ACADEMICIAN 86 

always been happy, and that they have added nothing 
either to your talents or to your reputation. And more than 
once your wit, ordinarily so keen, has lost its edge; your 
pencil, elsewhere so delicate and so firm, has lost its fine- 
ness when you venture on drawing figures in a world 
which is not your own, as in the United States or in 
Monaco." 

Sardou's next play, " Les Bourgeois de Pontarcy," also 
performed at the Vaudeville, on March i, 1878, was by no 
means so successful as " Dora." Possibly some of the 
situations were too far-fetched and too unsavoury to please 
the public. An adaptation of "Les Bourgeois de Pont- 
arcy," entitled "Duty," by James Albery, was produced 
at the Prince of Wales's Theatre, London, September 27, 
1879. 

One day, about this period, in showing an English 
visitor over his library at Marly, where most of his plays 
were written, Sardou explained that he worked five hours 
every day, and at that rate of working it took him 
five months to construct and write a play. " The dramatist 
must not be afraid of the labour of the file," he added. 
" The rehearsals of a five-act piece take at least five 
months. Look — ^that paper is a pen-and-ink map of Pont- 
arcy, the scene of my latest play. Pontarcy exists only in 
my imagination, and to avoid any mistakes or confusion 
as to the movements of the personages, I have drawn up 
this map. Here is the * Lower City.' The staple industry 
of the town is leather-dressing, and along the banks of the 
river are many tan-yards and water-mills. In this quarter 
lives a bourgeois family which presents a decided contrast 
to the inmates of the house on the opposite side of the; 
square. Both these groups play an important part in my 
piece. The railway having been extended to Pontarcy, a 
row of handsome houses, with theatre, hotel, and grand 
cafe, has been built in the neighbourhood of the railway 



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86 SAKDOU'S CAREER 

station. Let us now pass to the ' Upper City/ First of 
all, there is a Chateau partly in ruins, and what remains of 
it is used as a station for the gendarmerie. The old church 
on the outskirts of this place was formerly a cloister. The 
'Upper City' as you see, is a network of narrow streets, 
now comparatively deserted. In the centre there is a 
rather fine old Gothic fountain. I believe that this map 
has been of great service to me. In imagination I have 
gone through the streets, lodged at the Grand Hotel, in- 
spected the Qoister, and stood in reverential frame of 
mind before the Gothic fountain." This anecdote is curi- 
ous as showing how thoroughly the playwright entered 
into the life of his mimic world. 

" Daniel Rochat," performed on February i6, 1880, was 
the second play by Sardou produced at the Com^die- 
Fran^aise. It dealt with some of the religious questions 
then agitating men's minds in France, and formed a 
counterpart to " Seraphine," which had appeared twelve 
years before. While the earlier play exhilrited the excess 
of religious zeal and the attendant vices of hypocrisy and 
intolerance, "Daniel Rochat" presents the other side of 
the picture, the bigotry of Rochat the atheist, his intolerant 
refusal to accede to the desire of his wife for a religious 
marriage ceremony, and the resulting separation which 
followed so closely on the heels of the civil marriage. The 
whole piece was virtually a sermon on tolerance. But feel- 
ing ran too high at the time, and in spite of some excellent 
points it was not a success. It succeeded much better in 
the United States with Sara Jewett and Charles Thome 
as Lea and Daniel. It was the first play brought out by 
Sardou after his reception at the Academy, and its com- 
parative failure gave an added force to M. Blanc's warning. 
Besides being a professed free-thinker, Rochat was an 
ardent radical politician and leader of the extreme left 
in the French Chamber. In fact, the whole play was too 



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BECOMES AN ACADEMICIAN 87 

political in character. There were also some striking 
improbabilities in the plot. The marriage of Daniel and 
Lea was itself improbable, under the circumstances; the 
divorce was improbable, and the intolerance of Rochat was 
carried to an improbable extreme. 

An adaptation of ** Daniel Rochat'* entitled "Roma" 
was produced at the Adelphi Theatre, London, November 
28, 1885. 

" Daniel Rochat " involved Sardou in an accusation of 
plagiarism. Thfodore Vibert, the poet, had published on 
August 8, 1879, his " Martura: ou un Manage Civil." The 
central idea of this poem was identical with that of '* Daniel 
Rochat." In both works difficulties arise between husband 
and wife after the ceremony of civil marriage; both hus- 
bands are free-thinkers and anti-clerical; both wives insist 
on the union being sanctioned by the church. In fact, 
though the details are different, and one work a prose 
play, while the other is a serious poem, the general situation 
is identical. Moreover, it was the practice of M. Vibert 
to send complimentary copies of his works to all the mem- 
bers of the Academy, and it was shown that "Martura" 
was sent to Sardou between July 10 and 15, 1879, a month 
or so before " Daniel Rochat " was written. The inference 
is that the perusal of the poem and the general interest 
in religious questions at the time induced the playwright 
to select this subject for his next piece. But the method 
of handling it was his own. The defence set up by 
Sardou's friends was that the choice of this subject for 
'* Daniel Rochat" was pure coincidence. 

This was the last occasion on which Sardou handled 
current politics on the stage. He had found that his forte 
did not lie in that direction, and that neither the public 
nor the censors approved of the stage encroaching upon 
functions which were more appropriately fulfilled by the 
press. 



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88 SARDOU'S CAREER 

In his next play, Sardou returned to the domestic 
comedy, choosing as his subject one of the burning' ques- 
tions of the day. " Divorqons," written in collaboration 
with Emile de Najac, was performed at the Palais-Royal 
on December 6, 1880. It is a farcical comedy, treating 
of the same matters as "Andrea," which appeared in 
1873, but without the dramatic situations of the earlier 
play. The plot turns on a false telegram to Cyprienne, who 
will only give her hand to her lover Adhemar in the event 
of the divorce bill, then before the chamber, becoming a 
law. Just at that time the question of reforming the mar- 
riage laws was causing somewhat of a stir in France. As 
early as May, 1878, M. Naquet had begun a regular cam- 
paign throughout all France in favor of reform. But the 
project hung fire; the proposals were bandied to and fro 
between the Chamber and the Senate, and nothing practical 
was done. Sardou, however, quick to see what interested 
the public, made this subject the theme of his play, and 
scored another triumph. The play ran for three hundred 
nights, and brought 1,500,000 francs to the coffers of the 
Palais^Royal. Divorce plays were quite the fashion at the 
time, but it was noticed that "Divorgons," was the only 
piece on this subject in which the more honored position 
was assigned to the aggrieved husband. Most of the petty 
playwrights of tlie Parisian stage bespoke the s)rmpathies 
of the audience for the lover. 

" Divorgons " was probably the first play the real action 
of which begins when husband and wife are living in 
virtual or actual divorce, and has for its theme the means 
by which relations are resumed. This situation has formed 
the subject of many plays since then, the best known being 
"The Freedom of Suzanne." 

Many versions of " Divorqons " have been produced 
in England and America. An adaptation entitled "To- 
Day," by Charles H. C. Brookfield, was produced at the 



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BECOMES AN ACADEMICIAN 80 

Comedy Theatre, London, on December 5, 1892. An 
adaptation entitled "The Queen's Proctor/' or "Decree 
Nisi," by Herman Merivale, was produced at the Royalty 
Theatre, London, on June 2, 1896. An adaptation entitled 
" Mixed Relations," by Miss Kate Santly, was produced 
at the Royalty Theatre, London, on February 4, 1902. 

" Divorqons " was first played in New York at Abbey's 
Park Theatre on March 14, 1882, when Alice Dunning 
Lingard appeared as Cjrprienne. In May of the same year 
Grau's French Opera Company- presented it with Paola 
Marie as Cjrprienne. Since then it has been played by 
Madame Judic at Wallack's in 1885 ; by Modjeska at Wal- 
lack's in 1886; by Frau Hedwig Niemann-Raabe at Wal- 
lack's in 1888 ; by Rejane at Abbey's in 1895 ; by Duse at 
the Fifth Avenue in 1893; by Mrs. Fiske at the Fifth 
Avenue in May, 1897; by Emily Baucker under the title 
of "A Divorce Cure" at the Murray Hill in March, 1897; 
by Mrs. Fiske again in 1899 at the Fifth Avenue and 
later at the Manhattan. A new version by Margaret Mayo 
was produced by Grace George at Wallack's in April, 1907. 
The play has also been produced in the United States by 
many less known actresses in English, French, and German. 

Sardou's next success, "Odette," performed at the 
Vaudeville on November 17, 1881, like "Andrea" and 
"L'Oncle Sam," brought upon the dramatist charges of 
plagiarism. Mario Uchard accused Sardou of having 
stolen ideas from his play " La Fiammina." An acrimon- 
ious wrangle followed, chiefly notable in that it provoked 
Sardou to write his amusing pamphlet " My Plagiarisms," 
published in 1882, by way of rejoinder to his detractors. 
Sardou denied the alleged plagiarism, and proceeded to 
carry the war into the enemy's country. The mere fact 
that the elemental passions of mankind form the staple 
ingredients out of which the dramatist is bound to con- 
struct his play, said Sardou, must lead sometimes to a 



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90 SARDOU'S CABEER 

seeming similarity in externals. It is when we come to 
examine the details of the plot, the flow of the dialogue, 
and the minuter shades of the characterisation that it is 
possible to distinguish between the independent worker and 
the plagiarist. Tried by this touchstone Sardou must 
stand acquitted. He had abundance of wit and invention 
to work out his own details, and could not avoid accidental 
resemblances. 

An English version of " Odette " by Clement Scott was 
produced at the Haymarket Theatre, London, April 22, 
1882. In this version there is no suicide, but "Odette" 
retires to a nunnery to the sound of slow music ! 

"Odett^'' was revived as recently as April 8, 1905, 
when it was played in Italian by Eleonora Duse before a 
crowded house at the Nouveau Theatre. Sardou himself 
was present at the performance, and warmly appreciated 
the interpretation of the title-role by the great Italian 
actress. Seated near him was Mme. Blanche Pierson of the 
Comedie-Fran^aise, who created the part in 1881. 

The four-act drama of "Fedora," which has for its 
theme nihilism and other phases of Russian life, and was 
performed for the first time on December 11, 1882, prac- 
tically owes its inspiration to Sarah Bernhardt. The great 
actress herself relates that at this period she was much in 
need of money. She still owed 100,000 francs to the 
Comedie-Franqaise, forfeit for her secession in 1880. 

On April 17 of that year she played Clorinde in the 
revival of AugieFs " L'Aventuriere." She was savagely 
attacked by the critics Sarcey, Paul de Saint- Victor, and 
Auguste Vitu. The very next day, the i8th, Sarah wrote 
to M. Perrin, director of the Comedie-Franqaise, to say 
that they had not allowed her adequate time for rehearsal, 
and she forthwith left Paris for Havre, resolved to 
quit the stage altogether. The Comedie-Franqaise brought 
an action before the first Chamber of the Civil Tribunal 



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BECOMES AN ACADEMICIAN 91 

on June i8th for breach of contract, and Madame Bern- 
hardt was ordered to pay the Comedie-Fran^aise one hun* 
dred thousand francs damages and to forfeit her share 
(forty-four thousand francs) in the reserve fund as a 
Sociitaire. This debt still hung over her. To add to her 
financial troubles she had lately married the actor Damala, 
and her seventeen-year-old son Maurice, to whom she 
could refuse nothing, had asked her assistance to acquire 
the Ambigu Theatre. For Damala, she leased the Th&itre 
des Nations. Both of these theatres cost money. Her 
debts grew so large that in a short time placards posted 
on the walls of Paris annotmced that ''Madame Sarah 
Bernhardt-Damala's diamonds and jewelry will be sold 
by auction at the Hotel des Ventes." The sale produced 
178,000 francs. 

In this desperate financial stait, she grew anxious for 
some lucrative engagement which would provide the sinews 
of war, and signed an agreement with Bertrand and 
Deslandes, directors of the Vaudeville, on the express con- 
dition that " the piece to be played by me shall be written 
for me by Victorien Sardou, the only man who can under- 
stand me and do what I want." She wanted a role and 
not a piece, something that would give scope to her talents, 
something easy and not too expensive to mount, so that 
she could travel with it, and not have too many players 
with whom to share the proceeds. Bertrand called upon 
Sardou, and asked whether he had a part for Mme. Bern- 
hardt. The dramatist promised to think the matter over, 
and next day informed Bertrand that he had found a 
promising subject. He had lately been reading the 
Memoires of Antonio Perez, the secretary of Philip II. 
of Spain. There he found the suggestions required. All 
through the summer of 1882 Sardou worked at his play. 
When completed, it entirely satisfied the requirements of 
Mme. Bernhardt, for it was " a role in four acts," though 



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92 SARDOU'S CABEER 

she humorously added that the part allotted to Pierre 
Berton, her leading man, was "altogether too extensive." 
The announcement of a new play by " Sardou for 
Sarah" — ^the two S's, as they were called— caused quite 
a flutter in play-going circles in Paris, and there was a 
great rush for places at the first performance. Sarah 
determined to make her part a triumph. She practiced 
eight hours a day at " Fedora," and then for a change 
wound up the day by playing in " Les Meres Ennemies " 
at the Ambigfu. Madame Bernhardt gives an amusing 
account of " Fedora " from her point of view : " Knowing 
that I am a tragedienne, Sardou has brought out all my 
strong points. If I had had any weak points, he would 
have made use of them, too. But I have none. Ah! if 
I were not Sarah, I would like to be Sardou." 

Madame Bernhardt and Pierre Berton were inimitable 
in their parts, and the piece was brilliantly successful. 
Thenceforth " Fedora " formed part of her permanent 
repertoire. In December, 1904, in the course of a long 
and successful tour through Europe, Mme. Bernhardt 
visited Constantinople, taking with her six plays, three of 
which, including " Fedora," were by Sardou. It is amus- 
ing to add that all three were prohibited by the Turkish 
authorities, "La Tosca" because a prefect of police is 
killed in the play ; " Fedora " because the subject is 
nihilism; and "La Sorciere" because the Koran is men- 
tioned in the text. Of the other three plays, Racine's 
" Phedre " was not allowed to be performed because it was 
a Greek drama, and Rostand's " L'Aiglon " on the ground 
that it was calculated to give the Sultan's subjects a false 
idea of European politics. The only piece that passed the 
censors was Dumas's " La Dame aux Camelias " 1 

An adaptation of " Fedora " by Herman Merivale was 
produced at the Haymarket Theatre, London, May 5, 1883. 



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CHAPTER X 

Th&)dora and La Tosca Succeed, Although 
Attacked by the Critics 

The drama of " Theodora," for which Jules Massenet 
composed the incidental music, was produced at the Porte 
Saint-Martin, under the management of Felix Duquesnel, 
on December 26, 1884. M. Duquesnel had been manager 
of the Odeon, but left for the Chatelet, where he made a 
fortune with the production of "Michael Strogoff." He 
retired with two millions of francs to a villa at Croissy, 
where he and his wife devoted themselves to growing roses. 
Sardou urged him to return to produce his piece " Theo- 
dora." Duquesnel wavered, but finally agreed to come if 
his wife were willing. She read the play, was delighted 
with it, and consented. 

In 1884, few but professional scholars knew much about 
Byzantium. When Duquesnel read the names of the per- 
sonages of the play he was quite taken back. "What a 
singular epoch!" he exclaimed with a not unnatural dis- 
trust. " Justinian ! Byzantium !" It made one think rather 
of the institutes than of an historical drama. Sardou was 
at that time almost the only author in Paris who had 
studied the period in detail. " That evening by lamplight," 
continued the first reader of " Theodora," " I opened the 
manuscript-book bound in greyish paper. At one o'clock 
in the morning I was still reading — ^held, as they say, 
feverishly gripped by the dramatic interest of the situations, 
and reading over several times the most effective scenes 
and playing them over in my mind's eye." Duquesnel con- 
ceived the happy idea of asking Massenet to write the inci- 
dental music. Sardou doubted whether the composer would 
accept. However, the three dined together at the Cafe 

93 



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94 SARDOU'S CAREER 

Anglais, and excerpts were read from the manuscript. 
Massenet, full of enthusiasm, hastened to the battered cafe 
piano, and began the chords of the striking funeral hymn 
in the fourth act. The selection of such a subject as Jus- 
tinian, Theodora, and the Byzantine Court afforded an 
unique opportunity for spectacular effects, and also enabled 
/ Sardou to indulge his taste for historical and archaeological 
/\ research. But he did not escape severe criticism on this 
very score; indeed, his display of erudition appeared to 
provoke it. M. Darcel, the director of the Gobelins factory, 
and an archaeologist of repute, wrote a learned critique in 
La Gazette des Arts et de la CuriositL Sardou was bound 
to accept the challenge, and controverted in a very amusing 
manner, one by one, the points raised by M. Darcel. These 
latter were essentially questions for a committee of experts 
to decide, and were of such a character that, even supposing 
the dramatist wrong on every point, the merits of the play 
would not be thereby affected. No illusion would be de- 
stroyed if the manganon and the sphendone were not quite 
of the orthodox shape, and the enjo3mient of the spectators 
would not be impaired by any suspicion of architectural 
anachronism involved by the application of ornaments which 
may or may not be minarets. Among other things, M. 
Darcel objected that the use of a table-fork by Theodora 
was a glaring anachronism. Sardou's answer was that the 
first fork known to history came from Byzantium itself, and 
was used by the Empress Helena some two centuries before 
the time of Theodora; this fork is now preserved in the 
Museum at Treves. Another critic, M. Fouquier, objected 
to the use of blue glass in Justinian's cabinet. Sardou 
showed that there is at the British Museum a blue glass 
vase bearing the name of Thutmes III., and that at Pompeii 
window-frames were found with fragments of glass still 
adhering. It would be tedious to pursue the matter at 
greater length. To the confusion of the experts who dif- 



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THEODORA AND LA TOSCA SUCCEED 95 

f ered from him, Sardou proved that be was right, and also 
made it clear that he had not, by his interest in the history 
and archaeology of an wifamiliar period, been led into the 
error of over-elaborating and glorifying the nUse-en^scine 
at the expense of the dramatic interest of the piece. 

When Sarah Bernhardt revived "Theodora" in 1902 
the old polemics again b^[an. There was a tendency among 
scholars at that time to whitewash Theodora, and to see in 
her a great Empress whose private character had been much 
maligned. These renewed attacks drew a letter from Sar- 
dou in the Figaro, in which he claimed that he had not 
exceeded his rights in the dramatic use he had made of her. 
Only three facts, he maintained, were really known about 
Theodora: First, her marriage to Justinian and the part 
she took in his government; this was a strong feature in 
the play. Second, her energy, and the courage with which 
she saved the Emperor in the mutiny; "this formed the 
subject of three-quarters of my piece." Third, her death 
by cancer in the year 548 a.d. This last detail was varied 
by the author. "It would evidently be absurd to make 
Mary Stuart die of constmiption, Marie Antoinette of 
poison, or Jeanne d'Arc in her bed. But an end so obscure 
as that of Theodora authorizes me, I suppose, in imagining 
for her a death more Byzantine than the real one." 

The interest of the play centres in the Empress herself, 
her coarse passion for the young Greek Andreas, and her 
fiery, energetic character, as displayed in the ruthlessness 
with which she crushes mutiny and riot 

" Theodora " proved a brilliant success and ran for 257 
nights, the receipts amounting to no less than 1,654,000 
francs. It has been described as the "greatest eflfort of 
mise-enscine of the century," only surpassed on its revival 
by Sarah Bernhardt in 1902, some seventeen years after its 
original production. Sardou always spoke of this piece 
with special affection. 



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96 SARDOU'S CAREER 

On the revival in 1902 the critics again raised objections 
to Sardou's history, which bladders he pierced with a few 
strokes of the pen. Then the experts at the museums tried 
their hand, and concocted all sorts of pedantic controversies 
relating to the fnise-en-scine. But these polemics merely 
contributed to the marvellous success of the play. 

An adaptation of "Theodora" by Robert Buchanan 
was produced at the Theatre Royal, Brighton, November 
18, 1889. 

The love drama of " Georgette," performed at the Vau- 
deville on December 9, 1885, failed to command success, 
apparently because the piece did not end with marriage and 
" they lived happily ever afterward." 

Sardou's next venture, "Le Crocodile," a comedy in 
five acts with incidental music by Jules Massenet, was 
coldly received at the Porte Saint-Martin, where it was 
performed on December 21, 1886. Various reasons have 
been assigned for this lack of success. The real cause of 
this want of appreciation was doubtless the fact that the 
audience expected an entirely diflferent kind of play from 
the author of " Les Pattes de Mouche," " Patrie," and " La 
Haine." Instead of the work which they went to see, they 
were treated to a kind of extravaganza, a mere "panto- 
mime," "milk for babes" (bouillie de bebe), as the critics 
stigmatized it. The author did not take such remarks too 
deeply to heart, though he vindicated his position by de- 
scribing his motives in venturing on such an unusual genre 
of play. "This time," Sardou wrote, "I worked for my 
daughter and her friends, and the laughter of these little 
ones prevented me from hearing the sneers of some of the 
grown-ups. It was my daughter who dictated my pro- 
gramme. ' Since I cannot see any of your grown-up pieces,' 
she said to me one morning, ' make one for me for once in 
your life.' How could I resist such an entreaty? I did 
not resist. ' Well, what do you want?' * First of all, pretty 



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THEODORA AND LA TOSCA SUCCEED «7 

scenery.' 'Well?' 'Then I should like the scene to be 
laid in some dreadful, savage, unknown country.' ' Good. 
Then you want Swiss Family Robinson.' ' Yes, something 
like that, with very unhappy heroes at the commencement, 
and very happy ones at the end.'" Such is Sardou's ac- 
count of the inspiration of " Le Crocodile." The young 
lady was so delighted that she b^ged her father to let her 
see " my piece " again. " That is the best approbation. 
This time I have worked for the children. Let them enjoy 
themselves, that is all I ask. So much the worse if the 
others are bored." 

The most emotional of all the dramas of Sardou, " La 
Tosca," first played at the Porte Saint-Martin on November 
24, 1887, affords a striking instance of the diversity of 
opinion not seldom found between the critics and the public. 
The chorus of critics smote the piece hip and thigh, and 
Francisque Sarcey went so far as to dub it " a pantomime." 
The dramatist was not a little nettled by this treatment, and 
retorted : " I knew that Sarcey was blind ; but I did not 
think that he was deaf too. He really did not need this 
new infirmity." 

In Paris, as elsewhere, journalists are often admitted to 
witness the final rehearsals of a new play. One paper — 
Gil Bias — abused this privilege by printing an analysis of 
" La Tosca " on the very morning of the first performance. 
In assertion of his rights, Sardou brought an action against 
the offender and won it. The general public was delighted 
by Sarah Bernhardt, who threw into the title-role a mar- 
vellous force, and secured a regular triumph for interpre- 
ters and author. The drama ran for two hundred nights 
at the Porte Saint-Martin, and has since been frequently 
revived and taken all round the world by Sarah Bernhardt. 
How enduring is the popularity of the drama is shown by 
the fact that when it was revived on January 21, 1899, it 
ran for fifty-seven nights at the Theatre Sarah Bernhardt. 
7 



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I 



98 SARDOU'S CAREER 

In January, 1900, an operatic version of "La Tosca," 
in three acts, with music by Giacomo Puccini, was pro- 
duced at Rome. Both at Rome and at Covent Garden The- 
atre, London, on July 12 of the same year, it was received 
with favour. Fraulein Temina appeared in the title-role. 

An English version of " La Tosca " by F. C. Grove and 
Henry Hamilton was produced at the Garrick Theatre, 
London, November 28, 1889. 

The brilliantly successftd " La Tosca " was followed by 
one of Sardou's failures, " Marquise," played at the Vaude- 
ville on February 12, 1889. Even Madame Rejane in the 
title-role failed to save the piece, which had some points of 
resemblance with "Georgette." The subject of the play 
was a scarlet woman grown sedate with years, and the situ- 
ation brought about by the refusal of the neighbors among 
whom she had settled to recognize her. The piece proved 
altogether unsuited for the taste of the time. 

A month later, however, Sardou had his revenge. His 
three-act comedy " Belle-Maman,"' written in collaboration 
with Raymond Deslandes, was performed at the Gymnase 
on March 15, 1889, and enjoyed a good run. The humor 
of this farcical piece turns on the ridiculous spectacle of a 
mother-in-law who, excited by the marriage of her daughter, 
takes to giddy ways and flirtations late in life. Ten years 
later, on October 19, 1899, " Belle-Maman " was revived 
at the Vaudeville, and ran for fifty-two nights, reaching on 
November 14 of that year its three-hundredth performance. 



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CHAPTER XI 

Thermidor Prohibited, Sans-GSne and Cleopatre 
Successful 

It was at the instance of Sarah Bernhardt that Sardou 
wrote " Cleopatre/' as in the case of " Fedora." With inci- 
dental music by Xavier Leroux, it was performed at the 
Porte Saint-Martin on October 23, 1890. The great trage- 
dienne had several times expressed the desire to interpret 
the character of the Egyptian Queen. Sardou hesitated for 
a long time, possibly because he shrunk from directly chal- 
lenging comparison with Shakespeare. In fact, it has been 
noticed that only the messenger scene reminds one to any 
extent of " Antony and Qeopatra." At length he yielded, 
and began to write the play in collaboration with Emile 
Moreau, the same dramatist who some years later helped 
him to produce " Madame Sans-Gene " and " Dante." An 
attack of influenza prevented the completion of the play, 
as was intended, in time for the great exhibition held at 
Paris in 1889 in commemoration of the Centenary of the 
French Revolution. Thanks to Madame Bernhardt, " Qeo- 
patre " drew good houses for 80 nights, the performance on 
November i realizing as much as 11,500 francs. 

Sardou was often accused of sneering at Shakespeare. 
As the accusation was rarely made in a tangible form, it 
was difficult for him to refute it. At last, however, it was 
formally made in a leading article in the London Daily 
Telegraph of August 27, 1890, apropos of the forthcoming 
production by Madame Bernhardt of his play of "Qeo- 
patre" in Paris. Sardou wrote to the Telegraph under 
date of September 24, 1890: 



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100 SARDOU'S CAREER 

" The writer of your article should have verified his assertions. 
He is wrong when he stated that my play of * Qeopatre ' is an 
adaptation of that of Shakespeare. He would have done better 
had he waited to see the piece before making that assertion. He 
did not neglect also to repeat to the world the famous saying which 
has been put into my mouth concerning Shakespeare, to wit: 
* that he had not the least talent.' But your writer forgot to prove 
that I really uttered these words. It is not sufficient to attribute 
imbecile sayings to me, it must be proved that I uttered them. It 
is true that I am not one of those idolatrous persons who admire 
Shakespeare without reserve, and I venture to believe that his 
statue in Paris usurps the place which better belongs to our own 
Comeille. But it is a far cry from this belief to the opinion 
falsely attributed to me, and I defy your contributor to cite a 
saying of mine in which this monstrosity could be found. He 
has not even the excuse of making his charges in good faith, 
for I have frequently protested publicly against this fiction. If 
he should pretend that my protests were unknown to him, I would 
reply that no self-respecting writer has any right to claim knowl- 
edge of the accusation and ignorance of the defence." 

Independently of its literary or dramatic merit, " Ther- 
midor," performed at the Comedie-Frangaise on January 
24, 1891, is one of Sardou's most famous plays, owing to 
the stormy reception it met, and its final prohibition by the 
government. The author never concealed the fact that in 
politics he was a monarchist, although a liberal-minded one, 
and as "Rabagas" had excited the apprehensions of M. 
Thiers, so now "Thermidor" alarmed President Camot's 
cabinet. Its anti-radical bias, through the machinations of 
M. Clemenceau, caused such an uproar at the second per- 
formance on January 26, that two of the Ministers, Con- 
stans and Bourgeois, were frightened into prohibiting its 
further performance at the Comedie-Frangaise or any other 
theatre subventioned by the government. On the 27th, 
accordingly, "Depit Amoureux" and "Tartuffe" were 
substituted. But the public refused to give them a hearing, 
and the performance was suspended by 9 o'clock and the 



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FAILURE AND SUCCESS 101 

money refunded. Even on the 29th the house was still in 
an agitated state. 

Sardou had originally intended the piece for the Porte 
Saint-Martin, where Coquelin was playing at the time. 
But Jules Qaretie, director of the Comedie-Fran^aise, be- 
ing anxious to induce the great actor to rejoin his establish- 
ment, opened negotiations which resulted in the return of 
Coquelin, and Marais also, to the Theatre-Franqais, and 
the transfer of "Thermidor" to the Government theatre. 
"Thermidor" had been planned twenty years before in 
the time of the Commune, the suggested title being "La 
Demiere Charette" or "The Last Tumbril." Like "La 
Sorciere " and several other plays, it was withdrawn years 
afterward from its retirement, and completed with a view 
to its performance on the stage of the Porte Saint-Martin. 

The prohibition, of course, only aflfected houses receiv- 
ing a subvention from the state, and there was nothing to 
prevent the performance of "Thermidor" on some other 
stage; but it was not revived till March 3, 1896, when it 
was played in the theatre for which it had been originally 
written. Coquelin had in the meantime returned to the 
Porte Saint-Martin, and helped to make the fortune of the 
piece. To Marais, however, who had played the part of 
Martial Hugon so brilliantly, the stoppage of " Thermidor " 
was a disaster. He had thrown up an excellent position at 
the Gymnase, and the crisis at the Comedie-Franqaise seems 
to have disheartened him altogether. Deeply involved in 
debt, he fell seriously ill, and in an attack of delirium threw 
himself out of a window, his death resulting in September, 
1891. 

Reference has already been made to the keen interest 
taken by Sardou in history and archaeology, but no period 
had such fascination for him as that of the French Revolu- 
tion. No less than six of his plays deal with this period: 
"Monsieur Garat," "Les Merveilleuses," "Thermidor," 



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102 SARDOU^S CAREER 

"Madame Sans-Gene," "Pamela," "Robespierre." In all 
these pieces the movement and human interest form the 
life-blood of the play; these claimed his first care, the arch- 
aeology and history taking only a subordinate though still 
important place. He studied no period with greater thor- 
oughness, and from his youth up had been familiar with 
spots made memorable by its most striking episodes. When 
" Thermidor " was transferred to the Comedie-Frangaise 
various modifications were made in the piece, but on its 
revival it was restored to its original and superior form. 
The famous " Convention " scene, for instance, of the 9th 
Thermidor, Year II [July 27, 1794] was reinstated, and 
several alterations made in the denouement. For example. 
Martial Hugon was not killed at the Porte Saint-Martin, 
and Fabienne Lecoulteux with her companions in misfor- 
tune was rescued from the last tumbril by a kind of popular 
rising provoked by Martial and Labussiere just at the very 
moment when the Convention was staying the course of 
the frightful summary executions. Objections have been 
raised to the rescue on historical grounds. It is a fact that 
the last tumbril was attacked, but it is alleged that Com- 
mandant Henriot's gendarmes recovered possession of the 
last " batch " of victims. Such criticism, however, is merely 
captious. In obscure points of this kind, on which certainty 
is unattainable, some latitude must be allowed to the dram- 
atist. Provided that the main outline of the picture be 
correctly drawn, no illusion is destroyed by an arbitrary 
decision on petty points of history or archaeology over 
which experts may be left to wrangle. Felix Duquesnel, 
who as Director of the Porte Saint-Martin was keenly in- 
terested in the play, thought that it made a more artistic 
ending to rescue Fabienne than to allow her to perish merely 
because she could not bring herself to save her life by falsely 
declaring herself about to become a mother. 

"Theodora," "Thermidor" and the four-act comedy 



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FAILURE AND SUCCESS 108 

of " Madame Sans-Genc '* are the best examples of Sardou's 
method of constructing historical plays, and of the scrupu- 
lous care he devoted to the general accuracy of his details, 
both in the story itself and in the staging of the piece. 

In writing "Madame Sans-Gene," as subsequently in 
" Dante/' Sardou had the collaboration of Emile Moreau. 
The history of this coUaboraticm is not without interest. 
The real Madame Sans-Gene was an orphan girl, Th6rese 
Figueuer. When she was eighteen years old, in 1793, she 
doffed her petticoats, put on the breeks, and enlisted in the 
army. She followed the Emperor in his great campaigns, 
was wounded several times, and died peacefully in 1861 in 
an asylum at the age of eighty-six. She was one of a 
number of young women who as vivandieres followed the 
eagles in the Napoleonic wars. With her as heroine, Emile 
Moreau had made a play which he was reading to his old 
friend Sardou. During the reading Sardou suddenly cried : 
"What a play it would make if, instead of this obscure 
vivandi^re, you took Catherine Hubscher, who was a regi- 
mental laundress, and became the wife of Sergeant Le- 
febvre; he won the baton of a marshal of France and made 
her a Duchess." Moreau was struck by the interruption. 
" Indeed it would," he cried. " Let us write it together, and 
I will throw this away." So said, so done, and they col- 
laborated in writing " Mme. Sans-Gene." 

The piece was originally intended for Le Grand Theatre. 
But that house had proved a financial failure, and the play 
— ^together with Madame Rejane, for whom the title-role 
had been written — ^was transferred to the Vaudeville, where 
it was performed on October 7^^ 1893, with great success. 

The piece was revived at the Vaudeville on May 22, 
1900, and was played no fewer than 209 times during the 
exposition of that year. On July 31, it reached its 500th 
performance, and liie occasion was celebrated by a grand 
supper at the Restaurant Paillard in the Champs-Elysees, at 



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104 SARDOU'S CAREER 

which Madame Rejane presided, having Sardou on her 
right hand and Emile Moreau on her left. On October 31 
of that same year, it was played for the 6ooth time in Paris. 
"Madame Sans-Grene" is one of Sardou's most diverting 
comedies, and the scene bet ween the Emperor jtndJMLaxghal 
Lefebvre is a marvel of stage-craft. 

Adapted from " Madame Sans-Gene " was the light 
romantic opera of "The Duchess of Danzig," with book 
and lyrics by Henry Hamilton and music by Ivan Caryll, 
which was produced at the Lyric Theatre, London, on 
October 17, 1903, and enjoyed long and successful runs 
in London and the Provinces. It was also produced in the 
United States. 

An adaptation of " Madame Sans-Gene " by J. Comyns 
Carr was produced at the Lyceum Theatre, London, <m 
April 10, 1897, with Henry Irving and Ellen Terry in the 
leading roles. 

In his next venture, "Gismonda," Sardou temporarily 
abandoned modem or recent times, and went back to 
mediaeval Athens for his historical setting. The selection 
of an obscure though interesting corner of history enabled 
him to give his characters a picturesque environment. The 
critics were surprised to find how slightly mediaeval Greece 
had figured in history ; on the stage it was entirely novel. 

" Gismonda " was specially written for Sarah Bernhardt, 
who had just taken the Renaissance Theatre, where it was 
performed on October 31, 1894. 

The production of " Marcelle," brought out at the Gym- 
nase on December 21, 1895, was the last occasion on which 
Madame Pasca — ^who had created the part of Seraphine 
nearly thirty years before — ^played on a Paris stage. It is 
one of Sardou's less important pieces, and contains some 
far-fetched situations, the scene, for instance, in which 
Marcelle proclaims that she has a lover, in order to shield 
her brother, who had in a drunken quarrel killed a man 
before his sister's very door. 



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CHAPTER XII 
Sardou as a Spiritualist 

Sardou's next play, produced early in 1897, was called 
" Spiritisme." 

There are various references in the writings of his con- 
temporaries to the fact that he was a believer in spiritualism. 
We have seen him in his younger days dissecting the heart 
of man anatomically. Later on, toward 1861, we find him 
seeking the soul through spiritualism, and that is not one 
of the least curious means his intellect employed in its 
quest of the new and the unknown. " In the early sixties," 
writes Jules de Marthold, " there existed a society of Spir- 
itualists presided over by a certain Rivail, ex-manager of 
one of the boulevard theatres, christened Allan-Kardoc by 
a spirit, that of suicide probably, for in these seances they 
chiefly invoked those who had of their own will passed 
unbidden into eternity, such as Gerard de Nerval, for in- 
stance. Sardou held a distinguished position among these 
adepts, and published in his capacity of medium a * voyage 
fait dans la planete de Jupiter.' I know not how much of 
the mysterious the ghosts of the Champs-Elysees may have 
been able to impart to our dramatic author, but he is most 
certainly somewhat of a sorcerer, and he, as certainly, has 
the power of magic." 

Adolphe Brisson, in one of his "Portraits Intimes," 
tells of a seance given by an Italian medium famous in 
Paris some years ago, who exhibited in New York City in 
1909, one Signora Eusapia Paladino. From Brisson's dis- 
closure it is apparent that Sardou was not the only one 
among the celebrities of Paris who believed in spiritualism. 
Among them he mentions Camille Flammarion, astronomer, 
mathematician, physicist, and geologist, who was instru- 

105 



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106 SARDOU'S CAREER 

mental in importing this Signora Paladino from Naples. 
Students of these sciences are often of a rather skeptical 
turn of mind, and it is all the more remarkable that Flam- 
marion should so implicitly believe in the spiritualistic mani- 
festations of Signora Paladino. Yet these skeptical Pari- 
sians all testified that they had felt tables moving under 
Signora Paladino's fingers, had seen inanimate objects 
Sying through the air, and that at her seances they had 
felt the pressure of spirit hands. 

M>. Brisson informs us that the party which assembled 
in M. Flammarion's study included some half-dozen distin- 
guished Parisians, among whom was Sardou. The medium 
herself, according to M. Brisson, could not be considered 
of a dangerous beauty, as "her face was a network of 
wrinkles, and covered with the scars of smallpox." But 
he was impressed by her piercing eyes. 

"At the beginning of the sitting," says M. Brisson, 
" Sardou displayed his usual marvellous talent for con- 
versation. Yet on this particular evening he did not at- 
tempt to dazzle us with his customary anecdotic brilliancy. 
On the contrary, he was most solemn, and not, as is so often 
the case, mocking and satirical. There is no more sincere 
believer in spiritualism than Sardou, and his conviction has 
the essential character of implicit faith. It is not feverish, 
it is not changeable, but solid and immutable. Sardou does 
not show any signs of irritation when he hears attacks upon 
or remarks against spiritualism. He makes no attempt to 
refute, but merely laughs at them." 

"There are people" (says Sardou, through the pen 
of M. Brisson,) "with whom it is useless to argue. Their 
incredulity is proof against attack. They refuse to accept 
any evidence which is contrary to their theories. If you 
prove a fact to them, they admit it, but the next day deny 
their admission. The fear of ridicule with them destroys 
the love of truth." 



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SARDOU AS A SPIRITUALIST 107 

Sardou thus told the history of his conversion. He was 
living as a poor student in a garret in the Latin quarter. 
A bed, a writing-table, and a spinet made up the furniture 
of this poor apartment. This piano was dear to Sardou, for 
it came to him from a sister whom he had lost. Yet he 
treated it with little outward show of affection, for he had 
converted it into a receptacle for rubbish. Articles of 
clothing, books, pamphlets, and packages of newspapers 
were heaped upon it, and no friendly hand ever woke to 
life the sltmibering tones of its corroded strings. 

One evening the young playwright was hard at work 
scourging vice and rewarding virtue in the fifth act of a 
melodrama, when he suddenly heard faint sounds of music 
behind him. He whirled round in his chair. No one was 
in the room except himself. Nevertheless, the piano was 
sounding as if fingers were flying over the keys. He looked 
attentively at the key-board, for the instrument was open, 
and he saw that the ivory keys were moving as if impelled 
by unseen fingers. He watched them closely. Though the 
keys were covered with dust, the spirit fingers that were 
moving them left no trace behind them. When the melody, 
an old air by Haydn, was ended, the piano again became 
mute. Sardou pinched himself to make sure that he was 
not dreaming, but he was wide awake. He went to bed, 
but slept little that night, and the next morning he hastened 
to visit a friend who was acquainted with all the mysteries 
of modem spiritualism. 

"It is very simple," said the friend when he had lis- 
tened attentively to Sardou's account. " You are a medium, 
but you have been unaware of your powers. There are 
many people like yourself." 

This revelation surprised Sardou, but he soon found, 
he tells us, that it was tiie truth. He fotmd himself capable 
of bringing about all sorts of remarkable phenomena. He 
could produce raps from tables, and could materialize spirits. 



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108 SARDOU'S CAREER 

He received mysterious communications written by beings 
from the other world. Sometimes the spirits would seize 
his hands, and with inconceivable rapidity would draw 
wonderful designs of scenes and buildings which he had 
never seen. 

Here M. Brisson's narrative may be left for a moment 
to glance at some corroborative matter in a recent work by 
Jules Claretie on Victor Hugo: corroborative not of the 
objective truth of the spiritualistic phenomena, but of the 
truth of the allegations as to Sardou's belief in them. M. 
Claretie says that while Hugo was in exile in Guernsey he 
whiled away the weary days by "conversations with the 
other world/' by means of table-tipping. He adds that 
Madame de Girardin had brought the fad into fashion. It 
had been imported from America into Paris. Victor Hugo 
used to preside at these meetings, and there are in existence 
himdreds of pages of written matter giving the words 
rapped out by spirits in the form of dialogues between 
them and the members of Hugo's family. 

M. Paul Meurice was in possession of these manu- 
scripts, and once consulted Sardou as to the advisability of 
publishing them. "Why not?" replied the dramatist, "the 
manifestations of the invisible world are indisputable facts." 
In short, Sardou advised M. Meurice to publish all these 
manuscripts written by the unknown. It seems that spirits 
converse in both prose and verse. " But," adds M. Qaretie, 
" I suspect that this unknown who wrote such clever verse 
and prose was no other than Victor Hugo himself, although 
he himself may not have known it. But it would not have 
been possible to offer so simple an explanation to Victor 
Hugo; it would have made him seriously angry. Let me 
repeat: he firmly believed in the reality of these manifesta- 
tions and of the voices of the other world. He was as firm 
a believer in them as was Sardou. He would admit of no 
discussion about the matter, but merely said that facts 



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SARDOU AS A SPIRITUALIST 109 

could not be debated, and he accepted the phenomena as 
genuine." M. Qaretie closes with some moralising on the 
curiosities of genius, on the strange fact that the men who 
dwell on intellectual peaks should accept without question 
the mysteries of the abysses below. 

To return to the narrative of M. Brisson. Sardou, he 
tells us, informed the company assembled at M. Flam- 
marion's house that he was in the habit of consulting the 
spirits for advice concerning his course in life. He even 
asserted that when he was puzzled in the construction of a 
tangled plot his spirit friends helped him out of his diffi- 
culty. But the most remarkable story told by Sardou to 
his friends was to the effect that one day while he was 
seated at his desk, writing, a bunch of roses suddenly ap- 
peared at the side of his ink-stand. They were evidently 
freshly plucked, and the dew still lay upon their petals. 
At first he imagined that they had been tossed in through 
the window, but the window was closed. Furthermore, 
they had obviously descended vertically down from the 
ceiling. "This seems incredible," continued Sardou, "but 
we all know that the passage of flowers through opaque 
bodies is one of the most frequent manifestations of the 
skill of the jugglers in India." 

It is unnecessary here to follow Brisson in his continua- 
ticm of the account of Signora Paladino's spiritualistic 
seances. The so-called mysteries of these gatherings are 
about the same in all countries : darkness, a medium behind 
a curtain, spirit hands, spirit voices, and guitars and tam- 
bourines sounding from the medium's cabinet. There is 
nothing remarkable in all these things. But what is, per- 
haps, remarkable is that the distinguished assembly seemed 
impressed with such phenomena, that M. Flammarion 
seemed "pale and agitated," that Sardou, on the other 
hand, seemed extremely animated, that as they parted he 
said to M. Brisson : " I hope that you have been impressed. 



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110 SARDOU'S CAREER 

for I think we have had what may be called an excellent 
seance." 

This pronounced interest in occult phenomena naturally 
left its mark on Sardou's plays. " Spiritisme," played at 
the Renaissance on February 8, 1897, turns on these mys- 
teries. It was not a success. The general public probably 
regards the subject oiE spiritualism with indifference. It 
has been suggested, too, that the disaster of the burning of 
the Charity Bazaar in the Rue Jean Goujon on May 4th of 
that year militated against the piece. The nerves of the 
public were said to be too severely shaken for the time to 
relish a play which included a fire and a railway accident 
in the plot. It is very problematical, however, whether we 
have here the real reasons for the comparative failure of 
" Spiritisme." The truth is that the subject itself is utterly 
undramatic. In a scene such as the discussion between 
Davidson and Parisot we have a mere pamphlet masquer- 
ading as a play. Sardou's interest in the subject led him 
astray. 

" Spiritisme " was produced in the United States with 
Miss Virginia Hamed and Nelson Wheatcroft in the lead- 
ing roles ; it was fairly successful. 



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CHAPTER XIII 

Robespierre, Dante, La Sorci£:re — 
Plays of the End 

In 1898 and 1899, Sardou returned to the period of the 
French Revolution. The play "Pamela" he set in the 
Directory time. 

This picturesque epoch had provided a framework for 
one of his earliest successes, ^'M<Misieur Garat," nearly 
forty years previously, and also for a delightful but not 
altogether successful comedy, '' Les MerveiUeuses," twenty 
years before. The new play was well received on its first 
performance at the Vaudeville, on February 11, 1898, and 
favorably reviewed in the press; but it had only a short 
run, in spite of the attraction of Madame R^jane in the 
title-role. The play turns on the fate of the child Louis 
XVII., who, by the aid of Pamela, supported by faithful 
royalists, manages to escape from the prison at the Temple, 
where he was confined under the care of Pamela's husband, 
Bergerin. The plot ^is simple, but the picture of the suf- 
ferings of the Dauphm and of his loyal friends succeeded 
in stirring the emotions of the audience. The actual fate 
of the poor^boy is, like the identity of the Man in the Iron 
Mask, one of the standing riddles of history which in all 
probability never will find a generally accepted solution. 
Some assert that he escaped to America, and under the 
name of Eleazar Williams died there. Others believe that 
under the name of Naundorflf he lived at Berlin for many 
years by his trade as a clockmaker, and died at Delft in 
1845. Many specious arguments are put forward by those 
who hold this belief, but the weight of probability inclines 
to the official view that he died in prison at the Temple in 
the year 1795 as the result of harsh usage and privation. 

Ill 



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118 SARDOU'S CAREER 

According to those who uphold the escape theory, the boy 
who died in the prison in 1795 was a substitute, who was 
smuggled in to save the Dauphin. In a case where cer- 
tainty is unattainable the dramatist is surely at liberty to 
select whichever version lends itself best to his art. Years 
afterward (in 1909) Pierre Decourcelles selected the boy 
Louis XVII. as the hero of a play called " Le Roy sans 
Royaume." 

In his next play, " Robespierre," written for Sir Henry 
Irving, translated by Sir Henry's son, Laurence Irving, and 
performed by Sir Henry at the London Lyceum on April 
15, 1899, Sardou again went to the French Revolution for 
his theme. He had maintained a strong interest in Robes- 
pierre almost from his boyhood, as an incident related by 
himself serves to show. In the year 1845 or 1846 young 
Sardou attended a children's party at the house of a family 
friend, Madame de Boismont, in the Rue d'Enfer. He 
there met and danced with an old lady who interested him 
greatly. " After the dance, during which she questioned 
me on my studies, my masters, my school, I asked Madame 
de Boismont who the good lady was." He was told that 
she was Madame Le Bas, the mother of Philippe Le Bas, 
and the widow of the member of the convention. " I was 
reading at the time Thiers's 'Revolution,' and cried out 
*the man who killed himself?'" 

[It may be interpolated here that Le Bas, at the famous 
session of the Ninth Thermidor, demanded to share Robes- 
pierre's fate, and then shot himself.] 

" Madame de Boismont mentioned my exclamation to 
Madame Le Bas, who made a sign for me to sit by her side, 
and I went, quite charmed at the idea of having taught the 
Lad/s Chain to that widow of Thermidor. Naturally 
Madame Le Bas spoke to me of Thiers, of the Revolution, 
of Robespierre, and as she observed that I was somewhat 
lukewarm for her hero, she did not fail to say that he had 



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PLAYS OF THE END 118 

been ' much calumniated by his enemies/ and that I would 
certainly have liked him, ' he was so kind and affecticmate 
toward yoimg people.' " 

A few years later young Sardou was again brought into 
personal connection with the Robespierre traditions. He 
had made the acquaintance of M. Deschamps, Robespierre's 
godson. This gentleman had a son who, like Sardou, was a 
medical student, and walked with him every morning to the 
Necker Hospital. The two young men used to talk of 
the Revolution on the way, and no doubt Sardou gathered 
many ideas of the character and ambitions of Robespierre 
on these occasions. 

" Robespierre " proved a great success in London, and 
when Sir Henry Irving and Miss Ellen Terry, at the dose 
of the London season, sailed on October 15, 1899, for a 
five months' tour in America, it created such a furore that 
the distinguished interpreters were tmable to return to 
England till June, 1900. 

In 1891 Sardou had given in "Thermidor" a picture 
of the last day of the Reign of Terror. With the Terror 
fell, on that Ninth Thermidor, Maximilien Robespierre, the 
monster. In " Robespierre " Sardou draws another Maxi- 
milien, of a more heroic mould. He is here the sincere 
patriot, who is firmly convinced that the freedom of the 
people, won at such tremendous cost, could only be pre- 
served by severe measures. M. Rebell suggests that Sardou 
intended to depict him as the incarnation of the Revolution, 
and has with that end in view magnified and ennobled the 
bloodthirsty tyrant. It is Carlyle's view : " Stricter man, 
according to his formula, to his credo, and his cant of 
probities, benevolences, pleasures of virtue, and such like, 
lived not in that age." The colossal conceit of the man, 
too, is revealed in utterances such as his reply to Vaughan : 
" Mr. Fox is mistaken ; France can do nothing with a child 
like the Dauphin. She wants a man, and that man is my- 
8 



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114 SARDOU'S CAREER 

self " ; a saying which is all of a piece with Robespierre's 
recorded last words: "all is lost! the brigands triumph/' 
for they made the realisation of his dream impossible. 

We have seen how Sardou, unlike Alexandre Dumas, 
was not content to write a play merely, but religiously at- 
tended the rehearsals and supervised the minutest details, 
to ensure that his ideas of action and scenery should be 
carried out. " Robespierre," however, had not the advan- 
tage of the author's personal supervision. Though invited 
to do so, he declined to make the journey to London, even 
to witness the first-night performance at the Lyceum. He 
dreaded the prospect of the dinners and speeches to which 
he would be compelled to submit. " That no longer agrees 
with my time of life. Besides, I have never had much taste 
for such things." 

The lyrical comedy of " La Fille de Tabarin," in which 
Sardou and Paul Ferrier furnished the libretto in verse, 
while Gabriel Pierne was responsible for the music, was 
performed at the Opera-Comique on February 20, 1901. 
This piece is ofl&cially described as a " lyrical comedy," on 
the ground that the parts allotted to the sister arts of 
poetry and music are of equal importance, instead of the 
libretto being merely a peg whereon to hang the melody, 
as is very often the case in a comic opera. Though not 
devoid of interest, the piece could scarcely be called a suc- 
cess. The story was slight, and the music scholarly, yet 
undramatic. Of Pierne's music one of the critics wrote: 
" He seems to be saying all the time : ' see how strong I am 
in fugue, counterpoint, and instrumentation.* " 

Tabarin, the hero of the piece, is an historical character, 
who retired from the stage with a fortune about 1630, in 
the reign of Louis XIII., and set up as a country gentleman 
in Poitou. The manner of his death is uncertain. Some 
authorities, among them Paul de Saint-Victor, maintain 
that the ex-actor was murdered by some of the neighbour- 



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PLAYS OF THE END 116 

ing gentry, who resented the intrusion of an outsider into 
their order. Sardou makes Tabarin shoot himself. But as 
the ordinary unl^tered man has never even heard of 
Tabarin, the playwright was justified in killing him in the 
most dramatic way. This strolling player of the seventeenth 
century, whom Boileau castigated as ** unclassical," La Fon- 
taine immortalized in " Le Cochon, La Ch^vre et Le Mou- 
ton ;" and Moliere even todc one whole scene in " Les Four- 
beries de Scapin " from the buflfoon of the Pont Neuf . 

The farces of Tabarin were first published in 1632 ; four 
editions appeared within the year, and they have been fre- 
quently reprinted. Mondor was not his master (as in Sar- 
dou's play), but his apothecary. Tabarin played in the 
Place Dauphine at the end of Uie Pont Neuf, and crowds 
came to see him. 

The death of Tabarin on the stage gave rise to a dis- 
cussion on stage conventions in the '* Interm^diaire des 
C3iercheurs et Curicux," to which Sardou made a contribu- 
tion. This journal is the French equivalent of the London 
" Notes and Queries." After enumerating various con- 
ventions, such as the sloping of the stage itself, the fact 
that doors open from the inside outward, and that a meal 
on the stage lasts at the most six minutes instead of three- 
quarters of an hour, Sardou went on to remark that realism 
in such matters would be condemned by the public as false 
art. Similarly, a death on the stage must not be a pro- 
longed agony : " it must be rapid and seemly. No doubt it 
must conform as far as possible to the nature of the sup- 
posed malady. But it is a question of degree: it must not 
be too prolonged, revolting, or disgusting." 

Sardou was not the first to treat Tabarin dramatically. 
There was also a comic opera in two acts, with libretto by 
Alboize and Andre and music by Georges Bousquet, played 
at the Theatre-Lyrique in December, 1852, which represented 
poor Tabarin as being exploited by a greedy impresario 



/ 

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116 SARDOU'S CAREER 

named Mondor. And again on June 13, 1874, a two-act 
play in verse by Paul Ferrier, " Tabarin," was played at the 
Theatre-Frangais. Thanks to the splendid interpretation 
given by Coquelin the Elder, the piece was very successful, 
but it does not depict the historical Tabarin. The hero 
of this piece is rather represented as a comedian who, while 
himself a prey to personal sorrow, has to assume a joyous 
countenance to amuse the public. Though he secured the 
collaboration of M. Ferrier for the new lyrical comedy, 
Sardou did not present the same version of the old come- 
dian's life and character, but based his book on a prefatory 
note by Georges d'Harmonville, printed in his edition of 
the works of Tabarin. 

" Les Barbares,*' produced at the Paris Opera House on 
October 23, 1901, is a lyrical tragedy in three short acts 
written by Sardou and C. B. Gheusi in collaboration. The 
music is by that master of melody, Camille Saint-Saens. 
But in spite of the distinguished names of both librettist 
and composer, the work is not one of those masterpieces 
which assume a permanent place in the popular affections. 
Saint-Saens's music was too ecclesiastical for the stage — 
too reminiscent, as one of the critics remarked, of the organ 
of the Madeleine. In libretto, too, Sardou was not at his 
best. Possibly the task was not quite congenial to a 
dramatist of his type. The critics have noticed in the book 
of " Les Barbares *' a freedom of treatment which is quite 
unusual in so punctilious a stickler for historical accuracy. 
The leader of the Germanic invaders at Orange in 105 B.C. 
was Boiorix, not Marcomir. The names of the Roman 
consuls are changed, and there were certainly no vestal 
virgins and no theatre at Arausio till three hundred years 
afterward. But, after all, such discrepancies between fact 
and romance do not really affect the artistic merit of the 
work, for they destroy no illusions. The majority of play- 
goers have long since forgotten the Roman history they 



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PLAYS OF THE END 117 

learned at school. Had he been writing a play, Sardou 
would no doubt have developed the contrast between the 
ferocity of Marcomir's warriors and the disciplined valour 
of the Roman legionaries. An opera in which a bare forty 
pages of text in verse is divided into three short acts 
scarcely affords room for character drawing and develop- 
ment of -situations. The suddenness of the change from the 
Vestal Floria— one mcwnent resisting the advances of Mar- 
comir, and the next falling in love with him and throwing 
herself into his arms — is all of a piece with the narrowness 
of the stage. As we have seen in the case of " La Papil- 
lonne/' Sardou is by no means at his best in small pieces 
with few characters and simple plot. 

A second play written expressly for the English stage 
by Sardou — ^this time in collaboration with Emile Moreau — 
was " Dante," performed at Drury Lane Theatre on April 
30, 1903. As in the case of "Robespierre," the English 
version was prepared by Laurence Irving. The piece had 
a run for seven weeks, the chief interpreters being Sir 
Henry Irving in the title-role, and Miss Lena Ashwell in 
the double part of Pia dei Tolomei and Gemma, the poet's 
daughter. " Dante " is not intended to give a view of the 
Dante of history; that is to say, it is not concerned with 
the external vicissitudes of the poet's life. To quote Sar- 
dou's own words : " There is more of the soul than of the 
body of Dante in our drama. We have personified in him 
a lover of liberty, a fierce hater of persecution, of oppres- 
sion, and of clerical domination. Our Dante is not the his- 
torical Dante; it is the moral Dante. We have taken him 
in his full grandeur as a symbol of liberty. It was this 
conception of the hero that we offered to Henry Irving." 
The poet was bom in the year 1265, and with the more 
famous period of his love for Beatrice, which ended with 
her death in 1290, the drama has no concern. 

" Dante " achieved success at Drury Lane, but it was 



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118 SARDOU'S CAREER 

rather a triumph of the popular favourites. Sir Henry Irving 
and Miss Lena Ashwell, than of- the playwright. The mise- 
en-scine by the two French scenic artists, Rousiri and 
Bertin, was superb, but the play itself is rather intricate 
and confusing to follow. The personages are historical, 
but the situations in which they are thrown are imaginary. 
For example, Dante and Pia dei Tolomei were never on 
terms of speaking intimacy, and Dante enthusiasts will be 
inclined to resent the dramatist's making Gemma a natural 
daughter of the poet and Pia. In fact, this amour is pure 
invention, unless Sardou and Moreau were willing to base 
their justification on the identity of a certain mysterious 
" donna gentile " in the poem whom many Dante scholars 
suppose to be the Gemma Donati whom he subsequently 
married. It is difficult to draw, the line between liberty 
and license in such matters, but the critic was probably a 
sound judge who expressed his regret that instead of 
adhering closely to Dante, or writing a brand-new drama 
and labelling it Dante, Sardou had blended the two methods. 
"La Sorciere," produced at the Theatre Sarah-Bem- 
hardt on December 15, 1903, again exemplifies the author's 
interest in the occult sciences which formed the ground- 
work of " Spiritisme." This time the element of mystery 
is the hypnotic power possessed by the heroine Zoraya. The 
play was written for Sarah Bernhardt, who surpassed her- 
self in the role of the heroine, as even those critics ac- 
knowledged who condemned the work as a whole. Some of 
the critics professed to find in the play evidence that Sardou 
was worn out and past work. A curious comment on this 
judgment is afforded by the fact that the piece had actually 
been prepared about twelve years earlier. According to 
his custom, the dramatist had worked out the play in the 
rough, and shown it to Madame Bernhardt, who pronounced 
it " superb." But she had just taken the Renaissance The- 
atre, the stage of which was not large enough to do justice 
to the piece, and in its place Sardou wrote for her " Gis- 



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SARDOU AT THREE SCORE AND TEN 



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PLAYS OF THE END 119 

monda," which was played late in 1894. "La Sorci^re" 
added one more to the long list of successes of Sardou and 
his chief interpreter, and Madame Bernhardt found the 
role of Zoraya so congenial that she adopted it as part of 
her permanent repertoire. We have seen what stress Sar- 
dou laid upon rehearsals, and how assiduously he attended 
them, and how rarely he could be induced to witness the 
first public performance of any of his plays. But on this 
occasion he 3rielded to the pressing invitation of his friend 
Sarah, as he habitually called her. No socmer had the cur- 
tain fallen on this triumph of his old age than the scene 
where was to have taken place the death by fire of the 
Sorceress was hastily cleared away, and Mme. Bernhardt 
entertained the author and his friends at a supper on the 
stage. Standing beside Mme. Rejane, her great rival and 
interpreter of Madame Sans-Gene, she raised her glass and 
gave a toast : " Sardou at his best, my dear master." 

Mrs. Patrick Campbell played an English version of the 
piece during a successful tour in America, which was un- 
fortunately cut short early in 1905 by a carriage accident. 

" La Piste,'* Sardou's fifty-fifth piece, was produced at 
the Theatre des Vari6t6s on February 16, 1906. Like one of 
his earlier successes, the plot revolves around a stolen 
letter. It is nearly as clever in composition as " Les Pattes 
de Mouche," but inferior in character drawing. In "La 
Piste'* an incriminating love-letter, hidden in a lady's 
writing-desk, is found by her husband. In her despair she 
declares that it was written when she was married to 
another man; but for proof of this she is forced to rely on 
the testimony of her former husband. An English version 
under the title " The Love Letter," adapted by Ferdinand 
Gottschalk, was played at the Lyric Theatre, New York, in 
October, 1906. In Paris, the leading roles were taken by 
Mme. Rejane and M. Brasseur; in New York by William 
Courtenay and Miss Virginia Hamed. In Paris the play 
was much more successful than in New York. 



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120 SARDOU'S CAREER 

"L'Aflfaire des Poisons," Sardou's last play, was pro- 
duced December 7, 1907, at the Porte Saint-Martin. It is an 
historical drama in a prologue and five acts. Its action 
takes place at the court of Louis XIV., and the heroine is 
Mme. de Montespan. The principal role, the Abbe Grif- 
fard, was played by M. Coquelin, for whom the role was 
written. The reign of the Roi Soleil was a period of 
poisoning — ^the school of Brinvilliers still existed, and Mme. 
Voisin and her acolytes openly vended "succession pow- 
ders." The ignorant physicians of the day ascribed all 
their unsuccessful cases to poisoning. This period fas- 
cinated Sardou as long ago as 1869, when he began accu- 
mulating material in his voluminous dossiers for a play 
of this curious time — a mimic scene wherein poisons should 
be dealt in freely by great ladies, courtiers, fortune-tellers, 
and unfrocked priests. Among the notable pictures of the 
play was the salon of the philter-vendor, Mme. Voisin, to 
which comes Mme. de Montespan, masked; as is very 
natural — on the stage — she is followed thither by all the 
other characters. 

Another striking picture was the Grotto of Thetis at 
Versailles, said to be the most elaborate scene ever placed 
on the Paris stage; this single setting cost over 35,000 
francs. The stage grotto was a reconstitution of the 
actual grotto, and was a marvellous imitation of its shell- 
work, its coral, its nacre, its mother-of-pearl, its fountains, 
its pillars of pink sea-shells, and its statuettes of tritons and 
naiads. Another effective picture was a reproduction of 
the salon of Louis XIV. The most novel effect in the play 
was the " Black Mass." This perverted ceremonial is for 
the purpose of invoking evil to a specified person, and is 
performed with black candles instead of white, and with 
reversed vestments. The devil in person, as all devout 
people know, frequently attends a successful " black mass," 
and will with his ardent thumb imprint a black brand on 
the white shoulder of some lady who pleases him. 



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PLAYS OF THE END 181 

Even if this play had not been successful, it would have 
been extraordinary that a septuagenarian should have 
written so ingenious a piece of work. For it was a marvel 
of technique, and its curtains fell on pictures which iriVari- 
ably piqued or startled the large audiences. But it was 
successful, not only as a piece of stage work, but financially 
as well, for it drew large houses during the entire season at 
the Porte Saint-Martin. 

A curious fact about the production was that Sardou 
repeated his course concerning " La Tosca/' In 1887, when 
that play was first produced, he sued the journal Gil Bias 
for printing a four-column summary of the plot on the 
day before the production. Just twenty years later he sued 
Le Matin for a similar action with " L'Aflfaire des Poisons." 
In both suits he recoved damages. 

It was not long after the striking success of his last 
play that the end of his long life came. In August, 1908, 
Sardou was spending the summer as usual on his estate at 
Marly. Mme. Sardou was with him, and his youngest son 
Andre. His two other sons, Pierre and Jean, were absent, 
as was his only daughter, Mme. Robert de Flers. 

Sardou had gone to Paris on some business, returning 
thence suffering from a fever which resolved itself into a 
pulmonary congestion. The doctors g^ew alarmed, and 
his children were summoned at once. But in a few days 
he grew better, and actually had his books and papers 
brought from his work-room into his bedroom. The habit 
of work was upon him. He improved steadily, and for a 
time it seemed as if he were again in his accustomed health. 

But as October approached he was ag^in forced to take 
to his bed. He failed steadily, but persisted in reading 
the current journals, until, growing weaker, he had them 
read to him. As he continued to decline he was seized with 
a strong desire to return to Paris. His family tried to 
dissuade him, but he would not listen, and they were forced 



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122 SARDOU'S CAREER 

to humor him. In a motor-car he was carefully taken back 
to his native city, and his joy was touching as he passed 
through the Bois de Boulogne. He seemed to feel as if 
he were again at home. 

When he reached his Paris house he found that his bed 
had been placed in his workroom, and again he was de- 
lighted. On his writing table lay the books and papers on 
which he had been last engaged when he left Paris. He 
grew animated, and began to lay plans for new plays. The 
news of the gfreat success of his latest piece, " L' Affaire des 
Poisons," filled him with pleasure. He even began to read 
the daily journals. 

But the improvement was only the flicker of an expiring 
lamp. Soon he grew weak again, became unconscious, and 
passed away without pain on November 8, 1908, in his 
seventy-eighth year. 

At the request of his widow a sketch was taken of him 
on his death-bed, wearing the velvet cap so well known to 
his friends. The artist was Levy-Dhurmer, and he did his 
work in pastels. Oddly enough, this is the only painting 
of Sardou in existence. There are many daguerreotsrpes 
and photographs, but he was of too restless a temperament 
to sit for a painter. 

His funeral took place November nth, at the Paris 
Church of St. Franqois-de-Sales. As in 1906 Sardou was 
promoted from the rank of Chevalier to that of Grand 
Cordon of the Legion of Honor, his remains were accorded 
a military burial, with a general officer in command of the 
troops. The French government was represented by the 
Minister of Public Instruction; the French Academy by 
Albert Vandal, and the society of Dramatic Authors (of 
which Sardou was president) by Paul Hervieu. All three 
of these crfficials pronounced funeral discourses at the house 
after the religious ceremony, and the body was then trans- 
ported to Marly to rest in the family tomb. 



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CHAPTER XIV 
Ways of Living and Methods of Work 

The long career, the remarkable versatility, and the 
large amount of work done by Sardou naturally arouse 
curiosity as to his habits of living and methods of work. 
He was most methodical. When in Paris he rose early, and 
between half-past seven and eight was at his desk, where 
he remained at work for a couple of hours. Like many 
French men of letters, he wore easy garments when at 
work: Dtunas the Younger wore pajamas while at his desk; 
Sardou attired himself in a loose woollen suit, slippers, 
and a velvet cap. After his two hours of work he shaved 
and dressed, receiving visitors from 9 to ii. These callers 
included theatrical managers, actors in quest of plays, 
potential collaborators, and venders of bric-a-brac The 
latter visitors were numerous, for Sardou was an ardent 
collector of old prints, old books, tapestries, carvings, coins, 
jewels, weapons, and bibelots of all kinds. At mid-day he 
took luncheon with his family, sometimes a few intimate 
friends being invited. At two o'clock he went forth to his 
multifarious engagements, such as attendance at rehearsals, 
sittings at the French Academy, meeting^ of the Society 
of Dramatic Authors, and the like. At five o'clock he re- 
turned, and carefully noted down the impressions that had 
occurred to him during the day. He was in the habit of 
dining early with his family. He rarely attended the the- 
atre in the evening, and he was usually in bed by ten 
o'clock. 

His day's work at Paris did not include writing. He 
preferred while there to do only preliminary work, as he 
did not find the environment of Paris favourable to composi- 
tion. Making and classifying notes was his principal desk- 

123 



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124 SARDOU'S CAREER 

work at Paris, while the actual writing he did at his country 
place at Marly. The winter at Paris was largely devoted 
to rehearsals, and the many details which precede the first 
presentation of a play. At Paris, Sardou was more a 
business man than a writer; at Marly he plunged himself 
into his literary work. At Paris, he was always to be 
foimd by friends in his study at five or six o'clock. His 
Paris work-room was a modest one; his fine library, his 
prints and autographs, and his large collection of curios 
were at Marly. At Paris, he had only a working library. 

When at Marly Sardou rose at seven, took a cup of 
chocolate, and worked from eight to ten ; this was prelimi- 
nary work, arranging notes and laying out his scenes. At 
ten o'clock his letters were opened and answered. At eleven 
he went out, strolled through the gardens, examined his 
flowers and plants, and chatted with his gardener. Be- 
tween eleven and twelve he would take a substantial meal, 
accompanied with wine and finishing with black coffee. 
Immediately after taking his coffee he began to write, and 
worked until two or half-past two o'clock, when he laid 
aside his pen. He devoted the rest of the day to the busy 
idleness of the coimtry gentleman. At one time he was 
Mayor of Marly, and gave up a certain portion of his 
afternoons to the cares of municipal government. He 
rarely went to Paris during the simimer, and seldom left 
Marly except to attend the rehearsals of one of his new 
plays. Rehearsals he considered almost as important as 
composition. It is related by M. De Najac, one of Sar- 
dou's collaborators, that he spent a fortnight with Sardou 
at Marly in 1880, while they were concocting " Divor^ons." 
As is usually the case in dramatic collaborations, most of 
the time was spent in discussion. The plot was evolved as 
they strolled through the grounds, hung over poultry- 
yards, or sat on fences. De Najac used afterward to relate 



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METHODS OF WORK 1*6 

how Sardou would assume by turns all the characters in 
the play, to the astonishment of passing rustics. 

More than once, in his letters and pamphlets, Sardou 
has described his methods of work. Whenever an idea 
occurred to him, he immediately made a memorandum of 
it. These notes he classified and filed. For example, years 
before the production of " Thermidor " he had the thought 
of one day writing such a play. Gradually the character 
of Fabienne shaped itself; Labussiere was devised later to 
fit Coquelin. Everything that he read about that epoch 
of the French Revolution, and the ideas which this reading 
inspired, he wrote down in the form of rough notes. En- 
gravings, maps, prints, and other documents of the time he 
carefully collected. Memoirs and histories he annotated 
and indexed, filing away the index references in his file- 
cases, or dossiers. At the time of his death, Sardou had 
many hundreds of these dossiers, old and new. Some of 
the older ones had been worked up into plays, while the 
newer ones were merely raw material for future dramas. 
When the idea of a play had measurably shaped itself in 
his mind he wrote out a skeleton plot, which he placed in 
its dossier. There it might lie indefinitely. In this shape 
"Thermidor" remained for nearly twenty years, and 
" Theodora" for ten. When he considered that the time 
was ripe for one of his embryonic plays, Sardou would 
take out that particular dossier, read over the material, and 
lay it aside again. After it had fermented in his brain for 
a time, he would, if the inspiration seized him, write out a 
scenario. After this he began the actual writing of the 
play. 

He never followed the chronological order, but wrote 
his most important scene first. In " Thermidor " it was the 
scene in which Fabienne is condemned to death. In " Dora " 
it was the famous scene between the three men. In his 
plays, generally spealcing, the great scene is in the next to 



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186 SARDOU'S CAREER 

the last act. When he had thus roughly put his play to- 
gether, he once more carefully ex^ined all the notes, 
maps, engravings, and other documents in the dossier, 
made any additions which suggested themselves, and then 
copied out his draft on large sheets of paper with plenty 
of margin. While copying, many ideas occurred to him, 
which he added to the draft. When it was finished he 
would lay it aside for some weeks, after which he would 
again read it, making further corrections. Thrice this 
process was repeated, and at last the margin had disap- 
peared under the numerous corrections and interlineations. 
Then he turned it over to the copyist, by whom the succeed- 
ing drafts were made. 

The play had now assumed form; it remained to be 
shaped and polished. The importance that Sardou attached 
to the spoken word is shown by his brilliant dialogue. After 
he had finished the fourth draft of a play he often rewrote 
the dialogue three or four times. As each of these new 
drafts was copied it was bound and put aside. The earlier 
drafts looked like what printers call " foul proof," with 
myriads of minute interlineations written in a microscopic 
hand. At last the copy ceased to be loaded with correc- 
tions, and approximated to what printers call ** clean copy." 
Even then he would frequently refer to the earlier drafts, 
and restore versions of the dialogue which he had discarded. 

When he worked in collaboration, his collaborator 
usually submitted the plan of the play to Sardou. It was 
discussed, and changes suggested, until the scenario was to 
Sardou's satisfaction. Then the writing was usually done 
by his collaborator; when it was finished the whole play 
was laid before Sardou. The elder dramatist then fell to 
work, and often entirely rewrote the work of his younger 
confrere. 

Sardou was often reproached by the French critics for 
mingling comedy and drama in one play. The first two acts 



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METHODS OF WORK 1*7 

of his plays are often humorous, the others dramatic 
" Though frequently told that this is wrong," he wrote, " I 
believe it is right. During the first two acts I make the 
characters as amusing as I consistently can, but not after 
the action has really begtm. The audience is then well dis- 
posed irom the outset, and wishes to have its emotions 
played upon a little before the curtain falls. If I. succeeded 
in making them cry from beginning to end, they would 
say they were not at the Ambigu ; if I succeeded in making 
them laugh all the time, they would say the piece was a 
flimsy farce." 

In the preface to " La Haine," Sardou has told how his 
plays revealed themselves to him : " The problem is invari- 
able. It appears as a kind of equation from which the 
unknown quantity must be found. The problem gives me 
no peace till I have found the answer. In ' La Haine ' 
the problem was: under what circumstances will the pro- 
found charity of woman show itself in the most striking 
manner? The formula once found, the piece came by 
itself." 

Sardou worked in every division of the playwriting 
craft. He wrote rhymed vaudevilles, such as " M. Garat " 
and " Les Pres St. Gervais " ; farcical comedies with in- 
tricate plots, of which the " Pattes de Mouche " is a type ; 
dramatic comedies, such as " Nos Intimes," " Maison 
Neuve," " Seraphine " ; satirical comedies, including " La 
Famille Benoiton," "Rabagas," "Nos Bons Villageois"; 
historical tragedies, among them "Patrie," "La Haine," 
" Thermidor " ; historical comedies, of which " Mme. Sans- 
Gene" is the type; operettas like "Les Merveilleuses " ; 
juridical dramas, such as " Ferreol " ; spectacular extrava- 
ganzas like " Le Crocodile " and " Le Roi Carotte " ; broad 
farces like "Divor^ons"; blood-curdling melodramas like 
" Les Diable Noirs " and " La Tosca " ; colossal historical 
spectacles like " Theodora," " Gismonda," and " Qeopatre." 



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128 SARDOU'S CAREER 

His versatility is shown by the assertion of a Paris stage 
manager that for a Sardou night a play could be taken from 
his writings suited to every stage in Paris, from the most 
dignified to the most merry, from the Opera to the Palais- 
Royal, from the Comedie-Franqaise to the Varietes. A 
critic remarked that during nearly sixty years of produc- 
tivity, from 1851 to 1908, Sardou's genius adapted itself 
to the taste of the time. His early comedies — *' Les Pattes 
de Mouche,'* "Nos Intimes,'* "Les Ganaches" — ^were 
woven with that maze of plot and sub-plot which was de- 
manded by audiences of a period when Balzac's methods 
were in vog^e. After half a century had passed, his later 
comedies, such as " MarccUe " and " La Piste," were simple 
and clear, the action being all in the hands of two or three 
characters; this was the type of play demanded by Paris 
audiences of the present epoch. Between these two ex- 
tremes such plays as " Dora," " Daniel Rochat," and " Rab- 
agas " typified the changing tastes of audiences, and mir- 
rored faithfully the periods in which they were produced. 

Although Sardou was a marvel of industry as a play- 
wright, his busy mind sought occupation in many other 
ways. He laid out gardens; he planted trees; he designed 
and erected buildings ; he collected books, prints, paintings, 
bronzes, bibelots of all kinds. He was an archaeologist ; he 
was an expert in Byzantine antiquities ; he was an authority 
on the French Revolution; he was a Napoleonist of pro- 
found knowledge. And yet, with all his occupations, he 
found time to rub elbows with the world, and was famous 
in Paris as a story-teller and as a mime. 

In France, the people of the stage number a pla)rwright's 
works by his acts rather than his plays, as in that country 
there are so many one-act pieces produced. Reckoned in 
this way, Sardou's work totals over two hundred and fifty 
acts. The number of characters figuring in his many pieces 
amounts to over eleven hundred. 



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METHODS OF WORK 189 

Concerning these characters, another playwright, De 
Caillavet, says that Sardou himself almost believed in their 
existence, they were so real. When menticm was made of 
his historical characters, such as Robespierre or Theodora, 
he always spoke as if he had actually seen them. '' And," 
comments Caillavet, ''he was right, for Rabagas is more 
real than the politicians of to-day, and Mme. Sans-Gene is 
more real than was the genuine Duchess of Dantzic" 

Sardou was always what is called a chilly mortal; he 
was perpetually complaining of cold, and even in his over- 
heated rooms he often wore a velvet cap and a muffler 
round his throat, and invariably ensconced himself near the 
fire. There he loved to talk, and his friends loved to 
hear him. To quote the description given by his friend 
Adolphe Brisson, '' No one knows more things and no one 
knows them better than Sardou. His memory is a museum 
wherein all the objects are labelled, numbered, classified, 
and arranged methodically, and as he passes from erne to 
another of these objects, he describes them and relates 
their history. Each rq)resents to him some souvenir, 
which in turn evokes another. From this there results an 
uninterrupted chain of anecdotes, of word-pictures, of pic- 
turesque sayings. With him conversation never flags. 
He throws into his conversation all his inward fire, the 
movements of his body, the boyish impulsiveness of his 
gestures, the sparkle of his eyes, which are at once ffia/t- 
cieux, imperious, and crafty. They have the look of the 
man of action and of the diplomatic prelate; as it were, 
Voltaire and Mazarin rolled into one. It is delightful to 
listen to him." He loved to talk at table. He was very 
hospitable, but never allowed his table to be overcrowded, 
and preferred that people should not "drop in" unex- 
pectedly to dinner. 

In person, Sardou was of medium height and spare 
build. His face in age was often compared to that of Vol- 
9 



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180 SARDOU'S CAREER 

taire, in youth to that of Bonaparte, when the future Em- 
peror was still pale and lean. Sardou had a pallid com- 
plexion, a long nose, sharp chin, irregular features, and 
clear, keen, gray eyes, while his thin meaningful lips were 
often curled into a shrewd smile. 

He was a genial host and a delightful talker. He was 
famous even in France for his brilliant conversation. Your 
fluent talker is not always gifted with a clear enunciation, 
but Sardou was most distinct, wrote Edmondo De Amicis. 
Indistinctness is a crime on the stage, and Sardou was a 
severe critic of the rapid and indistinct enunciation of 
French actors ; he often insisted at his rehearsals that they 
should speak their lines so the audience could hear and 
imderstand them. Even Sarah Bernhardt, he once said, 
was a flagrant offender in this respect. In Paris, he added, 
she was more careful, but elsewhere she was often utterly 
unintelligible. "I have heard," he once remarked, "that 
in foreign countries she frequently gallops through her 
parts, so that even Frenchmen cannot understand her. I 
often wonder if foreigners think they do." 

Countless anecdotes are told of Sardou's peculiarities 
at rehearsals. Some paint him as good-humored and kindly, 
others as bitter and satirical. Probably he was both at dif- 
ferent times. Before a piece was put in rehearsal Sardou 
always read it himself to the assembled actors. He was a 
wonderful reader, and in this respect was probably excelled 
by no other playwright, unless it was Ernest Legouve. As 
Sardou read he identified himself with each character, 
laughed and cried by turns, sprang up and carried out in 
pantomime the spoken word — ^in brief, he acted the various 
roles. When the lines were finally committed to memory 
by the players and all was ready for the rehearsal, Sardou 
would take his place on the stage and follow the acticm with 
the keenest attention. He interrupted continually, nmning 
from side to side, at times taking the words out of the 



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METHODS OF WORK 181 

actor's mouth, and showing him how they should be uttered. 
Once when " Les Merveilleuses " was in rehearsal a gavotte 
was to be danced under the direction of a ballet-master. 
Sardou was not satisfied with the performance, and after 
a dozen times he was still disappointed. At last the ballet- 
master flew into a rage, claimed on his hat, and told Sardou 
to lead his ballet himself. The playwright accepted the 
challenge, placed himself at the head of the giggling ballet 
girls, and deftly led them through the mazes of the measure. 

P. V. Gheuzi, who subsequently collaborated with Sar- 
dou in " Les Barbares,*' gives us a glimpse of the rehearsal 
of " Theodora " at the Porte Saint-Martin in 1884. Of all 
Sardou's plays this was the one on which he lavished the 
most elaborate mise-en'Scine and the greatest wealth of 
archaeological learning. " It was three o'clock in the morn- 
ing," says M. Gheuzi, "and we were still waiting for the 
last piece of M. Amable's scenery to be fixed in position. 
The photographers were lying fast asleep in the auditorium, 
worn out by their wait of eight hours. But the author of 
* Theodora ' did not display the slightest trace of fatigue ; 
in spite of a sharp attack of influenza, he went to and fro, 
mounted the steps in front, discussed details, gave orders, 
supervised everything, and answered all manner of ques- 
tions, once more oflFering to his friends the spectacle of that 
prodigious activity which knows but one rival in the world, 
that of the grieat and indefatigable artiste, Bernhardt, 
whose guests we were." 

Like Alexandre Dumas pere, Sardou was extremely 
sensitive to the opinions of the less subtle spectators of 
his rehearsals. He closely watched and heeded the im- 
pressions and comments of the stage carpenters, scene- 
painters, firemen, supers, and other humble people behind 
the scenes. They represented to him the average mind of 
the average audience. To the opinions of actors of his 
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182 SARDOU'S CAREER 

critics, none at all. At rehearsals no details escaped him. 
He would seat himself on the stage chairs and sofas, open 
and shut the practicable doors, go to the back of the par- 
terre to study the perspective of the scene, climb to the 
highest gallery to see if the audience there could hear, and 
then hasten back to the stage. There he would seat him- 
self, jumping up during a rehearsal thirty or forty times 
to show the actors his idea of the action. In doing this he 
would laugh, would cry, would shriek, and would even die 
a mimic death. Coming to life again, he would call for his 
overcoat and hasten to muffle himself up as before. He was 
very sensitive to cold, and always came on the stage with 
a heavy coat, a muffler, and a cap to protect him from 
draughts. He would rehearse from ten in the morning 
until three, when he would take a sandwich and a glass of 
wine. After this he would resume his work until five, at 
which hour he would go blithely forth into the street, smil- 
ing and humming, " followed," as one resentful player put 
it, " by scowling actors and weeping actresses." 

When " Thermidor " was first in rehearsal at the Porte 
St. Martin, it is related that Sardou was in despair over 
the apathetic attitude of the mob. Dreadful deeds were 
done before them, yet they contemplated these bloody 
doings with impassive faces and lacklustre eyes. " For the 
love of heaven!" shrieked Sardou, tearing his hair, "show 
some signs of life! Can't you move yourselves, you 
— ^you — espices d'andouUles!*' Here Coquelin intervened: 
" Dear Master," he said soothingly, " they'll all do any- 
thing you ask them to do, but please don't get angry." 
" Angry ! " replied Sardou in great surprise, " why, I'm not 
angry; I only called them andouUles." 

The phrase applied by the dramatist to his impavid 
mob means a kind of sausage made of tripe and pork. The 
andouille appeals to the French mind as comic, for it enters 
into many saying^, thus " to attempt to break an andouille 
across one's knee " typifies a hopeless task ; vetu or iicele 



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METHODS OF WORK 188 

comme une andouiUe is applied to foppish obesity — to fat 
popinjays, tightly girt, yet lethargic; to plump ladies spill- 
ing out of their frocks, yet semi-comatose. The andouUle 
analogy is apparent. 

From his law-suits over the premature reporting of 
" La Tosca *' and " L'Affaire des Poisons," it may be easily 
imagined that Sardou had a strong objection to the presence 
of journalists at the rehearsals of his plays. He always 
opposed the admission of outsiders on these occasions, on 
the ground that their gossip would disclose to the public 
the surprises of the play, thereby depriving it of all its 
freshness on the first night. Charges of insmcerity in this 
matter were often brought against him, but the lapse of 
time has brought other playwrights to share his belief. To 
such an extent did this feeling pervade the ranks of dram- 
atic authors, that in 1902 a meeting was held by the 
directors of all the Paris theatres and the directors of the 
Society of Dramatic Authors and Musical Composers, at 
which it was resolved that thereafter at dress rehearsals, 
dramatic critics, newspaper reporters, and all other out- 
siders should be rigidly excluded. The only exception to 
this rule was to be the issuance of twenty-four tickets, 
twelve to the playwright for his family and trusted friends, 
and twelve to the manager of the theatre for his family and 
for costumers, and other persons connected with the theatre. 
The resolution further directed that the manager or play- 
wright violating this rule should be mulcted in the sum of 
3000 francs, to be devoted to the charitable fund of the 
Society of Dramatic Authors. It is perhaps needless to 
remark that this rule has since been laid away in lavender. 

While this measure excited not a little talk in Paris, it 
was generally agreed by theatrical people that it was more 
than warranted. It was said that dress rehearsals had 
entirely lost the intimate character of former days, when 
the auditorium contained only playwrights, actors, and 
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134 SARDOU^S CAREER 

rehearsals had come to be frequented by cafe loungers, rich 
idlers, and men of the world, who considered it " the thing " 
to be seen at these exclusive gatherings. Playwrights, man- 
agers, and actors were constantly importuned for tickets of 
admission. This in itself was sufficiently annoying, but 
what was most resented by pla3nvrights and actors was the 
fact that the attendants at these rehearsals were often the 
most pitiless critics of the plays. These were the men who 
organized the first-night cabals, it was they who were 
mainly instrumental in creating that atmosphere of sneer- 
ing which has ruined so many plays on their first perform- 
ance. 

Very early in his career Sardou devoted much time to 
rehearsing his plays, and was always one of the most earnest 
advocates of the exclusion of journalists and idlers from 
rehearsals. Even when comparatively unknown he disliked 
to let the public know beforehand the striking features of a 
new play, and in later years he always maintained that 
through the presence of reporters on these occasions his 
plays had already ceased to be novelties when the curtain 
rose on the first performance. As early as 1866, when 
" Maison Neuve " was in rehearsal at the Vaudeville The- 
atre, an enterprising reporter printed a minute analysis of 
the play before it was produced. This so irritated the 
playwright that he refused to permit the piece to be per- 
formed, jand determined to withdraw it. But the manager 
of the theatre, with whom he had signeii a contract, brought 
an action to enforce his rights, and Sardou was compelled to 
give way. The result was an excellent advertisement for 
the play, and the wits of Paris declared that it was a pre- 
arranged trick between Sardou and the journalist. Sar- 
dou's friends insisted he was sincere. 

Sardou never really succeeded in his desire to exclude 
outsiders from rehearsals, but he paid no attention to the 
opinion of the privileged loungers present, and not very 
much to the verdict of a first-night audience. He main- 



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METHODS OF WORK 186 

tainejd that the Paris premiere is not a representative audi- 
ence, because made up of critics, reporters, claqueurs, and 
blas6 men of the world. An unfavorable verdict by such 
an audience did not, as a rule, disconcert him. In fact, 
some of his pieces, after a frigid reception on the first night, 
were greeted warmly on the second performance, and sub- 
sequently enjoyed long runs. 

Concerning Sardou's indiflFerence to the opinion of first- 
night audiences Albert Wolff once wrote that "in Paris, 
after the first-night audience, there comes another of a 
lower grade of intelligence, but the inferior grade comes 
two hundred times where the other comes once." And M. 
WolflF went on to say that " some of the plays of Sardou 
only half please the cultured few. But this select class of 
play-goers is small. In all Paris they are barely numerous 
enough to fill an auditorium for a single night. These fas- 
tidious critics often make a great to-do over some new play 
which Hke a rose dies in a day, and they often depart in 
discontent from a theatre which on the next night is 
crowded, and remains crowded for the next six months with 
the uncultured many." When Sardou brought out "La 
Famille Benoiton," the "tout Paris" on its first-night 
received it with icy coldness, and Sardou's friends feared 
for its future. But the playwright did not waver. He said 
that the piece was good and that it would go. His judg- 
ment was confirmed, for the play ran over two hundred 
nights when first put on, and has been frequently revived. 

If Sardou was a faithful attendant at rehearsals, the 
same could not be said of the subsequent performances. He 
never made it a habit to appear at the theatre, even on first- 
nights. In fact, so nervous was his temperament that he 
could not remain in the theatre at all, even behind the 
scenes. On these occasions he usually took up his station 
at some place in the vicinity of the theatre, and from time 
to time light-footed friends would bring him news of the 
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186 SARDOtrS CAREER 

It is much more difficult for a novice to secure an open- 
ing for a play in Paris than for a novel. A publisher can 
issue the ordinary paper-bound romance at a small cost, 
while even without elaborate setting and scenery a play de- 
mands many thousands of francs for its production. But 
if the path of the playwright is strewn with difficulties his 
reward is great. The Society of Dramatic Authors con- 
trols the production of plays in Paris and in the provinces, 
and exacts from managers a rigid compliance with its 
rules. If a manager refuses to fall into line, he is prac- 
tically prohibited from producing any of the plays under 
its control, which means that he can produce no new plays 
at all. It exacts from a manager in Paris between ten and 
twelve per cent, of the gross receipts of a play. This aver- 
ages about 5000 francs a night, so that the author's share 
of the profits at ten per cent, amounts to about 500 francs 
per night. The fees collected from the pfovindal theatres 
are a trifle lower. A successful playwright frequently re- 
ceives percentages from theatres all over France simulta- 
neously, in addition to a small royalty on the sale of his 
play in book form. For the one-act farces so common in 
Paris, the author usually receives two per cent, of the gross 
receipts, ten per cent, going to the author of the principal 
play. Sardou speedily saw that it was more profitable to 
write plays occupying the entire evening. As a result, 
therefore, not only of his talent as a pla)nvright, but also 
of his tact as a business man, he often received from his 
plays over 250,000 francs a year. For a single play he fre- 
quently received in the first year 150^000 francs. His more 
successful plays, such as "La Tosca"^and "Mme. Sans- 
Gene," netted him over half a million francs apiece. 

The fact that the playwrights of France have thriven to 
such a degree is largely due to their elaborate organization. 
Not only the dramatic authors but also the composers of 
music are organized into a society whose directors safe- 
guard their legal rights, take them to the courts if neces- 



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METHODS OF WORK 187 

sary, and look after their financial interests. The aflfairs 
of the society are managed by a committee of fifteen, two 
of whom are elected president and secretary. Of this body 
Sardou was president at the time of his death, and had 
been for some years. He directed its activities with sagacity 
and success. If Sardou had not been a talented playwright 
he could have been a successful man of business. His ac- 
counts were kept with exactness, and the files of his docu- 
ments were arranged with method. He kept all business 
letters ; even the rough drafts of his contracts were put away 
with the utmost care. If a dispute arose, he was never at 
a loss, for his docimients were at hand. 

At one period it was the fashion in Paris to shout 
"plagiarism" the day after each new success by Sardou. 
Elsewhere these charges are discussed specifically in con- 
nection with the plays accused. Generally, it may be added 
that in the history of the stage there is no case on record 
of an author being accused of plagiarism the day after a 
failure. It is only successful plays which bring forth these 
accusations. And there is no stage play which does not 
bear a certain resemblance to some other stage play. There 
are few melodramas in which the author does not reward 
virtue ere the curtain falls, and unite the leading lady 
and the hero who have loved each other madly ever since 
the first act. All the plays in existence are based upon a 
baker's dozen of situations. The late D'Oyly Carte, the 
well-known theatrical manager, once wrote: "The sub- 
jects available for plays are necessarily limited, and we 
have a well-known set of ' motives * which occur over and 
over again. ... It is inevitable that playwrights should 
constantly be making use of the same motives and effects 
with varieties of scenes and characters." And as Dean 
Swift characteristically remarked : " If I light my candle 
from another that does not affect my property in the wick 
and tallow." 



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CHAPTER XV 
The French Critics on Sardou 

All his life Sardou was at feud with the critical fra- 
ternity. It is not uncommon for playwrights to have a 
poor opinion of critics. Even those writers whose plays 
have won fame and riches believe that the critics underrate 
their work. Mt. Pinero once, when asked to define a 
comedy, acidly remarked: "A comedy is a farce by a 
deceased pla)nvright." Correspondingly, many critics have 
persisted in classing Sardou's most successful comedies as 
farces. They have also scarified him for, as they main- 
tained, putting farce, comedy, melodrama, and tragedy all 
in a single play. 

Sardou did not content himself with epigrams, as does 
Pinero. He was a pugnacious playwright, and ever 
ready for battle. His polemics with critics would make a 
volume. Often these controversies became so bitter that 
they reached the verge of the duello. His feud with Fran- 
cisque Sarcey never became quite so envenomed, but it was 
long as well as deep, for it ended only with their lives. 

Sarcey's long-continued criticism of Sardou may make 
it apropos to mention that the present writer recently re- 
read Sarcey's collected criticisms. Edited by his son-in- 
law, Adolph Brisson, they have been appearing in book 
form, and now make some eight volumes under the title 
" Quarante Ans de Theatre." Years of reading criticisms 
on Sardou in newspapers, French, English, and American, 
had left an impression on the writer's mind that the leading 
critics were unfavorable to him. This impression is not cor- 
rect concerning the French critics, as will be found on 
reading the criticisms of the most notable of these writers. 
The late Francisque Sarcey was the dean of French 
138 



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THE FRENCH CRITICS ON SARDOU 189 

dramatic critics, and the most popular, if not the most 
polished among them ; Jules Lemaitre is probably the most 
brilliant critic, and Emile Faguet certainly the most philo- 
sophical. All three of these critics, while in special in- 
stances they often criticised Sardou unfavorably, spoke 
highly of his talent in their general criticisms of his work. 
A similar discovery resulted from an inspection of the 
writings of lesser known French critics — for most of the 
Paris critics now collect their work for book publication. 
Among these may be mentioned Auguste Vitu, Ren£ 
Doumic, Gustave Larroumet, Adolph Brisson, Albert WolflF, 
Louis Lacour, B. J. E. Mont6gut, J. Ernest-Charles, Em- 
manuel Arene, and others. 

In his day the dean of French critics, Francisque Sar- 
cey was originally a professor at the Lyc^e Charlemagne; 
in 1859 h^ became a dramatic critic, which calling he fol- 
lowed for forty years until his death, in 1899. During 
much of this time he was critic of Le Temps, and lectured 
as well as wrote on the drama. Personally, he was ex- 
tremely popular with the Parisians, who called him ** Uncle 
Sarcey." He was without doubt the most influential critic 
in France. Sarcey was the author of something less than 
a score of works, the most inq)ortant of which is his 
"Quarante Ans de Theatre." In these eight volumes 
may be found criticisms on Sardou covering thirty-nine 
years. Many of these are unfavorable, and Sardou re- 
sented them. But an examination of Sarcey's collected 
criticisms shows that his general estimate of Sardou's 
ability was high. For example, writing as long ago as 
i860 of " Les Pattes de Mouches " Sarcey said : 

"This comedy reveals in him who has wrought it much talent 
and the promise of a brilliant future. M. Sardou will in some 
years be one of the masters of the stage. . . . His dialogue 
is clever, incisive, and brilliant. It is full of images. It has a 
distinct charm. . . . This play is the first step made by a young 
man who cannot fail to climb high in the future." 



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140 SARDOU'S CAREER 

In 1865, discussing "La Famille Benoiton," Sarcey 
wrote : 

"Sardou understands his trade. In the fourth act he has 
placed a great scene — one of the finest we have on the stage — 
pathetic, admirable. At its close came the playwright's triumph— 
the audience broke into furious applause. The success was com- 
plete, although the last act is bad. But why dwell on the defects? 
There are many defects in Sardou*s works, but he is nevertheless 
an artist of the first order. You feel that you are in the presence 
of a master, yoking, daring, original. ... I wish that Sardou 
were faultless. I would like to see him add to his marvellous 
stage skill a profounder quality of observation. But with all his 
faults he possesses many and surpassing excellences." 

Of " Patrie," writing in 1869, Sarcey said : 

"'Patrie' is one of the most marked successes Sardou has 
ever had, and the play well deserves success. It is full of remark- 
able scenes. The effects were obtained by simple means. The 
sentiments expressed are lofty, the style is simple, the language 
is sober and vigorous. The play was received by the audience 
with an explosion of enthusiasm." 

B. J. E. Montegut was for a number of years the official 
critic of the Revue des Deux Mondes. Although not 
always praising Sardou's plays, his general estimate of the 
playwright was high, even years ago, as is shown by an 
article printed in the Revue for March, 1877. It is curious 
that he should have written with such an air of finality 
thirty-one years before the playwright's death. 

" * Patrie,' wrote M. Montegut, " contains one of the finest 
scenes in modern drama — ^the final scene. Such a creation lifts 
up the mind to heights not often touched on the stage. It is a 
powerful and romantic ending. ... To sum up our impres- 
sions of Sardou ; our dramatic literature may possess more vigorous 
talents, but there is no writer with a more perfect knowledge of 
the stage nor with greater familiarity with the tastes of audiences. 
When Sardou*s career is closed and the generation which follows 
ours shall wish to study the contemporary drama, it is in his works 
that it will find the most intelligent and the most vivid microcosm 
of the times in which he lived." 



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THE FRENCH CRITICS ON SARDOU 141 

Thirty-two years have passed away since M. Montegut 
wrote — ^the time usually allotted to a generation. His 
forecast of Sardou's status a generation hence is interesting. 

Another elder critic of note, Louis Lacour, was an ex- 
pert in ancient manuscripts. He was attached to one of 
the great Paris libraries, and was likewise a fruitful writer. 
Lacour was the author of a monograph entitled "Trois 
Theatres," in which he discusses and compares the work 
of Dtmias, Augier, and Sardou. The latter playwright he 
defends from the oft-made charge of mingling comedy and 
tragedy. "In the real life of the world," says Lacour, 
" there are few comedies through which there does not run 
a thread of tragedy." This view does not strike the Eng- 
lish-speaking reader as unreasonable, yet such treatment 
is contrary to the rig^d rules of the classic drama, so long 
held sacred in France. Lacour also defends Sardou for 
his use of bloody tragedies. "Where," he asks, "would 
Shakespeare be were such restrictions applied to him? 
Would they not taboo the poisoning of Hamlet's father, 
the strangling of Desdemona, the midnight murder of 
Duncan?" Recapitulating the striking qualities of Sardou, 
M. Lacour says : 

"Sardou is not only a satirical as well as a romantic writer 
and an artist in words of most extraordinary skill, but he is like- 
wise a keen judge of contemporary vice. In his tragedy there is 
no over-emphasis and no declamatory lines. His style is emi- 
nently dramatic, and one feels in it insensibly a certain rhsrthm 
which is all that prose can have and not be verse. If, microscope 
in hand, one discovers in Sardou's work 'warts and spots/ as 
Montaigne says, there none the less remain remarkable excel- 
lences. If, by the sentiment of justice which is traditional in 
criticism, one lays aside the inferior part, the critic is seized, 
gripped, dominated, by the verve and fire of this playwright's 
work." 

Among the younger French critics one of the most 
prominent is Rene Doumic. M. Doumic has written much 
in the line of literary and dramatic criticism for the Journal 



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142 SARDOU'S CAREER 

des Dibats, the Revue des Deux Mondes, and the Rezme 
Bleu. M. Doumic does not praise Sardou unreservedly, 
but he most assuredly does not hold him in low esteem. 

" The most striking point in Sardou's work," says M. Doumic, 
"is its variety. He has not confined himself to a single school. 
Of all the forms of the drama he has believed that the play- 
wright shotdd neglect none. . . . Thanks to his extraordinary 
adaptability, he has been able to give to the public, at the exact 
time that they desire it, the particular sort of work for which they 
are looking. With a rare subtlety of scent he has known how to 
discover the weaknesses of the hour and to give them scenic form. 
His types have their date-— some of the Second Empire; some of 
the Third Republic. . . . He is a master in the art of weaving 
a tangled plot, gradually unravelling it so as to carry curiosity and 
emotion to their highest pitch. He has an alert mind and a fertile 
fancy. His dialogue is nervous, agile, keen. . . . But his 
characters are abstract; they are in reality but puppets, and the 
action of his plays is highly artificial. . . . Why is it that his 
creations lack reality? It is due to his prodigious dexterity, which 
has been his worst enemy." 

It will be seen that M. Doumic agrees with the English- 
speaking critics in his view of this phase of Sardou's work. 
But in his general estimate he differs from them radically. 

"Leaving the weak points of Sardou's work," he says, "in 
such plays as 'Rabagas' and 'Divor^ons' one has the pleasure of 
praising him without reserve; they are marvels of delicate, in- 
genious, and finished work. 'Patrie' and *La Haine* are most 
successful dramas, and he is beyond the reach of cavil in his skill 
in perfecting the modem comedy and the historic drama. He is 
endowed with very rare qualities, and all that he lacks is to have 
a higher conception of his art. Still, there is but one voice to 
salute in him the most expert among the masters of the stage." 

Another of the younger men among French critics was 
Gustave Larroumet, who was untimely taken off in 1903. 
He was lecturer on French literature at the Sorbonne, and 
succeeded Sarcey as dramatic critic on the Temps, probably 
the most authoritative French daily. Larroumet at times 
criticised unfavorably certain of Sardou's plays, but his 



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THE FRENCH CRITICS ON SARDOU 148 

general estimate of the playwright was high. When the 
government promoted Sardou to the grade of commander 
in the Legion of Honor (later he was promoted to Grand 
Cordon) Larromnet wrote : 

"A reaction has come about in Sardou's favour after a long 
period of harshness. Critics and theatrical reporters have been 
hostile to him for various motives. They have reproached him 
with thinking only of material success; with wasting his fine 
talents; with making playwriting more of a trade than an art 
This treatment has been unjust Sardou is, to a very high degree, 
an artist, although his is a practical talent For that special art 
that produces illusion, for an adroit and powerful grasp upon the 
spectator, for the faculty of giving life to imaginary beings, for 
the power of holding for three hours an audience always attentive 
and never bored, he has never been equalled. 'Patrie' and 'La 
Haine' make us think of the great works of the Renaissance. 
Besides ' Patrie ' the dramas of Victor Hugo seem hollow. In ' La 
Haine ' French art penetrated the soul of mediaeval Italy. . . . 
In the least important of Sardou's plays there is more of inven- 
tion than would be ample to insure die entire career of one of the 
'younger school' of playwrights to-day. . . . Thus this man 
so severely treated by judges whose decisions would be considered 
absurd if posterity remembered their names — ^he who has been 
stigmatized as merely a jester, a chaser after money, a pla- 
giarist, a stage artisan manufacturing for exportation — ^this man 
is admitted to-day to have written a number of fine and strong 
plays. He has painted our times — always agreeably, sometimes 
with power. Although sneered at for writing only for the present, 
it will be evident that he has written more than once for pos- 
terity." 

Jules Lemaitre — academician, journalist, playwright, 
novelist, lecturer, political orator, and statesman — ^has in 
his varied career been one of the most brilliant of French 
critics. It can by no means be said that he has been indul- 
gent toward Sardou-— often M. Lemaitre's readers have 
roared and the playwright has winced under his mordant 
pen. But M. Lemaitre is just. In a general estimate of 
Sardou's work he wrote: 



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144 SARDOU'S CAREER 

" Sardou's most incontestable qualities are fertility, verve, and 
imagination. These qualities are only to be justly judged when 
Sardou's immense repertory is considered in its ensemble, and 
this perhaps is why no great dramatist has been so ill-treated by 
the critics. This is why each new work from his pen has met 
with so many pettifogging objections. But this is why, also, in 
the face of the thousand petty resistances of detail that we bring 
to bear against him, we feel that this man is a power, that he is 
one of the finest dramatic temperaments of the century, that in 
tragedy he has twice or thrice attained to grandeur and almost to 
beauty. In summing up his qualities I have only obeyed a scruple 
of conscience. In the work of such a man one has not the right 
to discuss some particular error, without recalling the scope of his 
entire work. Sardou is one of the greatest dramatic authors of 
his time. * Patrie ' and ' Divor^ons ' do not fall far short of being 
masterpieces. No one has the same fertile and inventive mind as 
Sardou. He has a sense of the historic drama and of high tragedy. 
No one has either amused or moved us more than he. He is an 
undisputed master among the workers of the stage, an excellent 
caricaturist of contemporary manners, a daring poet of a powerful 
imagination." 

A critic who stands at the head in France is Emile 
Faguet, professor of French poetry at the Lycee Charle- 
magne. He is a member of the French Academy, and is the 
author of many books. In 1896 he succeeded Jules Lemaitre 
as dramatic critic of the Journal des Debats, which post he 
recently resigned to devote himself to literature. M. 
Faguet does not share the low view of Sardou's work en- 
tertained by some critics. Concerning the charge that Sar- 
dou mingled melodrama with comedy, M. Faguet wrote : 

**In Sardou's more ambitious productions there is an up-to- 
date comedy mingled with a melodrama. The purists of the 
* unity-of-impression ' school have been much shocked and scan- 
dalized by this peculiarity. Yet this formula had been invented a 
century ago by a certain M. Beaumarchais. Why should this species 
of drama be condemned ^ priorif Despite the protestations of 
some of my colleagues, I cannot understand why such a play is 
contrary to good sense or why it is disloyal to verity. 9 i 1 



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THE FRENCH CRITICS ON SARDOU 146 

There is talent in the realistic plays of the day, but of an entirely 
different sort from Sardou's. I personally find greater power in 
a drama founded solely on a conflict of mighty passions. But I 
am prepared to admit that plays like Sardou's, based only upon a 
combination of circumstances, may interest us the more because we 
feel that we might easily be to-morrow playing a part ourselves 
in such a story." 

Reviewing Sardou's career, M. Faguet wrote thus of 
him: 

''He was a writer of an astonishing fertility. In his uninter« 
rupted power of production he rivalled the Spanish dramatists of 
the classic period. But whatever jealous rivals may say, the quan- 
tity of his production did not prevent it from often being of a 
high quality. He wrote in almost every branch of dramatic litera- 
ture^ and in each he has left works of mark. In addition to his 
fertility, his skill was prodigious. None better than he knew the 
mechanism of the stage. As he studied Scribe to learn the craft, 
and surpassed his master, so the dramatists of the future will be 
obliged to study Sardou. But they will take from him not the 
best of his art, but only the mechanical portion which he himself 
had learned. This man not only possessed skill in construction, 
emotional power, and wit in dialogue, but philosophical penetration 
as well. There are those whom this assertion may surprise: I 
advise them to reread 'Daniel Rochat,' and they will see there set 
forth a struggle between a religious woman and an atheistic man, 
who love one another; yet their convictions force them to part, 
and they fight out their battle with a power and a passion which 
move the most cynical reader. French audiences will long remem- 
ber this man, who made them laugh, who made them weep, who 
even made them think; who depicted France to foreign audiences 
in her best guise, and who honoured her greatly in more ways than 
one. His life was a happy one, for while his youth was poverty- 
stricken his age was glorious, and that is more than a fair division 
of a human life." 



16 



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PART SECOND 
THE SARDOU PLAYS 



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THE SARDOU PLAYS 

DORA* 

In the first act of " Dora " we are at Nice, in March — 
that is to say, at the end of the season, and at the close of 
the festival time. Of the cosmopolitan society which is 
found at Nice, everyone is on the verge of departure. 
Yet among this swarm of strangers, and more or less 
authentic aristocracy, the Marquise de Rio-Zares and her 
daughter Dora find themselves stranded at Nice. They are 
practically prisoners at their hotel, and they are kept there 
by bolts and bars in the shape of bills. Of these, one obliga- 
tion is most pressing, for they cannot pay their hotel bill. But 
the Marquise does not submit with resignation to the thought 
of remaining in this embarrassing position. She makes 
application for interviews with various gentlemen whom 
she does not know, — among others with a French Deputy, 
Favrolle, and a foreign diplomat. Baron Van der Kraft. 

It is first to Monsieur Favrolle that the Marquise de 
Rio-Zares relates her misfortimes. She is the widow of 
a Spanish officer, Don Alvar de Rio-Zares, a former friend 
of Esparto. Driven into exile by the enmity of Navaez, 
Don Alvar went to seek his fortune in Paraguay. There 
he became General, from General he became President, 
but in crossing a river at the head of his invincible troops 
he lost his life. His widow, the unfortunate Marquise, had 
nothing remaining of her vast fortune but a ship-load of 
guns. This cargo has been seized, on board a French ship, 
by a Spanish cruiser guarding the coasts of Cuba. She de- 
sires to secure restitution and indemnity, and this is why 
the Marquise de Rio-Zares has done herself the honour of 
requesting a visit from the Deputy Favrolle. 

1 English version entitled " Diplomacy." 

149 



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160 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

In listening to this astonishing and melancholy narra- 
tive, related in a peculiar jargon, in which Spanish and 
Catalan are mingled with the dialects of South America, 
FavroUe at first Suspects that the Marquise de Rio-Zares 
is an adventuress seeking to borrow money of him. In 
fact, he believes this so strongly that his suspicions are only 
removed by his friend, Andre de Maurillac, who was 
acquainted in South America with this same extraordinary 
Don Alvar de Rio-Zares. Andre has conceived a passion, 
although he does not yet know it, for Mademoiselle de 
Rio-Zares. This young lady is a unique and fascinating 
person, beautiful, elegant, seductive as a fairy princess, 
virtuous as a saint, and poor as a church mouse. She is 
always surrounded by men who are laying their homage 
at her feet, but they all carefully refrain from asking her 
hand in marriage. Though she is personally of spotless 
character, rumour has been busy with her name. This is 
so much the case that a certain Stramir — ^who has been 
presented to her as a possible husband by the Princess 
Bariatine — dares to offer her, in good set phrase, a 
magnificent position, giving her at the same time to under- 
stand that he is already married, living apart from his 
wife, but not divorced. Dora, outraged and indignant, rises 
and drives him publicly from her presence, hurling her 
bouquet into his face. 

This is the moment chosen by Baron Van der Kraft to 
make certain overtures to the Marquise de Rio-Zares, who 
sees in the quarrel with Stramir the disappearance of her 
last chance of paying her hotel bill. She had hoped to 
settle her debts by her daughter making this fortunate 
marriage. 

Baron Van der Kraft is a type of person not unknown 
in Parisian society. He is a promoter of foreign political 
intrigues, having a footing in various diplomatic camps, 
conducting secret police negotiations, and profiting by 



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DORA 161 

speculation in government securities. He has trusted ears 
in all the drawing-rooms and cunning hands in all the desk- 
drawers of Paris. The Baron maintains, at Paris and at 
Versailles, (ostensibly for an Austrian diplomat, the Baron 
Paulnitz) a small feminine army, a sort of foreign l^on, 
made up of Hungarians, Wallachians, Czechs, Slavonians, 
South Americans, and English women. These ladies wear 
gorgeous gowns, and resemble Solomon's lilies in the other 
respect that they toil not ; but they excel at writing letters, 
which letters pay the cost of their gorgeous gowns. Their 
perfumed correspondence is filled with gossip, political and 
other, and it amuses foreign statesmen, even when it does 
not instruct them. But much is found in these perfumed 
letters of more interest and value to foreign ministers than 
that which is found in their official dispatch-boxes. 

The reader may wonder whether such private detective 
agencies really exist in Paris. Beyond doubt they do, and 
not only there, but in other continental cities as well. More 
times tiian one, scandals have come to light, showing that 
great ladies in European capitals have been in the pay 
of foreign governments, and reporting the private conversa- 
tions of their guests for pay. 

Such is the curious environment in which Baron Van 
der Kraft exercises his peculiar talents. The worthy Mar- 
quise de Rio-ZarSs — ^who is not cygjiing, who on the con- 
trary is very simple, and who loves her daughter dearly — 
is easily persuaded that she is a distant cousin of Baron 
Paulnitz, and she therefore accepts without question a pen- 
sion of 12,000 francs, oflFered to her by Baron Van der 
Kraft, in the name of Baron Paulnitz. Baron Van der 
Kraft does not think highly of the ridiculous Marquise de 
Rio-ZarSs, but he hopes to make the daughter useful in 
his business, by working on her through the mother. 

The Baron undertakes to explain to Dora what she is 
expected to do in return for her mother's pension. Dora 



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168 THE SABDOU PLAYS 

does not understand the approaches of the secret political 
agent, but she disarms him by a simple avowal, which is 
that she loves Andre de Maurillac; she believes he loves 
her; therefore she does not wish to mingle in political 
intrigfues, and she has no higher ambition than to be 
Andre's wife and the mother of his children. 

It may be necessary to mention here that Andre de 
Maurillac has come to Versailles on a visit to the Princess 
Bariatine, who has undertaken to assist in returning to 
Dora's mother the celebrated ship-load of g^ns. The 
Princess, who is something of a politician herself, hopes to 
use this demand for indemnity as a lever for upsetting the 
Ministry, but the defection of a certain political g^oup, 
belonging to the Left Center, disconcerts her cunning plans 
to bring about certain interpellaticms demanding that the 
Ministry should exact from the Spanish Government the 
restitution of the cargo of guns. The Princess's plans are 
defeated, and thus poor Dora's dower disappears. 

This is why the Baron Van der Kraft believes that the 
hour has come for those proposals which Dora's native 
honesty repels. This is why Andre, knowing that the 
Marquise de Rio-Zares is ruined, thinks that there is no 
time for him to lose to make his avowal. Dora, who feels 
dimly the sentiments which actuate him, doubts him. She 
has so many times suffered the humiliation of avowals being 
made to her by men, not as they are offered to an honest 
and virtuous girl, but as they are addressed to an adven- 
turess, that she fears Andre might also approach her as 
other men had done. So it can easily be seen how great 
is her joy when Andre tells her he loves her and asks her 
to be his wife. The Marquise shares the delight of her 
daughter, and the marriage is arranged apparently without 
opposition. 

There is one quarter, however, from which resistance 
is to be apprehended, underhand, but none the less formi- 



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DORA IBS 

dable on that account It comes f ronf the Countess Zidca, 
one of the mysterious ladies subsidized by Baron Van der 
Kraft. This Countess Zicka, who poses as a noble Hun- 
garian widow, is in reality a woman without reputation! 
without country, without name, but not without a police 
record. She has conceived a violent passion for Andr6. 
Not being able to prevent his marriage, she determines to 
ruin the happiness of her rival, who believes her to be a 
friend. She profits by a secret mission, which has been 
confided to her by Barcm Van der Kraft, and weaves a 
most abominable plot against Dora. She ransacks the 
private papers of Andre, who is just about to leave on his 
wedding journey, and succeeds in finding a secret dis- 
patch, with which he has been entrusted by his uncle, the 
Minister of Marine, to be taken to Italy. She persuades 
Dora to write a note to Baron Van der Kraft, excusing' 
herself for not having invited him to her marriage cere- 
mony, and to assure him of her gratitude for past benefits ; 
while Dora is writing the letter, the Countess slips the 
stolen dispatch into the envelope. 

Andre returns, and is on the point of opening his desk, 
which will reveal to him the theft, when a visitor is 
announced, one Tekly. Tddy is a young Hungarian, a 
revolutionary refugee, exiled by Austria, and who, like 
many men, had been madly in love with Dora. In the first 
act we saw him just leaving Nice, when he gave her a 
photograph of himself, with these words written on the 
back: "A ella — ^mi alma — i Dora," which might be trans- 
lated either " To her— to my soul— to Dora," or " To her 
whom my soul adores." On his way to Greece Tekly was 
so imprudent as to go ashore when his ship touched at the 
Austrian port of Trieste. He was at once arrested by the 
Austrian police, and was liberated only through the inter- 
vention of an Austrian Minister, who was an old friend 
of his father. Tekly, who did not know that Andre had 



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164 THE SABDOU PLAYS 

just married Dora, relates to him that his arrest at Trieste 
had been the result of a secret denunciation, and that this 
denunciation came from Dora. 

Andre is about to leap upon Tekly in his rage, but is 
restrained by his friend Favrolle. He demands from Tekly 
categorical proofs of his assertions. Tekly, suddenly en- 
lightened as to the dreadful charge that he has made, and 
that the woman he accuses has become the wife of Andre, 
endeavours in vain to retract his charge. Andre will not 
permit him to do so, and Favrolle persuades Tekly that 
any man of honour, involuntarily falling into a false situa- 
tion, in which a woman's reputation is concerned, has but 
one course to take. It is to tell the truth, in order that, 
if there be calumny, or scandal, or slander concerning her, 
it may be brought to light, uncovered, unmasked. The 
unfortunate Tekly can only plead that what he has uttered 
is the truth, hard and bitter as it is for him to repeat it. 
He informs Andre that he was in the hands of the 
Austrian Minister, his father's friend; that a photograph 
had been sent to the Austrian police at Trieste; that they 
had received notification that he would touch at that port; 
that no one knew that he was aboard the steamer but Dora ; 
that the photograph which had been sent, in order that the 
police might identify him, was the photograph which he had 
given to her, with his words of adoration written on the 
back. Andre pleads that the photograph might have been 
stolen from Dora and sent by some one else. "But," 
replies Tekly, "no one but Dora knew by which route 
I should travel." 

The proofs are apparently overwhelming, yet Andre 
loves his wife so madly that he still endeavors to doubt. 
But on going to his desk, he perceives that it has been 
rifled, and that the secret dispatch, entrusted to him by his 
uncle, has been stolen. His keys have been in no hands 



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DORA 166 

but his own — and Dora's. What a terrible discovery for 
a wedding day ! The unfortunate husband is crushed. 

FavroUe is the only one who does not lose his head. 
He sees at once the possible complicity of Baron Van der 
Kraft, and succeeds in securing from him Dora's letter, 
of which the Baron has not yet broken the seal, and of 
which he does not suspect the importance. Andr^ himself 
opens the letter; out of it falk the stolen document. The 
proof is crushing, undeniable, overwhelming. Andr6 
places the letter and the document before Dora. The un- 
forttmate bride, with indignation and shame, protests that 
she is innocent, but she cannot explain away the fatal 
circumstances which attack her honor. 

Fortunately, the Countess Zicka is caught in her own 
snare. She has come to Favrolle's quarters, to learn from 
him what has taken place between the young couple, and 
to ascertain if she has succeeded in the trap which her 
infernal jealousy had sprung. Favrolle is absent, but the 
Countess commits the imprudence of opening his portfolio 
to read a letter from Andre that she knows to be there. 
When Favrolle returns to his desk, he recognises the per- 
fume of the Coimtess's gloves, which have been lying on 
his portfolio. This discovery arouses in his mind vague 
and floating suspicions. He at once weaves hurriedly a 
plan — simple, but absolutely sure. He persuades the 
Countess Zicka that she has been betrayed by Van der 
Kraft, and that he has in his possession copies of the police 
records revealing her shameful past. Zicka is terrified. In 
order to avoid disclosure and secure immunity, she avows 
the crime which she has conmiitted. She clears the char- 
acter of Dora from the dreadful stain, and the young bride 
is restored to the arms of her doubting husband, Andre, 
no longer doubting, but full of confidence in her love and 
honour. 



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LES PATTES DE MOUCHE ^ 

The play begins at Chinon, at the country-house of 
Monsieur and Mme. Vanhove, which has just been re- 
opened after being closed for three years. At that time the 
family of the late Mme. de CrussoUes, mother of Madame 
Vanhove, had just left Chinon for Paris, where Clarisse de 
CrussoUes was to marry M. Vanhove. Everything had been 
left exactly as it was, as Mme. de CrussoUes intended to 
return. But her sudden death, immediately after her 
daughter's marriage, so profoundly impressed the young 
bride, that she had ordered the chateau to be kept closed 
and nothing in it disturbed. Therefore, now that she and 
her husband and her younger sister, Marthe, are returning, 
everything in the house, even to the most trifling object, 
is exactly as it was three years before. 

In the opening scene the new servants, brought from 
Paris, are sweeping and dusting, and the old housekeeper, 
Solang^, yiSLTTis them not to touch a certain statuette of 
Flora, which to the late Mme. de CrussoUes had been as 
the applet her eye. She always dusted this precious piece 
"dfvSevres with her own hands, and her daughter, out of 
filial affection, allowed no one else to touch it. 

The young sister of Mme. Vanhove, Mile. Marthe de 
CrussoUes, is adored by the young stripling, M. Paul. He 
is domiciled in""2^ adjacent country-house, whose master, 
M. Thirion, is his gfuardian, although M. Thirion's wife, 
Colomba, is so masterful a lady, and takes so profound an 
interest in ^Piul, that she rather than her husband might be 
said to be his guardian. 

The Thirions discover Paul in a tete-a-tete with his 
lady love; it is in the Vanhove park, where M. Thirion is 

^ Best-known English verskm entitled " A Scrap of Paper." 
156 



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LES PATTES DE MOUCHE 167 

chasing butterflies, for he is an ardent entomologist. Mme. 
Thirion takes her husband severely to task for permitting 
this flirtation, saying that she does not think much of the 
family, as Marthe's el4er sister, Mme. Vanhove, was a good 
deal talked about at Chinon some three or four years before, 
when M. Prosper Block was dangling around her. This 
same M. Prosper, it seems, has just arrived from India; 
he is an old friend of Thirion, and is comfortably installed 
as a guest at the Thirion chateau for an indefinite period — 
not entirely to the liking of Mme. Thirion. He is, it would 
appear, her husband's friend, and not hers. 

While the Thirion spouses are wrangling. Prosper 
enters, wearing a suit of yellow nankeen, carrying a sun- 
shade, and fluttering a Chinese fan. He relates with the 
utmost placidity that he had just made a tour of tbcf 
neighbouring village, where the natives betrayed surprise 
and hilarity on seeing him. He further tells of having 
met a young lady, evidently not of the village, mounted on 
a handsome horse; this Diana could not conceal her merri- 
ment when her eyes fell on him. He goes into ecstasies 
over this yoimg Amazon, and asks who she may be. He 
is told that she is Mile. Marthe, younger sister of Mme. 
Vanhove. M. Prosper, being a child of nature, frankly 
announces that she has won his heart ; that it is a case of 
love at first sight, and that he will immediately seek a 
serious interview with her brother-in-law, M. Vanhove. 
He asks what manner of man is this Vanhove, and is told 
that he is a Hollander; that he is sombre, suspicious, and 
jealous. Vanhove, it seems, is jealous beyond belief; he 
is wildly in love with his wife, and is hardly conscious of 
the existence of her sister, Marthe, or of her cousin, 
Suzanne, who is a frequent visitor. Suzanne is a Parisian, 
an orphan, has a large fortune in her own right, is nearing 
thirty, is pretty, witty, but has never married, because she 



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168 THE SAEDOU PLAYS 

says she wishes to remain free. Fortified with these par- 
ticulars, Prosper goes to seek the sombre M. Vanhove. 

If the chatty French globe-trotter, Prosper, could be 
disconcerted by anyone, it would be by the gloomy Hol- 
lander, Vanhove. To his most captivating conversational 
sallies. Prosper receives only monosyllabic replies. De- 
spairingly he finally comes to business ; he tells Vanhove that 
he has squandered the fortune left him by the paternal 
Block; that not far away he has a millionaire uncle living, 
who wishes him to marry; that the aforesaid uncle has 
given him a certain time within which to find a bride ; that 
if in six weeks' time Prosper remains unwed, the uncle 
threatens himself to marry — ^his housekeeper. Therefore 
Prosper has installed himself as a gfuest with his old friend 
Thirion, and has come to present to M. Vanhove a demand 
for the hand of his sister-in-law. Mile. Marthe. To this 
Vanhove replies indifferently that it does not concern him, 
and that Prosper must see his wife and her sister about 
the matter. Prosper informs him that some three years 
before, when he was a guest of the Thirions, he had already 
been fortunate enough to meet Mme. Vanhove before her 
marriage. Therefore, as an introduction is unnecessary, 
Vanhove bids a servant announce Monsieur Block to 
Madame Vanhove, and goes off to his kennels, for he is a 
mighty Nimrod, and a dog-lover before the Lord. 

While he is waiting for the lady of the chateau. Prosper 
looks around the room. He notices that ever)rthing is 
exactly as it was when he had been there three years be- 
fore. He even recalls a certain book which Qarisse and 
he were reading together on the momentous night ; he goes 
to the table, and examines a volume lying there. "It is 
the same ! *' he says to himself. " Why, it is like the fairy 
tale of the enchanted wood. Everything is exactly as we 
left it— even the statuette of Flora." And he is approach- 
ing the Flora to inspect it, when Mme. Vanhove appears. 



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LES FATTES D£ MOUCHE 169 

This delicate interview opens coolly^ but speedily be- 
comes animated. From the somewhat tense conversation 
it appears that these two young people had loved one 
another madly, but that some unexplained circumstance 
had brought about a complete rupture of their relations. 
Hence there is an embarrassment on both sides, which is 
not lessened when Prosper presents his claim for the hand 
of Marthe. Clarissa at once vehemently replies: 

" This marriage must not, nay, it shall not take place ! 
While I have nothing to blush for in the school-girl passion 
which I felt for you. Monsieur, you certainly must under- 
stand that I could not tolerate as my sister's husband, and 
as a familiar frequenter of my husband's home, the man 
whom I foolishly thought that I loved before I loved my 
husband. Withdraw your demand. Monsieur, I beg of 
you." 

" And you call it a school-girl love," says Prosper bit- 
terly! "So it was a school-girl love for which I have 
exiled myself and wasted my life for three years! Yet 
it did not seem to me then that it was a school-girl love. I 
was foolish enough then to believe that you loved me as 
I loved you — ^with an ardent and an honest passion. And the 
letters that you wrote me certainly seemed sincere. Do not 
start — ^I burned them all, as I promised to do. Do you 
remember our letter-box? It is here still — the statuette ot 
Flora. It seems as if it were only the night before last that 
I was leaving you in this room, tenderly saying 'good- 
bye until to-morrow.' And you replied to me with equal 
tenderness 'until to-morrow then, good-bye.' To-morrow 
is here, but you — ^you are Mme. Vanhove. Such is 
woman's constancy." 

Clarisse chafes under these reproaches. She replies that 
he is unjust; that the very next day her mother had in- 
formed her of the demand of the millionaire M. Vanhove 
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leo THE SAEDOU PLAYS 

insisted that she must many Vanhove ; that she had written 
a passionate letter to Prosper, beseeching him to follow 
them to Paris, where she would elope with him before they 
could marry her to Vanhove; that she had hidden the letter 
in the appointed place; that she had acccnnpanied her 
mother to Paris. But no word had come from Prosper; 
crushed and humiliated by his silence, she had permitted 
the marriage to take place. 

Prosper is equally indignant at her reproaches. He tells 
her that the day after their last meeting a gentleman of 
the neighbourhood had used language reflecting on her 
coquettish tendencies, which Prosper had at once resented. 
A duel followed, and Prosper received a thrust through 
the lungs which laid him on his back for some time. " Your 
marriage," he concludes, bitterly, " was the first news with 
which they greeted my convalescence." 

"Then my letter did not reach you?" asks Clarisse, 
anxiously. 

" No, Madame," replies Prosper, " for the best of rea- 
sons — ^I could not have come after it — 'I was delirious in 
bed." 

" Then it must be there still," says Clarisse, feverishly. 
" Alas ! if my husband were to find it ! " 

" I will see if it is there," says Prosper, and he goes 
toward the statuette. 

"Stop," says Clarisse in a whisper, "here comes my 
husband now ! " 

It is, in fact, Vanhove; he is accompanied by M. and 
Mme. Thirion and Marthe and Paul. Vanhove notes with 
suspicion the traces of emotion on Qarisse's countenance, 
and then turns and gazes distrustfully at Prosper. His 
suspidcMis are not allayed by Clarisse's annotmcement that 
Prosper has withdrawn his demand for the hand of Marthe ; 
they arc aggravated by a lively protestation from Prosper 
that he has not withdrawn his demand at all. 



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LES PATTES DE MOUCHE 161 

As the conversation proceeds, both Clarisse and Prosper 
circle around the statuette with apparent carelessness, but 
in reality each is seeking an opportunity to look for the 
letter. 

In the midst of this strained situation, Suzanne, the 
Parisian cousin, enters. She is received with enthusiasm 
by Marthe, with affection by Qarisse, and with indiffer- 
ence by Vanhove. Under cover of the bustle attending her 
arrival. Prosper attempts to lift the statuette. But Su- 
zanne observes him, and says suddenly, " Who is this gentle- 
man?" All turn to look at him, and Prosper quickly re- 
places the statuette as if it burned his fingers. He is 
introduced to Suzanne, and while she engages him in 
conversation, Clarisse goes stealthily toward the statuette. 
Just as she is about to touch it. Prosper turns and ad- 
dresses her. Everybody lodes at her, and she is forced to 
join the group. This by-play is observed by Suzanne, who 
watches them narrowly. 

Prosper turns the conversation to bric-a-brac. He says 
that the Orientals surpass us in their porcelains. " Show 
me in this salon," he says, " a single object comparable to 
an Oriental masterpiece. Take this bit of Sevres" — ^he 
goes towards it. " A Flora is it not ? " He takes it up. 
Qarisse hastens toward him as if to stop him, but he says : 
** Oh, do not fear, Madame, I know its value." 

"But," interrupts Qarisse, anxiously, "it is covered 
with dust. Let me dust it with my handkerchief." 

" Do not trouble," answers Prosper, " I will take it to 
one side and blow the dust off." 

While he turns his back upon the group, as if to blow 
off the dust, Vanhove rises in surprise, and begins to note 
this little comedy. Suzanne also rises and whispers to 
Qarisse, "Be careful, your husband is watching you." 
Even as she is speaking, the letter falls to the floor. 
Prosper at once places his foot upon it. Suzanne mur- 
11 



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l&t THE SARDOU FLAYS 

« 

murs to hersdf, "Oh! a letter! I knew there was some- 
thing between them," and turning she at once engages 
Vanhove in conversation. 

Prosper hands the statuette to Clarisse, saying, " I see, 
Madame, you are afraid to trust this priceless object to my 
careless hands." 

She replies in a low voice, " Monsieur, this is cowardly, 
this is infamous ! " 

To which he replies also in a low tone, but gaily, " All 
is fair in war, Madame." 

Luncheon is announced, and as Prosper has not budged 
from his place, but is still standing upon the letter, Su- 
zanne approaches him, and says, " Won't you give me your 
arm. Monsieur?" 

"With pleasure," he replies. "But permit me — one 
moment — I have dropped something." Deftly dropping 
his handkerchief upon the letter, he picks up both letter 
and handkerchief. 

" Come, come," says Suzanne to him in a low voice, 
" be generous. Give it up." 

"Give up what?" replies the ingenuous Prosper. 

" Give up the letter," says Suzanne ; " you know what 
I mean." 

" No, indeed," he replies, " we are on the verge of hos- 
tilities. It is my reserve." 

"Then I will make you give it up," says Suzanne, 
determinedly. 

" Is this a declaration of war? " asks Prosper. 

"To the knife," replies Suzanne. 

"When shall hostilities begin?" asks Prosper. 

" After Itmcheon," she replies. " But give me your arm, 
for the husband is watching us." 

And the two adversaries walk placidly in to luncheon, 
arm in arm. 

In the second act, we find ourselves in the apartments 



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LES PATTES DE MOUCHE 168 

of Prosper, in Thirion's house. On every hand are 
curiosities which betoken the much travelled man. Against 
the wall there stands a tall, Egyptian mummy-case. Every- 
where are scattered stuffed birds and beasts, curious wea- 
pons, Oriental pottery, and pipes. On the floor are mgs, 
made from the skins of wild beasts slain by Prosper's 
deadly gun. One of the tables is completely covered with 
little curios, and the knick-knacks usually found on a man's 
table, such as cigars and cigarettes, ink, pens, and paper, 
trinket-trays, sealing wax, and a little basket full of cards 
and letters. 

Prosper is seated in the midst of his Lares and Penates, 
smoking and musing. He is putting to himself the ques- 
tion, where shall he conceal the letter? He frankly admits 
that he has a wholesome fear of the finesse of Mademoiselle 
Suzanne. He successively considers hiding it in his hat, 
concealing it in the trunk of a tree, or confiding it to his 
friend Thirion. "But,'' as he philosophically remarks, 
" Thirion is a married man, and therefore not to be trusted." 

Looking around the room, Prosper's eye falls upon a 
little casket, but he shakes his head. " Another," says he, 
''might put it in the casket, but I shall show my genius 
by concealing it in the only place where no one would ever 
dream of loddng for it, that is to say, in '' 

A knock is heard. Enter M. Paul. Paul is pallid with 
emotion. Since he has heard of Prosper's pretensions to 
the hand of Marthe, he wishes to fight him. Prosper at 
once consents, but on condition that he shall have the 
choice of weapons. He takes down two Japanese harikari 
knives, and gravely proposes to Paul that they shall fight 
in the Japanese fashion, which is, to disembowel themselves, 
and that, as Paul is the challenger, he shall btgin. 

As the lovelorn youth is grazing at him with astonish- 
ment and horror, another knock is heard. Mme. Thirion 
and Marthe appear. They have come expecting to find 



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164 THE SABDOU PLAYS 

Suzanne and the other members of the Vanhove household, 
who had made an appointment with them to visit Prosper's 
museimi. Suzanne is not far behind them. She enters 
on their heels. . 

Prosper shows them his collection of curios, and Su- 
zanne comments satirically on his taste for foreign bric- 
a-brac. " Show me," says she, ** a gentleman seated in an 
American rocking-chair, before a Flemish table, covered 
with an Algerian table-cloth, and drinking in Dresden 
china a Chinese beverage, while smoking Turkish tobacco, 
after eating a Russian dinner, during which he has been 
talking sport in English to his wife, who has been talking 
music to him in Italian, and I will tell you at once that he 
is a Frenchman." 

After the guests have gone over the collection of curios, 
they depart, Suzanne the last. But scarcely have they left 
when she returns. 

" I am delighted to see you again," says Prosper gaily. 
" I feared that you were in full retreat." 

"What, before the battle?" retorts Suzanne. "It is 
easy to see that you do not know me. But before hostilities 
begin, let us have a few diplomatic preliminaries. Our side 
appeals to the honor of our adversary. We demand that 
he return to us the letter which the rules of common hon- 
esty forbid him to keep." 

"To which I reply," says Prosper, "that the letter, 
being sent to me, and taken by me, is in its proper place — 
in my hands." 

" But you did not receive it — therefore it is ours," says 
Suzanne. 

"But you sent it to me — ^therefore it is mine," says 
Prosper. 

" In that case," says Suzanne, " we wish to know what 
you intend to do with the letter? " 

" I will reply categorically," answers Prosper. " I will 



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LES PATTES DE MOUCHE 166 

preserve the letter and I will preserve neutrality. The day 
that I renounce my pretensions to Mile. Marthc, and make 
my final adieus to Mme. Vanhove — ^that day will I bum 
the letter before her eyes. I would have burned it this 
morning in my rooms and said nothing about it, if your 
defiance had not piqued me to the game of war." 

" Come, come," says Suzanne, coaxingly ; " consider 
what I said unsaid, and bum it before me. There is a 
bright fire — ^here is a chance to do a good action." 

" No," replies Prosper. " I would lose the artistic satis- 
faction I expect to enjoy in seeing how you will discover 
where I have concealed the letter. The letter is here. 
If you find it I authorize you to bum it yourself." 

" No," replies Suzanne. " I also require the artistic 
satisfaction of seeing you burn it with your own hands and 
at this fire." 

" If you accomplish this," says Prosper, " I swear to 
you on my honour that I will leave this very night to seek 
a wife in the Isles of Polynesia." 

" You have swom it," says Suzanne, " and now I shall 
commence my blockade. I shall stick to you so assiduously 
that you will hate the very sight of me; I shall be insup- 
portable, interminable, odious." 

" Mademoiselle," replies Prosper, " never was man 
threatened with so delightful a punishment. I am intoxi- 
cated with joy at the mere thought of the hours I shall 
pass in your company. Be good enough to seat yourself 
in my easy-chair. Ccmsider yourself at home. There are 
some photographs of travel which may interest you. Every- 
thing is open. All the keys are in their locks. Come and 
go, open and shut, ransack at your will. In the meantime, 
I am forced to leave you, to pay a necessary visit. My 
only excuse is that it is to a very rich uncle. My only 
hope is that I may find you here on my return. Au revoir, 
Mademoiselle." 



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166 THE SABDOU PLAYS 

As he departs, Suzanne gazes after him with mingled 
feelings. "Really," says she, "this dramatic exit is not 
imlike an impertinence. He leaves me free to search for 
the letter, but he also leaves me in his private apartments — 
therefore compromised." 

A knock is heard. "Now I wonder who that is?" 
mutters Suzanne. 

The door opens, and Clarisse enters. The moment she 
sees who it is, Suzanne immediately locks the door behind 
her. Clarisse breathlessly tells that she has seen Prosper 
on his horse riding down the road, and has hastened at 
once to his apartments, coming so hurriedly that she had 
only time to throw a shawl around her shoulders. She at 
once begins a feverish search about the room. Suzanne 
watches her, while herself seated tranquilly at the table. 
When Clarisse reproaches her for her indifference, she 
replies that so clever a man as Prosper would not hide 
the letter in an ordinary hiding-place; that to her thinking 
it must be somewhere in the open. She turns over the heaps 
of opened letters lying on the table in the basket. She looks 
at one. It is addressed "M. Prosper Block, Honolulu." 
The envelope is already opened ; it is dingy and torn. She 
hesitates, but murmuring "all is fair in war," she takes 
out the enclosure. Clarisse had written on blue paper — 
this is on blue paper. Clarisse had written on a half sheet 
folded in two — ^this is on a half sheet folded in two. 

They open the letter. It is in Qarisse's handwriting, 
and it begins : " My dear love, I leave to-night for Paris.'* 

" Your dear love, indeed ! " cries Suzanne. " Lucky for 
you that we found it instead of Vanhove." 

As she speaks a loud knocking is heard at the door. 
A voice is heard crying, " Open the door ! " It is the voice 
of Vanhove. 

Clarisse flies in terror to the bedroom, despite the 
objections of Suzanne, who tries to detain her. But the 



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LES PATTES DE MOUCHE 167 

terrified wife loses her head, enters Prosper's chamber, and 
locks the door. As she does so Suzanne unlodcs the outer 
door, and admits Vanhove. 

He is apparently surprised to find Suzanne alone. He 
insists that Clarisse is with her, which she denies. He says 
he heard voices, and demands to know with whom she was 
talking. She says she was reading the labels on the curios. 
He is still suspicious, and tells her that he is certain that 
there is something between his wife and Prosper ; that the 
whispering of the day before over the statuette had aroused 
his suspicions ; that he believes Prosper's sudden demand for 
Marthe's hand was merely a pretext; that it was a pre- 
arranged plan to lull the husband's suspicions; that these 
ideas had suddenly come to a crisis in his mind while he 
was out shooting. He returned at once, went back to his 
house, and was told that Qarisse was out. He bade his 
dog, Myrrha, seek her mistress. The dog had led him to 
the door at which he had just knocked — ^the door' of 
Prosper's room. 

Suzanne reproaches him bitterly for his suspicions, and 
tells him that a man who would set a dog upon his wife's 
footsteps would believe anything. She finally succeeds in 
quieting him, land he is about to leave reassured, when he 
suddenly sees the shawl which Clarisse in her haste had 
left upon a chair. He breaks forth in a fresh frenzy of 
rage, and seizing his gun tells Suzanne that he will kill 
both Prosper and his mistress, Clarisse. 

Suzanne here determines to shield Qarisse at any cost. 
"Stop I" she cries, "you madman! If you wish to kill 
the mistress of Prosper, kill me, for I am his mistress." 
As Vanhove recoils in surprise, she goes on : " You force 
me, then, to restrain you from your rash action, to tell 
you the truth. Do you think that a woman comes alone to 
a man's rooms to look at curios? If I did not at once open 
the door it was because I feared discovery. If your dog 



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168 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

led you to this door, it was because I was wearing Clarisse's 
shawl. If Clarisse is opposed to the marriage of Marthe 
with Prosper, it is because she knows of my liaison with 
him." 

Vanhove is thunderstruck at this revelation. "How 
blind I have been," he says. " I remember now that this 
man spoke of a love affair dating some three years back. 
I did not dream that it was with you. But be calm, Su- 
zanne, no one shall know your secret. Out of evil shall 
come good, for this M. Block shall not marry Marthe, he 
shall marry you." 

Suzanne is overcome by this new complication, and 
endeavours to dissuade Vanhove. But the stubborn Hol- 
lander can not be dissuaded. He tells her that he will 
make it his affair; that he will see Prosper at once; and 
that if before evening Prosper has not promised to marry 
Suzanne, he will take Prosper by the neck, and choke the 
life out of him. Vanhove babbles of his love for Qarisse, 
of his regard for Suzanne, of his determination to force 
Prosper to marry her — ^all this with such volubility that he 
does not give Suzanne a chance to get in a word. Still 
talking, he dashes out in a whirl of excitement. As he 
leaves, Suzanne falls into a chair. " And they call him a 
silent man ! " she groans. 

As the door closes behind him, Clarisse timidly peeps 
from the bed-chamber and says: 

" Suzanne, dear, how can I ever thank you ? I was lost, 
and you have saved me." 

" Yes," replies Suzanne, drily, " I have saved you, and 
now I am lost." 

Clarisse is still in mortal terror lest her husband should 
discover the letter and should learn something from his 
meeting with Prosper. So she begs Suzanne to burn the 
letter and to urge Prosper to leave at once. In the mean- 



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LES PATTES DE MOUCHE 169 

time, she hastens away, to reach her home before Vanhove 
arrives there. 

After her departure Suzamie reflects that it is easy to 
bum the letter, but not easy to make Prosper go. '* Still, 
she says to herself, "he swore to me that if I made him 
bum it, he would depart at once for the Polynesian Islands." 
She determines to place the letter in a tempting way 
twisted like a cigar-lighter between the bars of the fender. 
She then takes the matches from the mantel-place, and 
throws them into the fire. Then, hearing the sound of 
Prosper's footsteps, she throws herself into an easy chair 
with an air of complete exhaustion. 

When Prosper enters, a duel of words takes place 
between the two, which Suzanne finally interrupts by com- 
plaining that it is growing dark and asking for lights. 
Prosper rings for lights, when Suzanne points to the 
candles on the mantel-piece and suggests that he light 
them. He seeks vainly for matches, when his eye falls 
upon the twisted scrap of paper. He holds it to the fire, 
and it breaks into a little flame. Suzanne watches him 
breathlessly, but at this moment a servant enters with a 
lighted lamp, saying, "Did you ring for lights, sir?" 
Prosper says, "Yes, yes," and mechanically extinguishes 
the flaming scrap of paper which he still holds in his 
fingers. 

The two duellists are now seated at the table, with the 
lighted lamp between them. Suzanne begins toying with 
the Honolulu envelope, and Prosper grows restless. But 
she throws it down. She appeals to him as a man of honour. 
She is eloquent, she is touching, and at last Prosper tells 
her she may command him in anything ; that he thinks she 
is not only beautiful but good; that he adores her; that he 
will always be her slave, and, as a proof of his servitude, 
he will bum the letter before her eyes. So saying, he picks 
up the Honolulu envelope with the tongs, holds it in the 



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170 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

fire, and when it is nothing but ashes, deposits them at her 
feet. 

Suzanne, looking at him with humid eyes, and feeling 
the power of a woman over the man who loves her, almost 
forgets that he has not burned the real letter. But she 
regains her calmness. She points it out to him, lying on 
the floor, and bids him burn it. Prosper does not under- 
stand what it is, but mechanically picks it up. 

As he does so, the barking of the dogs is heard without. 
Vanhove and the other sportsmen are returning. As 
Suzanne still bids him bum this strange bit of paper, 
Prosper hurriedly holds the real letter to the candle flame. 
But as it catches fire the voice of Vanhove is heard at the 
door. Prosper tosses the flaming paper out of the window, 
and it falls into the garden below. Suzanne rapidly tells 
him that the first paper which he burned was not the letter ; 
that the one he had just tossed out of the window is thel 
incriminating epistle. With sudden tmderstanding he tells 
her that he will secure it, come what may, and he darta 
out of the door on his way to the garden. 

The sportsmen have returned from the chase. Among 
them is Thirion, who is being good-humoredly chaffed by 
his companions because he has been chasing butterflies 
instead of shooting partridges. They have crossed 
Thirion's garden, and are now assembled in Vanhove's 
conservatory. Thirion defends himself, saying that he had 
seen a very rare specimen of the Lepidoptera, which he had 
succeeded in catching, and points to his gun, which he has 
placed in a corner. Out of the muzzle of the gun pro- 
trudes a scrap of paper twisted into a cornucopia; in this, 
says Thirion, is imprisoned the famous specimen he has 
caught. 

Into the conservatory come Suzanne and Prosper. He 
comes from Thirion's garden, following the steps of the 
returning sportsmen, who had passed under his window. 



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LES PATTES DE MOUCHE 171 

Suzanne has searched also, but neither has found the scrap 
of paper. They ransack their brains for every possible 
thing that can have happened to it, but cannot think of any 
solution. So Suzanne sends Prosper forth again to search 
for the letter. 

Suzanne encounters Busonier, one of the gentlemen 
returning from the hunt with Vanhove. She interrogates 
him closely. Did he see a piece of flaming paper fall irom 
the window? Yes, he did. What happened to it? Some- 
body picked it up. Who picked it up — was it Vanhove? 
Busonier racks his brain for some minutes, and finally 
remembers that it was not Vanhove but Thirion who 
picked it up. And Suzanne drops him like lightning and 
hastens off to find Thirion. 

As Suzanne goes out, the youthful Paul enters the 
conservatory, which is now deserted. He is in disgrace; 
Mme. Thirion thinks he takes too much interest in young 
women, and is neglecting his studies. Therefore, his place 
will not be laid at dinner that evening; instead of that, his 
things are packed, and he is to go back to school by the^ 
five o'clock train. Paul is in despair. He may not see 
Marthe before his departure. He must leave in a few 
minutes. He determines to write her a note. He fever- 
ishly ransacks his pockets, but has no note-book, not 
even a scrap of paper upon him. His eye falls on Thirion's 
gun, which is standing in a comer. In its muzzle is a scrap 
of paper. Paul flies toward it and opens it. He sees that 
it contains a butterfly. " Bah ! " he mutters ; " what is one 
more or less in my guardian's enormous collection?" He 
smooths out the letter, seats himself at the table, folds 
and tears off the burned portion, and taking out a pencil, 
begins to write on the blank side. . 

As he is writing he hears the sound of voices. It is 
Suzanne and Thirion. She is asking Thirion what he did 
with the little scrap of paper. Paul says suddenly, " There 



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172 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

is my guardian — I must hide," and he conceals himself 
behind a large palm in a jardiniere. 

Suzanne, Thirion, and Busonier enter, still talking of 
the scrap of paper. Thirion tells her that he put it in the 
niuzzle of his g^n. They go to the gun, but the paper is 
gone. Suzanne says feverishly, *'We must find it — ^look 
for it ! Look for it ! both of you ! " But as she sees Van- 
hove entering the conservatory, she says "No, no! don't 
look for it!" 

Here the signal for dinner is given, and the guests 
all pass through the conservatory on their way to the din- 
ing-room. All, that is to say, except the luckless Paul, 
who is restricted to gazing upon his lady-love through the 
open door. He seizes upon a new waiting-maid, who does 
not know all the guests. He offers her a gold piece to take 
a note to a certain lady at the tiable. She accepts the mis- 
sion, takes the note, and promises to slip it under the 
lady's plate at a favorable moment. 

But Prosper enters, and Paul again conceals himself. 
Lying on the floor. Prosper sees a scrap of paper. He 
picks it up with a cry of joy. But it is only the scorched 
fragment which Paul tore off when he was writing his 
love-letter. 

Vanhove, hearing Prosper's cry, leaves the dining-room 
to see what caused it. He sees Prosper, and at once accosts 
him. He asks Prosper if he still persists in his demand 
for Marthe's hand. Prosper replies that Mme. Vanhove's 
objections have caused him to withdraw his demand. To 
this Vanhove replies that the objections were caused by 
the existence of a previous attachnnent — ^he refers to Su- 
zanne's love for Prosper. Prosper thinks he means his 
love for Clarisse. A most amusing misunderstanding 
occurs between the two men. Vanhove insists upon bring- 
ing about a reconciliation — ^he means between Suzanne and 
Prosper. Prosper thinks he means himself and Clarisse. 



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LES PATTES DE MOUCHE 178 

The interview is growing stormy, when Suzanne enters. 
To avert the impending duel, she throws herself at the feet 
of the astonished Prosper, swears to him that she has 
always been faithful, and begs him to give her back her 
honour. To all this the beaming Vanhove nods approval. 
At first Prosper does not understand that this comedy is 
for Vanhove's benefit, but, being a keen-witted person, he 
speedily jumps at the truth, and determines to take an un- 
expected advantage of his loving Suzanne. He admits 
everything ; he owns that his fault was grievous, but swears 
that he will make amends, and that he will be true to her. 
Therefore, as Suzanne loves him and he loves her, he calls 
Vanhove to witness that they have agfreed to marry. So 
saying he clasps the now reluctant and struggling Suzanne 
in a hearty embrace. 

Upon this interesting scene there arrive all the com- 
pany from the dining-room. Vanhove, with the air of an 
old matchmaker, pointing to the affectionate couple, re- 
marks gravely : " I have the honour to announce the 
marriage of my cousin Suzanne with M. Prosper Block." 

There is a rebellious flash in Suzanne's eyes as she 
receives the cong^ratulations of the company, but she is 
fairly caught and she knows it. 

But there is one of the company who is not engaged in 
congratulating the young couple. It is Thirion. He has 
surprised the new waiting-maid slipping a note under his 
wife's plate at table. He has seized upon the note. It is 
written on blue paper. He is reading it aloud. It begins, 
" My dear love — I leave to-night for Paris/* And as Van- 
hove approaches him to ask the cause of his emotion, Thir- 
ion suddenly says : " You are the master of the house. 
You must know your guests' writing. Who wrote this?" 
and he hands the scrap of paper to Vanhove. The latter 
takes it, turns it over mechanically, and begins reading the 
note pencilled by Paul on the other side. While they* are 



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174 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

disputing over the different readings, Prosper seizes the 
letter, saying that it is his. Vanhove looks at him slus- 
piciously, and asks him to prove it. 

" This is the proof," says Prosper. " I will give it to 
my future wife to read." 

Suzanne takes it, and generously declares that she has 
such faith in her future husband that she will bum it un- 
read. Vanhove warns her not to be too impulsive; ijiat 
her whole future happiness may depend upon this letter. 
But she smiles at Prosper, and extending the letter into 
the flame, she holds it there steadily until it is all consumed. 
Then she gives her handlo Prosper. 

" Upon my word, sir," says Vanhove, " you are a lucky 
fellow to have so trusting a wife." 



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PATRIE* 

The drama " Patrie " is generally regarded as Sar- 
dou's masterpiece. It was first produced on March i8th, 
1869, at the Porte St. Martin. It was not staged at the 
Theatre-Franqais imtil March 11, 1901. Thus thirty-two 
years elapsed before one of the best contemporaneous 
French plays found its way to the first French theatre, 
and even that was due to a fortuitous incident. Some years 
before, a young woman at the Paris Conservatoire was 
about to recite passages from the role of Dolores in 
"Patrie." Ambroise Thomas, then director of the Paris 
Conservatoire, forbade it, because the rules prescribed that 
candidates for prizes could recite only from plays produced 
at the Th^atre-Franqais. Alexander Dumas fils warmly 
denounced this regulation. Jules Qaretie, another member 
of the jury, promised to produce " Patrie " at the Theatre- 
Franqais, of which he was director. But it was several 
years before he could carry out his promise, and just as 
the rehearsals of "Patrie" were in progress the theatre 
was destroyed by fire. It was not until the new Theatre- 
Franqais was erected that Sardou's famous play was pro- 
duced at a government theatre. 

Sardou was noted for his attention to detail in mounting 
his plays. Whwi "Patrie" was first produced, even in 
1869, it was well staged. So when it was reproduced at 
the Porte St. Martin in 1886. But its final production at 
the Theatre-Franqais, in 1901, was generally considered to 
be the finest dramatic production ever put upon the stage 
in Paris. The costumes, the scenery, the historical fur- 
niture, the pictures, the tapestries, and the mise-en-sc^ne 

1 Best-known English versions entitled ** Fatherland/* •* Dolores," 
"A Sorceress of Love." 

176 



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176 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

generally, amazed the Parisians. The market-place, where 
the Dutch prisoners were brought before the austere 
Spanish officers; the sombre interior of Risoor's house, 
with its magnificent tapestry; its massive plate reposing 
on a richly carved sideboard; the Duke of Alva's Palace; 
the Hotel de Ville of Brussels; the Tower of St. Gudule; 
the lines of picturesquely attired Spanish soldiers ; the 
march of Dutch prisoners to the stake; the gorgeously 
vestured priests and prelates reciting prayers; the funeral 
music and the muffled drums — ^all of these were arranged 
in eight tableaux, which were marvels of stage painting and 
setting. The Duke of Alva carried a silver reliquary, an 
actual relic of the Inquisition; it belonged to the famous 
collection of Sardou, who lent it to the actor Paul Mounet. 
The crucifix carried in the funeral procession was copied 
from a Spanish i6th century original belonging to the 
collection of Jules Qaretie, Director of the Theatre- 
Frangais. 

Sardou was famous for his interference at rehearsals. 
He was nearly seventy at the reproduction of "Patrie" 
in 1901, but he skipped about the stage and gave orders 
regardless of the consequences. At one time he became 
embroiled with the leading man, Mounet-Sully, and it re- 
quired all the tact of Director Claretie to restore peace. 
When the funeral procession entered, with the Spanish 
soldiers beating a funeral march with muffled drums, Sar- 
dou put his fingers to his ears and shouted : " Stop ! stop ! 
that's not the way to roll drums. You must roll crescendo. 
Three ruffles of the drum crescendo stopping with a stac- 
cato. Here, like this," and seizing a pair of drumsticks, 
he showed the amazed drummers the effect he wanted. 

The first act of " Patrie " begins in Brussels, in 1568, 
when the terrible Duke of Alva is attempting to stamp out 
the liberty of a free people with fire and sword. The first 



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PATRIE 177 

scene is in the old market-place of Brussels. It is at the 
time when the entire population of the Netherlands, some 
three millions of men, women, and children, have had 
formal sentence of death passed upon them. This gives 
to the bloody Duke the right to execute any individual, 
by merely afiirming the sentence of the Council of Blood. 

The great market-place has been occupied by the Span- 
ish soldiers as a camp. Camp-fires are burning here and 
there ; a group of officers is around one fire, soldiers around 
the others. The scene is picturesque. Groups of soldiers 
are playing at cards and dice, drinking, cooking, and 
cleaning their arms. Female camp-followers and their 
children are amcmg the groups. 

While the Cotmdl is sitting in the camp, a woman is 
dragged before them by the scddiers. They are with 
difficulty restrained from tearing her to pieces. They 
accuse her of having killed Spanish soldiers. A councillor 
asks her: "Have you killed any Spanish soldiers?" She 
replies briefly : " I have killed «»e." The soldiers cry out 
that she is a witch and demand that she be killed. But 
the Council silences them, and asks: "Why did you kill 
them?" The woman replies, "Do you ask me why? I 
will tell you. I am of the country. I live^^utside the dty. 
Your soldiers came to my house. They stole, they pillaged, 
they drank. When they were all drunk, they put my hus- 
band to death with clubs and held my son up to the fire 
until he died, in order to force him to tell where our money 
was concealed. Then, drunk both with blood and wine, 
they took my daughter, a child of sixteen, a bright and 
innocent little thing, and had their will of her, turning her 
from one to another, amusing themselves, as they called 
it, until she died of shame and rage. While this was going 
on, I was bound, and calling upon God, the God who is 
deaf, the God who does not see, the God who does not 
exist. No, there is no God, there cannot be, or He would 

12 

r 



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178 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

not allow bandits like you to desolate the earth. But if 
He would not avenge me, I determined to avenge myself. 
I told them to release me, and I would give them yet more 
drink. They did so, and I gave them drink, until they were 
all in a drunken stupor. Then I barred window and door, 
and set the house on fire. I burned them to death. I 
burned them alive. Do you understand, you knaves? I 
can hear them shrieking yet for mercy, and I have only one 
regret, and that is that it finished too soon." The soldiers 
surround her, yelling with rage, and demand that she be 
given up to them. The councillors are wavering and about 
to yield, when suddenly a bell sounds. It is the Angelus. 
All, councillors and soldiers alike, fall on their knees and 
silently pray while the Angelus rings. When the bell 
stops, the soldiers arise from their knees, seize the unfort- 
unate woman, and again howling with rage, drag her out 
to be put to death. 

The next to appear before the Council is the Count de 
Rysoor. He is an ardent patriot, a lover of his country, 
a hater of Spain. Hence the Spanish Council has its 
watchful eye on him. He has been absent from the city for 
several days. This is an oflfence which, under the Spanish 
rule, is punishable with death. Rysoor denies it, but a 
Spanish spy swears that he left his house Saturday morn- 
ing at noon and did not return until Tuesday after Vespers. 
As Rysoor still denies the charge, a Spanish captain, Rin- 
con, is called. He is quartered at Rysoor's house. He 
denies the testimony of the spy, and when the Council 
questions the accuracy of his recollection, he says: 

" I not only saw Rysoor at his house last night, but I 
fought with him. I had come home late, had supped well, 
and had perhaps drunk a little too much. There was no 
light on the staircase, so I was feeling for tfie steps with 
the end of my sword. Just as I reached the top of the 
first flight, a man came hurriedly out of Count Rysoor's 



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PATRIE 179 

chamber, led by a lady with a candle; they collided with 
me. We exchanged some words, and Coimt Rysoor called 
me a drunkard. I lifted my sword in anger, but he grasped 
it in his hand, and threw me from him with such force 
that I fell down the stairs. I am sorry to say that I was 
so much intoxicated that I remained there, and awoke in the 
morning at the foot of the staircase." To this testimony 
Count Rysoor listens with terrible agitation. In truth, he 
had been away four days on a secret mission to the Prince 
of Orange, and had arranged a plan by which the Prince 
was to enter the city that very night, with a large force 
of men, and attack the Spanish troops. But when he hears 
this evidently truthful testimony of the Spanish captain, he 
learns that some man has come at midnight out of his 
wife's chamber. He is liberated by the Council, but he has 
made the terrible discovery that his wife is unfaithful. 

When the councillors are gone, Rysoor takes Rincon 
aside, and interrogates him as if he had in reality fought 
with him on the staircase that night, but his sole purpose is 
to draw from him, if possible, who the man was. But 
Rincon evidently knows nothing, and sincerely believes that 
the man he met in the darkness was Rysoor himself, for 
he asks about his woimded hand ; he says that when Rysoor 
grappled with him and grasped the Spaniard's sword, his' 
hand was badly cut. Rincon points at Rysoor's hand, and 
asks if it is yet healed. Rysoor bends his head aflSrmatively. ^ 

His right hand is gloved. " Yes," he says, " it is well now." I 

The second scene is in the house of Rysoor. It is a '^ 
Flemish interior, reproducing the house of a Flemish 
nobleman in the sixteenth century. Here an interview 
takes place between Karloo and Dolores, the wife of 
Rysoor. Karloo is his bosom friend, but also the secret 
lover of his wife. Yet Karloo is a laggard lover, and 
struggles against the guilty bonds in which he finds him- 
self enmeshed. He realizes his treachery to his friend, but 



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180 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

cannot escape from the fascination which Dolores exercises 
over him. Rysoor returning finds them together, but is not 
suspicious of his friend. He converses with him concern- 
ing the plot for seizing Brussels that night, and Karloo 
departs. 

Rysoor turns to his wife. He tells her that he has dis- 
covered her infidelity. She attempts to deny it, but be- 
comes involved in a mass of contradictions and is forced 
to admit her g^ilt. She tells him then that she is of 
Spanish blood, that she is of the Catholic religion, that 
there is nothing in common between them, and furthermore, 
that he loves his country passionately, much more than 
his wife, and that his neglect of his wife for his coimtry 
had led to her infidelity. He attempts to force her to betray 
the name of her paramour, but she firmly refuses. 

The next scene is at the Louvain gate of Brussels ; here 
a counterscarp descends into the frozen moat, and the 
roadways are covered with snow. The moon shines down 
on this white-clad landscape. In the center of the frozen 
moat is a large opening — cut there for corpses, the ceme- 
teries being gorged. It is here at this gate that the con- 
spirators are to meet, and presently the Prince of Orange 
and his trusted lieutenants, among them Rysoor and Kar- 
loo, enter. From the dialogue we learn that six thousand 
cavalry are concealed in the Forest of Cambre, near at 
hand, and twelve thousand men are ready with arms within 
the walls to join them; that the signal is to be g^ven by 
Jonas, the bell-ringer, from the belfry at midnight. The 
drawbridge is to be lowered by the bribed guards, and the 
cavalry without and the foot troops within are immediately 
to take possession of the Spanish posts. If all goes well, 
Jonas is to sound the festival peal on the bell ; if anything 
goes wrong, the death knell is to be sounded. 

Suddenly, a signal is given, and the conspirators are 
thus warned that a Spanish patrol is making the round 



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PATRIE 181 

of the sentry posts, approaching from the left, or the 
Cologne gate. As the conspirators are about to conceal 
themselves tmtil the patrol shall have passed, suddenly 
a second signal onnes from the right. Another Spanish 
patrol is approaching from that direction. There is in- 
decision for a moment among the conspirators, who draw 
their swords, determined to charge the patrol, but the Prince 
of Orange does not lose his calmness. He bids the con- 
spirators hide themselves behind the wall, and says that 
his " island sea dogs" will do the business. The latter 
promptly appear, hardy looking sailors, each with a coil 
of rope about his waist. They crouch down in the shadow 
of the wall. Just at this moment the Spanish patrol of 
six men are seen rounding the comer of the counterscarp. 
As they are about going around the gash in the frozen 
moat, which bars their passage, a third signal is heard; it 
is the cry of an owl. The seamen throw themselves upon 
the patrol, two men to each soldier; one casts a noose 
around the soldier's neck and strangles him, while the other 
binds him hand and foot. The soldiers, surprised and 
strangling, struggle feebly, and this strange battle goes on 
under the moonlight with scarcely a sound. The conspira- 
tors emerge from the shadow, and aid the sailors to throw 
the struggling and bound soldiers into the hole in the ice. 
The others climb up on the counterscarp, and with hands 
and swords heap down loose snow upon the soldiers' bodies. 
In a moment, the grave in the frozen moat is filled. Again 
the cry of the owl is heard, and the conspirators fall back 
into the darkness. The second Spanish patrol comes from 
the right, placidly marches across in the moonlight, tramps 
over the hastily packed snow, beneath which lie the bodies 
of their comrades, so recently living, and passes off at 
the left 

The fourth scene is in the cabinet of the Duke of Alva 
in the Government Palace. Karloo has come to ask the 



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18« THE SARDOU PLAYS 

Duke of Alva for permission to remove the chains stretched 
across the streets around the town hall, on the pretext that 
he had been instructed to deposit there the arms of a 
militia company which he commands, and which he has 
been ordered to disarm. In reality this is for the purpose 
of permitting the troops of the Prince of Orange to gain 
access to the Town Hall. Alva consents, but says that 
as Karloo's company is disarmed, he too had best disarm, 
and bids him take the sword from his side and lay it on 
the table. This ICarloo does, and withdraws. 

Dolores enters, craving a private audience with the 
Duke of Alva. She is crazed with fear; she is trembling 
lest Rysoor should discover that Karloo is her lover and 
kill him. Therefore, in order to prevent this, she has 
determined to betray the whole plot to Alva. She tells 
all the signals, and the fact that the peal at midnight from 
the bell-tower will be the signal for the entrance of the 
Prince's troops. She sees the sword of Karloo lying on 
the table; pointing to the knot of ribbon tied to the hilt, 
she says that it is a signal by which the conspirators are 
to recognize each other. This sword evidently belongs to 
one of the chiefs, she declares, and she bids Alva beware 
of him. Alva says threateningly that he will be taken care 
of. He then demands that she shall give him the names 
of all the conspirators. At first she resists, but, under 
threats of torture, she reveals them one by one, including 
her husband. At last she discovers that the sword which 
she has pointed out belongs to Karloo; although she has 
kept his name a secret, she realizes that he too, like the 
others, by her betrayal, is doomed to the scaffold. 

The fifth scene is laid in the town hall of Brussels. A 
staircase leads up to the bell-tower. Rysoor and Karloo 
here meet, to complete the arrangements for the uprising 
at midnight. Rysoor sees that Karloo has no sword, and 
asks him why. Karloo tells him that the Duke of Alva 



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PATRBB 188 

had deprived him of it. Rysoor goes to give him another, 
and Karloo extends his naked right hand to grasp it, when 
Rysoor utters a cry. He asks Karloo how he got the 
wound. In his confusion Karloo stammers that he had 
grappled at a sword in the hands of a Spaniard, but he 
realizes that he has betrayed his fearftd secret. A terrible 
scene takes place between the two men, so lately and so 
long friends. At its close, Rysoor tells Karloo that his 
life is indispensable to the cause of their common country, 
and therefore he will spare it. 

As the other conspirators enter, the two men, by their 
calm demeanor, betray nothing of the dreadful scene which 
has taken place between them. The hour of midnight ap- 
proaches; a rapping is heard upon the door. On their 
refusal to open, it is broken in by a large force of Span- 
iards. The conspirators fall back as the Spaniards advance, 
dragging in Jonas, the bell-ringer, bound and gagged. The 
Duke of Alva follows; he summons the patriots to sur- 
render, telling them that all is lost ; he has discovered the 
entire plot, and is about to send Jonas, the bell-ringer, to 
the belfry, to sound the signal by which the Prince of 
Orange and his six thousand favalry are to enter the city, 
where lies in wait for them a large force which will 
destroy them. He orders Jonas to climb up the bell-tower 
and ring the bell. The conspirators earnestly urge him 
not to do so, but he apparently 3rields to fear; he tells 
them that he has a wife and children, and that the Span- 
iards will kill them if he docs not obey. With these words, 
his bonds are taken from him, and he starts up the stair. 
On either side of him is a Spanish soldier, with a pistol 
at his head. Minutes pass as the sound of the footsteps are 
heard climbing the steps. All listen with strained ears. 
The first sounds come from the bell, but it is not the 
festival peal of bells, it is the funeral knell which is heard. 
As the Duke of Alva looks up with a disturbed air, Karloo 



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184 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

cries to him, radiant with joy : " The bell-ringer is faith- 
ful. It is not the signal to enter, but the signal to flee. The 
Prince is saved ! " 

A shot is heard in the belfry. The sound of the bell 
suddenly stops. Again footsteps are heard on the stair. 
As the door to the bell-tower opens, four soldiers enter 
with their muskets improvised into a shoulder litter, on 
which they bear the bleeding body of Jonas, the bell- 
ringer. All the conspirators uncover their heads and kneel 
as the body is borne away. 

The next scene is in a hall of the palace where sits the 
Council of Blood. A door opens on the right, leading to 
the torture chamber. The door to the left leads to the 
cabinet of the Duke of Alva. Here we find the tender 
side of this human tiger, Alva. He has an only daughter, 
Rafaela, who is far gone in consumption, and who is only 
kept alive from day to day by the skilled ministrations of 
his physician, Alberti. The doctor comes to tell Alva that 
five men are to be put to death that morning on the gjeat 
square ; the Duke, he says, had promised his daughter there 
should be no more executions ; she has taken the bloody 
reig^ in Brussels so much to heart, that the doctor seriously 
fears the effects upon her health, if she knows of this new 
execution. Alva therefore bids him take his daughter and 
convey her in a closed litter to a convent without the walls, 
bringing her back only at nightfall, when the executions 
shall be completed. While they are talking, Dolores enters, 
wild with fear for her lover. She has overheard the con- 
versation ; like a maniac, she demands of Alva freedom for 
Karloo, on the threat that she will shriek forth the truth 
on the instant, so loudly that Rafaela in the next room can 
hear her. Alva tries to temporize with her, but it is folly to 
arg^e with a woman crazed with love and fear. She is on 
the point of shrieking forth the dreadful fact of the execu- 
tion, when he yields, to save his daughter from the excite- 



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PATRIE 186 

ment, and grants Dolores a pardon and a safe-conduct to 
•Lille for Karloo and herself. 

Raf aela enters ; she interrogates her father closely. Her 
suspicions are aroused. She makes him promise that there 
shall be no more massacres. This he does, and she takes 
her leave of him for the day. 

When the room is empty Rysoor comes in, escorted by 
Captain Rincon and a squad of soldiers. Rysoor demands 
of Rincon whither he is being led and why he has been 
separated from his friends. Rincon replies that everything 
is over for the others, for they have been led to the stake, 
but that everything is not over for Rysoor. " And what do 
you mean?" asks Rysoor. "That room," says Rincon, 
pointing to the door, " will answer the question ; it is the 
torture chamber." "Ah, then they think that I will 
speak?" cries Rysoor. "Yes," replies Rincon, sadly, "but 
if you fear that your body will yield when your soul will 
not, why not take your own life? " "Ah! " says Rysoor, 
" if I only had the means to do it." " Then," says Rincon, 
" do not utter a word, do not make a sound ; we are watched, 
but as I am walking through the corridor with you toward 
the torture chamber, open your left hand. I shall be walk- 
ing on that side, and I will give you what you need." 
Rysoor thanks him warmly, and the melancholy cortege 
takes up its march for the torture chamber. 

The Council of Blood is now convened in the hall. A 
messenger suddenly announces that Karloo is liberated. 
Karloo demands to know by whose mysterious hand this 
clemency has been accorded to him, why he has been 
singled out from his fellow conspirators for mercy at the 
hands of Alva. But the Council tell him nothing; they 
cannot answer, for they know nothing. They cannot know 
that it is Dolores who has succeeded in obtaining his par- 
don. Karloo dreads this shameful clemency; he knows that 
his friends will believe that he has betrayed them ; he rages. 



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186 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

in his wild despair; he demands that he be taken to death 
with them. But the Councillors calmly tell him that their 
duty is to obey the orders of Alva, and they bid him depart 
unharmed. At this moment a messenger comes suddenly 
from the torture chamber, announcing that Count Rysoor 
is dead. The Chief Councillor demands with indignation 
why he was permitted to die, when he should have been 
tortured. The messenger replies that Rysoor had a 
poniard secreted on his person; plunging it suddenly into 
his heart, with the one word, " Patrie,'* he had died in- 
stantly. The messenger throws the bloody poniard on the 
table. Karloo asks the Councillors if they care for the 
dagger. They tell him no; he takes it and goes. 

The seventh scene is in the great square of the city. 
Crowds of citizens, women, and children line the streets, 
evidently waiting for some one. The dosed litter of 
Rafaela, Alva's daughter, appears, escorted by Dr. Alberti. 
It stops, the curtains open, and she insists on being told 
the cause of the crowds, the pale faces, and the rolling 
drums. Alberti assures her it is nothing but a review. She 
calls a passing officer, who happens to be Captain Rincon. 
He, too, on a sign from Alberti, assures her it is merely 
a military parade. Suddenly three blasts of a trumpet are 
heard, and a gorgeously apparelled herald appears. As the 
trumpet sounds cease, he cries : " In the name of the king, 
our mighty lord, and his excellency, the Duke of AJva, all 
the people of this dty are bidden to be silent and to kneel 
as the rebels pass by. Do this under penalty of the rope. 
Glory to God and to the king!" Sullen murmurs are 
heard from the crowd, as the herald continues on his way, 
preceded by his escort. 

Rafaela is ag^ain suspicious, and as her escort give her 
no satisfaction, she calls a little child from the roadside, 
saying, " Come here, little one. Have you come to see the 
soldiers?" And the child replies, "Yes, madam, and the 



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PATRIE 187 

victims too. They are going to bum them alive in the 
middle of the square." The unfortimate daughter of the 
bloody Duke faUs fainting into the arms of her w<xnen, 
and is carried into a shop, where her attendants surround 
the dying girl. Fitly for her passing, there comes the sound 
of mufHed drums beating the f tmeral roll in the distance. 

There now enters a military and religious pageant of 
great magnificence. A corps of halberdiers precede, 
driving the crowd to right and left with the butts of their 
halberds. Then come a drum corps beating the funeral 
roll. Following them are the Spanish musketeers, trum- 
peters, heralds, colour-bearers of Swiss, Lombard, Portu- 
guese, Neapolitan, and German regiments, bailiffs of the 
Cotmcil of Blood, Cotmcillors, judges, and last of all, 
under a canopy borne by lackeys in his livery, comes the 
Duke, followed by his pages and the people of his house- 
hold. Behind him again come long lines of monks, chant- 
ing funeral hymns and carrying tall wax candles. At the 
funeral hymns, the lamentations of the women around the 
dying girl increase, and they attract Alva's attention. He 
bids one of the ofiicers go to the shop, sajring, " Vargas, 
why are those women weeping? I have forbidden women 
to weep in Brussels." Vargas returning says, " My lord, 
there is a death in that house. They are weeping over the 
body of a young girl." All of his aides uncover, including 
Alva, who is struck as he thinks of his own daughter, so 
near to death, little knowing it is she who is lying dead 
so few paces from him. He sighs and says, "Let them 
weep, Vargas. Let them weep over their daughter." He 
gives a sign and the procession again takes up its march. 
Behind the chanting monks come the conspirators, their 
hands bound, each man walking between two soldiers. As 
they appear, they see Karloo standing by the roadside 
gazing at this mournful scene. They break forth into 
bitter reproaches. They ask him what price he got for 



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188 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

selling them. They call him " traitor," " Judas," and heap 
curses on his head. They shake their botmd hands at him, 
they strive to rush upon him, but are held back by the 
soldiers. The unfortunate wretch, writhing under their 
reproaches, and not knowing why he is free, can say noth- 
ing. Near him stands a French nobleman, who tells the 
imfortimate Karloo that the person who has denounced 
the conspirators is not a man but a woman; he does not 
know her name, but he had heard her that morning, in the 
Duke's palace, promise to betray the plot ; for this she was 
gpiven a safe conduct for Lille, together with another safe- 
conduct for a man whose name he did not hear. 

The last scene takes place in the house of Rysoor, and 
it is between Karloo and Dolores. She is imploring him 
to leave the fated city with her. She tells him she has 
resolved to flee, but he tells her he has sworn to 
Rysoor that he will find out who was the traitor, and 
were the culprit his dearest friend, he would kill him, 
Dolores is stricken with terror, but she is all the more 
determined to take him away from the city, and tells him 
that it will be impossible for him ever to discover the cul- 
prit. He tells her he has already learned that the traitor 
is a woman. Even more terrified, she endeavors to get 
him to accompany her in her flight, and as they talk the 
muffled roll of the funeral drums is heard. It is the melan- 
choly cortege approaching the house of Rysoor, which 
looks out upon the grand square where the execution is to 
take place. Karloo wavers — ^he almost yields — ^but he says 
to her, "How shall we escape?" She tells him that she 
has a safe-conduct and that it is, like his, for Lille. Karloo 
looks at her with suspicion. How does she know that he 
has a safe-conduct and that it is for Lille? He accuses 
her of betraying the plot. The unfortunate woman at first 
denies, but at last is forced to admit the damning truth. 
He drags her to the window. Already the ftmeral pile is 



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PATRIE 189 

being fired. The flames are motmting. He points to the 
conspirators, but they have recognised him, and as the 
flames rise up around their bodies, above the crackle and 
roar of the flames are heard their curses and denunciations 
as they reproach Karloo with having betrayed them. He 
drags Dolores to the window as she endeavours to writhe 
out of his grasp. He holds up her face to the sill, in order 
that her eyes might not be turned from the hideous spectacle, 
but that she may see the victims of her perfidy beings 
burned to a cinder before her eyes. He plunges into her 
heart the bloody dagger so lately plucked from her hus- 
band's bosom. Then, as she falls back dead, he leaps from 
the window and falls on the stone pavement on the gfreat 
square, a mangled and mutilated mass at the feet of his 
friends whom his paramour has betrayed. 



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DIVORgONS^ 

When Sardou made a failure, or at least not a suc- 
cess, of his serious problem play, " Daniel Rochat," he was 
greatly irritated. In revenge, he determined to write a 
play which should be so trifling, and yet so humorous, that 
it would have an unqualified success. " I know my Paris- 
ians,'* said Sardou, C)mically, "I know what they like," 
and he wrote " Divor9ons." It certainly showed that he 
knew the Parisians, for the play proved to be one of his 
most profitable productions. Yet he was said in his heart 
of hearts to look upon it as being beneath his abilities. Still, 
if it were intended as a jesting rebuke to the Parisians for 
their lack of taste, it was a profitable jest to the play- 
wright. 

The play begins in the luxurious home of M. and 
Madame des Prunelles. They live in the smiling Cham- 
pagne country; they are among the richest people in 
Rheims; but for the past two years they have been prac- 
tically disunited, although they live together. What has 
brought about this unhappy condition of affairs? What 
is there to account for the complaints of Cyprienne? Henri 
des Prunelles when he married, on nearing forty, yearned 
after a quiet and reposeful life, while his young bride, 
Cyprienne, dreamed of tumultuous passions and intoxicat- 
ing loves. Cyprienne is of that type of young woman whose 
imagination has been fed entirely on romantic novels. She 
is unhappy. She concludes that her marriage is a failure, 
that her life is wrecked and ruined, and that the only 
remedy is divorce. 

^Best-known English versions, "The Queen's Proctor," 
** Divorgons." 
190 



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DIVORgONS 191 

The truth is that this handsome young matron is utterly 
bored in her luxurious home in the rich Champagne cotm- 
try. Being bored, she thinks that it is marriage that bores 
her, and as her foolish head is filled with even more foolish 
novels, she gets to dreaming about unattainable heroes. 
Thinking so much of these visionary gentry, she finally 
picks out a flesh-and-blood one, who happens to be a cousin 
of her husband. His name is Adhemar. He fills the 
modest position of a forest ranger. Although thus a Gov- 
ernment ofiicial, his only advantage is that he has the 
privilege of exhibiting himself to the sentimental Cyprienne, 
every now and then, in a beautiful green uniform laced 
with silver, and wearing high patent-leather jackrboots. 
In the eyes of Cyprienne, this dashing attire naturally 
eclipses the plain coats and trousers of her husband Henri. 

Henri, who is a keen-witted husband, notices with grow- 
mg disquietude the conduct of Adhemar. He knows that 
as yet matters are more sentimental than suspicious, and 
he tells his friend and confidant, Clavignac, that he has 
two sufficient guarantees of his present security. "The 
first," says he, " is that Cjrprienne treats me like a dog. 
The very day that she becomes amiable toward me, I shall 
begin to fear. The second is that Cyprienne takes a re- 
markable interest in the labors of a parliamentary com- 
mission, which is working on the passage of a contemplated 
divorce law. This would render it possible for French 
husbands and wives to shake oflf their shackles when they 
have made bad matches." 

From the two facts that he points out, des Prunelles is 
certain that his wife is still faithful. None the less, being 
an inventive husband, with a strong taste for mechanics, 
he arranges mechanical safeguards. He has a work-shop 
where he spends his time in turning napkin-rings, repairing 
clocks, mending door-bells, and busying himself with the 
thousand minute details requiring attention in a household. 



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198 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

/ He has therefore conceived the idea of attaching to the 

j . side-door of the conservatory, where the gallant Adhemar 
f " is in the habit of paying his visits to Cyprienne, a secret 

spring, which makes an electric bell sound in his woric- 
shop. Henceforth', to the amazement of the lover, when- 
ever he makes his clandestine visits to the lady, the hus- 
band suddenly appears, greets him with eifusive cordiality, 
and fairly welcomes him out of the house. 

But this state of affairs cannot continue indefinitely. 
There is danger in the air. Adhemar is about to leave 
for another provincial city, where he expects promotion. 
But he pretends to Cyprienne that he will refuse his desired 
promotion in order to have the privilege of remaining near 
her. As a matter of fact, Adhemar is playing false with 
the wife, as well as with the husband. His secret intention 

^ is to leave Rheims, as formerly the heathen gods left frail 
but beautiful ladies, and triumphantly mounted to Olympus. 
The wavering condition in which he finds the sentimental 
Cyprienne inspires the dashing Adhemar with this cunning 
idea: as the divorce law has just reached the point where 
it is expected to come to a vote in the legislative chamber 
in a day or two, he gets a friend who is in a government 

' ofiice to send him a false telegram, announcing that the 
divorce law has been passed by a large majority. This good 

- news causes the scruples of Cyprienne to vanish, and she 
is about to yield to the importunities of her lover when the 
husband detects his danger, and suspecting that the telegfram 
- is false, determines to take steps to put Adhemar's nose 
out of joint and reconquer his wife. Changing at once his 
tone and his language, he writes a friendly letter to 
Adhemar inviting him to come to his house for an urgent 
communication. While awaiting a reply, he lays before 
his astonished wife a plan which puts her husband in a new 
light. *' My dear," he says, " knowing that we are about 

• to be separated from one another and on the verge of being 



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DIVORgONS 198 

f ree, let us have no tnore constraint Let us act as if we 
were simply good friends, just like two good fellows/' At 
this unexpected remark, Cyprienne is overjoyed. She 
throws her arms around her husband's neck, hugs him, and 
says: "Are we going to be separated? How nice of 
you!" This auspicious opening naturally leads to con- 
fidences, and des Prunelles obtains exact details concerning 
the degree of intimacy to which Adh6mar had attained. 
The husband is gratified to find that his wife has been 
guilty of nothing but imprudence, coquetry, and a little too 
much freedom in words. " You know, it is so slow in the 
cotmtry," says she, naively. 

Adhemar arrives. Des Prunelles gravdy announces 
to him the approaching dissolution of their marriage bonds. 
" My dear friend," he adds, " you love Cyprienne. I with- 
draw all my pretensions to her, and I give you my full per- 
mission to marry her at once, as socm as the l^^l pre- 
liminaries are arranged." "But, but, but," stammers the 
young gallant, " I had not hoped that my pretensions wotdd 
reach such a point." " But you would be wrong not to take 
advantage of this opportunity," reives des Prunelles coldly. 
"A pretty woman, with 400,000 francs fortune, is not to 
be sneezed at I know that you have only 2,600 francs a 
year for a salary. It is also true that she has been in th^ 
habit of spending 60,000 francs a year on her gowns. I 
am aware that the income from her fortune is only 22,000 
francs, and that you will have to make up the other 40,000 
yourself out of your 2,600. But if you cut her down in 
milliner's bills, in carriages, and in horses, you may be able 
to make both ends meet When you need advice, conmiand 
me. I will give you the best I can." 

Adh^ar, on reflection, thinks that perhaps the affair 

is not such a bad one. But the fair Cyprienne, generally 

sentimental, becomes extremely thoughtful. The husband 

tactfully retires, leaving them in this frame of mind, after 

13 



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194 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

having invited Adh&nar to dinner. This gentleman is so 
struck with the lady's dowry that his love, so lately pas- 
sionate, is now changing into a contemplative aflFection. 
For the moment his thoughts are preoccupied by gratitude 
toward the husband. He even feels so much under obliga- 
tion to him that he points out to Cyprienne his delicate 
position — ^that so long as she remains the wife of that 
friend and worthy gentleman, he can oflFer her no famil- 
iarities or caresses, but will treat her with the utmost 
respect. "Respect?" says Cyprienne, who has been put 
very much out of countenance by the prosaic nature of her 
love affair. "Respect? How funny! Why, since it isn't 
wrong, it isn't at all interesting any more." 

While Adhemar has completely forgotten his lady's 
eyes, in thinking of her large fortune, she has temporarily 
withdrawn, and des Pnmelles reappears. He is in evening 
clothes, and has his crush hat in his hand. His wife looks 
at him in surprise. "Are you not to dine with us?" 
" No," he replies ; " you are going to dine tete-a-tete with 
Adhemar." "And where are you going to dine?" "I? 
I am going to dine at the cafe." " Alone? " The husband 
smiles : " Perhaps alone — ^perhaps with a friend." Cypri- 
enne looks at him fixedly. " I will wager you are going to 
dine with some woman," she cries. 

Cyprienne falls into a fit of violent jealousy. When the 
husband sees that he has her in a proper frame of mind, 
he says : " Do you wish to be certain that I am not going 
to dine with some woman? Then come and dine with me." 
"At the caf^, in a private room?" she asks. "Yes." 
" Indeed, indeed, I will ! Oh, what a jolly time we shall 
have." " But," says the husband, " how about Adhemar? " 
She replies, "Adhemar? Oh, let him go to the mischief! 
Let him dine by himself." The hell rings, the servant 
enters, and announces Adhemar; but Cyprienne, seizing her 
husband by the arm, says to him : " Come, quick, he may 



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DIVORgONS 196 

catch us/' and her maid-servant falls stupefied in a chair, 
as she sees M. and Madame des Prunelles slipping off to- 
gether like two lovers. When Adhemar enters, judge of 
his amazement when he learns that his lady love has gone 
out. When her maid, at her wit's end to find an excuse, 
says that Madame has gone to see her sick aunt, Adh6mar 
is disgusted and surprised. "Fibs already!" he cries. 

While Henri and Cyprienne are dining in a private room 
at the caf^, the gay lothario Adhemar is running from one 
end of the city to the other, looking for Cyprienne's several 
aunts, ^here is a torrential rain-storm. He is drenched. 
Water is streaming out of his hat, his coat-tails, his boots ; 
his umbrella is turned inside out, and he finally appears, 
grotesque, ridiculous, and sneezing from a violent cold 
in the head. He brings a Commissary of Police to safe- 
guard his marital rights. This is based on a provision of 
the French law, by which a husband may secure a Com- 
missary of Police to make an ofiicial visit where he has 
reason to believe his wife is in a position reflecting on his 
conjugal honour. When the lover implores the law officer 
to declare the presence of husband and wife, in the private 
room of a restaurant, to be contrary to his rights, the 
situation becomes extremely ludicrous. 

The play closes with Henri and Cyprienne turned lovers 
again, and the discomfiture of Adhemar — z most unusual 
situation on the French stage. 



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LA HAINE 

The historical background which Sardou chose for " La 
Haine" lends itself to the madness of furious love and 
savage hate. He placed his scene in the fourteenth cen- 
tury, amid those little Italian republics which struggled so 
bitterly against each other and against themselves. This 
play reveals more of the obscure and bloody annals of those 
republics than one could find in the pages of Sismondi. 

In 1369 the little Republic of Sienna was divided into 
two factions, Guelphs and Ghibellines, the common people 
against the aristocrats, the followers of the Emperor against 
the followers of the Pope, the poor against the rich. Such 
was the internal condition of this model republic, while 
the Emperor of Germany and the ruler of Rome hung upon 
the factions' flanks like brigands while they were cutting 
one another's throats. Nevertheless, illumined by some 
sudden return of reason, the two factions of Sienna 
arranged a truce, and came to an understanding. They 
agreed to stand together against their common enemy, the 
Emperor of Germany, Charles IV. 

It is on the eve of this great day, coinciding with the 
nativity of the Virgin, September 8, 1369, that the play 
begins. Fighting is going on in the country. The pro- 
scribed Guelphs of Sienna are returning in force, accom- 
panied by squads of German allies, under the leadership 
of Orso Savagnana, son of a wool-carder. Orso is a 
popular hero, half tribune, half soldier. He had dared one 
day, in the streets of Sienna, to throw a wreath of flowers 
to Cordelia Saracini, as she was leaning from the balcony 
of her palace. Cordelia is one of the haughtiest girls in 
the city, sister of two Ghibelline nobles, Ercole and 
Giugurta Saracini. She hurls back the wreath into the face 
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LA HAINE 197 

of the Guelph artisan, adding to the insult bitter and 
stinging words on his plebeian birth. From this springs 
the hatred — " La Haine " — ^which gives the play its name. 

The sowid of battle comes nearer. The Ghibellines are 
weakening, while the victorious Guelphs have fought their 
way as far as a barricade situated in front of the Saracini 
palace. A man mounts on the barricade. It is Orso. A 
w(Mnan appears on the balcony. It is Cordelia. " Woman," 
cries Orso imperiously, "bid your lackeys open this por- 
tal." " It is not the time," replies Cordelia, defiantly, " to 
op«i gates when thieves are in the city streets." " Have 
at you thenl" cries the exasperated Orso. He gives the 
signal for the assault. The walls are scaled. Orso and his 
band penetrate into the palace. But death would not be 
bitter enough for the unfortunate Cordelia. Instead of 
hurling her from the window into the street, as the howling 
mob demands, Orso drags her, half strangled, into the 
interior of the palace, and there accomplishes on her his 
hideous vengeance. 

Despite their apparent triumph, the Guelphs are masters 
of only half the dty. Many men have fallen on both sides. 
Among the dead Ghibellines is Andreino, a boy of fifteen, 7 
son to Uberta, the old nurse of Cordelia. The Ghibellines 
demand a truce, to care for the wounded and bury the dead. ] 
These brave soldiers delight in carnage, but they fear 
pestilence. The' palace of the Saracini is a fiery furnace. 
Has Cordelia perished in the flames? This is the question 
which the brothers Saracini ask. The response is not long 
in coming. Cordelia is living, but if she is not dead by her 
own hand, it is only because she thirsts for vengeance first. 
But vengeance upon whom? She knows not the name of 
her outrager; she has not seen his face; she knows only 
his voice. 

In the great square before the grand cathedral, Guelphs 
and Ghibellines are drawn up on two sides of the rectangle. 



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198 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

Each faction has ostensibly come to assist at the solemn 
mass for the nativity of the Virgin. But although they have 
come presumably to pray, they are just about to fall upon 
each other in bloody fray, when the great doors of the 
cathedral open, and Archbishop Azzelino appears on the 
marble steps. He solemnly adjures them : " Men of 
Sienna, is this what you call a truce in honor of the Vir- 
gin? The church belongs to God. Let all who are Chris- 
tian men lay down their arms, or the doors which I will 
close to them living, I shall open only to their dead bodies.'* 
Thus threatened with excommunication, the Guelphs and 
the Ghibellines lower their arms and enter the cathedral, 
each faction by a door to right and left, while the solemn 
chants of the monks break forth from within. 

Orso during this scene has uttered but one word, yet 
Cordelia has heard him, and she follows into the church 
the group of men, from among whom has come the sound 
of the voice she abhors. 

The next scene is a cloister, occupied by Guelphs and 
German soldiers as a barrack. While Cordelia is seeking 
for the despoiler of her honour, Uberta learns by chance the 
name of the man who has killed her son, Andreino. It is 
Orso who violated the virgin sister of the Saracini. It is 
Orso who slew Andreino, the young son of Uberta. The 
two women dispute over the privilege of revenge, but 
Cordelia has her way. Uberta entreats her, saying: "Oh, 
Cordelia, my nursling, cherished by my milk, I pray you 
let tne kill him ! " But Cordelia replies : " No, not you, 
Uberta. It is my privilege. You are weeping only for a 
death, while I am mourning for my life, which is my 
honour." 

Springing out from behind a file of soldiers, Cordelia 
strikes deep with the poniard. Orso reels — ^he falls to the 
ground, the blood flowing from a deep wound in his throat. 
Amid the shock of the battle which has suddenly begun. 



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LA HAINE 199 

his men bear him away, still breathing, and lay him in the 
shadow of the church door. When the soldiers have gone 
G>rdelia and Uberta return, to assure themselves of the 
certainty of their vengeance. But they find the body gone. 
" Can it be that he is only wounded? " asks Uberta. " Just 
God I " cries Cordelia, " grant that he may be dead." 

In the square, in front of the church, Cordelia at last 
finds the body for which she has been looking. When she 
sees the work of her bloody dagger, the immense miracle 
of feminine pity descends upon her, and she gives water 
to the parched lips of the once strong man who now feebly 
begs, for assistance. When the ferocious Uberta ap- 
proaches, turning over corpses in order to find that of the 
man who had slain her son, Cordelia hides the body of her 
outrager from the view of the vindictive nurse. 

After Cordelia has temporarily hidden Orso from 
Uberta, who would finish the wounded man without re- 
morse, she conceals him in an unfrequented portion of the 
Saradni palace. Giugurta, her brother, being among the 
vanquished, is obliged to flee from the city. He wishes to 
leave the palace by the gardens, but in order to reach them, 
he must pass through the chamber where the wounded 
Orso lies. Cordelia endeavours to restrain him: — ^with such 
persistence that Uberta has her suspicions aroused, and a 
violent scene takes place between Cordelia and her nurse, 
in which the latter discovers the truth. Cordelia asks her 
for mercy, and in the name of her young son, she begs the 
sorrowing mother not to ofiFer up a bloody sacrifice to the 
youth who she hopes has become an angel in heaven. Sud- 
denly Uberta cries, " Hush ! there is your brother." It is 
apparent that, like the outraged noblewoman, the plebeian 
mother also has pardoned Orso. Giugurta is forced to 
flee by a dangerous road, and is soon arrested by the 
Guelph troops stationed outside the city. 

Cordelia and Orso find themselves face to face. At the 



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200 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

sound of the name " Cordelia," he recognises not only his 
victim, but also the chamber where, in the intoxication of 
vengeance and victory, he committed his cowardly and 
odious crime. The two images succeed one another in his 
memory, the woman who poniarded him, and the woman 
who saved him by giving him water when he was dying of 
thirst. These two women are but one, and that one his 
victim. His repentance breaks forth. 

" Cordelia, it is my duty to wipe away the stain upon 
your honour." 

" To make me your wife? Alas, if it were only I against 
whom you had sinned, but what have you done to your 
country, O Guelph?" 

" Ah, this unholy war," he replies. " I curse it, as you 
do, but it is your work and mine. Yes, it was you, — ^you 
from that balcony and I from the barricade, — ^you gave the 
signal for the frightful war. It is our hate which has 
brought on the war, so let our love subdue it. This city, 
which like you has been outraged and soiled by me, I will 
pluck from despair, and like you, I will lift it up." 

"But will you dare to propose peace-making to your 
Guelph comrades?" 

" Yes, I will promise them anything," says Orso, " but 
let me know that you will pardon me." 

" Go," replies Cordelia, " I have blushed for you — ^now 
let me see if I can be proud of you. You have been la 
bandit, be now a hero. Then it will be soon enough to 
talk to me of your love." 

Next we see, in the ruins of the old municipal palace, 
the Ghibelline prisoners, among whom is Giugurta Saracini. 
They are about to be put to death. Orso appears amid the 
acclamations of the populace, who rejoice over his apparent 
resurrection from the dead. He addresses the people: 
" People of Sienna," he cries, " the Emperor Charles IV. 
is about to lay siege to our city. He demands that you shall 



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LA HATNE leOl 

give him 50,000 golden florins to retreat. I propose that 
he shall give us 60,000 florins to be permitted to depart in 
peace." 

Cries come back from the crowd : " Orso, you are mad ! 
We have not sufficient troops." 

" You are mistaken," replies Orso. " If you wish, I 
will raise for you an army in a day. You ask how? I 
answer, let us throw open our prison doors, release our 
captives, and together, Guelphs and Ghibellines, we will 
march shoulder to shoulder against the foreign tyrant'* 

This proposal raises a storm. Orso is insulted and de- 
nounced as a traitor, but he maintains his firm attitude, and 
soon wins the approval of the fickle crowd. The prison 
doors are thrown open, the chains are stricken frc»n the 
limbs of the Ghibellines, and the citizens, enemies hitherto 
but friends now, go forth side by side to fight the foreign 
hordes. 

A brief word passes between the lovers. " Is this the 
task you wished of me, Cordelia?" 

" Yes," replies Cordelia, and she murmurs words which 
fall sweetly on Orso's ear. 

This colloquy between the lovers is overheard by 
Giugurta, and he says to Cordelia grimly: "We shall 
speak of this after the battle." 

The last scene is laid in the interior of the gfreat 
cathedral. The Emperor Charles has been defeated and is 
in retreat. The army of Sienna has returned to the city. 
Cordelia, terrified by the threats of her brother, has taken 
refuge in the cathedral as a sanctuary. Giugurta has joined 
her there. His patrician pride drives him into a frenzy, 
as he, the eldest of the house of Saracini, learns from his 
sister's lips the story of her shame. " So that is why you 
barred the way between me, me your brother, and liberty. 
You betrayed me to save your lover, a wretch, a workman, 
a fellow of the street." He is about to kill Cordelia as he 



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808 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

has killed Uberta, her accomplice, but he recoils from the 
idea of sheddmg blood in a church. Cordelia has fainted 
on the steps of the high altar ; although he shudders at the 
idea of stabbing her there, he does not hesitate to pour 
between her lips a vial of poison. 

The people enter. The returning soldiers of Sienna, 
with Orso at their head, are about to chant a Te Deum 
before the high altar. But as they approach, they see the 
white-clad form of Cordelia, writhing in convulsions on 
the altar steps. " It is the plague, the black death I " shouts 
a young monk. The crowd falls back in terror, all but 
Orso— he seizes Cordelia in his arms; thus he has de- 
cided to share her death. By the laws of the republic, the 
plague-stricken are separated from the world ; the doors of 
the church are closed upon them, not to be opened until 
after their death. But before the citizens abandon the un- 
fortunate lovers the Archbishop Azzelino extends his hands 
and gives them his episcopal blessing. They shall be 
united before God. 

When the vast church is emptied of all save themselves, 
the two lovers exchange farewells full of hope. Orso, 
wounded, is repentant, and they die in each other's arms, 
exchanging, as they bid farewell to life, their first and last 
kiss. 



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LA FAMILLE BENOITON* 

The point in this play that strikes the reader is the 
timeliness of the subject. "La Famille Benoiton" was 
produced November i8, 1865. It was in the heyday of 
the Second Empire — when the third Napoleon was at the 
height of his glory-^immediately before the great Exposii 
tion, when the rebuilt Paris of Baron Haussmann was 
dazzling strangers from all over the world — ^when the great 
fortunes amassed by the successful speculators of the time 
were being squandered in luxury and dissipation. Such 
was the extravagance of the new-rich, both men and women, 
that it was the target of pen and pencil. The satirical 
journals of the day swarm with jests levelled at rich men's 
sons, at Jioi^v heiresses, at tiie fast society men and 
women who were found gambling at Trouville, betting at 
Biarritz, and nmning racing stables at Longchamps. The 
subject of fashionable frivolity was in the air. Already 
several dramatists had coquetted with it. One was M. 
Dumanoir in his "Toilettes Tapageuses." Another was 
Henri Meilhac, who in " Les Curieuses " discussed the sub- 
ject of feminine frivolity and extravagance in not too 
delicate a manner. 

Sardou saw in the subject good material for a play: 
he decided to build it aroimd a bourgeois father, suddenly 
enriched in business, who believes in " up-to-datt " methods 
in educating his children. The results are shown in the 
slangy, jaunty, and horsey Benoiton girls and what be- 
falls them. This bourgeois father is M/ Benoiton, who 
has achieved fortune originally as a successful mattress- 
maker, and subsequently by speculations on the Bourse. 

^ Best-known English version entitled " A Fast Family.'' 

203 



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804 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

The play begins in the villa of the Benoitons, in one of 
the pretty suburbs near Paris. There are several villas 
there, separated not by walls, as is usual in France, but by 
ornamental hedges, which make them in a way more 
neighbourly than is customary. One of the villas adjacent 
to that of the Benoitons is occupied by Mme. Qotilde, a 
wealthy spinster, both witty and wise. Perhaps her main 
fault is her desire to marry people — other people : not her- 
self — she is too wise for that. She has on her hands an 
old maid, Adolphine, whom she has despaired of marrying 
off, and the first scene is a dialogue between the two, in 
which much of the plot of the play is set forth. 

There suddenly appears a cousin of Clotilde's, a Vis- 
count de C3iamprose, who has stumbled on her villa through 
pursuing at breakneck speed a pretty face framed in the 
window of a carriage. Being a frank cousin, he explain^ 
to Qotilde how he came to drop in upon her, and she con- 
jectures that the face belongs to one of the pretty 
Benoiton girls, and tells him the history of the family. 

One of the daughters, Martha, is married. Her hus- 
band, Didier, is a successful business man, who ccMnmits 
the blunder of devoting himself entirely to business and 
neglecting his wife. In consequence, his wife devotes her- 
self entirely to fashions and frivolity, and neglects him. 
She is foolish enough to take to gambling at fashionable 
watering-places. While at Dieppe she loses at a gambling 
salon, and is unable to pay her stake ; the croupier and the 
players are all expectantly looking at her, and she ils 
crimson with mortification, when a stranger whispers to 
her, " Madame, will you permit me to lend you the trifle 
you need?" With this, he places the requisite stake upon 
the table, puts her arm in his, and leads her from the gaming 
table. She learns that the gentleman to whom she is in- 
debted is the Viscount de Champrose. She keeps this a 
secret from her husband, and subsequently saves up her 



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LA FAMILLE BENOITON 1105 

pin-money until she has enough to pay the debt. She 
meets the Viscount by appointment in the Tuileries Garden, 
and gives him the money. This is their last meeting. 

The Viscount falls in love with the third daughter, 
Jeanne. He determines to present his suit to her father, 
but the vulgarity of old Benoiton appalls him, as well as 
the discovery that Benoiton is the man who has purchased 
the ancient Champrose chateau and estates, and that he is 
thinking seriously of utilizing the Viscount's ancestral por- 
traits and baptizing them all Benoitons. He is further 
dismayed to learn that his prospective father-in-law is a 
mattress-maker. Even with all these drawbacks, he is so 
much infatuated with the beauty and vivacity of Jeanne 
that he would still attempt to make her his wife, but he is 
alarmed at her frivolity, her recklessness, and her slang. 
But his cousin Clotilde assures him that the girl has a 
good heart, and endeavours to further the match. 

The second daughter, Camille, is sought in marriage by 
a M. Prudent Formichel, son of the capitalist Formichel, 
who is a friend of the elder Benoiton. M. Prudent is 
prudence personified, and thinks only of his future wife's 
dowry. She is secretly loved by her cousin Stephen, a 
clerk, and elopes with him. The elder Benoiton moves 
heaven and earth to get hold of the errant daughter before 
the marriage can take place, and in the meantime M. 
Prudent increases the size of the dowry he expects. He 
was to have had 200,000 francs with the lady. He informs 
the father that if she is not returned before the next morn- 
ing he must have 300,000 francs, and if she remains away 
over night the price will be 400,000 francs. 

In the meantime, Adolphine, the old maid, suspects the 
existence of an acquaintance between Champros6 and 
Martha. She investigates, finds suspicious circumstances, 
and tells the whole story to Didier, the husband. He is 
shocked and horrified ; he believes that his wife is false to 



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806 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

him, and that their child is not his, but Champrose's. 
They have had a quarrel that very morning, as he has re- 
fused to give her 5000 francs for some lace which she 
wanted. Angered at his parsimony, as she calls it, she 
orders and pays for the lace, which is sent home with the 
receipted bill. The husband is there when it arrives. He 
opens it, finds the receipt, and demands to know where 
she got the money. The unfortunate woman hesitates, and 
lies. She says she borrowed it from her father that morn- 
ing. At that very moment old Benoiton enters. The hus- 
band accosts him with, " Here are the 5000 francs my wife 
borrowed from you.'' But Benoiton stares in surprise, 
replying that she borrowed no money from him and he has 
not seen her for several days. Thereupon the infuriated 
Didier turns upon his wife, accusing her of having re- 
ceived the money from Champrose, who is promptly chal- 
lenged by him to a duel. Clotilde begs Champrose not to 
fight. He says he must, as an honourable man, but until his 
last breath he will assure the husband that he never met 
his wife. Before the duel he confides to Clotilde a small 
package of letters, which he says are from Martha to him ; 
if he falls in the duel, Clotilde must destroy them. With 
that he leaves the room, and Didier enters. He sees the 
letters; he notices Clotilde's agitation; he taxes her with 
knowledge of the intrigue of Martha and Champrose; he 
demands that she show him the signature of one of the 
letters to prove to him that they are not by his wife. 
Driven to extremity, Qotilde throws the letters into the 
fire, thereby confirming his belief that they are by his wife. 
When Martha learns this, she bitterly reproaches Qotilde, 
telling her that the letters were simply business documents 
touching the repayment of a loan; that they proved her 
complete innocence; that she was about to send to 
Champrose, telling him to give them to her husband ; that 



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LA FAMILLE BENOITON JM)7 

now, as all proof of her innocence is destroyed^ her husband 
will leave her, and her life is wrecked. 

The two unhappy spouses are finally brought together 
by the grave illness of their daughter. She is at the point 
of death. Qotilde tells the news to Didier and Champrosi 
at the same time, bidding Didier watch Champros6's face. 
There is nothing on the Viscount's countenance but modified 
regret. " Do you think that a father would lode like that 
when told of the impending death of his child?" she asks 
of Didier. Qotilde finally brings the couple together by the 
bedside of their child, and they are reunited. It is needless 
to state that Jeanne marries Champros6, and that Cousin 
Stephen marries Camille. Cousin Qotilde thus succeeds 
in marrying everybody— everybody, that is, except 
Adolphine. 



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DANIEL ROCHAT 

The play begins at Ferney, near the Swiss frontier, in 
the villa made famous by Voltaire. The one hundredth an- 
niversary of the death of that great writer is about to be 
celebrated. All are looking forward to an address by the 
celebrated orator, Daniel Rochat, a French deputy, and one 
of the leaders of free thought in France. But Daniel 
Rochat is late. It is only known from the newspapers that 
he has been travelling in Switzerland for the past three 
weeks, incognito, accompanying two sisters, yotmg Anglo- 
American ladies. Lea and Esther Henderson. At least such 
is the account given by Daniel himself to his secretary and 
confidant, Dr. Bidache, one of those go-betweens in whose 
dexterous hands even the most powerful politician at times 
becomes a plaything, and at other times a productive invest- 
ment. 

Daniel Rochat has met the two American ladies by 
chance. He has fallen in love with the elder. Lea. He has 
not yet declared his love, and Lea does not know the true 
name and identity of her chance acquaintance. She seems 
devoid of narrow prejudice, and generous in praise of 
liberty of speech and thought, as becomes a daughter of 
free America. But Daniel asks himself, may not this Amer- 
ican heiress become affrighted at the name and fame of 
Rochat? For Daniel Rochat is not a free-thinker merely, 
he is the adversary of all superstitions, the foe of all re- 
ligions — for, to him, religion and superstition mean the 
same thing. In a word, Daniel Rochat is an ardent atheist. 

The hour for the oration has come. Daniel pronounces 
an eloquent discourse before the bust of Voltaire, and it is 
thus that the veil of his incognito is lifted for Lea. Fas- 
cinated and subjugated by the eloquence of Daniel, she 



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DANIEL ROCHAT «)9 

listens first to his public speech, and then to a more private 
one in which she accepts, with the declaration of his love, 
the offer of his hand and heart. 

In the second act, all the personages of the play are in 
the little city of Versoix, upon the lake of Geneva. At 
first they are in the house of Mrs. Powers, the aunt of the 
Henderson sisters; and subsequently we find them in the 
country-house of one of her neighbours, a Swiss savant, M. 
Guillaume Fargis. 

This romantic marriage, so suddenly determined upon, 
is to be celebrated at once, for Daniel has been urgently 
summoned to Paris by his political friends to take part in 
an important debate in the Chamber of Deputies. His 
presence is considered absolutely indispensable. Daniel is 
very happy. He has not thought it necessary to discuss 
with Lea or her aunt the particular form of the wedding 
ceremony; to him they both seem devoid of all attachment 
to vain religious ceremonies, hence he is confident there 
can be no occasion for disagreement on this point He 
arranges to have the Mayor of Versoix come to the hou.<ic 
of Mrs. Powers to carry out the legal forms of the civil 
marriage, according to the Swiss code. While the docu- 
ments are being filled out a very worldly conversation is 
going on among the guests who are present for the wed- 
ding: at the same time a rather frivolous young American 
lady. Miss Arabella Bloomfield, is pla}ring on the piano a 
brilliant Hungarian melody. In fact, this civil marriage is 
utterly devoid of solemnity. Lea herself signs the legal 
doctmients with such an indifferent air as to astonish the 
French and Swiss persons present. 

Daniel takes her hands and expresses his profound joy. 
" My dearest love, I was right in saying that this cere- 
mony should take place quickly.'* 

" Ceremony f" exclaims Lea, in surprise. " Ceremony ! 
oh! you mean the signing of the documents, I suppose?" 
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«10 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

At this moment there enters a stranger— a solemn per- 
son, severely clad in garb of sober black, with a white 
neckcloth. 

" Who is this gentleman?'^ asks Rochat 

"Did not my amit tell you?" replies Lea, tranquilly. 
"This is Mn Clarke, our pastor, who is to marry us at 
the church.** 

Daniel is overwhelmed. He finds himself threatened 
with a religious ceremony, for Lea's reply is most precise. 
Although she has signed the documents brought by the 
Mayor, she does not believe in the civil or legal ceremony, 
and does not consider herself married. 

After the wedding luncheon, during which Daniel is 
gravely preoccupied, he holds a consultation with his friend 
Fargis and Dr. Bidache. Fargis wisely counsels Daniel 
to go to the church and be married, since Lea wishes it. But 
Bidache opposes this vigorously. "It would be impos- 
sible," says he, "for Daniel to enter a house of worship 
to be married. His opinions, his writings, his speeches, his 
past and his future — ^all forbid it. His constituency would 
mock at him." Daniel agrees with Bidache. Fargis, how- 
ever, insists that he must yield, and adds : " Do not commit 
in your own household the unpardonable fault that you have 
committed elsewhere. Do not raise the religious question 
in your family." But Daniel is decided. He replies : " I 
must make no concessions. The church holds our wives in 
its leading strings. It controls them. It is time that such 
men as I should give the church notice that we control our 
wives." 

It speedily becomes evident that Daniel does not realise 
the importance which Lea attaches to the religious cere- 
mony. He asks her to grant him an interview, in which he 
lays before her his wishes. At first Lea is astonished. She 
does not understand him. But when she does understand, 
she flatly refuses to accede to his request She is the 



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DANIEL ROCHAT 811 

daughter of an English father and an American mother, 
and she possesses the instincts of the two naticMis. Like 
Daniel, she believes in freedom, but she believes in Christian 
and not infidel freedom. 

These two opposing natures become aggravated by con- 
tradiction. When Daniel places himself in absolute nega- 
tion. Lea endeavours all the more to lift him to the spiritual 
regions of hope and faith. A rupture seems inevitable. At 
last the storm bursts. Daniel publicly refuses to accompany 
Lea to the church, and Lea refuses to follow him to his 
home, affirming that she does not consider him as her hus- 
band before God. There is no course left for Daniel but 
to retire, threatening to make good his legal rights. 

But by the time that evening has come, Daniel is so 
unhappy that he pleads for an interview. Lea, however, 
by reason of the lateness of the hour, refuses to grant him 
an interview until the morning. Daniel then introduces 
himself, clandestinely, into Lea's apartments. The husband, 
mad with love and passion, endeavours to make her yield 
herself to him as his wife, his true, his veritable wife, with 
all that word implies. Lea feels her danger, she struggles 
against it, but she also feels an ardent desire to give herself 
to her husband-lover. Even in the midst of their deliritmi 
of passion the discordance of their sentiments appears. 

" Rest in my arms," cries Daniel, " here on my heart, 
my dearest love, and I will make my love for you the only 
religion of our life." 

But Lea replies: "Do not blaspheme, Daniel. There 
can be no true love without God." 

" But," pleads Daniel, " you see that there can be such 
a love, since I love you dearly." But Lea still resists him. 
" Ah, you do not love me !" cries Daniel. 

" Not love you?" she exclaims. " / not love you? Ah, 
Daniel, yours is only an earthly love. You love, and when 
death comes all is over; but for me, this earthly life of 



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«1« THE SARDOU PLAYS 

love is not all; I desire you with the love of eternity. I 
desire you not only here on earth, but after this life is over. 
Yet you say that I do not love you! You speak of your 
poor, short, earthly love, and compare it with mine — with 
my love, which hopes to be eternal, with my love, which 
has wings!" 

Daniel, half vanquished, and dazzled with the myste- 
rious obscurity of the nuptial chamber, which he sees 
through the half-dosed doors, at last gives way, and con- 
sents to be married before the pastor, Mr. Clarke, in whose 
neighbouring house the lights are still shining. They are 
to be married without witnesses. Lea consents to this, 
but Daniel demands more — he demands that their religious 
marriage shall remain a secret. 

But Lea refuses. "What? That I shall conceal the 
fact that I am espoused to you before God, conceal it as a 
shame? Do you think that I would associate myself with 
such a cowardly lie? -Never! Deny your faith, if you will, 
I shall boast of mine." 

All is over. Daniel refuses to yield, and leaves Lea 
fainting on the fioor. 

On the following day the family and friends have come 
to the conclusion that the unendurable situation must be 
brought to an end. Dr. Bidache has discovered that, by 
the Federal law of Switzerland, divorce can be granted for 
so grave a cause as religious variance which might impair 
the conjugal tie. For a time Daniel still hopes that they 
may succeed in overcoming the difficulty, but neither will 
yield. It is too late. The charm is broken. Lea under- 
stands at last that she has been mistaken about Daniel, 
and she believes that Daniel has been mistaken about her. 
The divorce takes place, and the curtain falls upon disunited 
lovers. 



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MADAME SANS-GENE 

In 1893 took place the first production of " Mmc. Sans- 
Gene." For some time there had been tokens of a First 
Empire craze. The taste of the day was inclining to Napo- 
leonic literature, drama, furniture, pictures — everything, in 
fact, of the period so long out of favour. Whether this was 
due to the exhunling of long-buried memoirs of the Empire 
times, or whether these memoirs were brought to light 
because of the Empire fad, are open questions. Intense 
interest had been aroused by the publication of the memoirs 
of Baron de Marbot, one of the dashing young generals of 
Napoleon. At about this time, also, there were published a 
nvunber of books concerning the private life of Napoleon 
and his family, based upon letters and other documents not 
before published. Among these were the many volumes 
of Masson, Biagi, Levy, Jung, Vandal, and others. 

The stage was feeling the effects of this Napoleonic 
wave. At the Ambigu, Henri Fouquier had produced a 
Napoleon play, and the scenes in which the great Em- 
peror, his hands behind his back, stands silently watching 
his soldiers march past, were received with great enthu- 
siasm. At the Chateau D'Eau, a piece called " Mme. La 
Marechale" — which treated of much the same group of 
characters and incidents as " Mme. Sans-Gene " — ran to full 
houses for over a hundred nights. 

At last Sardou produced a play with a Napoleonic set- 
ting. It speedily eclipsed all its rivals, and was the only 
play of the Empire times which was produced in foreign 
countries. It has been said of " Madame Sans-Gene " that 
it is merely " an historic vaudeville." Yet it is painted on 
an enormous canvas and contains some fifty roles. On the 
first production its settings were so sumptuous that there 

213 



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214 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

were not wanting those who said that its success was due to 
the costumer, the scene painter, and the stage manager. 
But the stage manager was Sardou himself, and he had 
much to do with preparing even the scenes and the decora- 
tions. 

The playwright designedly cast his piece on spectacular 
lines. There is no reason why a play should not please the 
. eye as well as the ear, and " Madame Sans-Gene " was a 
' delight to several senses. Sardou never considered his work 
.{ done when he had finished the text of his play. To him 
I a play was not only a literary work, but a living, palpitating 
thing. The dialogue he looked upon as if it were a skele- 
ton, which must be clothed with the flesh of action before 
the play could live. Long before the first rehearsal he saw 
the gestures, the movements, and the groupings of the 
players; he saw the decorations, the costiunes, and the 
accessories of the stage. In his eyes these were elements of 
the drama as vital as the dialogue. Hence his success with 
the fifty characters and the enormous canvas of " Madame 
San$-Gene." Had he not possessed this peculiar g^ft of 
materializing his plays as he was writing them, this par- 
ticular piece would have been nothing but a successicMi of 
historical tableaux loosely bound together. 

In the play " Madame Sans-Gene " is the sobriquet of 
Catherine Hubscher, a handsome laundress of the Rue St. 
Anne. The first act takes place in her laundry on the ter- 
rible loth of August, 1792. Danton and his mad rabble of 
Marseillais are taking the Tuileries. From time to time the 
boom of cannon is heard, and the swarm of pretty laun- 
dresses shiver with terror at their ironing tables. Catherine 
is talking with one of her customers, a certain M. Fouch^, a 
gentleman who for the nonce has no other occupation than 
that of making inflammatory speeches at political clubs. 
From his conversation we learn that the patriots are be- 



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MADAME SANS-GENE 216 

sieging the Tuilerics, and that Sergeant Lefebvrc, the lover 
of Madame Sans-Gene, is with them« 

The departure of customers and laundresses has left 
Catherine alone. While she is still bolting and barring 
doors and shutters a young Austrian officer, G)unt Neip- 
perg, hotly pursued, wounded and bleeding, craves entrance 
at her door and begs her to hide him. Catherine is good- 
hearted and impulsive. She is moved to pity by the young 
man's desperate peril, and she hides him in her bedroom. 
At this moment a loud knocking is heard at the shutters. 
It is Lefebvre with his powder-stained comrades. The ser- 
geant warmly greets his sweetheart, and asks leave to go 
into her chamber to wash his blackened hands. She hesi- 
tates. He is surprised to find the door locked. It arouses 
his suspicion; in his jealous rage he forces the door, goes 
in, and immediately emerges, saying: "You were right — 
there is no one there — ^you only wished to give me a lesson 
for my absurd jealousy." But when his comrades have 
gone he says : " Why did you not tell me that the man in 
there is dead?'' When she hears this, Catherine's emotion 
•is so evidently that of mere pity for a stricken stranger that 
Lefebvre is at once reassured. The man, he tells her, is 
not dead, but only desperately wounded. He shall be per- 
mitted to escape, and Lefebvre will never again be jealous 
of his Catherine. 

In this prologue we learn incidentally that Catherine had 
once done washing for a little Corsican lieutenant, bearing 
the queer name of Buonaparte, who had just been retired 
from the army. He was so poor that he could not pay his 
laundry bill, therefore she had let it go unpaid. The famous 
Fouch6 in this prologue appears so frank a rascal that 
we are almost tempted to forgive him his rascality for his 
frankness. So with the powder-stained patriots who, out- 
ntmibering the king's body guard a hundred to one, have 
just massacred them and sacked the Tuileries, they have 



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«16 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

such a patriotic air withal over their plundering that they, 
too, are delightful. 

After the protogue, nearly twenty years have elapsed 
since the scene in Catherine's laundry. The little Corsican 
lieutenant has become the Emperor Napoleon, and son-in- 
law to the Emperor of Austria. Catherine has long been 
the wife of Sergeant Lefebvre, who is now Marshal of 
France and Duke of Dantzic. We are in the salon of the 
Duchess, who is about to attend a grand court function at 
the Chateau of Compiegne. She is endeavouring to learn 
deportment, dancing, manners, how to make a curtsy, and 
how to carry her train. She is surrounded by dancing- 
masters, hair-dressers, music-teachers, dress-makers, bon- 
net-makers, and boot-makers. 

But although the sergeant husband has become Marshal 
of France and Duke of the Empire, she apparently has not 
risen to the level of her fortune. Her essays in manners 
are farcical. She wears an astonishing costume in violent 
contrast to the beautiful gowns of the court ladies who 
cmne to her reception later, and she makes mistakes for 
which she is taken to task by the Emperor's sisters, Queen# 
Caroline and the Princess Elisa. They are mortified over 
her blunders at court, and angry at her honest denunciation 
of courtly immorality. A wordy war ensues, in which 
Catherine shows that she has not lost her ready wit or her 
bitter tongue. 

Amusing as is this scene, it is a surprising thing that 
this clever laundress should have become a Duchess without 
losing her washerwoman ways. She is depicted as being 
awkward, slangy, and ill at ease. Despite the legends con- 
cerning her easy ways and familiar language as a duchess, 
it seems incredible that she should not have kept up to the 
level of Napoleon's parvenu court. Still, her pitched battle 
with the imperial princesses, the sisters of Napoleon, is 
highly comic. 



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MADAME SANS-GENE 217 

From the spectacular point of view this scene is most 
striking. The Bonapartes were noted for personal beauty, 
and the actors and actresses in the Paris production were 
chosen for their good looks. The beautiful women with 
their gorgeous gowns, the handsome men in the brilliant 
uniforms of the day, the rigid settings of the First Empire 
framework — ^all this together made a striking stage picture. 

The manners of the laundress-duchess are too much for 
the Emperor. He sends for Marshal Lefebvre, and works 
himself into a rage over his wife's shortcomings. He de- 
nounces her for her clumsiness and her slang; finally, he 
tells Lefebvre that she has not only made herself ridiculous 
but the imperial court as well. He closes the interview by 
informing the Duke that if he would retain the imperial 
favour, he had better divorce the Duchess and that at once. 

This unpleasant interview is related to the Duchess by 
her husband on his return. She listens to him with a mix- 
ture of rage and alarm. 

" And you let him say that to you?" she demands. " If 
he had proposed divorce to me, do you think that I would 
have tamely submitted? Rather than leave the man by 
whose side I have been for so many years, in sickness and 
in health, through poverty and in riches, I would have told 
him to take his Duchy, his court, his marshal's baton, and 
go to tophet with them. That's what I'd have said if he had 
dared talk divorce to me." 

" Would you?" says the crafty Lefebvre, who is playing 
upon her feelings. "Is that what you would have said? 
Well, that's exactly what I told him." And the impulsive 
Duchess hurls herself into the arms of her rude Duke and 
weeps upon his epaulette, while they are linked in an em- 
brace as lusty as in the days when he was a sergeant and she 
a washerwoman. 

The Duchess is c(»ivinced that the sisters of Napoleon 
are at the bottom of these intrigues, and that they are poi- 



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«18 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

soning the Emperor's mind against her. She OHisults 
Fouche, the ex-chief of police, who is friendly to her. He 
tells her that she is right in her suspicions about the Em- 
peror's sisters, but warns her to keep her temper and to 
hold her tongue. She follows his advice by flying into a 
terrible rage when she meets the two sisters, and accusing 
them of violating the seventh commandment. She is sum- 
moned to appear before the Emperor. 

In the third act the Emperor is seated in his library at 
G)mpiegne. He is attended by the Duke of Rovigo, his 
chief of police, by Constant, his man-servant, by Roustan, 
his mameluke, and by a large and brilliant gathering of 
officers. The Emperor's sisters. Queen Caroline and Prin- 
cess Elisa, soon apply for a private audience, and the Court 
is dismissed. A family scene ensues. The sisters inform 
their brother that his wife, Marie Louise, is unfaithful to 
him, and that Neipperg, the Austrian, is her paramour. 
The Emperor flies into a rage, and bitterly reproaches his 
sisters. The princesses angrily defy their brother, who tells 
them he has taken them out of the gutter. Their voluble 
scolding impels them to such chance-medley anger that they 
finally attack each other ; they drop French and fall into the 
picturesque patois of their Corsican youth ; they hurl pun- 
gent epithets in French, Italian, and Corsicanr Tfie Em- 
peror* himself suddenly relapses into the vigorous language 
of their childhood. The Bonaparte family's dirty linen is 
washed with great vigour in the midst of imperial splendour 
and solemn pomp. Finally the Emperor loses all self-con- 
trol, and chases the imperial princesses from his presence 
with the poker and tongs. 

Madame Sans-Gene arrives on the heels of this scene, 
forewarned of the expected storm. It breaks upon her at 
once. Being in the vein by reason of his little family jar, 
the Emperor launches upon her all manner of invective. He 
reproaches her with lade of ease and lack of breeding; he 



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MADAME SANS-GENE 219 

bitterly complains that "she cannot turn around without 
falling over her train " ; he accuses her of having brought 
ridicule upon his court by her camp manners. He tells her 
that it must stop, and the only way to stop it is to divorce 
her from the Duke of Dantzic. She replies with spirit, as 
her husband has replied. The Emperor continues to 
grumble, the Duchess continues to defend herself. She 
declares that if she has spoken rudely to the imperial prin- 
cesses it was because "they began it by sneering at the 
army." This arouses the Emperor. His loyalty to his army 
and his comradeship for the Duchess begin at once to pierce 
through his mask. H« cross-questions Madame Sans-Gene 
as his manner softens. She enumerates her campaigns with 
the armies of the Moselle, the Vosges, and the Rhine. She 
tells of her wound at the battle of Wagram, for she was 
then a vivandiferc. The Emperor by turns smiles and grows 
thoughtful as she eloquently recapitulates his glory and his 
triumphs. He finishes by taking a pinch of snuff and pinch- 
ing her ear, as was his wont with those who pleased him. 
The Duchess becomes emboldened at his change, and she 
dares to tell him that they are old acquaintances ; that when 
he was a lieutenant she washed for him, and as he was too 
poor to pay her, there still remains an unsettled laundry 
bill of sixty francs. If (says the Duchess) he is about to 
divorce her from her husband and drive her from the 
court, she will need money ; therefore, she begs him to pay 
his twenty-year-old wash bill. The amused Emperor be- 
gins to haggle over the size of the bill, but the Duchess 
refuses to reduce it, and tells him that he still owes her 
"three Napoleons." There is a curious touch at the end 
of the scene, which shows the animal nature of the Emperor. 
He has kissed the hand of the Duchess and is examining 
an old scar upon her rounded arm, when he suddenly seems 
to notice that the sometime vivandiere is still plump and 
pretty. He proceeds to linger over the caress, but receives 



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220 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

a sharp rebuke, for the laundress-duchess is still faithful 
to her husband-lover, and, unlike some higher-bom ladies, 
her fidelity does not yield even to an Emperor. 

The next scene is in Napoleon's cabinet. It is midnight. 
The Emperor hears a noise near the private apartment of 
the Empress, Marie Louise. He has the lights extinguished, 
and his faithful mameluke Roustan seizes in the darkness 
Count Neipperg, who is making his way to the Empress's 
chamber. Napoleon is doubly furious — ^as husband and as 
Emperor. Sardou's iconoclastic humour is shown in this 
scene, wherein Napoleon is depicted in his night-clothes 
crazed with jealousy, and raving like a jealous bourgeois 
husband. He so bitterly abuses Neipperg that the Aus- 
trian draws his sword upon tiie Emperor. Napoleon at 
once g^ves orders that he be shot in secret. But M^adame 
Sans-Gene, who has already once saved Neipperg's life, 
saves him again, partly to prevent another crime from 
being laid at her imperial master's door. In the end, 
Madame Sans-Gene and Fouche devote themselves to 
clearing the Empress's name from the stain of the suspected 
liaison with Neipperg. This they succeed in doing, and at 
once bundle the adventurous Austrian out of the country. 



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LA TOSCA 

The play opens in Rome, in the year 1800, in the church 
of St. Andrea. The young painter, Mario Cavaradossi, is 
only half Italian, his mother being French. He is a pupil 
of David and inclined toward Jacobinism. He is working 
at a fresco in the church. Suddenly a man aiq>ears coming 
from one of the chapels of the church. He is a political 
refugee, one of the defenders of the Parthenopean Re- 
public* 

The refugee is Cesarc Angelotti, condemned to death, 
who, the night before, succeeded in escaping from Castle 
St. Angelo, aided by his sister, the Marquise Attavanti. 
She has left for him in the chapel of the church of Saint 
Andrea a woman's attire, including gown, mantle, and fan. 
Note the fan. The artist places himself at the disposal of 
the refugee Cesare. He offers to conceal him in his villa 
in the environs of Rome. 

While Cesare is disguising himself in the chapel, La 
Tosca, the celebrated singer, comes to visit Mario, who is 
her lover. 

She piously offers flowers to the Madonna to secure 
pardcMi for amorous peccadilloes, yet under the indulgent 
eyes of this Italian virgin she coquettes with her lover. She 
scolds Mario for his lack of piety while she toys with his 
moustache. She flies into a fit of jealous anger because to 
the Magdalene painted on the wall he has g^ven the features 
of the Marquise Attavanti. Why has he given the blue eyes 
of the Marquise to the Magdalene? Cannot a Magdalene 
have black eyes like those of La Tosca herself? In her 

*This was the new title given to the Kingdom of Naples in 
1799 by the French. It lasted only 5 months; the monarchy was 
then restored by a loyalist rising. 

221 



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28« THE SARDOU PLAYS 

gaiety, in her anger, even in her jealousy, the cantatrice is 
infinitely charming. At last the artist Mario succeeds in 
appeasing his mistress, and she leaves the church. Just as 
she leaves. Baron Scarpia, the chief of police, arrives, but 
too late. The refugee Cesare has had time to disguise him- 
self and to hide. But he has forgotten the fan, and Scarpia 
picks it up. 

That evening Scarpia shows the fan to La Tosca at a 
fete which is given at the Farnese Palace, where she is to 
sing. The jealousy of La Tosca is aroused. She remembers 
that Mario had told her he intended to pass the night in 
his villa. No doubt, thinks the jealous woman, he is there 
now with the Marquise. La Tosca immediately hastens 
thither. Scarpia and his men have only to follow the 
jealous woman, who thus puts them upon the track. 

We must pass over here a host of agreeable and in- 
genious details, such as the Te Deum sung in the church 
to celebrate the victory that Mdas has just achieved over 
Bonaparte at Marengo; the swarm of brilliant butterfly 
costumes in the Farnese Palace; the witty dialogue between 
the worthy Marquis Attavanti and his wife's cavaliere ser* 
vante. Not the least interesting of these incidents is that 
in the middle of the festival a dispatch from General Melas 
annoimces that it is not he, but Bonaparte, who, toward the 
close of the day, has conquered at Marengo. 

At the period when the play opens (June, 1800), the 
troops and the police were occup)ang Rome after the fall 
of the Parthenopean Republic It was the eve of the battle 
of Marengo. The time was an ugly one ; the court a cor- 
rupt one. The Naples government was noted for the re- 
fined cruelty of its agents. Emma Lyon, become Lady 
Hamilton, controlled the Queen absolutely. To wear the 
hair cut short in the fashion of the French Republic was 
punished by death. Torture was common. Mammone, a 
bloodthirsty gentleman who loved human heads as articles 



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LA TOSCA fOS 

of ornament, was a person in authority. It was a bloody 
time. According to Sardou, Judge Trobridge sends to 
Lord St. Vincent the head of a Jacobin neatly packed in a 
box, and excuses himself for not having favoured Lord 
Nelson with a similar gift because the weather was too hot 
for it to keep. All this goes on amidst gallantries almost 
incredible even at the end of the eighteenth century. Can- 
nibals in powdered hair, barbarians in silk stockings — ^such 
are the types of personages which the playwright presents 
to his audience. 

In the third act La Tosca, wild with jealousy, bursts into 
the villa where Mario has concealed Cesare Angdotti. Her 
lover convinces her of her error, and repenting of her haste 
and her jealousy, she falls on her knees and begs his par- 
don. But Scarpia and his spies have followed her. At 
this very moment they knock at the door. Cesare is there ; 
he is disguised as a woman, with clothing borrowed from 
his sister, the blue-eyed Marquise. He is suddenly con- 
cealed in a secret hiding place. This refuge is known only 
to his host, the painter Mario, and the mistress of that host. 
They are the only two who can deliver him to the police. 
The Chief of Police, Scarpia, demands that Mario shall be- 
tray to him where Cesare is concealed. Mario refuses. 
Scarpia has Mario taken behind a screen and put to the 
torture. His head is bound in a steel band with three points 
which are pressed into the temples by means of screws. 
Scarpia knows that Mario, even under the torture, will not 
deliver up Cesare, but he also knows that La Tosca will 
speak rather than permit her lover to endure the awful trial. 
The unfortunate woman resists for some minutes. From 
behind the screen comes the strangely altered voice of Mario, 
half chdced with pain, bidding her be silent. But Scarpia 
orders an additional turn of the screw, and then the victim 
utters so horrible a cry that La Tosca lets fall the secret 
which betrays Cesare. 



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«S4 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

After the avowal of La Tosca, Mario is brought in, 
pale as death, his forehead bearing bleeding wounds. But 
the torture has been futile — Cesare, when he heard the 
approach of the police, took poison, and his dead body was 
all they found. " Drag it away!" cries Scarpia ; " throw the 
corpse into the dungheap, and take the living man to the 
scaffold." A faint sound is heard — ^it comes from La Tosca, 
who has fallen senseless to the floor. 

In the fourth act we find Scarpia seated at a sumptuous 
supper in his apartments in Castle Saint Angelo. He has 
La Tosca brought before him. She heaps upon him insults 
and imprecations. Her passion arouses his desire. He de- 
mands of her, more beautiful in her rage, if she wishes to 
save her lover. He tells her at what price. He whispers 
it in her ear. She cries, " Never 1" and recoils, but he 
pursues her around the chamber with lust shining hateful 
in his eyes. " Then your lover shall die," he says with a 
wrathful scowl. At last La Tosca consents to Scarpia's 
bargain. It is agreed that he shall order Mario to be shot, 
but that the guns of the firing squad shall contain only 
blank cartridges. La Tosca bids hun draw up the order 
to this effect, likewise a safe-conduct for her and Mario. 
But the moment he has finished the writing she seizes a 
knife from the supper-table and plunges it into his heart. 
As the bleeding body falls backward to the floor, she wipes 
her hands on the table-cloth, arranges her dishevelled attire, 
places a crucifix on the dead man's breast, puts candles 
around him, kneels by his side a moment in prayer, and 
then disappears through the door. 

In the fifth act La Tosca has gone to Mario, who is in 
the condemned cell. She relates to him all that she has said 
and done and how she has arranged to save his life. But the 
soldiers come, and he is led away. From without, she 
hears the crash of muskets. With a jojrful cry she goes to 
find her lover, who she believes is pretending death. 



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LA TOSCA 5M6 

The last scene is on the terrace of Castle St. Angelo, 
where the execution has taken place. La Tosca comes, 
feverishly searching for her lover, whom she still believes 
to be alive. But Scarpia has deceived her — he did not give 
the order he had promised — the soldiers had loaded their 
muskets with ball. La Tosca sees before her only the 
bleeding body of her lover. With a wild cry she leaps 
from the lofty parapet of Castle St. Angelo and is drowned 
in the turbid Tiber. 



iff 



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THERMIDOR 

It is curious how little even experienced critics can fore- 
tell the reception of a play, Francisque Sarcey witnessed 
the dress rehearsal of " Thermidor " without the faintest 
idea of the trouble which the play would cause. Writing 
on the 2d of February, 1891, he discussed the dress re- 
hearsal. These rehearsals in Paris are largely attended by 
critics, other journalists, actors, managers, officials of the 
various ministries, and privileged persons generally. Fre- 
quently at a rehearsal there will be an audience of several 
hundred persons. At the "Thermidor" rehearsal Sarcey 
was present, and saw no promise of potential trouble ; even 
the first representation, according to his account, passed 
off without any noticeable excitement. M. Clemenceau was 
present, and Sarcey heard him jest about the length of 
some of the political harangues in the play, but without ex- 
pressing any particular animosity. This is notable, as M. 
Clemenceau was subsequently regarded as a ringleader in 
the riotous manifestations against the play. 

The first representation took place on a Saturday. The 
manager of the leading theatre at Nice had invited the 
Paris critics to visit the southern city to witness the first 
representation of Emile Blavet's "Richard III." The 
critics had consented, on condition that the date of the 
"Richard III." production be postponed until immediately 
after the premiere of " Thermidor." This was done, and 
on the morrow of the " Thermidor " production the group 
of critics left for Nice, all unsuspicious of the coming 
quarrel. Little did they think that the play they had just 
witnessed would turn out to be a veritable powder-maga- 
zine, whose explosion would shake the Comedie-Franqaise, 
and almost blow the ministry from power. 



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THERMIDOR 227 

When the critics arrived at -Nice they were rendered 
speechless with surprise by the receipt of telegrams from 
Paris speaking of "grave disorders over 'Thermidor/" 
They carefully compared notes, but their united recollections 
could call up nothing in the play calculated to lead to 
civic disorder. They finally concluded that a small knot of 
rowdies or practical jokers had attempted to disturb the 
audience, and that their eflForts had resulted in a panic. 
But the telegrams continued to come, and continued to grow 
more threatening. Sarcey admits that he was one of the 
optimists, and maintained that the third representation 
(coming, as it did, on a Tuesday) would settle all disorder; 
that the Tuesday audience at the Comedie-Fran9aise is the 
famous " Tout Paris " ; that on Tuesdays the spectators are 
made up of the fine flower of Paris; that there would be 
absolutely no places at the disposition of the populace except 
in the third gallery, and there half a dozen police agents 
could maintain order. But, to the amazement of his con- 
freres and the discomfiture of Sarcey, the usual Tuesday 
performance at the Com6die did not take place, for the 
Monday night turned out to be a pitched battle fought out 
with fists and canes. Therefore, the Government decided 
to prohibit the further production of " Thermidor." 

Like the classical tragedies, the drama of " Thermidor " 
takes place in a single day — in fact, in less than the classical 
twenty-four hours. It begins with the break of dawn; it 
is ended before night-fall. This rapidity of the action is 
itself in accordance with historical verity, for the play is 
intended to show us the workings of the Reign of Terror, 
and in that bloody time a single day often sufiiced for the 
arrest, the judgment, and the execution of the victim. 

The dominant idea of "Thermidor" is new to the 
stage. It is the denunciation of a young girl to the Revolu- 
tionary Tribunal. In spite of the eflFort made to save her — 
of which she refuses to avail herself because she considers 



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Sfi8 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

the means dishonorable — she goes to the tumbril. Sardou 
evidently asked himself what, in that terrible time, could 
have been the most heroic form of sacrifice ; and he replied 
through his play that nothing can surpass the courage of a 
young girl who lays down her life rather than lose her 
good name. 

The first scene is laid on the bank of the Seine. On the 
right is a place where washerwomen congregate. At the 
back, across the arches of the bridge, are to be seen the 
tangled streets of old Paris. To this spot on the river bank, 
Chance, the playwright's trusty henchman, conducts the 
principal personages of the drama. First comes the actor, 
Labussiere, who is the pivot of the piece. This soft-hearted 
player abominates the crimes of the Revolution, but he must 
needs look to his own head, at an epoch when heads were 
so lightly fixed upon men's shoulders. The ingenious 
Labussiere has, therefore, found a means of saving his own 
head, and at the same time contriving to succour those of 
his friends whose heads are in danger. To accomplish this:, 
he has donned a tiger's skin — ^that is to say, he has accepted 
a position in the office of the Committee of Public Safety, 
one of the branches of the Revolutionary Tribunal. Thus 
there pass through his hands the dossiers or indictments 
which condemn the victims to the guillotine. Labussiere 
spends his time in going over these documents, mislaying 
some, and making away with those of the most helpless vic- 
tims. Fearing to leave any trace of them, he secretes the 
papers, soaks them in water, converts them into pulp, and 
when it is dark, goes to the river bank to throw them into 
the Seine. Such is his errand on this particular morning. 

The next person to appear is a young officer. Martial 
Hugon, who has returned from the wars, detailed to bring 
back to the Convention some captured flags. This brilliant 
young soldier has fallen in love. He has a romantic adven- 



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THERMIDOR SS9 

ture to relate He has succoured a young girl whom he 
found fainting in the snow. He has learned from her that 
her name is Fabienne Lecoulteux. She has just left a 
convent, and, being the sister of a rebel, she was, as such, 
suspected and persecuted. Martial has placed her with a 
female relative of his, where he thought she would be 
secure. Naturally, the only thing to do was to fall in love 
with her, which he at once did. The young couple ex- 
changed vows to wed. Martial was then obliged to rejoin 
his command in the field, and not long after he was reported 
dead on the field of battle. But he was not dead, although 
desperately wounded. He has returned to Paris, but finds 
that Fabienne has disappeared. He searches for his sweet- 
heart throughout the great city, but in vain. 

The third person to appear on the scene is the young 
girl. We have already learned that the river bank is fre- 
quented by washerwcwnen. At this moment they come 
trooping in. There is evidently some excitement among 
them — ^there are sounds of loud jeers and mocking voices. 
They are pursuing and harassing a young girl, one of their 
number, and mocking her because she is a " fine lady," an 
" aristocrat," and because she has white hands. Increasing 
in their fury, they finally shriekv " To the river ! throw her 
into the river!" It is Fabienne. Martial Hugon recognises 
her, and rushes to save her from the fury of these viragoes. 
But he would not succeed were it not for the assistance of 
the good Labussi^re. The actor shows to the eyes of the 
startled washerwomen an official badge on which are these 
words: ''French Republic, Committee of Public Safety/* 
The eflFect is magical — ^the mob respectfully falls back, and 
makes way for Labussiere and his proteges. 

It is in this act that the great political dialogue takes 
place between Martial and Labussiere. It draws a contrast 
between the hopes of 1789 and the realities of 1793, and is 
a bitter and stinging indictment of the French Revolution. 



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280 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

It is this part of the play which caused such intense ex- 
citement, and which threatened to bring on a riot at the 
time of its first production. 

The second act opens in the costumer's establishment of 
Madame Berillon. Her husband is a recognised type of 
the times, known as " the trembler " — ^a good-hearted man 
whom the Terror has terrified into pretending to be a revolu- 
tionary ruffian. He has debaptised himself and his family, 
and has taken the classical name of *' Casca." He is just 
equipping himself, putting on his red liberty cap, and 
girding on his great sabre, to go and attend the meeting 
of his "Revolutionary Section." The good-hearted 
Labussiere brings to the establishment of Madame Berillon 
his two friends, the young lovers. She receives them hos- 
pitably, and all sit down to a bounteous meal. There the 
story of Fabienne is told. Martial's female relative, fear- 
ing to keep her longer, as she is a " suspect," had turned 
her into the street. Fabienne thought at first of asking 
a refuge from an old servant of her family, who is married, 
and whose husband, Heron, holds a government position; 
but the husband offered her insulting attentions, which 
drove her from this house, and she went back to the con- 
vent. But even here the anger of the baffled libertine. 
Heron, has followed her, and the question is whether she 
shall flee to the frontier with Martial: As the lovers are 
warmly discussing this question, a tumult is heard from the 
street. They go to the windows. A mob is there, dancing 
•the Carmagnole around a squad of soldiers who are escort- 
ing to prison the nuns from Fabienne's convent. Fabienne 
shows herself at the window and cries out, "I am she 
whom you seek. I am Fabienne Lecoulteux, in religion 
Sister Marie Madeleine." 

The third act takes place in one of the rooms of the 
Louvre. Upon the walls are shelves on which repose vast 
masses of documents. It is Labussiere's office. There is 



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THERMIDOR S81 

a great rushing of officials to and fro, for there is a meeting 
of the Convention to be held to-day. When all have gone, 
Labussiere brings in Martial. Together they go over the 
indictments which must be sent to the Revolutionary Tri- 
bunal that very day before 3 o'clock. The Tribunal sits 
for two hours ; at 5 o'clock the tumbrils take the victims to 
the guillotine. While they are looking over these papers, 
and remarking on the frivolous charges for which men's 
heads are falling, the patriot Marteau comes in, bearing a 
special and supplementary indictment. To the horror of 
Martial and Labussiere, they read on this new indictment 
the name of Fabienne. She has been arrested ; she will be 
taken before the Tribunal within the hour; her condemna- 
tion is certain. 

Martial and Labussiere are stunned. The two men face 
an awful problem which seems incapable of solution. How, 
by what means, by what miracle can they succeed in saving 
Fabienne? The time is passing, the seconds are slowly 
ticking away, while they are torturing themselves, advanc- 
ing ideas which are rejected as soon as proposed. But 
they can think of nothing. Yes, there is one means, atro- 
cious as it seems. It would be to substitute for Fabienne's 
death-warrant another's passport into eternity. Martial, 
who loves her, can think of nothing but the safety of 
Fabienne, and he begs Labussiere not to recoil at this des- 
perate attempt. If it is a crime, he says, he will take the 
responsibility. Besides, death for death, is it not better to 
compass the death of an unknown? Vanquished at last by 
Martial's ardent supplications, Labussiere goes to the shelf 
where are the death-warrants under the letter L, He 
finds three bearing the name Lecoulteux. He looks around 
like a thief, takes them from their case, and places them 
on the table. They examine the three. The first is that of 
a man of eighty years. This would be futile — ^blinded by 
blood as is the Revolutionary Tribunal, the executioners 



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sat THE SARDOU PLAYS 

wouM quidcly notice the substitution. Another is that of 
a woman of forty-two, but she has two children. Labussiere 
refuses to consider the sacrifice of a mother, who would 
thus leave her children alone in the world. The third is that 
of a woman of twenty-six. 

" Here is what we want," cries Martial. *' She is 
twenty-six and Fabienne is twenty-two. Read, Labussiere ! 
She is a stnnnpet — she has been the mistress of a lord. 
She is a low creature." 

" Yes," solemnly replies Labussiere, " but she is a human 
creature." 

This scene works powerfully on the nerves of its partici- 
pants, but the tension is suddenly relieved by the irruption 
of an excited crowd into the room. They have just returned 
from the Convention. They tell of the fall of Robespierre. 
The Reign of Terror is ended. In their joy over the news, 
Labussiere and Martial forget their project of substitution. 
There is no longer need of it. 

The fourth act takes place in the great hall of the Con- 
ciergerie, which may still be seen to-day on the right of the 
great staircase in the Palace of Justice. Robespierre has 
fallen, but none the less the Tribunal continues its bloody 
work. Fabienne is named among the unfortunates who are 
just about to quit the prison for the scaffold. At the doors, 
on the staircase, lining the walls, a menacing crowd hurls 
insults at the victims. But Labussiere and Martial have not 
lost all hope. There exists for women a means of post- 
poning their execution; it is to declare themselves with 
child. The good Labussiere obtains from one of the jailers 
the formal document used in such cases. He fills in the 
Uanks. All it lacks is the signature of Fabienne. The 
two men beg her to sign it. ** Is this a time to haggle over 
means when one is face to face with the guillotine?" 

The fickle mob suddenly becomes interested in Fabienne. 
"What, execute a young citizeness that way? — ^a pretty 



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THERMIDOR 9SS 

girl who has been a little gay, and who is going to become 
a mother? No, no!" The mob is partly pitying, partly 
amused, partly jeering. " No, no! Let her go back to her 
cell, and have her baby/* 

But Fabienne, wild with indignation, refuses the scorn- 
ful gage. " They have lied, lied atrociously ! This man is 
not my lover. Do not insult a modest girl. Let me rather 
be a martyr than dishonoured." And she is taken away, 
with the others, to the guillotine. Maddened and frenzied, 
the hapless lover. Martial, precipitates himself on the sol- 
diers to drag her from them. They fire upon him, and he 
falls dead as his sweetheart goes to the scaffold. 



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FEDORA 

The play begins at St. Petersburg, in the bachelor 
apartment of Captain Vladimir Garishkine, son of the 
Minister of Police. The Captain, although still young, has 
led a reckless life in all the capitals of Europe, but he has 
finally been recalled to the Russian Court, with the pros- 
pect before him of filling high places in the employ of the 
State. Therefore he has decided to forswear sack and live 
cleanly — ^to mend his reckless ways of living, and to repair 
his shattered fortunes by wedding a young and rich widow. 
Princess Fedora Romazoflf. 

This we learn in the first act from the conversaticm be- 
tween the Captain^s valet and the jeweller Tchileflf, who has 
come to deliver a piece of diamond jewelry. 

But the Captain does not return, although it is already 
late. The Princess F6dora calls to ask for him, and is sur- 
prised at this prolonged absence. Ber surprise soon 
changes into anxiety. Disquiet reigns in the Russian capi- 
tal, which is ever terrorized by the secret workings of tiie 
nihilists. At this moment a police officer, one Gretch, 
appears, bringing Vladimir, but in a deplorable condition 
— ^he has been frightfully wounded, and is dying. The 
scene is a striking one — ^the chamber of the dying man, 
with the white-bloused surgeons going to and fro by the 
dim lamplight in the midst of the weeping servants. 

The Princess determines to overcome her sorrow and 
learn the truth about her murdered lover. But the police 
can tell her nothing. Vladimir has been found dying, in a 
deserted house in a solitary suburb. His servants are 
interrogated, but all they know is that the Captain had 
received that morning a letter brought by a woman. He 
said at once, " I will go," and threw the letter into a desk 
234 



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FEDORA 286 

drawer. The Princess opens the desk and searches fever- 
ishly, but finds nothing. The letter has disappeared — 
stolen doubtless, but by whom? Evidently by the person 
who led him into the ambuscade. But who has entered 
the house? Only two persons. The jeweller Tchileff is 
one, but this worthy person was not near the desk, and had 
not been left alone for a single moment. The second perscm 
is a gentleman who had called two or three times upcm 
Vladimir. It is Count Loris Ipanoff, It is then remembered 
that Cotmt Loris had seated himself at the desk under the 
pretext of writing a line to the absent Giptain. Probably 
it was he who opened the drawer and took the letter. 
Therefore, it is Q>unt Loris who was the assassin of 
Vladimir, and as Vladimir was the son of the Minister of 
Police, evidently the crime is due to the nihilists. Upon 
the imperious orders of the Princess Fedora, the police 
hasten hot-foot to the Ipanoff palace, to seize the Count. 
As they are leaving, Vladimir Garishkine, in the tnidst of 
his sobbing servitors, yields up the ghost. The curtain 
falls. 

The second act takes us to Paris. Here we are intro- 
duced into the home of the Countess Olga Soukareff, an 
aristocratic person, who is very young, very pretty, very 
coquettish, very naive, and very depraved. As a critic 
said of her, she delighted to mix nihilism with her dissipa- 
tion — ^to mingle pearl powder with nitro-glycerine. The 
exiled Count Loris Ipanoff is one of the habitu6s of her 
salon. There he meets the Princess Fedora. The Princess 
has devoted her life to the discovery of her lover's assassin. 
She pretends to have been disgraced and exiled from St. 
Petersburg, and under this mask she secretly directs the 
movements of the Russian spies who have been sent to 
Paris to watch the nihilists. Count Loris is the object of 
their particular attention. Nevertheless, the Princess, for 
whom Count Loris betrays a dawning sentiment of love, 



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886 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

feels no repulsion for him. On the contrary, it would 
rather seem as if she' loved him, and as if she wished to 
believe in his innocence. 

The sudden avowal of his love by Count Loris entirely 
lulls the suspicions of Fedora. She allows herself to be 
wooed, she lends a more assenting ear than she herself 
suspects to the love pleadings of the Count. But when 
she pretends to him that she has been pardoned by the 
Czar, and proposes to Count Loris that he should return 
with her to Russia, he admits to her without hesitation that 
it is impossible, for he is exiled under the suspicion of a 
dreadful crime. 

"What crime?" she asks. 

" The death of a man." 

"Whatman?" 

"He was called Vladimir Garishkine." 

" But this charge cannot be true — it is not true ! " 

" Yes, it is true." 

Thus the Princess finds herself face to face with her 
lover's murderer, confronting the man whom she has sworn 
to send to the scaffold. She tries to denounce him as an 
assassin, but she feels that in her heart she loves him, and 
in the struggle and turmoil of her contending emotions she 
cannot tell which will have sway, her vengeance or her 
love. Restraining her emotions, she begs Count Loris to 
relate to her the cause and the details of the murder. But 
Count Loris objects that it is neither the time nor the place 
for such a confidence ; that they are in the house of a third 
person, and that such a confession cannot be made under 
such circumstances and in a few words. "True," replies 
Fedora. " I will return to my home, and shall await you 
there." 

In the third act we find Fedora in her own house, on 
the Cours-La-Reine, which skirts the River Seine. It 
fronts on one of the most deserted of all the river quays of 



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FEDORA JMT 

Paris. She has given secret instructions to the Russian 
police spy, Gretch, and his agents. They are told that 
Count Loris will enter by the river gate of the garden, 
which he will find unlocked. When tiheir interview shall 
have ended, and when the Princess shall have learned from 
him all she wishes to know, she will let him out by the main 
vestibule. There, the Russian police posted upon the pier 
will spring upon him, bind him, gag him, drag him to a 
swift steam yacht moored at the quay, and from there the 
yacht will dart down the river to Havre, where Count Loris 
will be placed on board of a Russian ship of war. "At 
that hour of the night," says officer Gretch philosophically, 
" the police of Paris will not bother us." 

If the Count should resist, they are to kill him. This 
is the order from St. Petersburg, for the Minister of Police 
desires to put an end to his son's assassin. The Princess 
has already sent to the Minister of Police the names of 
two supposed accomplices of the nihilist Loris, a Russian 
named Platon Sokoleff, who has come bearing a letter to 
Count Loris from his brother, and the Count's brother 
himself. 

Count Loris arrives at Fedora's house at last. He has 
just received terrible news. His brother's letter tells him 
that he has been condemned in contumaciam, and that all 
his property has been confiscated. So it means exile for 
life. Never again will he see his brother, or the old mother 
whom he loves so fondly, and whose eyes he will not be 
permitted to close. " Ah," he cries, " if I could only find 
out who has denounced me, who it is that is pursuing me 
even in France, who has set this crowd of spies on my 
heels! After all, there is but one thing that could turn 
suspicion towards me — it is the disappearance of the letter 
from Vladimir's desk — ^the letter which I took from there. 
Who could have fallen on this clue? Who has set the 
police on my track with such suddenness that it was only 



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288 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

due to a lucky chance that I was not arrested even in my 
mother's sight and that I had barely time to flee? Ah, if 
I knew this accursed spy, the author of all my misfortunes, 
I would kill— kill--kill!" 

Fedora trembles and turns pale under this shower of 
threats. But what matters it, since within an hour she shall 
have avenged the death of Vladimir? But she must lead 
Count Loris to recite the scene of the murder. She utters 
the word "NihUist!" 

" Nihilist ?— I a nihilist ! " cries Count Loris. " Never ! " 

" But did you not kill Vladimir? " 

"Yes, but it was for revenge, and in loyal duel. He 
had seduced my wife. I surprised them in the isolated 
house which hid their guilty loves. He fired, and wounded 
me. I returned his fire, and he fell dead.'* 

"Your wife I" cries Fedora; "Vladimir the lover of 
your wife? Prove it!" 

" There is nothing easier." And Count Loris shows to 
Fedora letters in which Vladimir assures the Countess 
Loris of his eternal love, at the same time mocking at the 
Princess Fedora, saying that he meant to wed her only 
to repair his shattered fortimes. 

This terrible recital so excites Fedora that when the 
Count tells how he turned his revolver on Vladimir, she 
shrieks, " Yes, kill him, kill him ! " as if she herself were 
in reality present at the bloody scene. 

Count Loris, quivering with excitement, wishes to go. 
He fears that his prolonged presence in her house might 
compromise the Princess. Fedora does not wish him to 
go, for the Russian spies are in ambuscade at her door, 
waiting to fall upon their prey. But she cannot reveal to 
him the snare which awaits his footsteps, so she 3n[elds 
herself to him, and Loris does not leave until the break 
of day. 

It would seem as if the end of this night of terror and 



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FEDORA S89 

of love would lead to the legitimate union of Count Loris 
and the Princess Fedora. But the blind hatred with which 
the Princess has pursued the murderer of Vladimir has 
engendered fatal consequences. The Minister of Police, 
Garishkine, father of Vladimir^ has been hurled from 
power by a Court intrigue. The Emperor has signed the 
pardon of Loris, but before his fall Garishkine had time 
partially to slake his savage revenge. He had the brother 
of Count Loris arrested as a nihilist, and secretly drowned 
in his dungeon. On learning the death of her first-born, 
the mother of the two brothers dies of grief. 

These two messages of evil reach Count Loris at the 
same time, and he learns that his brother had been de- 
nounced simultaneously with Platon Sokoleff, also sen- 
tenced to death as a nihilist. He learns from his secret 
informant that the spy who had denounced his brother is 
a woman. Count Loris makes an awful oath to kill her. 
The despair, the tears, the supplications of Fedora at last 
make clear to Loris tEat the author of all his misfortune 
is before him. Revenge and fury break forth in his tor- 
tured mind. He demands an accounting from the Princess 
of all the frightful evils she has accomplished. He hurls 
at her bitter words, he calls her strumpet, spy. He 
threatens to strangle her with his own hands. But the un- 
fortunate victim of love and hatred saves him from that 
crime by taking poison, and Fedora dies before his eyes. 



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RABAGAS 

This play was one of several in which Sardou was i 

accused of striving after political ends. As a result, the 
adherents of the particular faction or party attacked in his 
play revenged themselves by attacking play and playwright. 
"Rabagas" was first produced early in 1872, when the 
wounds of the war with Prussia, and the subsequent Com- 
munist insurrection, were as yet unhealed. In the last act of 
the play Sardou put into the mouth of ** Rabagas " a long 
recital of the ups and downs of the various insurrectionary 
governments of Monaco. This is a parody on the numer- 
ous revolutions at the time of the Paris G)mmune. On 
the first night the actor, Grenier, who played " Rabagas," 
was extremely nervous, and in delivering this speech he 
seemed to make his audience even more nervous than he 
was himself. During the evening the spectators had been 
gradually getting restless, and this long speech was re- 
ceived with murmurs of dissatisfaction which at the end 
changed to vigorous hisses. 

The playwright was charged by the radical press with 
caricaturing Gambetta in the person of " Rabagas." Other 
and milder journals seemed to see in the character a 
resemblance to Emile OUivier, one of the ministers of 
Napoleon III. The critic Sarcey believed that " Rabagas " 
was a composite of Gambetta and OUivier. 

The scene of " Rabagas " is laid in the Principality of 
Monaco. In the first act the courtiers of the Prince are 
bitterly abusing the populace for their insurrectionary 
spirit, which takes the form of mutinous murmurs when 
the Prince and his courtiers pass along the princely high- 
ways. The spirit of revolt even descends at times to the 
240 



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RABA6AS 241 

hurling of old shoes, unmerdiantable cabbages, and de- 
ceased cats over the high walls of the princely garden. The 
headquarters of the insurrectionary sentiment is at the 
beer-house known as the " Flying Toad/' Here the ring- 
leaders of the revolt are installed, here they hold forth in 
speeches to the populace, and here they publish a revolu- 
tionary journal called the Carmagnole. This sheet is 
edited principally by Rabagas, a clever but unscrupulous 
lawyer, aided by an unfrocked priest, Camerlin, and some 
kindred spirits known as Vuillard and Chaffiou, aided by 
an alcoholic seedier of fortune, one General Petrowlski. 

When the play begins, the Prince is much concerned 
over the disturbed condition of his dominions. Not a day 
passes without some new outrage by his subjects. Yester- 
day, a beautiful marble statue was mutilated; this morn- 
ing, a horrible caricature of the Prince disfigures his palace 
portal 

So much is the Prince exercised over these affairs of 
state that he gives but a tepid attention to his daughter's 
affairs of the heart. The Princess Gabridle is too obviously 
interested in her cousin Carle, a subaltern in the Prince's 
body-guard. The Prince is far from suspecting the un- 
palatable truth, that his daughter loves the untitled lieu- 
tenant. But he is much displeased with her familiar 
intercourse with this young gentleman, and forbids her to 
continue it. Therefore, the lovers are forced to meet clan- 
destinely. Carle goes every night to a deserted part of the 
park under his lady-love's window. But last night, in 
getting out of the park by a postern gate with a private key, 
he ran against a ladder cm which a man was apparently 
attempting to mount the wall. Fearing scandal might 
smirch his mistress's name if he were discovered. Carle 
silently fled under cover of the darkness, as the unknown 
fell heavily to the ground. 

It is at this crisis in his domestic and p<^tical affairs 
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242 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

that an accident brings to the Prince's attention the pres- 
ence of a strange lady who has just arrived in Monaco. 
It is Mrs. Eva Blount, an American lady, young, wealthy, 
and a widow. She is travelling for pleasure. The Prince 
and Mrs. Blount discover that they are old friends; they 
had met a few years before at Paris, where the Prince was 
spending some time incognito. Mrs. Blount is a lady of 
so much tact and knowledge of the world that the Prince 
begs her to accept the position of first lady-in-waiting to 
the Princess, and to constitute herself as guide and mentor 
to that feather-headed young lady. This Mrs. Blount ccm- 
sents to do. She also undertakes the position of ex-offido 
counsellor to the Prince, who is much in need of the advice 
of a person of her strong common sense. When she is thus 
taken into his official confidence, his ministers are urging 
the suppression of the Monaco insurrection with artillery 
and cavalry. But Mrs. Blount bids the Prince beware of 
such folly; she warns him that if he follows such advice 
he will soon be a fugitive and Rabagas will be president 
of the Republic of Monaco. He consents to abandon the 
coercion of the populace by arms, and leaves Mrs. Blount 
full liberty to perfect her own plans. This she speedily 
proceeds to do, with the wisdom of a serpent and the mild- 
ness of a dove. 

In the next act we are shown the editorial rooms of the 
Cis^magnole in the billiard-room of the "Flying Toad." 
The staff are awaiting the return of Chief Editor Rabagas, 
who is <m his way back from Nice after assisting in the 
trial of a murder case. He enters; the great man is re- 
ceived with hurrahs and frenzied pounding of billiard cues 
upon the floor. He is hoisted upon the billiard table, and 
makes a speech to his constituents concerning the murder 
trial. " In saving the head of the accused," he says, " I 
have done only my duty. He is the son of a murderous 
father. He is a murderer himself. He was endowed by 



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RABA6AS 248 

nature with ferocious instincts. What matters it if he 
killed an old man by beating in his skull ? It was not he who 
was at fault, but nature, who made him a tiger. What was 
this old man whom he killed? Nothing but an officer of 
the law. To bludgeon an officer of the law is not to kill 
a man, it is merely to crush a political principle." These 
remarks are received with frenzied applause, and the great 
man has his luncheon brought in, while the members of 
his staff tell him the news of the day and read him extracts 
from the proof-sheets of the paper. A patriot ccxnes in 
bearing 47 francs, result of a subscription taken up in 
favour of a poor widow whose pig has been run over by 
the Prince's carriage. On his heels come Tirelirette and 
Th^reson, two sixteen-year old misses in extravagant 
toilets, who come to demand food and wine-money from 
their " friends,*' who are members of the staflF. They are 
bold and noisy, but are finally quieted by spreading a 
luncheon for them and giving them 20 francs out of the 
widow's subscription money. But the printer's devil enters 
at this moment, with the terrible news that the printer re- 
fuses to go to press until his bill is paid. The sum is 300 
francs. After the staff have carefully gone through their 
pockets and taken the rest of the widow's subscription 
money, they are still short 20 francs. They fall upon the 
red-headed Tirelirette; despite her noisy sobs and shrieks, 
they ravish from her lean purse her solitary 20-f ranc piece. 
With this they pay the printer, and the Carmagnole goes to 
press. 

At this moment the printer's devil announces to Rabagas 
that a " real lady. " wishes to see him. He clears the bil- 
liard room, and receives the lady, with much empressement. 
It is Mrs. Blount. She c6mes ostensibly with the purpose 
of retaining him as her attorney to get her trunks out of 
the custom-house, where they are detained by reason of an 
excessive amount of lace on her gowns. At first, Rabagas 



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244 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

refuses to undertake the case, saying that he does no com- 
mercial business. But the clever Mrs. Blount conveniently 
remembers that she had her boots wrapped in socialistic 
Italian newspapers; and hence a political tinge might be 
given to the detention ; that the great Rabagas could there- 
fore attack the government for its attempt to suppress free 
thought and a free press. To this he lends a willing ear. 

More cordial relations thus being established, Mrs. 
Blount gets to business. She tells Rabagas that the Prince 
is a great admirer of his ability; that his surroundings are 
unworthy of him; that his companions are low creatures 
unfit for him to associate with ; that if he chose, he might 
climb to power by abandoning his associates and taking the 
side of the Prince. She bids him come to the palace for the 
fete that evening, and ask for her. Rabagas hesitates; he 
makes no promises, but it is easy to see that he is tempted. 

Again the members of the Revolutionary Committee 
are assembled at the " Flying Toad." To their surprise, an 
aide-de-camp brings a missive from the court for Rabagas. 
He opens it, and reads it aloud. It is an invitation to attend 
a court concert that evening. Rabagas can scarcely conceal 
his delight, but the assembled patriots lode upon him with 
distrust. He finally succeeds in lulling their suspicions by 
saying that he probably has been sent for merely to arrest 
him. But this trick of the court will be too late. That 
very night the revolution has been decreed. Rabagas points 
witfi pride to his own courage in entering the tyrant's den. 
Eleven o'clock is the hour, and the signal is a light flashed 
from the window. 

In the next act, we find ourselves in the gilded halls of 
the Prince's court. There is excitement both within and 
without the palace. Mobs are collected on the great square, 
and the Prince's oflScers are begging him to disperse the 
populace with troops. He is wavering, when Mrs. Blount 
appears. He asks her counsel. She tells him that she can 



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RABAGAS 246 

produce a man who will calm this tumult as if by magic 

"Who?" asks the Prince- 

"Rabagas," she replies. 

" Where and how ? '* he asks. 

"Here and now," she replies. 

The Prince is horrified to learn that Rabagas has re- 
ceived a card for the fete, and may be expected at any 
moment. In fact, the great man speedily appears. He is 
received at first by Mrs. Blount, and he tells her mysteri- 
ously that he comes at the risk of his life and his honour to 
save her; he cannot explain what is about to happen, but 
she may guess; instead of taking her trunks into France, 
he says, she may soon need them to flee back into Italy. 

Mrs. Blount listens to him, but earnestly bids him pause 
and reflect; his talents are lost with such a crowd of com- 
mon people; he is naturally an aristocrat — ^his very de- 
meanour in the palace proves it ; if he can suppress the rising, 
she says, the Prince will be grateful to him. With these 
significant words, she leaves him to go and seek the Prince. 

As she leaves the room Rabagas follows her with his 
eyes, muttering to himself: "Why, she is a Talleyrand 
in petticoats 1 Rabagas, my boy, you will be the Prince's 
minister. I always knew it. I knew I would come out at 
the top. Well, it's pretty comfortable here — ^flowers, lights, 
music, and pretty women. It's true they don't deign to 
look at me, but in a day or two they will all be at my feet. 
What a diflference it is to be of the court, rather than as 
my friends are, looking at it through the keyhole." 

But the seditious cries and the popular tumult without 
are growing in intensity. Each new arrival reports having 
received insult and almost outrage. The Prince is dbont to 
yield to the entreaties of his officers, and order the troops 
to fire upon the mob, when Mrs. Blount brings forward 
Rabagas. The Prince, with much distaste, receives this 
gentleman and listens to his counsel. Rabagas insists that 



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246 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

the people should be treated with consideration, persuasion, 
eloquence; a velvet hand is needed, he says, rather than a 
mailed fist; in short, a lawyer is better fitted for flie 
management of aflfairs than a soldier. As to which lawyer, 
— ^why, his highness may readily — ^and so forth. 

Swayed by Mrs. Blount, the Prince yields, and suddenly 
turning to the assembled courtiers, says: "Gentlemen, 
I present to you Monsieur Rabagas, your new Governor." 
He cuts short the effusive thanks of Rabagas by bidding 
him conjure away at once the peril of a revolutionary ris- 
ing. Rabagas assents, and with an assured and smiling 
air, he walks toward the balcony overlooking the square. 
" I shall want," says he, *' two lackeys with flambeaux to 
light up my face, in order that the people may not lose 
the play of a single feature. Watch me." As he utters 
the words the crash of breaking glass is heard. The mob 
have grown tired of hurling insults at the Prince, and have 
taken to hurling stones at the palace windows. With a 
theatrical smile, Rabagas steps upon the balcony to address 
the mob. He tells them that the Prince has appointed him 
Governor, and that this concession means a liberal govern- 
ment. But he is interrupted in his address by hoots and 
y^Us (from the mob. Tliey call jhim "traitor," "turn- 
coat," "police spy," "renegade." Finally, when he is 
wounded in the head by a stone, the exasperated Rabagas 
orders the Colonel commanding the palace guard to fire 
upon the people, to smash the printing presses of the 
Carmagnole, to gut the editorial offices, and to raze the 
"Flying Toad," so that not one stone should rest upon 
another. 

When he hears this bloodthirsty programme the Prince 
turns to Mrs. Blount, saying: " Can this be the man you 
told me would get me out of this pickle ?'* 

She replies : " Yes, and I am right, your highness, for 
he was the head of the mob and now the mob has no head. 



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RABA6AS 247 

The revolution \i^i8 Rabagas, and Rabagas lias turned 
traitor to his own revoluticMi/' 

In the next act we find ourselves in the cabinet of 
Governor Rabagas, in the Prince's palace. He is attended 
by Bricoli, late secretary to his predecessor, now his own 
attendant. He learns from Bricoli that his orders have 
been carried out — ^his former associates of the "Flying 
Toad" are all locked up, the Carmagnole has been sup- 
pressed, and the presses of that radical paper smashed. He 
also learns that there is much excitement in the dty, but, 
as it is patrolled by troops, there are as yet no hostilities. 

Rabagas interrogates Bricoli as to the internal arrange- 
ments of the palace. He learns that the apartments of 
Mrs. Blount open on the same corridor as those of the 
Princess Gabrielle. The apartments of the Prince are in 
another part of the palace; from the Prince's apartment a 
secret passage leads to the garden, in the wall of which 
there is a postern door, giving a private exit to the street 
To this door there are three keys— one for the Prince, one 
for the Governor, and <Mie for the Governor's secretary. 
Rabagas immediately demands and takes possession of his 
key. Bricoli, who is full of zeal for his new master, tells 
how he has discovered the identity of the man who made 
his exit from the Prince's garden under cover of night. 
He tells Rabagas that it is Andre, a young officer of the 
guard. Neither of them know that in reality the midnight 
prowler was Gtrle, the lover of the Princess Gabrielle, and 
that his bosom friend Andre has declared himself to be the 
guilty one in order to shield not only the Princess but his 
friend, her lover, from discovery. Bricoli tells Rabagas 
that he has searched the apartments of Andr6 and Carle, 
which they occupy jointly ; he has found there a suspicious 
letter, which he has brought to the new Governor. It is in 
a woman's hand, and it makes a rendezvous with the young 
officer that very night. Neither can guess who the lady 



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M8 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

may be. But the thoughtful Rabagas puts the letter aside, 
thinking he may find it useful. 

The zealous secretary Bricoli is now bidden by Rabagas 
to go forth into the city and stir up some enthusiasm for 
the new Governor; to order every householder to illumi- 
nate his windows; and to place on the public square, 
immediately fronting the Prince's palace, the inscription, 
" Long Live Rabagas," in letters of fire. 

As Bricoli departs to carry out these orders, Rabagas 
begins a careful examination of the private papers of his 
predecessor. To his disgust, he finds among them grateful 
notes acknowledging the receipt of small sums of money, 
and signed by his associates of the "Flying Toad." 
" Faugh ! what a rotten lot they are. I ain the only honest 
man among them," exclaims the high-minded Rabagas. 

In the next scene, we find Mrs. Blount and Andre to- 
gether. She tells the young man that his midnight excur- 
sions in the garden must be accounted for to the Prince's 
satisfaction, and when he pleads ruefully that he can give 
no plausible pretext for his presence, she replies : " Why, 
every young man has a pretext for nocturnal wanderings. 
You are twenty years old — ^therefore, you are in love." 
When Andre admits that this excuse might serve, but 
pleads that he knows no fair one who might incline a 
willing ear, Mrs. Blount at once suggests Mile, de 
Th^rouane. His countenance changes, and he pleads that 
wicked tongues might play havoc with her fair fame were 
he to speak of her thus. 

"Ah, is it so?" cries Mrs. Blount. "I see you think 
you are not in love, but you are, and you do not wish to 
besmirch her whom you love. You are a gallant young 
gentleman. So I will give you another woman to whom 
to pay your midnight court. Take me ! " 

"You?" exclaims Andre, in astonishment. 

" Yes, me. You adore me. Last night you came under 



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RABAGAS iM9 

my window to indulge in your nocturnal adoration, 
and " 

At this moment the Prince enters. He greets Mrs. 
Blount cordially, but lodes upon Andr6 with marked dis- 
favour. He coldly asks him what he is doing there when he 
is under arrest. Mrs. Blount intercedes for Andr6, tell- 
ing the Prince that the aflfair of the garden was nothing 
but an amorous escapade. When the Prince asks further 
details, she admits frankly that Andre has been lurking 
beneath her window, because he is wildly in love with her. 
At this the Prince looks at him with even more marked 
disfavour, and curtly bids him go. When he is gone the 
Prince tells her that he is both gratified and displeased — 
gratified because he feared lest Carle might have been 
foolish enough to be waiting beneath the window of the 
Princess Gabrielle; gratified that it was Andr6 and not 
Carle ; gratified that it was not Gabrielle — ^but vexed that 
it was Mrs. Blount's window and not some other court 
lady's. He determines to order Carle to leave for Paris 
at cmce, on a mission to be confided to him at the legation 
there. 

In the next scene the Prince is bidding good night to 
his daughter and Mrs. Blount. He is about to get a few 
hours' sleep, for at half an hour after midnight he is to 
take horse with twenty troopers and ride to Mentone, 
whence news comes of a contemplated uprising. At this 
moment Rabagas enters, radiant, announcing to the Prince 
that the outbreak is quieted ; the utmost enthusiasm reigns, 
and illuminations all over the city show how popular is 
the accession of Governor Rabagas. 

" But, Monsieur Rabagas," says the Prince, " you claim 
to have quieted the insurrection, do you? Yet, when I 
appointed you, I was just about to make all manner of 
concessions in order to avoid harsh measures. But you 
cried to me: 'I represent conciliation, concord, peace — 



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250 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

just let me show myself to the people!' You showed 
yourself, and what was the result? Charges of cavalry, 
volleys of artillery. This is scarcely conciliation. You 
called yourself a man of the people, but the people repudiate 
you. You are certainly not a man of the court. If you 
are neither the one nor the other, pray let me ask you what 
you are?*' 

Rabagas g^ows pale, and says : " Evidently your high- 
ness intends to turn me out." 

To which the Prince replies: "Turn you out? That 
is a vile phrase, Monsieur Rabagas. We will talk about 
the matter in the morning. Good night." 

When the gjreat man finds himself alone, he muses 
bitterly,! like Cardinal Wolsey, over the ingratitude pf 
princes. " I am duped," says he. " Double and triple 
idiot that I am, I have been gulled 1 They feared the 
storm, and they used me for a lightning rod. Two hours 
of power, and then to be ushered out by a lackey. And 
where can I go? I am suspected and distru^ed by the 
people. I shall be stoned, perhaps assassinated. And for 
what? Two hours at court, and a bad dinner. I have sold 
my popularity for a mess of pottage. But they shall not 
force me to resign. THey will have to drag me from my 
post, step by step, inch by inch!" 

His secretary, Bricoli, enters, and finding Rabagas alone, 
announces two discovepes — ^first, the incriminating letter 
was written by Mrs. Blount; second, Atidre on leaving the 
palace immediately ordered a travelling carriage. Rabagas 
at once divines the truth — ^Andre is about to elope with 
Mrs. Blount, their extreme precautions being due to the 
fact that she is the Prince's mistress. Bricoli asks if the 
horses shall be taken out of the carriage. Rabagas tells 
him no ; he bids him have the coachman wait at the postern 
gate on which the private corridor opens. Rabagas also 
tells him to notify the officer commanding the Prince's 



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RABAGAS S51 

escort not to come until two o'clock instead of one. This 
complicated order being given, he orders the patriots of 
the "Flying Toad" to be taken from their cells and 
brought before him. 

The interview between Rabagas and his quondam 
associates is an animated one. They accuse him of treach* 
ery. He accuses them of idiocy. They tax him with balk- 
ing the insurrection. He tells them he did not give the 
signal for the outbreak because the people had gained all 
they desired by his accession to power. When they re- 
mark, with resentment, that he is the only one in power, 
and they have no offices, he tells them they are a parcel of 
fools unworthy of such a leader. Nevertheless, if they are 
faithful to him he will reward them. This is his plan: 
He is about to release them; thereupon they must make 
arrangements for an outbreak at Mentone. All along the 
route shouts must go up that Rabagas is master of the 
palace, with the Prince his prisoner, and Rabagas is bring- 
ing him to Mentone. In the meantime the people must take 
possession of the Hotel de Ville there; and at one o'clock 
in the morning the Prince would arrive at the Hotel de 
Ville in a carriage, bound and gagged. When they ask 
how all this is to be accomplished, he tells them: the 
Prince will descend to the postern gate at one o'clock; 
a carriage will be waiting there; they three must fall upon 
him, bind and gag him; as soon as the Prince is in the 
carriage, he, Rabagas, will take his place on the box seat 
with the coachman, and drive at top speed to Mentone. 
There the frightened Prince would carry out their wishes, 
would abdicate, and Rabagas proclaim the independence 
of Monaco. When his associates ask what this independ- 
ence means, Rabagas replies placidly : " A republic, with 
me as dictator." When they leave him the three other 
patriots privately suggest overturning the dictatorship and 
making it a triumvirate. 



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262 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

In the next scene Carle and Andre meet, and Carle 
learns that the Prince has ordered him to depart ; the car- 
riage is ordered, and his baggage is packed. Carle strug- 
gles against the inevitable, insisting that he will keep his 
rendezvous for that night with Gabrielle. Andre solemnly 
warns him against this imprudent step, but the lover is 
obdurate. He is in the vestibule upon which open the 
doors of both the Princess Gabrielle and Mrs. Blount The 
hour is late. The ladies in waiting have withdrawn, and 
the lights are all extinguished. There is a faint light over 
the Princess's door. Carle goes toward it and conceals 
himself in an embrasure behind the curtain. 

At this moment the door from the Princess's corridor 
opens, and Rabagas appears, a candle in his hand. He 
looks at Mrs. Blount's door, and mutters: "Evidently 
the handsome young officer of the guard is there. Every- 
thing is going well. He will stay there for some time. The 
carriage is at the door. We shall have the Prince on the 
high road to Mentone, while his escort of troopers will not 
come until an hour after he has gone." 

As he is chuckling over his success, Mrs. Blount appears 
at her door, anxious to see whether the impetuous lover. 
Carle, has indeed departed. She runs into Rabagas. He 
politely requests her to return inunediately to her apart- 
ment. When she asks why, he tells her that the Prince 
is about to go out, privately, accompanied only by his 
trusted Governor, and does not wish to be observed. When 
she asks the reason for this nocturnal promenade, Rabagas 
replies he has made arrangements for some spontaneous 
manifestations of joy along the way — ^partly for the Prince 
and partly for Rabagas. Mrs. Blount replies that she will 
not retire, and that she is determined to advise the Prince 
against this rash expedition. Rabagas blusters; if she 
dares to do this he threatens he will tell the Prince there 
is a man in her chamber. At first Mrs. Blount is about to 



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RABAGAS 26S 

resent this accusation. But she conceals her anger, and 
asks, "What man?" Rabagas replies: "Andre de 
Mora/' When she asks him how he knows this, he 
triumphantly exhibits to her the Princess Gabrielle's letter 
to Carle. Mrs. Blount affects to be overcome with terror 
at sight of the letter, and begs him to give it to her. He 
promises that if she will not seek to keep the Prince from 
leaving the palace he will give her back the letter. She 
suspects that Rabagas has contrived an ambuscade for 
the Prince, intending to kidnap him, and determines to 
warn tht Captain of the guard. But Rabagas distrusts her, 
and bars her way as she attempts to leave the vestibule. 
At the end of her expedients, she affects to give way, and 
promises to aid him, but only on condition that he shall 
return her letter. To this he agrees, and they conceal 
themselves behind the curtains leading to her door. 

The Prince appears alone, carrying his cloak upon his 
arm. Mrs. Blount — ^unseen by Rabagas, the curtain being 
between them — ^makes imperative signs to the Prince not 
to go out. He quickly comprehends, and returns to his 
apartments. But the opening and closing of doors, and the 
sound of his footsteps along the corridor, lead Rabagas, 
who is unfamiliar with the palace, to believe that the Prince 
has gone to the postern gate. He whispers to Mrs. Blount, 
"Is he gone?" 

"Yes," she replies, "yes, he is gone. And now, give 
me back my letter, which you promised me." 

But Rabagas with a sneer says, "Wait — ^111 give it to 
you some other time." Breaking away from her grasp, he 
hastens down the private corridor toward the gate. 

" What a treacherous rascal ! " says Mrs. Blount, con- 
temptuously, as she looks after his retreating form. From 
without there comes the sound of a struggle, the noise of 
trampling feet, and a stifled cry, followed by the rolling 
of carriage wheels. " I knew it," she says, " it is an 



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264 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

for greater security, let me make the Princess «l6^safe — 
at least for to-night" Hastening to the Princess's door 
she double-locks it and puts the key in her pocket. 

In the next act Andr6 has come at daybreak to the 
ante-chamber, where Carle was to have been on guard. 
His mission is to warn Carle to depart before the Prince 
should see him. He searches for him vainly. Mrs. 
Blount hears him; and coming from her apartments, she 
asks him whom he seeks. Andre tells her: Carle had not 
obeyed the Prince's order to depart, for he was i-esolved 
to see Gabrielle once more before his departure; therefore 
he had changed places with Andre, taking his friend's 
guard duty for the night. 

When she hears this, Mrs. Blount is overcome with 
alarm. She asks at what hour Carle was at the rendezvous, 
and when Andre tells her at eleven o'clock, she exclaims 
in terror that she had locked the Princess's door at mid- 
night, and out of her pocket takes the key. 

" My God, Madame 1 " cries Andre, " you have locked 
them together for the whole night! Hasten 1 unlock the 
door before the Prince learns of this, or Carle's head will 
pay the penalty." 

As she is hastening to unlock the door, the Prince 
enters. He gazes suspiciously at this second tete-i-tete, 
and comments on the lady's agitation. She tells him that 
Andre has been relating to her the events of the night. 

" Instead of relating the events," says the Prince, dryly, 
" this gentleman should have been a part of those events. 
What were you doing here, sir, when your company was 
fighting at Mentone?" 

To which Andre replies that he had left for Mentone 
with his men, but when half way there he had received 
orders to return at once to the palace. The Prince then 



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RABAGAS 255 

asks who was on guard in the ante-chamber the night be- 
fore. Andre replies that it was he. 

'* How is it» then, sir, that I could not find you here 
last night when I was about to go out? " 

Andre replies that he heard a noise in the courtyard 
below, and went there by the private door. 

" Which is always locked," says the Prince, ironically. 
But on a sign of negation from Mrs. Blount, Andre tells 
him that, contrary to rule, the door was open the night 
before. The Prince recalls that this is true, and he is for 
the moment baffled. 

At this juncture the Captain of the guard, who has just 
returned from Mentone, enters. He reports that order 
has been restored ; the Prince's troops had taken the Hotel 
de Ville at two o'clock in the morning, delivering Governor 
Rabagas, whom they found bound and gagged under a 
table, and bringing him back with them in a carriage. The 
Governor had ordered a royal salute to be sounded for 
him, which in effect at this moment falls upon the Prince's 
startled ear as Rabagas enters. The Prince requests an 
explanation of the adventures of the night 

"Your highness," says Rabagas, "I was entrapped — 
I was led into an ambuscade. I went out by this corridor 
to go to my apartments, when three masked men leaped 
upon me, mistaking me for you. They stifled my cries, 
bound and gagged me, and threw me into a carriage, 
which set forth at top speed. After an hour of this drive 
in darkness and in pain, I heard shouts : ' They have capt- 
ured the Prince' was the cry. A horde of men sur- 
rounded the carriage. They threw themselves upon me, 
and dragged me forth. To their rage and stupefaction 
they found that the captive was not the Prince, but I. They 
rolled me under a table. As I lay there, helpless and 
gagged, startling events were taking place. A new govern- 
ment founded by Camerlin (in a Green Chamber) advo- 



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«6e THE SARDOU PLAYS 

cated overlooking my defection and pardoning me. But 
another government with Vuillard at its head (which 
started in a Yellow Chamber) cried 'treason/ and de- 
clared against the Greens. At a quarter before two a 
third government founded by Chaffiou (in a Red Chamber) 
suddenly broke forth; they crept in through a window and 
imprisoned the Yellow Government, which still held the 
Green Government in captivity. But at two o'clock the 
Green Government succeeded in escaping by a chimney, 
came in again by the cellar, and surprised the Red Govern- 
ment, which fled through the window, thus leaving behind it 
its own prisoner, the Yellow Government, which also fled 
and took refuge on the roof. Vuillard arrested Camerlin, 
who arrested Chafiiou, who then arrested everybody. But 
trumpets were heard, and the Prince's police force, entering, 
arrested all three Governments and liberated me." 

"This is all very interesting. Monsieur," says the 
Prince, " but tell me how you went out by this door with- 
out being seen by this gentleman, who was on guard here 
last night?" 

Rabagas looks keenly at Mrs. Blount and Andre, and 
replies that Andre was not there when he departed. 

To Andre's protest that he was at his post, the Prince 
replies that this was impossible, or he would have heard 
the sounds of the struggle at the door. "So, sir," says 
the Prince to Andre, "you are a soldier, you know what 
it is to desert your post." 

But the Captain of the guard here interrupts, and says : 
"Pardon me, your highness, this gentleman was not on 
guard last night. The c^cer on duty last night was the 
Chevalier Carle." 

Here Mrs. Blount, foreseeing the appalling discovery 
that is about to take place, goes to Rabagas, and beseeches 
him in whispers to give her the incriminating letter. He 
hesitates, but while he is fingering the paper, she snatches 



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RABAGAS S57 

it from him. The Prince sees her, and demands that she 
show him the letter. She tells him it is a letter of her own 
to Andr^. 

"I do not believe you," replies the Prince. "I have 
caught you in lie upon lie. I demand the truth. You have 
left me in a terrible frame of mind concerning my daughter. 
From your conversations with this officer, your sudden 
seizing of this letter, your suspicious watching of the 
Princess's door, and Carle's guilty presence here last night 
with the connivance of his friend Andre — ^all these things 
seem to point to a rendezvous here, of which this letter 
will tell the truth. From your gfuilty looks toward the 
door I very much fear that you have brought together in 
my daughter's apartment this unhappy pair. Give me the 
letter; if it is your own, as you say, it will prove at once 
that I am mistaken. Give it to me. With you I can do 
nothing, but I can punish your accomplice. For the last 
time I order you, if you would save him, to give me that 
letter." 

Mrs. Blount is much agitated, but she still refuses. 

The Prince says : " Captain, arrest this gentleman. 
Will you give up the letter? Before his company, on 
parade, degrade him for desertion. The letter? Break his 
sword across your knee. The letter? Tear off his epaul- 
ettes and slap his face with them. The letter? Order a 
firing squad of twelve men. The letter? Let his eyes be 
blindfolded and . . . unfortunate woman! will you give up 
the letter? or shall he be shot?" 

Mrs. Blount, overcome, gives him the letter, and falls 
half fainting to the floor. 

The Prince hurriedly runs his eye over the letter. " My 
God, it is true, then," he cries — " they are there together ! " 
And he dashes toward his daughter's door. But before 
he reaches the door, it opens, and the Princess Gabrielle 
emerges, greeting him so calmly that he is staggered. 
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«68 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

When he taxes her with having gfiven a rendezvous in her 
chamber to Carle, she bursts into tears, and falls into the 
arms of Mrs. Blount. She tells her father that Carle left 
for Paris the night before at ten o'clock; before leaving, 
he had come to the garden to bid her farewell, but their 
last interview had been like all their others, she at her 
window and he in the garden. The Prince, shaking with 
his conflicting emotions, is mollified, and takes his 
daughter in his arms. 

Suddenly trumpets are heard without, and the Chevalier 
Carle enters, having returned from Mentone, whither he 
had led the troops when they captured the Hotel de Ville. 

The Prince looks at him quizzically, and says : 

" Approach, young sir. Do you know the penalty due 
the soldier who deserts his post at night?" 

" Yes, your highness," says Carle, timidly, *' it is death." 

"In this case," replies the Prince, "it shall be not 
death, but marriage. Embrace your wife. Bless you, my 
children. Bless you." And turning to Mrs. Blount, he 
says: " Since we have made one misalliance, suppose we 
make another. Let us at one and the same time make 
you a Princess, and a mother for Gabrielle." 

" And now," says the new Princess, " let us put a stop 
to revolution. Let Giovemor Rabagas issue this decree;" 
and she dictates to the great man the following proclama- 
tion: ** Any person having taken part in last night's up-- 
rising shall be sentenced to imprisonment for life.'* 

When Rabagas is requested to sign this drastic docu- 
ment, he says, to the Prince : " Your highness, rather than 
attach my name to so cruel a measure I would offer my 
resignation." 

"It is accepted^ Monsieur," replies the Prince with 
great quickness. 

Here, a wrangle is heard at the door, to which all turn. 



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BABA6AS Sff9 

Bricoli and the Colonel are coming in, each holding the 
other by the collar. 

"What is the matter?" asks the Prince. 

"I have arrested Bricoli, your highness/' replies the 
Colonel, " for seditious cries." 

"Not so, your highness," replies Bricoli, "I have 
arrested him for that very offence. He cried ^ down with 

" But," replied the Colonel, " he was crying ' long live 
Rabagas/** 

"Gentlemen," replied the Prince, "you can let go of 
one another's collars. It is neither * down with Rabagas * 
nor ' long live Rabagas ' but ' good-bye, Rabagas/ ** 



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LES BOURGEOIS DE PONT-ARCY 

The town of Pont-Arcy, upon the river Orge, is divided 
naturally into three parts; these, also naturally, are in- 
habited by three parties, the Upper Old Town, where live 
the nobility; the Lower Old Town, made up of the work- 
ing classes ; and the Center, or New Town, made up of the 
bourgeois, or commercial class. Above, the past; below, 
the future; between the two, the present. 

At the time when the play begins, it is the bourgeois 
who dominate the town of Pont-Arcy. They are repre- 
sented in the person of the Mayor, M. Trabut, and above 
all by the Mayoress, the handsome Madame Trabut, who 
is ambitious for her husband, and who hopes that he may 
become a member of the Chamber of Deputies and spend 
some time at Paris. 

The political and social supremacy of the handsome 
Madame Trabut is menaced by an event which plimges 
the lower and the middle class into a fever of excitement. 
The Baron Fabrice de St. Andre is about to wed his cousin. 
Mademoiselle Berengere des Ormoises. Now the St. 
Andre family has shared the liberal opinions of the 
bourgeoisie ever since the late baron, father of the present 
one, wedded Mademoiselle Brochat, who was the daughter 
of a Pont-Arcy tanner. Thus the marriage of the young 
baron with his cousin has all the importance of a reconcilia- 
tion between two notable divisions of the society of Pont- 
Arcy. And as Mademoiselle Berengere is pious and yet 
not bigoted, is virtuous and yet not prudish, as she there- 
fore will have every opportunity of rendering her house 
the most agreeable and most hospitable in all the country 
around — it is very clear that the ambitious Madame Trabut 
is going to have a dangerous rival. Therefore, all manner 
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LES BOURGEOIS DE PONT-ARCY 861 

of intrigues are being hatched among the bourgeois, who 
conspire against the Baron Fabrice de St Andre and his 
cousin Berengere, if not to prevent his marriage, at least 
to render their residence in the town impossible, and to 
force them to migrate. The occasion diligently sought 
by all the evil tongues in Pont-Arcy at last presents itself, 
and it is on this that the play is based. 

At the moment when the action beg^s, we are plunged 
into all the excitement of a local festival — ^an agricultural 
fair, a display of horse-flesh and fine cattle, and the in- 
auguration of the statue of a local g^eat man, utterly 
unknown to fame beyond the town's borders. In the midst 
of this confusion a young woman arrives from Paris, goes 
to the Grand Hotel of Pont-Arcy, registers under the name 
of Marcelle Aubry, and forthwith demands an interview 
with the Baron Fabrice de St. Andre. As soon as the New 
Town (where the bourgeois hold forth) learns of this 
incident, the gossips set to work. They carefully study 
the Paris directory: they find that Marcelle Aubry keeps 
at Paris, in the Rue Caumartin, a shop where costumes and 
fine lingerie are sold. 

"Ah," cackle the bourgeois busybodies, "what can 
this young and pretty woman, who sells lingerie in Paris, 
have to do with the Baron Fabrice? Evidently it is an old 
mistress of his. He has abandoned her, now that he is 
about to marry, and she has come here to win back her 
faithless lover, or else to make him give her some sub- 
stantial indemnity for his desertion." 

So all the busybodies and gossips and the Baron's 
enemies place themselves on the lookout, and when 
Marcelle Aubry presents herself at the house of the Baron's 
mother — for he has been prudent enough not to receive a 
strange lady anywhere else — ^her movements are watched 
by a half dozen Paul Prys, including Lechard, the local 



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262 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

news-vender, and several eld ladies, who have nothing to 
do but make trouble in other people's affairs. 

At last, Marcelle and the Baron Fabrice are together. 
She has come to make a melancholy revelation. Fabrice 
has cherished a strong filial love for the memory of his 
father, who died a little more than a year before, stricken 
down by an apoplectic attack, while at Paris. Marcelle 
explains to him the reason for the long and repeated 
sojourns his father had made at Paris during the last 
years of his life. It seems that he had conceived for 
Marcelle a passion which she shared; he had too late 
avowed to her that he was married and the father of a 
family. Such being the case, he could do nothing to repair 
their common fault, and she had remained four years his 
mistress and had borne to him a child. Marcelle, though 
sinning, had retained the feelings of a worthy woman, and 
would have preserved his secret as well as her own. But 
unfortunately, an agent (who had acted in the purchase 
of the shop which Marcelle conducted) had in his pos- 
session some papers signed by the elder Baron de St. 
Andre. Marcelle owed this agent 50,000 francs, and he 
was threatening to make the widowed Baroness de St. 
Andr6 a defendant in an action to recover this sum. 
Marcelle shudders at the bare thought of such a revelation 
striking the widowed Baroness in her peaceful home, and 
she has decided to tell everything to the son, in order that 
he might settle the matter. 

The young Baron Fabrice, after a first moment of 
repugnance at the recital of Marcelle, is obliged to admit 
its truthfulness. After looking over the correspondence 
she has brought, he admits that it is his father's signature, 
and he pays her the 50,000 francs, only too glad thus to 
spare his mother the terrible shock and shame. 

But he had reckoned without the Paul Prys of Pont- 
Arcy. They have devised a scheme by which Marcelle, 



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LES BOURGEOIS DE PONT-ARCY MS 

on leaving him, shall fall into a veritable ambuscade. She 
is arrested; she is taken before the Mayor and his police 
officials; her travelling bag is opened; she is ordered to 
explain where she got the large sum of money which it 
contains. The Baron Fabrice is obliged to interfere in 
her behalf, and now we have the scandal which Madame 
Trabut and her accomplices have been so skilfully en- 
deavouring to bring about. Some of the officials have seen, 
among the papers in the travelling-bag, a letter beginning 
with these words: "My dearest love Marcelle." The 
widowed Baroness de St Andre severely bids her son 
explain. How can Fabrice explain without accusing and 
blackening the memory of his father? He therefore per- 
mits all these gossips and spies to believe that Marcelle 
has been his mistress, and he is forced to make this avowal 
in the presence of B^rengfere, whom he adores. It would 
seem that to proceed with the marriage is out of the ques- 
ticm. The bourgeois of Pont-Arcy have triumphed. 

Nevertheless, lawyer Brochat, the brother of the 
widowed Baroness de St. Andr^, an uncle of Fabrice, has 
gone to Paris, to obtain information concerning Marcelle. 
He has found only too much information. He discovers 
that Marcelle Aubry, who is a young woman of good 
family and of fine education, was seduced by the elder 
Baron de St. Andre. Lawyer Brochat has discovered 
everything, has seen everything, even the child of this un- 
fortunate connection. He is obliged to report a portion 
of these facts to the widowed Baroness. At the description 
of this child, whom he has found altogether charming, 
the heart of the widowed Baroness softens. She fancies 
that she is its grandmother. When she looks at the photo- 
g^ph, she says: "Ah, my son cannot deny that child. 
See what a striking resemblance, and how handsome it is ! 
I must have it." This maternal eflfusion brings about the 
most striking situation of the play: The widowed Baroness 



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864 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

will not listen for a moment to the idea of her son Fabrice 
abandoning the child. She demands that he marry Marcelle 
Aubry. But Fabrice replies that it is impossible, and says 
no more. The resistance of her son is revolting to the 
generous heart of the widowed Baroness. She desires 
that he shall sacrifice his present love for Berengere to 
the duty which he incurred in seducing Marcelle. As she 
cannot read his heart, she begins to doubt whether her son 
is worthy of any woman's love. 

But Berengere does not doubt him. Fabrice has said 
to her : " Berengere, have you enough esteem for me, 
enough love, to believe in me without witnesses, without 
any other proof than my love for you, without even a word, 
without even a denial from me?" 

"Do not utter a word," cries Berengere; *'I will be- 
lieve in you in the face of the entire world." And the two 
lovers separate, full of faith in one another, for Berengere 
retires to a convent until matters shall have cleared. 

In the last act, lawyer Brochat decides to tell his sister, 
the Baroness, the truth. He thinks that, rather than allow 
her to condemn a living man to suffer under an unjust 
stigma, she should learn the truth about one who is dead. 
So the truth is told to her. She learns that the child 
which is supposed to be that of her son Fabrice, is in 
reality the illegitimate offspring of her own husband's 
amour with Marcelle. Berengere comes back from the 
convent. She and Fabrice are restored to his mother's 
love. Their marriage takes place. The widowed Baroness 
takes her husband's child to her heart, and the bourgeois 
of Pont-Arcy find that their noses are put out of joint 



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THEODORA 

When Sardou's " Theodora "' was produced at the Porte 
Saint-Martin Theatre the theatrical world had been 
anxiously awaiting its production. Sarah Bernhardt, who 
played Theodora, had not appeared on the stage for about 
six months — ^not since the failure of Jean Richepin's ver- 
sion of " Macbeth." Tickets sold as high as sixty francs. 
So successful was the play that Bernhardt was destined to 
appear as Theodora nearly nine hundred times. 

The time of the play is in the sixth century, when 
Justinian, the Byzantine Emperor, was at his wits' end 
with insurrections, one of which resulted in the burning 
of the original church of Saint Sophia. The first scene, 
a gorgeous hall in the imperial palace, is in the nature of 
a prologue, in which the audience is told of the political 
intrigues. As the curtain rises, Theodora enters from a 
chapel, whence come the throbbing notes of an organ. 
Her costume is a replica of the celebrated mosaic of the 
Byzantine Virgin in the Church of Ravenna — ^her robe is 
yellow satin embroidered with topazes; her coiffure is 
ablaze with jewels, and in her hand she carries a white 
lily, which tradition says was Theodora's favourite flower. 
The Empress seats herself on a couch of tigers' skins, 
and gives audience to her courtiers and to ambassadors 
from foreign lands. With her is Antonina, her trusted 
friend and former companion in the circus. Theodora 
effects a reconciliation between Antonina and her husband, 
Belisarius, commander of the imperial forces, who has left 
his wife because of her infidelities. At last Theodora dis- 
misses the courtiers, and is once more free. The courtesan 
appears beneath the golden robes of the Empress. Taking 
two mute slaves, she departs, heavily veiled, to meet her 

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866 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

lover, Andreas, who knows her only as *' Myrtha/' a young 
widow, about to be married to a rich old miser. 

The second scene is laid in the vaults beneath the 
Hippodrome, filled with wild beasts in cages. Here 
Tamyris, an old and withered witch, gives to Theodora a 
love-philtre with which to win Andreas. Tamyris is an 
ex-circus-rider. A familiar dialogue takes place between 
the two, while lions and tigers pad softly up and down. 

The next scene is in the atrium of Andreas, the simple 
lines of its pure Greek architecture contrasting strongly 
with the bastard Byzantine of the other scenes. Here a 
love scene takes place between Theodora and Andreas, who 
tells her that he is one of a band of conspirators; headed 
by Marcellus, Captain of the palace guards, they intend 
to take Justinian prisoner and carry him oflF to tfie coast 
of Asia. Suddenly a murmur from the streets is heard, 
gradually increasing, till, above the confused noise, voices 
can be distinguished. The mob is shouting a ribald song 
about Theodora. Andreas is laughingly taking up the 
refrain, when Theodora presses her hand on his lips, cry- 
ing, " Oh, not you ! not you 1 '* The mob passes on, and 
Theodora hastens to the palace to warn Justinian of his 
danger. 

In the next scene, the stage is divided into two com- 
partments : the one, a cabinet, elegantly furnished in carved 
woods inlaid with gold and precious stones; the other, a 
gallery hung with Chinese tapestries, with a large window 
at the back, through which can be seen the Bosphorus. 
In the cabinet a brilliant light falls from a magnificent 
flambeau of beaten gold. The gallery is lighted only by 
a single shaft of moonlight In the cabinet is seated 
Justinian, resplendent in his embroidered robes, and wear- 
ing the large pearl ear-rings of the emperors of Byzantium. 
Theodora enters. Justinian's suspicions have been aroused 
by her long absence; he is determined to know why she has 



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THEODORA S67 

gone forth at this hour of the night But she stops his 
questions by informing him of the plot against his life. 
The roar of the approaching crowd is heard; Justinian is 
about to accept the advice of Belisarius, and fly to some 
place of safety until his troops can be collected. But 
Theodora declares that she will remain to be killed as an 
empress in her palace, not fleeing like a hunted beast. 
Justinian at last determines to face the mob. But an un- 
looked for danger threatens him. Marcellus, having free 
access to the palace, has introduced his fellow-conspirator, 
Andreas, who is on his way to the Emperor's apartments. 
Theodora sees him, divines his danger, and suddenly locks 
him into the secret gallery. Marcellus, supposing Andreas 
to be behind him, is making his way stealthily into Jus- 
tinian's cabinet, when he is surprised and bound by Bel- 
isarius and his aids. 

Justinian orders that Marcellus be tortured to force him 
to reveal the names of his fellow-conspirators. The fur- 
nace is brought in, the pincers and branding-irons are 
heated red-hot. Theodora begs for a moment's private 
converse with Marcellus. Fearing lest he may divulge 
her liaison with Andreas, Theodora suddenly stabs him 
with the golden pin which confines her hair. 

As the man falls dead, Justmian cries: "My God! 
What have you done?'* 

"He insulted me," Theodora coolly replies, "and I 
have killed him." 

The scene changes to the garden of Andreas's house. 
The stage is set with giant palm-trees. At the back can 
be seen an arm of the sea, and in the distance the dim 
outlines of the Asiatic coast. In this garden, Marcellus 
is buried with Byzantine rites. During the ceremony, 
from behind the palm-trees, is heard the chorus of 
mourners, chanting a solemn dirge. 

Theodora enters, and obtains a promise from Andreas 



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«68 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

not to leave his house until she can provide a safer hiding- 
place for him. But after her departure his fellow-con- 
spirators convince him that she is an impostor and has 
betrayed them to the Emperor, thus causing the death of 
his friend, Marcellus. Andreas vows vengeance, and 
promises to give the signal for an attack on the Emperor 
at the Hippodrome on the following day. 

The sixth scene represents the imperial box at the 
Hippodrome ; on a raised dais are the throne of the Emperor 
and the Empress's chair; around them the courtiers, 
arrayed in splendid costumes, glittering with embroideries 
of gold and precious stones. In the Paris production there 
were two hundred persons on the stage. 

The Praetor, resplendent in his white tunic, embroidered 
with gold, his breast-plate shining with diamonds and 
rubies, and holding in his hand his golden rod of office, 
announces the Emperor. The guards arrange themselves 
in line, and Justinian enters with Theodora, preceded by 
the thurifers, bearing censers of chased gold. Bernhardt's 
dress in this scene was of bleu de del satin, with a train 
four yards long, covered with embroidered peacocks with 
ruby eyes and feathers of emeralds and sapphires. It was the 
wCM*k of the most cunning embroiderers in Paris, and was a 
perfect mosaic of precious stones. 

At the sight of the Emperor and Empress a tumult 
breaks out among the people, and Andrdas, hurling in- 
sults and reproaches on the Emperor, is seized by the 
guards. He is about to be executed by the Emperor's 
order, when Theodora stays the officer, saying: " Let him 
be bound. This man belongs to me." The people now 
fly to arms, and engage in a conflict with Belisarius's 
mercenaries. 

The next scene is in the crypt of the palace, through 
whose windows can be seen the flames of the burning city. 
Justinian believes the Empress guilty, and has just deter- 



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THEODORA 269 

mined to kill her, when the news comes that Belisarius 
has overcome the insurgents. 

In the conflict Andreas has disappeared, and is thought 
to be dead, but Theodora finds him in one of the wild- 
beast vaults of the Hippodrome, where he has been con- 
cealed by Tamyris, who found him among the wounded. 
Andreas reproaches Theodora for her treachery, and she, 
in her despair, calls on heaven to witness that she truly 
loves him. As he still repulses her, she suddenly remem- 
bers the love-philtre given her by Tamyris; taking advan- 
tage of the wounded man's weakness, she forces the 
philtre down his throat. But Tamyris had by mistake 
given her a poison intended for the Emperor, who had 
caused her son to be executed among the conspirators. 
Andreas dies in the most frightful agonies. 

Theodora has no time to mourn her lover, for the large 
portals of the vault swing open; the executioner enters, 
and presents to Theodora a red silk cord. She under- 
stands; removing her pearl necklace, she bares her neck 
and adjusts the cord. Then, bowing her head over 
Andreas, she says to the executioner : " Now, I am ready," 
and Justinian's slave strangles her upon her lover's body. 



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LES FEMMES FORTES 

M. QuENTiN is a prosperous French manufacturer, 
recently returned from a trip to America, whither he had 
gone to settle the estate of a deceased uncle. He comes 
back filled with what he believes to be American ideas 
concerning the proper degree of freedom for women. His 
two daughters, Gabrielle and Jenny, have been living at 
home under the care of his cousin Claire, a young lady of 
beauty and accomplishments, but with no fortune. Gabrielle 
and Jenny are both lively girls, and when their father 
returns with these American ideas they accept them with 
the utmost enthusiasm. They have already rather dis- 
turbed their chaperone Claire by their tendency toward 
flirtation, and Jenny is now interested in a pretended 
Montenegrin prince, Lazarowitch, whom Claire is en- 
deavouring to send to the right-about. 

Domiciled with Quentin's family are M. and Madame 
Toupart, the latter a sister of Quentin. The defunct 
unde owned a large factory near Havre, which Quentin 
and Mine. Toupart had expected to inherit, as they 
were his only heirs. But the eccentric old gentleman had 
always refused to see them, so they had given up all hope 
of inheriting from him. However, as his sudden death 
showed that he had died without a will, his property went 
to Quentin and Mme. Toupart. But there was a third 
heir, a brother of Quentin, who lived in New York. It 
was to see him that Quentin had made the voyage to 
America. When there, he found that his brother had just 
died, and that his only heir was a son who had not been 
seen for years, but who was supposed to be living in 
California. Therefore, as Quentin explains, he "put an 
advertisement in the newspapers." "It is the custom in 
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LES FEMMES FORTES S71 

America/' he says; "everybody's private affairs are in the 
newspapers. To ascertain news of your friends' health, 
to print news of your own, to get married or divorced, to 
advertise for a lost wife, for lost money, or for a lost 
umbrella, you advertise in the newspapers — ^it is the Amer- 
ican way." So he inserts in the newspapers an advertise- 
ment, asking Jonathan Quentin, son of Auguste Quentin, 
if living, to send his address to his uncle. 

His cousin Claire consults him concerning the pretended 
Montenegrin prince who is paying his addresses to Jenny; 
she suggests that a stc^ be put to his visits. But Quentin, 
imbued with American ideas, will not listen to it " What," 
he cries, " treat my daughters as if I were a Turk? Why 
not put iron bars on the windows? Don't talk that way to 
a man who has just returned from a country where girls 
go alone on journeys of three, six, or nine months; where 
they receive whomever they please and when they please 1 
I want my daughters to grow up into resolute, self-ccmfident, 
strong-minded women, brought up in tiie English and 
American fashion." 

To show how sincere he is, Quentin has engaged for 
his daughter an American governess, a Miss Deborah. He 
introduces her to the family as " Doctress Deborah." She 
has presided at three woman's meetings on the pressing 
necessity of teaching women in New York descriptive 
geometry. She has sacrificed family affection, health, 
youth, and beauty to the grand cause of feminine education. 
Under this lady's training, Quentin speedily learns that 
his daughters are growing independent enough, for he 
can never find where they are. What is more, he never 
can be sure at what hour he will have his dinner. One is 
out for a drive with a young man, and gets back half an 
hour late. Another decides to dine elsewhere, and does 
not send word that she is not coming. 

While they are waiting for dinner, his brother-in-law. 



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878 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

Toupart, comes in with a letter; from this they learn that 
Jonathan William Quentin, son of the wealthy uncle, is 
living at Stockton, California, where he is proprietor of 
a large planing-mill, and that he intends to come to his 
relatives' house in a few weeks. Toupart sincerely hopes 
the young man will go to the bottom when crossing the 
ocean, because, adds the frank Toupart, he will insist upon 
dividing the inheritance, selling the mill, or making them 
pay him six htmdred and sixty-six thousand, six hundred 
and sixty-six francs, and sixty-six centimes. 

While they are discussing this unwelcome epistle, one 
of the daughters of the house enters, in hunting costume, 
with a very short skirt, gaiters, game-bag, and gun. She 
brings a young man with her, to take pot-luck. Claire 
discovers that both the girls have made plans for eloping 
that night, and is much shocked. 

In the midst of this situation suddenly appears Jona- 
than. He carries a valise, swings a walking stick, and is 
followed by a dog. He informs them that there are not 
three heirs, as he is the only heir ; there was a pre-nuptial 
contract which annulled the will, and therefore their house 
is now his. 

Quentin sinks into his chair groaning: " We're ruined." 
The strcHig-minded daughters faint upon sofas. Jonathan 
carefully cfcserves that the only one of the women who has 
not been terrified at his avowal is Cousin Claire. 

In the scenes which follow Quentin and Toupart en- 
deavour to induce Jonathan to be less hard-hearted. They 
try threats, pleadings, menaces of suits-at-law, but all are 
fruitless. They find that the American is better versed 
in the French code than they are, and they retire dis- 
comfited. 

Then the two strong-minded sisters, one after another, 
try to exercise their charms on the young American, but 
fail ignominiously. Quentin at last notifies the family 



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LES FEMMES FORTES «7d 

that they must vacate the premises. While Qaire is pack- 
ing up such of the personal eflfects as belong to them, Jcma- 
than finds that he has fallen in love with the penniless 
gentlewoman, and prefers his suit. The lady listens to 
him, but will consent to marry him only on condition that 
he will permit Quentin and his family to remain in the 
house. To this he at last consents, and the curtain falls 
upon a reunited and presimiably happy family. 



18 



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UONCLE SAM 

The play " L'Oncle Sam " was about to be produced 
at the Fifth Avenue Theatre in New York in the month 
of October, 1872, just at the time when that theatre was 
burned to the ground. Sardou then determined to produce 
the piece in Paris. But to his surprise the censorship for- 
bade it. He endeavoured to have the ban of the prohibition 
lifted, but without avail. The censors referred him to 
President Thiers, who apparently was the person respon- 
sible for the interdiction. In France the chief of state 
interferes in everything. More than once Napoleon III. 
lifted the interdiction from plays. M. Emile Auper's 
" Les Eflfrontes " was first forbidden by the censorship and 
then permitted by the Emperor. Sardou therefore appealed 
directly to the chief magistrate. He sent his play to M. 
Thiers with the following letter: 

Paris^ 20th January, 1873. 

M. L£ PKESn)ENT: 

Pardon the liberty I take in turning your attention for a 
moment from the grave matters which occupy you, that I may lay 
before you the following facts: I have written for the Vaudeville 
Theatre a play entitled " L'Oncle Sam." This piece has been com- 
mented upon favourably by the commission as offering nothing 
objectionable to public order or morals. Nevertheless, and despite 
this favourable report, my play has been interdicted by the censor- 
ship. The reason of this has been alleged to be injurious references 
in the play levelled at the institutions, the manners, and the morals 
of the American Republic. 

I protest against this judgment My satire upon American 
manners, however pungent it may be, has by no means the objection- 
able character imputed to it The play in no instance crosses the 
limit accorded at all epochs to the stage. And if the play makes 
for the superiority of French manners and morals over the morals 
and manners of the New World, surely that cannot be accounted 
274 



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L'ONCLE SAM 876 

a crime against them. Let a single word really painful to Amer- 
icans be pointed out to me and I will at once cancel it. 

Let me cite in support of my contention the opinion of the 
younger Mr. Washburn (son of the American Minister), who, hav- 
ing seen and read the play, declares to me that he has found nothing 
in it of a nature to wound his national susceptibility. 

Therefore we must seek in vain the motives for so harsh an 
interdiction, and in the name of the managers of the Vaudeville 
Theatre, and in my own, I appeal to your sense of fairness and beg 
you to reverse the judgment of the censorship. 
Receive, etc., 

VlCTOMEN SaRDOU. 

After some time M. Thiers addressed to the playwright 
the following letter: 

Versailles, 12th February, 1873. 
Monsieur : 

I have received the letter which you sent me and the MS. 
which accompanied it. I hope that my delay in replying will not 
surprise you if you will be good enough to consider the many 
grave affairs which take up my time. 

I regret to announce to 3rou that after a second and careful 
examination of your play (an examination made by competent and 
unprejudiced judges) I cannot reverse the decision of which you 
complain. The piece would deeply offend a friendly nation whose 
citizens frequent our country and cause much material well-being 
by their presence. For the rights of talent I have the respect that 
those rights deserve, but it is impossible to sacrifice to them the 
public interests. 

Receive, etc., 

A. Thiers. 

It is rather remarkable that the President should have 
been so solicitous about wounding American susceptibilities, 
when Sardou had played havoc with the feelings of his own 
countrymen. The piece is very largely "La FamiUe 
Benoiton" transplanted to America. The decline of a 
French family is paralleled by the corruption of an 



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«76 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

American family. Generally speaking, the French play- 
wrights have been anything but gentle toward their 
countrymen. Adultery is the stock in trade of contem- 
poraneous French dramas. In the successful French 
melodrama Paris is a lair of brigands, pickpockets, burglars, 
and harlots. When a married woman appears it is gener- 
ally to deceive her husband or to conspire with her par- 
amour to assassinate him. It is not unamusing therefore, 
to contemplate the perturbation of the French President 
over wounding the susceptibilities of another nation. At 
the close of the Franco-Prussian War, when there was 
much bitter feeling between the two nations, an enterpris- 
ing German got out a book entitled " The French Painted 
by Themselves." It was made up entirely of extracts 
written by Frenchmen, and it said worse things of French 
men and women than ever were said by Germans. 

An amusing sequel to this official interdiction of 
" L'Oicle Sam " remains to be recorded. Six weeks after 
the fire the Fifth Avenue Theatre was rebuilt in New York 
of wood. Manager Daly determined to put on '^L'Oncle 
Sam." Manager Carvalho told Sardou that the produc- 
tion of the play in America would certainly cause the 
authorities to permit it to be presented in Paris. Sardou 
made a new appeal to the President and received a letter 
from his secretary which said: 

"The President would regard as very tinfortunate the effect 
that jrour play would produce on the Americans in Paris. The 
Americans may laugh at themselves but from a foreign people 
professing friendship such things would not be taken in the same 
spirit" 

Such is the curious history of a French play which was 
forbidden in Paris and played in New York. Thus the 
French people in New York were enabled to see in America 



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L'ONCLE SAM 877 

a play written by a Frenchman satirising American man- 
ners, which had been forbidden in France. 

In order to give a comic turn to this comedy of politics 
it remained only for the French government to turn a 
somersault. The 24th of May, 1873, brought about a 
change of government. Under the presidency of M. Thiers 
the play was considered dangerous to the public order. 
Under the presidency of Marshal Macmahon it was per- 
fectly innocuous, and was put on the stage. 

It was at the Grand Opera House that Augustin Daly 
put on " L'Oncle Sam/' and the American people laughed 
good-hiunoredly at its satire without showing any resent- 
ment. Daly advertised the fact of its suppression freely. 
His programmes said: 

''This comedy has been prohibited by the French Government 
for fear it might wound the feelings of Americans. But Mr. Daly, 
relying upon the intelligence of the people of New York, produced 
the play without suppressing a single word. He knew that the 
American people feel no resentment toward foreign writers who 
satirize our ridiculous sides — from the * American Notes ' of Dickens 
down to our days, and that an American audience would rather 
laugh over a satire on America than yawn over an apotheosis of 
the great Republic" 

A curious phase of this curious affair was that the 
Parisian audiences took a harsher view of Sardou's satire 
on America than did the Americans themselves. A French 
audience is rarely interested in foreign plays and foreign 
manners. It was shocked rather than amused at the some- 
what coarse flirtation scene in the second act of " L'Onde 
Sam," and the remark was heard, "It is impossible that 
such things can take place in decent circles in America." 
Yet the same audience would smile indulgently over the 
extremely free and easy manners of the Benoiton misses 
in the satire on a parvenu French family. 



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278 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

The first scene takes place in the grand saloon of one 
of the steamboats running between Albany and New York, 
on the Hudson River. It is a floating town. One of the 
leading personages is a French woman, Mrs. Bellamy, who 
has come to the United States for a legacy to which she 
has fallen heir. There is another French tourist, the 
Marquis Robert de Rochemore. His principal task at 
present is to follow a charming American girl, whose name 
he does not know. Thanks to Mrs. Bellamy, the acquaint- 
ance is soon made. She presents the young and rich 
Marquis to Miss Sarah Tapplebot The young lady is 
the niece of Samuel Tapplebot — whence "Uncle Sam." 
Among the other passengers on board are Mrs. Belle 
Nathaniel and Miss Angela, cousins of Sarah ; also the two 
husbands of Mrs. Nathaniel, the first being Mr. Elliott, 
a newspaper man, and the second Colonel Nathaniel, who 
still enjoys the honour of being the lady's husband. Another 
traveller is lawyer Fairfax, who is an aspirant for the hand 
of Sarah, and the Rev. Jedediah Buxton, who is the min- 
ister of a new religion, and urges its dogmas, while at the 
same time singing the praises of a new spirituous liquor of 
his own invention. 

These strange figures are framed in the sumptuous 
fittings of a magnificent steamboat saloon, through which 
stream darkies, carrying trays covered with "American 
drinks," while a brass band blares away and endeavours 
to make its music heard over the demoniacal yells of the 
darkies, the banging of the boat's bell, and the shrieking 
of its steam siren. This tableau strikes the key-note of the 
piece. 

In the second act we are transported to one of the lead- 
ing hotels on Fifth Avenue, New York, where all the per- 
sonages of the play seem to have assembled. Even the 
young ladies are there, likewise " Uncle Sam " Tapplebot, 
who lives, for the most part, permanently at the hotel. 



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L'ONCLE SAM 879 

To Mrs. Bellamy, "Uncle Sam" and his son-in-law, 
Colonel Nathaniel, have sold at a very high price some 
swamp lands in the West, where they have laid out a bocmi 
town. She has ccwne to beg " Uncle Sam " to sell her some 
more at the same price. This extraordinary demand com- 
pletely upsets the wily " Uncle Sam." He scrutinises the 
French woman; seeing that she has by no means the air 
of a simpleton, he scents some new discovery of which he 
is not aware. He is morally convinced that she has struck 
either coal or gold. So he puts the lady off for the present, 
in order to gain time, and sends Colonel Nathaniel out to 
his boom town, in order to make explorations on the spot. 

The Marquis de Rochemore has been introduced into 
her uncle's hotel home by Sarah herself, who (according 
to Yankee usage, as Sardou put it) is engaged in fishing 
for a husband and a fortune. In this act there is an even- 
ing party, attended by a number of very young girls. In 
this scene the French audience was shocked by the " Amer- 
ican customs." The manner in which the playwright had 
represented the extreme freedom of manners which he 
believed to be common in America, did not amuse the 
French audience, but disgusted it. His attempt to represent 
what he believed to be "American flirtation," at times 
brought forth hisses. 

A type of this is the conduct of Sarah toward the Mar- 
quis de Rochemore. She is very much taken with the 
handsome face, the title, and the fortune of Robert, and she 
enters into a conversation with him, which is partly flirta- 
tion and partly a keen lookout for number one. When she 
learns that Robert is the eldest son, that he has an income 
of 80,000 francs a year, and that he possesses landed estates, 
she gives him a melting look and makes him write on her 
ball programme, "I adore Miss Sarah Tapplebot with a 
view to marriage." 

The poor Marquis had been warned by Mrs. Bellamy 



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«80 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

of the dangers of American flirtation, but what man ever 
thinks of the counsel of wisdom when gazing into melting 
eyes? Furthermore, the Marquis has entirely misappre- 
hended the conduct of Sarah. Her extreme freedom had 
led him to believe that it was not marriage that she desired. 

In the third act we are taken to the Tapplebot cotmtry 
house, where " Uncle Sam," his family, and his friends, 
are enjoying the freedom of a Puritan Sunday, by drinking 
large quantities of frapped champagne. The Marquis 
presents himself unexpectedly. The careless young man 
of the first act would scarcely be recognised — ^passion has 
changed him. After three days passed in the most familiar 
intercourse with Sarah, without the young girl permitting 
him to infringe upon her self-respect in the least degree, 
she suddenly disappears without a word of farewell to 
Robert. She returns to her uncle's house; she also, like 
Robert, seems pale and troubled. An explanation is soon 
sought for between these two troubled hearts, who have 
been separated by a misunderstanding, which forms the 
clue to the play. What has happened? It is this: Sarah 
in the midst of her frivolity has suddenly felt within her 
something weaken, something give way, which hitherto had 
permitted her to play her part. She discovers that she loves 
Robert, and her love has opened her eyes. She learns that 
Robert has never seriously thought of making her his wife; 
that his love was not an honourable love. Yet her passion 
for him is so great that if she remains near him another 
day, she is lost, so she has fled from danger. 

This is what Robert has learned in his turn : It is that 
he has no longer before him a young woman, sensual, sor- 
did, calculating, who is legitimate prey for his passions, but 
a spirited young girl, proud, yet trembling, chaste and 
dignified, worthy of being loved for herself. He throws 
himself at her feet and swears that she must be his. This 
scene greatly moved the French audience, which during 



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L'ONCLE SAM J81 

the first two acts had not been amused but rather irritated 
by the satire on American manners. At the end of the 
second act, the piece was in peril; at the end of the third 
act, it seemed to have won the day. 

A new complication changes the complexion of aflFairs. 
The two lovers fall into a snare. " Uncle Sam," accom- 
panied by the Pastor Jedediah and two friends, the news- 
paper man, Elliott, his former son-in-law, and Fairfax, the 
disappointed lover of Sarah, present themselves at the door 
of the drawing-room. 

" Sir," he says to Robert, '^ the situation in which I 
find you forces me to ask if you are ready to marry my 
niece. Here is a clergyman and here are two witnesses." 

Robert rises from his knees in great indignation. The 
ambuscade is evident; the warnings of Mrs. Bellamy come 
to his mind; the avowals which Sarah has just reluctantly 
made were evidently nothing but a plot to lead him deeper 
into the snare. He refuses. 

" I suppose you know then," says " Uncle Sam," " we 
shall make you pay damages?" 

" I do not know at what price you estimate the honour 
of a young girl in America," replies the Marquis, " but send 
the bill and I will pay it." 

Then he goes out, leaving Sarah fainting on the floor. 

The last act takes us back to the Fifth Avenue Hotel. 
We are in the parlour, which is at the foot of the grand 
staircase, at the back of the stage. Colonel Nathaniel has 
returned from his excavations in the boom town of Tapple- 
bot. He has brought back from there nothing but a fever 
and ague, which makes his teeth rattle. He has found 
nothing. Nevertheless, Mrs. Bellamy renews her offers. 
She wishes to buy all the land there is for sale, not at the 
price she paid originally, but at double that sum; finally 
she offers even triple that amount, and offers to pay cash. 
*' Uncle Sam " is completely hoodwinked by this persistence. 



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282 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

He not only refuses to sell a foot more of the precious land, 
but he points out to her a clause in the deed to the land 
she already has, which empowers him, under certain condi- 
tions, to annul the sale already made. He formally annuls 
the sale and offers her the money. The wily Frenchwoman 
sighs, but pretends to be resigned, and snaps into her pocket- 
book the bank-notes which " Uncle Sam " hands to her. 

" Now that we have settled our aflfair," says the vener- 
able " Uncle Sam," " tell me what you have found in the 
land?" 

" Nothing at all, Mr. Tapplebot," replies the lady, " ex- 
cept my money, which I have got back, and I am very glad 
to get it." 

" Uncle Sam," who is at first stupefied, finally becomes 
so struck with admiration for the cunning Mrs. Bellamy 
that he offers her his hand. The lady, however, informs him 
frankly that she would prefer no further dealings with him 
after tiie land purchase. 

Affairs must be regulated between Sarah and Robert. 
Mrs. Bellamy wishes to get her countryman out of the 
claws of these adventurers ; she comes to them to demon- 
strate that he could not be held because there is no promise 
of marriage. 

"You are mistaken," says Sarah, who enters unper- 
ceived ; " here is his promise of marriage on my ball pro- 
gramme." Turning to Robert she says, "But I will not 
hold you to it. I would spare you the humiliation of seeing 
you, a French gentleman, deny your own signature before 
American judges. I will tear your promise," and she tears 
it in two and throws it at his feet. " It is I who have re- 
leased you. Go. I never wish to see you more." 

Robert in despair detertnines to be revenged on Fair- 
fax, the disappointed lover, who, in order to win the hand 
of Sarah, has devised the trap in which Robert is caught 
Robert provokes him and pursues him into the saloon of 



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L»ONCLE SAM 28d 

the hotel, where he insults him publicly. What the play- 
wright calls "an American dud" then follows. Fairfax 
seizes his revolver ; the two adversaries begin firing on the 
grand staircase. Fairfax fires at Robert, whom he misses ; 
the bullet shatters a large mirror on the first floor. Sarah 
throws herself upon Robert, shields him with her body, and 
pushes him into her own room. Fairfax, on the other hand, 
is pushed into her room by Mrs. Bellamy, who locks the 
door, and only releases him under condition of disarma- 
ment 

Robert finally marries Sarah, and takes her back to 
France. Mrs. Bellamy accompanies them, only too happy to 
take back'^to Europe the money she got back from the boom 
town. As for 0>lonel Nathaniel, Belle leaves him, saying 
he is "no good," gets a divorce, and remarries Elliott, her 
first husband. 



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ODETTE 

In speaking of Sardou's Villa at Nice M. Jules Qaretie 
says that in "Odette," when produced at the Vaudeville, 
the playwright introduced a part of the magnificent pan- 
orama seen from the rock of Monthuron, on which his 
villa stands. Like Sardou, the Parisian audience looked 
on the blue Mediterranean, and they, too, saw the magnifi- 
cent 0>miche Road winding among the olive trees, with 
which, as well as with villas, the flanks of the hills are cov- 
ered. It is curious, as showing Sardou's passion for accu- 
rate detail, that he had a number of photographs taken in 
and around his villa in order to reproduce accurately this 
bit of the Riviera on the Vaudeville stage at Paris. While 
"Odette" was being thus carefully placed on the stage, 
" Divor^ons " had just turned its three hundredth night 
and the Academy was electing Sardou to one of its forty 
chairs. 

Sardou's love for Nice, his winter home, was natural. 
His infancy and childhood were passed there. There still 
exists a little dam built by him as a boy in a garden owned 
near Nice by one of his aunts. And he was fond of telling, 
how, once, when he was nine years old, he rode behind his 
grandfather, a veteran in the wane of the Republic and the 
Empire, through a vast marsh across which dimly twinkled 
the lights of a little town. This little town on the farther 
side of the marsh was Nice. The horse sunk so deeply into 
the marsh that the child's feet dragged on the ground as he 
clung to his grandfather's belt. This marsh to-day is the 
new or modem part of Nice — ^the Nice of wealth, of luxury, 
of fine boulevards like the Champs-Elysees — ^the Nice of 
queer princesses, of doubtful generals, of apochryphal am- 
bassadors — in short, the Nice of " Odette." 
284 



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ODETTE 386 

The play begins with an unpleasant discovery by the 
Count de Clermont-Latour. He has made a love-match 
with a woman much younger than himself, a yotmg lady 
whose first name is Odette, but whose last name no one 
seems to know — ^that is, her paternal name. The^ young 
lady's mother has a reputation for not having any repu- 
tation in particular, but, in opposition to the advice of his 
elder brother, the General, the Count has taken the impru- 
dent step of wedding the daughter, a young woman who 
is coquettish, a spendthrift, and without principle. The 
inevitable happens. The Count returns unexpectedly to his 
Chateau Bretigny at midnight. He surprises young Mon- 
sieur Cardaillan introducing himself clandestinely into the 
Countess's boudoir with a key. The facts are clear and 
unmistakable. The Count does not hesitate as to his course. 
He immediately simimons the governess of his three-year- 
old daughter Berangere. 

" Take away my child," he tells her, " and conduct her 
at once to my brother, the General." 

As soon as the child is safely away with her governess, 
the Count summons his wife Odette. "You are a miser- 
able wretch," he cries, " leave my house at once." 

Odette does not defend herself as a woman, but as a 
mother she resists. She demands that he shall not separate 
her from her daughter. But the Count remains inflexible, 
and Odette at last yields and departs, hurling as a fare- 
well word at her husband the epithet " coward ! " 

With the opening of the second act, fourteen years have 
elapsed. The Count has reared his daughter with the most 
touching solicitude. He has assumed toward her almost 
the place of mother. She has been told that her mother was 
drowned while boating at Trouville. 

The young girl Berangere is on the eve of wedding a 
young man whom she loves, M. de Meyran. But an obstacle 
to this match arises, which Berangere did not look for. If 



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886 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

her mother is dead to her world, she is by no means dead 
to the world of Paris. On the contrary, for those who 
know the giddy circles of that city, she is very much alive. 

Madame de Meyran, the grandmother of the young 
girl's Ipver, hesitates to give her consent, or rather she 
makes it conditional. She demands that if she consents to 
the marriage the Countess Odette will enter into an agree- 
ment never to return to Paris, and to lay aside forever 
the name of Countess de Qermont. 

Although this demand may seem harsh, it is, in reality, 
moderate when it is known what Odette has become. 
After the judicial separation which deprives her of the 
care of her daughter, the Countess had lived some time with 
her seducer, Cardaillan. After this, she became the mis- 
tress of the Prince Reuss-Graetz, and led with him a lux- 
urious existence in Vienna. From Vienna and the young 
Prince Reuss-Graetz, Odette went to Naples to live with 
the old Prince RospoH. After the death of her old Prince 
she fell into the arms of an adventurer who passed imder 
the name of the Viscount de Frontenac It is, therefore, 
not remarkable that Madame de Meyran should not be 
overjoyed at the prospect of presenting her grandson with 
such a mother-in-law as the Countess Odette. 

The piece, therefore, turns upon the question whether 
Odette will consent to lay aside the title of Countess de 
Qermont in order to assure the happiness of her daughter 
Berangere, whom she has not seen for fourteen years. 

The Count, his daughter, and her lover, M. de Meyran, 
have gone to Nice for the carnival Chance leads to the 
same city the Countess Odette and her lover. They be- 
come the guests of a charlatan, one Oliva, who calls himself 
a doctor, but whose genuine profession is to keep a swell 
gambling house. The Countess Odette acts as hostess in 
this gilded den, where young lambs, the sons of rich man- 



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ODETTE 887 

ufacturing fathers, allow themselves to be sheared closely 
by gentlemen "of industry." 

One of these, her partner Frontenac, is so dumsy as to 
allow himself to be detected in cheating at baccarat Odette 
is at first terrified and then furious at this discovery; 
hurling the playing cards into the face of Frontenac, she 
drives him from the room, calling him a thief. Then, when 
the " guests " have departed from this embarrassing scene, 
she bursts into tears and cries : 

"To think of a woman like myself sinking into this 
pool of iniquity! Yet who will give me a helping hand?" 

" I will, if you will permit me," replies a voice. It is 
Count Qermont, who has come to pay a visit to his ex- 
wife. 

It is not a pleasant meeting. The Count offers to pay 
Odette's debts and to double her allowance if she complies 
with the conditions required by Madame de Meyran. But 
Odette refuses to lay aside the name which she has borne 
since her marriage. It is all that remains to her, she in- 
sists, and she will keep it. When the Count endeavours to 
move her by appealing to her maternal love, Odette replies : 

"My daughter? I do not know her, since you have 
stolen her frcmi me, but I love her still. I wish to see her, 
to speak with her, to have her know her mother's face." 

" You shall not ! I defy you 1 " he replies. 

This scene between the husband and his former wife, 
while painful, is a powerful one. The Count at last is de- 
feated, and in order to prevent a scandal, yields to the 
wishes of Odette. She is presented to her daughter as a 
lady who was a friend of the late Countess Qermont. 

In the interview between the degraded Odette and the 
innocent daughter, the young girl does not suspect that 
the woman before her is her mother. Berangere shows to 
the strange lady little relics of her dead mother — 2l lock of 
hair, a ball programme, and some trinkets. She weeps as 



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288 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

she tells the strange lady of the many virtues of her mother, 
of whom the Count has always spoken as the best and most 
amiable of women. 

This touching proof of the paternal delicacy of the 
G)unt de Clermont begins to disturb the heart of the wicked 
Odette. She has come to reveal herself and to claim her 
maternal rights from her daughter, but now she hesitates. 

"There are separations more cruel than death/' she 
falters. " I know in this city a lady who for many years 
has lived apart from her husband and her daughter. The 
law has separated them." 

" She must be a bad woman, then/' cries Berangere. 

" She is unfortunate rather than bad/' replies Odette. 

" Has she never tried to see her husband again? " asks 
Berangere. 

'* She does ijot wish to see him." 

''And her child?" 

" Her child has been taken from her by the law." 

" Then/' says Berangere, " the law believes she is not a 
good mother." 

" The law is in error." 

" But if she did nothing to recover her child, and if the 
law took the father's side, she must have been wrong. But 
let us not talk of this bad woman — ^let us speak of my dear 
mother." 

" No ! " cries Odette, breaking into violent weeping, 
" let us speak no more of her. She is dead." 

After this painful interview, Odette, despairing of any 
happiness in life, drowns herself. 



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LES VIEUX GARgONS 

The play begins in the chateau of the de Chavenays, a 
couple who have been married only a year and a half. Vis- 
iting them are the du Bourgs and the de Troenes, also 
newly married couples. The three ladies are deploring the 
neglect of their husbands, one of whom is fond of shooting, 
another of gambling, and another of actresses. As the 
matrons are mutually condoling, Antoinette de Chavenay, 
an unmarried sister of the master of the house, enters. 
She listens in astonishment to their attacks upon marriage, 
which are interrupted by the entrance of a servant with the 
card of a certain M. do Mortemer. The married ladies 
look at one another significantly. He is an elderly bachelor, 
who has had many affairs with ladies of the best society. 
He is not acquainted with the mistress of the house. None 
the less, she decides to admit him, as there must be some 
special reason for his visit. 

Mortemer enters. He introduces himself as a country 
neighbour, the possessor of the adjacent chateau, and tells 
a moving tale to explain his visit. Some poor peasants 
have had their cottage burned, and lost their little all. He 
is getting up a subscription among the rich families of the 
neighbourhood, and all he asks is the assistance of these 
ladies. They accede to his wishes, and intrust to the char- 
itable Mortemer their gifts for the poor family. Mortemer 
does not leave at once, but remains for a quarter of an hour ; 
he dazzles and fascinates them all by his wit, his brilliancy, 
his charm — from the most worldly matron to the innocent 
inginue, Antoinette. 

But the men are returning from their shooting. The 
first two to arrive are Clavieres, another elderly bachelor, 
and de Nantya, a young man who takes a deep interest in 
19 289 



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J90 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

Antoinette. ClaviSres, who is an old crony of Mortemer's, 
is surprised to see him at the de Chavenays', and asks him 
how he comes to be there. 

" I am getting up a subscription for a poor family who 
have been burned out — ^a sick father and four children," 
replies Mortemer modestly. " I hope you will give some- 
thing, Qavieres." And as Clavieres hesitates, Mortemer 
goes on : " Four children, I tell you, and the wife is in an 
interesting condition." 

"Come, come," interrupts Qavieres, "here's your 
money. Take it quick or there'll be twins in a minute." 
Then sotto voce he adds, " See here, old man, you have 
got to give this back. I take no stock in your fake fires." 

But de Nantya is even more incredulous than Clavieres, 
who is a Parisian. De Nantya lives in the neighbourhood. 
He interrogates Mortemer closely as to the name of the 
family, their occupation, and where they live, much to the 
discomfiture of that clever gentleman. But Mortemer suc- 
ceeds in evading detailed answers, and goes out with 
Qavieres and Veaucourtois, who with' him make up the 
trio of Vieux Gargons. 

When the three bachelors are together, Mortemer in- 
terrogates Clavieres closely about the three couples, all of 
them lately married, it would seem. The questioning is of 
a most pointed nature, and the bachelors frankly express 
a desire to encroach upon the marital preserves of their 
neighbours — ^with the exception, that is, of Veaucourtois, 
who is represented as a wreck. They decide that they will 
wait until the ladies return to Paris for the winter season. 
It is already the end of autumn. 

In the next act, we are in Paris. De Nantya has come 
up from the provinces, and calls upon de Chavenay to de- 
mand the hand of his sister Antoinette. De Chavenay re- 
ceives his suit most cordially. De Nantya, however, tells 
him he has an avowal to make — ^it is that the name of 



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LES VIEUX GARgONS J91 

Nantya is only the name of his estate. His mother had 
left him, with her large fortmie, this estate, which bore 
her maiden name. It was all the name she left him, as he 
was an illegitimate son, and she would not tell him who 
his father was. He makes this avowal with much embar- 
rassment, but De Chavenay reassures him, and tells him 
that an honourable man can do honour to any name. 

When this interview is over they go to the salon, where 
the three matrons are again assembled. The ladies are 
discussing Mortemer, who has beccmie a valued friend to 
all, it would appear. For Mme. du Bourg, he has induced 
the Prefect of Paris to cut down a tree, which obstructed 
the view from her window. For Mme. de Chavenay he has 
secured a famous Indian stuff which she had sought for 
vainly in all the shops of Paris. He has found a rare por- 
trait for du Bourg, who is an enthusiastic collector. He 
has discovered a profitable coal-mine for de Chavenay, who 
is an ardent speculator. While they are talking of this in- 
valuable friend, he enters, and is greeted most cordially by 
all. But the brilliant Mortemer is discomfited by the sight 
of de Nantya, of whom he has no pleasant recollection. He 
is so silent that it excites general wonder. 

" What is the matter? " asks Mme. de Chavenay. 

" No new stories? " cries Mme. de Troenes. 

" No new gossip? " demands Mme. du Bourg. 

"And no new — er — ^fires?" asks M. de Nantya. 

Mortemer looks at him with a disagreeable expression, 
but does not reply. As the conversation continues, de 
Nantya more than once interrupts Mortemer in a manner 
which shows that there is bad blood between the two men. 

The three bachelors, who occupy apartments in the same 
house, have a large salon, which they use in common for a 
reception-room. The following morning, Mortemer, going 
from his chamber into the salon, there meets Qavieres, who 
is coming in covered with sno^, and in an execrable temper. 



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898 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

He informs Mortemer, who is surprised at his early prome- 
nade, that he has been waiting for Mme. du Bourg in the 
Luxembourg Garden, where she had made an appointment 
with him at that unearthly hour. He had begun an affair 
with her, and she had written him two letters; but she 
had suddenly become alarmed, and was making appoint- 
ments with him all over Paris, demanding that he return 
her letters. This morning's appointment she has failed to 
keep. Qavieres intimates that he is growing weary of the 
lady, and will endeavour to terminate his flirtation. 

Veaucourtois, the senile bachelor, enters at this moment, 
and informs Qavieres that in order to get one of the hus- 
bands out of the way the night before, he had inveigled him 
to a supper with some actresses; there, the truant, de 
Troenes, got so tipsy that Veaucourtois was afraid to take 
him home, and therefore brought him to their quarters. 
De Troenes is still there asleep, and has been so for many 
hours ; hence, Veaucourtois had been obliged to leave word 
with Mme. de Troenes where her husband was, for fear 
she should think some ill had befallen him. 

A servant announces a gentleman and two ladies. It 
is Mme. de Chavenay and Mme. du Bourg, accompanied 
by de Nantya. They have come to inquire after de Troenes, 
and are informed that he is still asleep. They depart, 
agreeing to send some clothing for him by the hands of de 
Nantya, in order to prevent the servants from learning his 
condition. De Nantya is shown a back staircase, by which 
he may enter and thus attract less attention with his bundle 
of clothing. 

Scarcely has this group gone, when Claviferes receives a 
card which causes him to ask his friends to vacate the 
salon — ^which they do. It is the card of Mme. du Bourg, 
who speedilyn enters. She is in a state of great agitation, 
and tells Clavieres she had written him a letter to say she 
could not keep her appointment at the Luxembourg. He 



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LES VIEUX GARgONS J98 

shivers at the thought of the snowy rendezvous. She goes 
on to say that she had just carefully addressed and sealed 
this letter when Antoinette de Chavenay called m her sis- 
ter's carriage to take Mme. du Bourg shopping, they having 
agreed to go together. They went from the " Bon Marche," 
she remembers, to the " Louvre," from the " Louvre " to 
the " Printemps." There she suddenly remembered that 
she had not yet posted her letter. She hunted for it— it 
was gone! She ransacked the carriage fruitlessly; she 
went back to her house ; there her maid told her she had 
seen M. du Bourg take a letter from her desk ; her husband 
gazed at it suspiciously for a long time, then frowned, put 
it in his pocket, and went out. Mme. du Bourg hyster- 
ically tells Clavieres that all is lost, their aflfair is dis- 
covered, and nothing is left for them but to die together. 
At this point she presents him with a small bottle of lau- 
danum, which he tosses into the fire. He tells her that she 
is probably mistaken — ^the letter must have been lost in one 
of the large shops, and if they will hasten there, he is cer- 
tain they will find it in one of them. He urges her to 
accompany him at once by the rear exit 

" But," she teUs him, " Antoinette is waiting for me in 
the carriage below ; she thinks I am visiting my physician 
here." 

" Very well," responds Clavieres, " I will send my ser- 
vant to tell her to wait for you no longer." 

As they go out together, Mortemer suddenly emerges 
from his chamber, and bids the servant, instead of giving 
this message, to say to the lady in the carriage, "Will 
madame please come up, as Mme. du Bourg is waiting for 
her upstairs?" 

In a few moments Antoinette enters, and tranquilly 
greets Mortemer. She asks for Mme. du Bourg. Morte- 
mer replies that she is still with her physician, and will 
join Antoinette in a few moments. He then attempts with 



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294 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

devilish art to arouse the young girl's curiosity concerning 
the forbidden side of Paris life. It is evident from his 
conversation that he doubts her innocence. Her answers 
only bring from him hidden sneers, and as he talks to her 
of matters which to her are utterly incomprehensible, the 
frank gaze of her innocent eyes is mistaken by him for 
boldness. He asks her whether she has heard the married 
women speak of him as a rou6; she admits she does not 
know what a roue may be, and asks him what it means. 
She teUs him the married women call him a bad man, but 
as he is so kind and fatherly to her, she cannot believe that 
he is bad. When the innocent Antoinette thus receives his 
evil approaches, the veteran libertine is disarmed ; he grows 
heartily ashamed of himself. 

"So you have looked upon me as a father?" he says. 
" Then I shall look upon you as a daughter. Go, my child, 
go — ^leave this place at once." 

As she goes out the sound of a struggle is heard, and 
the door bursts open. It is de Nantya struggling with 
Qavieres, who is endeavouring to prevent him from enter- 
ing. With much excitement de Nantya informs Mortemer 
that he has learned of Mademoiselle de Chavenay's presence 
in the room, and that she must have just left it. 

Mortemer coldly replies : " I do not know, sir, by what 
right you claim to interrogate me." 

De Nantya hesitates. "Only declare to me <m your 
honour that Mademoiselle de Chavenay has not been here," 
he says, " and I will interrogate you no further." 

To this Mortemer replies: "In view of your excited 
condition, sir, I will so far humour you as to assure you 
that I was alone." 

As he speaks a servant enters, saying: "The young 
lady forgot her veil, sir." Seeing it on a chair he picks it 
up and hurries out 

" Ah, scoundrel," cries de Nantya, ** you have lied to me. 



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LES VIEUX GARgONS «96 

but I shall kill you for this," and with a cry of rage he 
hastens after Antoinette. > 

In the next scene we find Mortemer in his apartment. 
It is daybreak. The light of a lamp falls on papers and 
letters in confusion, scattered over the large table. The 
clock strikes. He looks up. " What, five o'clock already 1 " 
He throws some papers in the fire. " No matter how often 
a man fights," he muses, " the night before is never a calm 
one. Talk as we may of our dashing ancestors, who drew 
sword on the instant and fell to fighting under a dim 
street lamp. That was easier than the strain on the nerves 
caused by reflecting over a duel the night before. Clavieres 
is right — ^we are growing old. The last time I fought, four 
years ago, I did not take so much trouble over my papers. 
But why do I now? I have no heirs. No brother, no sis- 
ter, no child. And if I come back in a few hours, with a 
sword- wound, who will weep at my bedside if I die? No 
one. Ah, Mortemer, the life you have led has been a 
merry one, but it is having a melancholy ending. And of 
all your loves there remain only six drawers full of yel- 
lowing letters." He picks up one at random and reads it : 

" Will you ever know, my dear one, how deep my love 
for you has been? Perhaps some day you may, when it is 
ended, and when you shall seek for a name at the end of 
this letter without remembering her who wrote it" 

He stops, and looks at the end of the letter. " She is 
right. I do not remember, but there is neither name nor 
date." He goes on reading: "/ knew all this in advance. 
My reason told it me. Yet I love you so dearly that I for- 
get it when I see you, and when I remember it I only love 
you the more." 

"Poor woman! I wonder who she was? No name. 
Nothing but this seal." He is closely inspecting the seal by 
the lamplight, when he is interrupted by Clavieres, who 
comes to tell him that the seconds have been unable to bring 



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896 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

about any arrangement, and the duel is to take place. 
De Nantya's seconds are du Bourg and de Chavenay. 
Although de Chavenay is the brother of Antoinette, he is 
ignorant of the cause of the duel, and de Nantya, in a note, 
begs Mortemer to keep it a secret. The pretext is a quarrel 
over a bet. 

Mortemer starts as he looks at de Nantya's letter. The 
seal is the same as that upon the old love-letter lying on 
the table. He shows it to Clavieres. They are both aston- 
ished : the seals are identical, the arms are the same. 

The servant announces de Qiavenay and du Bourg. 
They have come to say that the duel must take place at 
another rendezvous, as the first chosen is the scene of a 
hunt that day. They are ready to start at once, as de 
Nantya is waiting for them in a carriage below. But Mor- 
temer detains de Chavenay — ^he asks to know de Nantya's 
real name. De Chavenay for a long time evades replying, 
till finally Mortemer says that he shall insist upon knowing 
whom he fights. De Chavenay sneers at these scruples on 
the eve of the duel. Mortemer recalls to him that a man 
who has already fought six times need not fear an accusa- 
tion of cowardice. Here de Chavenay, in a tone of warn- 
ing, points out that a refusal to fight with his principal 
reflects upon him. Mortemer replies that he will be more 
than happy to cross swords with M. de Chavenay, but that 
he must refuse to fight M. de Chavenay's principal until he 
learns his name. 

De Chavenay withdraws for a moment to consult with 
du Bourg. They decide that they must tell the truth. 
They inform Mortemer that de Nantya is the name of their 
principal's estate, for he has no legal name, as he is illegiti- 
mate; his mother had steadfastly refused to reveal to him 
his father's name; her own name was de Rilly. Mortemer 
staggers as if shot. 



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LES VIEUX GARgONS «97 

Just as this avowal has been made to him, the door 
opens, and de Nantya, weary of waitmg, aiq>ears. He 
cross-questions his seconds, and they tell him what they 
have done. He approves of their action. 

*'And now, gentlemen, as everything is to your satis- 
faction," says de Nantya, " let us leave for the field." To 
the stupefaction of everyone, Mortemer says calmly : " I 
refuse." His seconds, Qavieres and Veaucourtois, plead 
with him, but he is obdurate. The other seconds confer 
with them, but Mortemer will listen to no one. De Nantya 
is with diflSculty restrained from attacking Mortemer. He 
has even lifted his hand to slap Mortemer's face, when his 
own seconds bear him back. Foaming with rage, de Nan- 
tya is forced from the room by his seconds, denouncing 
Mortemer, and shouting at him: "Coward! coward! — 
coward with women, coward with men ! " 

As the door closes between them, Clavieres cries, *' What 
can be the matter? How can you submit to such insults? 
Are you mad?" 

To which the unhappy Mortemer replies: " Mad? No, 
I wish I were. My punishment is not madness, it is another 
cross. That young man is my son ! " 

In the last act matters are arranged between the peni- 
tent husband de Troenes and his wife. He has had enough 
of actresses' suppers, and swears never to wander from the 
conjugal hearth again.' Mme. du Bourg, who has been 
much exercised over her lost letter, is also relieved from 
her mental travail. The husbands and wives are again as- 
sembled in the salon of the de Chavenays. M. du Bourg 
takes a paper from his pocketbook, and says to Clavieres, 
gazing significantly at his wife: 

" I have something for you." 

Mme. du Bourg turns pale. 

" For me? " says Qavieres in a faltering voice. 

" Yes," says du Bourg, " a letter." 



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898 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

" Great Heavens 1 " murmurs Mme. du Bourg, trembling, 
" I am lost." 

" Yes/' says du Bourg, " I found it on my wife's desk, 
where she had forgotten it. It bears your name." 

"Then, sir," says Clavieres, "since it is evident that 
you know what it is " 

" Of course I do," says du Bourg. " It is some of those 
charity concert tickets. She's always sending them to her 
friends. I've kept it for two days, and thus saved you 
fifty francs, for the concerts are now over. Take it, my 
boy." And as he hands it to Clavieres, both that dangerous 
bachelor and the giddy matron breathe more freely. 

At this point de Nant}^ enters, and asks permission to 
speak privately with Antoinette. He asks her what took 
place at her interview with Mortemer. She tells him 
frankly. While they are still conversing, Mortemer is 
announced. He asks to speak with the lovers ; they tell him 
they are about to wed. He wishes them a happy wedded 
life, and then he puts a h3rpothetical case before them. It 
is that of a father who had abandoned his child and aban- 
doned its mother. He asks if there could be any possible 
pardon for such a man. De Nantya shakes his head. Mor- 
temer says, in a low voice : " I am condemned," and turns 
to go. But Antoinette is more tender-hearted than de 
Nantya. She pleads for the unknown father who deserted 
his child. Her eloquence finally moves de Nantya, who 
remembers that the last words of his dying mother were, 
" Always forgive." " Feeling as I do now, I could pardon 
such a man," he adds, " even were he my father." 

" Then you can pardon me," says Mortemer in a broken 
voice, " for you are my son." 



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ANDREA 

The scene is laid in Vienna, one of the gayest of con- 
tinental capitals. The first act introduces us to the Count 
and Countess von Toeplitz, They are young, handsome, 
and rich. What more is needed to make them happy? The 
Countess Andrea adores her husband. The Count St6phan 
seems infatuated with his Countess. Nevertheless, the two 
spouses live almost separate lives. The Countess Andrea 
goes ever into the world of gaiety, where she shines without 
apparently arousing the jealousy of the Count. On his 
side, Count Stephan acts as if he were a bachelor, and 
passes his evenings at the opera or at the club. This life he 
finds extremely agreeable — ^it has all the charms of mar- 
riage without its burdens. The young Countess sighs at 
times over their divergent ways, but nothing has yet come 
to disturb her happiness. 

Suddenly a bolt drops from the blue. One Birschmann, 
a jeweller, calls, and is anxious to speak to the Count As 
it is her birthday, Andr6a is convinced that her husband 
is preparing a surprise for her. Yielding to her curiosity, 
she persuades the jeweller to show her a certain mysterious 
object which he has in a jewel-case. The indiscreet Birsch- 
mann yields. It is a magnificent bracelet with an intricate 
design in diamonds — ^an " S " crowned with a star. 

What can this ** S '' mean, when the Countess is called 
Andrea? What does the star symbolise? The luckless 
jeweller is much embarrassed, but remembers that the 
Count told him the star was an allusion to a Latin word. 
There are dictionaries on the shelves of the library, and 
the Countess feverishly searches for the Latin word for 
" star." She finds that it is Stella. So her rival is called 
" Stella." 

299 



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800 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

Who is Stella? She is indeed a star. Stella is the lead- 
ing dancer of the opera at Vienna. Andrea quickly divines 
that her husband is false to her. She determines to learn 
to what extent. The dancer's dress-maker is a sister of 
the jeweller. Thanks to these minor relationships, the 
Countess shall see her enemy face to face. 

In the next scene we are in the dressing-room of the 
ballet-dancer. "Behind the Scenes" is a favourite scene 
with dramatists. Stella's dressing-room is continually in- 
vaded by young men of fashion, call-boys, prompters, stage- 
managers, and maids. In the midst of them all sits Mon- 
sieur Rabnum, an American manager with a long beard. 
From in front are heard thunders of applause; the specta- 
tors are recalling their divinity. Finally, in comes Stella, 
in her ballet costume, to receive the homage of her little 
court. 

Into the dressing-room penetrates the young Countess 
Andrea, who is disguised as an assistant sent by Stella's 
dress-maker. But poor Andrea does not know what she is 
to encounter. Judge of her emotion when she hears her 
husband's voice without; he is knocking at Stella's door. 
Despite his supplications, the ballet-dancer bids him be oflF, 
as she is busy. She suddenly notices that the little dress- 
maker is pale and apparently fainting. Stella is filled with 
sympathy, and interrogates her. She finds that the little 
dress-maker is mad with jealousy over a recreant lover. So 
Stella gives her some ballet-dancer's philosophy, bidding 
her have no confidence in any man. "Why, that fellow 
who has just been knocking at the door, and whom I sent 
away, is a rich nobleman. He has a charming wife, and 
yet he swears to me that fie would leave her at once on a 
word from me. Come, I'll call him back, just to show you 
what creatures men are." So she conceals the poor little 
weeping Countess behind a screen. 

Count Stephan enters. He vows his undying love; he 



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ANDREA 801 

laments Stella's coldness. As she is about leaving for 
Bucharest, he swears he will follow her — ^that very night, 
at three hours after midnight, he will join her on the 
Danube steamer. The Countess, dazed by such perfidy, is 
possessed of but one thought — ^that of preventing at all 
costs the flight of her Stephan. 

In the next scene the Baron de Kaulben, minister of 
police, has just returned to his house after leaving the 
opera. This high personage exercises his delicate functions 
with much urbanity and humour. As he is about to seek 
the repose needful after a laborious day, a veiled lady pre- 
sents herself on urgent business. It is the Baroness Thecle, 
a friend of Andrea. The Baroness fears blackmail by a 
pretended General Cracovero, half Peruvian and half 
Greek. He is an adventurer, a swindler, and at times a 
police spy. He holds some compromising letters written by 
her. The minister of police reassures her, for General 
Cracovero is not only in the police service, but in the meshes 
of the police as well. The minister promises the Baroness 
that she shall have her letters, and in a transport of joy 
she fairly hugs the minister for his trouble. 

In the scene which follows, the Countess Andrea seeks 
his aid. The gallant Baron is much moved by the appeal 
of the Countess, but he is obliged to tell her that the law 
does nothing for ladies whose husbands desert the con- 
jugal roof with pretty actresses. Still, an idea occurs to the 
good-hearted minister. " Your husband," says he, " is act- 
ing like a madman, and I shall treat him as such. He is 
about to return home to make his preparations for flight. 
It is now your business to keep him there. If you do not 
succeed, flash a light out over the portal. My detectives 
will be posted there, and your husband will be detained for 
some hours — ^long enough to let Stella leave for Bucharest 
— ^and alone." 



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80« THE SARDOU PLAYS 

In the next act, the Countess Andrea, rendered even 
more charming by excitement and jealousy, endeavours to 
keep Count Stephan from leaving her. The Cotmt strug- 
gles desperately. He heaps lie upon lie. He devises a 
duel, he pleads a headache, he contrives a business journey. 
As the Countess refuses to believe any of these stories, he 
simply escapes into the night. At first she cannot believe 
that he would thus leave her, but the advice of the minister 
of police occurs to her, and she displays a light irom the 
window. 

In the next scene we find the dashing Count Stephan 
fretting like a caged beast in an asylum for lunatics. Not 
in the least understanding his misadventure, he writes to 
all his friends. One of them, Balthazar, comes to the 
asylum to see him. Balthazar had been present the night 
before at a farewell supper g^ven to Stella, whence, being 
flushed with wine, he had walked home with Stephan. In 
his intoxication he saw, or thought he saw, a man furtively 
getting into Stephan's house, and he relates to Stephan his 
nocturnal vision. This plunges the Count into a condition 
very like genuine madness. He thinks no more of Stella, 
but only of Andrea. Can it be possible that his little wife 
is unfaithful? In the twinkling of an eye he seizes the hat 
and long winter cloak of Balthazar, and thrusting that 
young man into his cell, goes forth into the street. 

The last scene it is easy to guess. Stephan's unfounded 
jealousy leads to explanations, to repentance, to a recon- 
ciliation, and the curtain falls on a reunited couple. 



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1-taie letter — 1 

fa the ancient | 

In " Nos In-/ 



NOS INTIMES * 

It was in " Nos Intimes " that Sardou presented, for 
the first time, his favourite character — ^that of a man of 
middle age^ scmietimes a professor, frequently a physician; 
a man who knows everything, sees everything, betrays 
nothing; who is a marvel of tact and discretion; who re- 
unites the embroiled husband and wife; who brings together 
the quarrelling lovers; who destroys the tell-tale letter — 
who, in a word, performs all the acts which the ancient 
dramatists entrusted to a deus ex machind. 
times " this Admirable Cricfaton is Dr. Tholosan. 

Caussade is a wealthy retired Parisian, living in a fine 
country-place, with a young wife who is but little older 
than his daughter Benjamine. Maurice, a handsome young 
man, is spending some time at Caussade's place, convales- 
cing from an illness. He utilises his leisure by falling in 
love with C^dle, the wife of his friend, Caussade. This 
lady takes a romantic interest in him, but has not yet real- 
ised the danger of being interested in good-looking young 
men convalescing from fevers. 

In the first act there is a sentimental scene between 
Cecile and Maurice, which that young man craftily works 
up to a dramatic finish by feigning to faint. Fortunately, 
Dr. Tholosan is at hand, and comes in response to Cecile's 
cries for help. He at once sends her to his room for a 
restorative medicine, and he is left alone with the uncon- 
scious lover: 

Tholosan [taking Maubice's glass of lemonade]'-'Now, if you 
please, open the right eye. . . . [He drinks the lemonade.] And then 
the left. . . . [He drinks.] And now, get up and walk. . . . 

^Best-known English versions, "Bosom Friends," "Friends or 
Foes," "Boon Companions," "Peril," "A Wife's Peril." 

803 



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804 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

Maurice [opening his eK^]— Tholosan, I assure you . . . 

[He jumps up,] 

Tholosan [emptying the glass] — ^There, that's the movement I 
want 

Mausice— You demon of a doctor, you. It is no joke to be ill 
with you around. But, nevertheless, I assure you, it was a genuine 
fainting spell—- on my word of honour, it was! 

Tholosan — Really? [Puts on his eye-glass and inspects 
Maurice carefully.] 

Maurice— The heat of the sun, you know, when a man is just 
up from a sick-bed. Well, what are you looking at me for? Don't 
you know that I am just recovering from an illness? 

Tholosan — Yes. [He continues to sip the lemonade,] 

Maurice— And that my illness was caused by a love affair? To 
prove it, let me tell you that I have a dreadful chill which seizes me 
every other day at noon, and which lasts until five o'clock, the hour 
at which we used to have our rendezvous. It is the fever of regret — 
the fever of love. 

Tholosan — Nonsense! It's fever and ague. 

Maurice— Fever and ague ! No. It is an affection of the heart 
caused by. disappointment in love. 

Tholosan — Pooh! It's nothing but a mild case of chills and 
fever caught on the marshes of the River Marne while fishing. 

Maurice — Go to the devil! 

Tholosan [patting him on the shoulder] — My dear Maurice, 
you are a very nice young chap, but you have one great fault It 
is to take Dr. Tholosan for an ass. Now, I am not an ass. I used 
to be an animal, of course, in my previous existence, as all men were. 

Maurice — ^Ah, there's your fad. 

Tholosan— But that existence has left no trace upon my present 
individuality, and I defy you to decide by the examination of my 
skull what species of animal I may have been. 

Maurice— Well, I don't know what you used to be, but what 
you are 

Tholosan [taking Maurice's head and turning it in profile] — 
While, as for you, it is only necessary to measure with a practiced 
glance this brain, rounded at the vertex and over-developed at the 
occiput, this keen, round eye, this nose solidly set upon the face by 
the broad expanse of the nostrils — it is only necessary for me to 
discern in your present humanity all the characteristics of your 
former, animality. 



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NOS INTIMES 806 

Maurice— -Indeed? I would not be sorry to know what I used 
to be. 

Tholosan— Very well, then, you shall know. You used to be a 
sparrow. 

Mausicb— A sparrow? 

Tholosan — Yes, a sparrow . That is to say, a creature which 
greedy, keen-witted, impudent, bold, thievish, and lascivious. 

Maurice— Thank you. 

Tholosan — I said lascivious. ^^ 

Maurice— Yes, I heard you. v 

Tholosan— As for the rest, one of the best creatures in the ) 
world, if it were not for his odious habit of creeping into the other/ 
birds' nests. / 

Maurice— I don't know what you mean when you talk about 
sparrows. 

■ Tholosan— It is because you have never studied the habits of 
birds, my boy. All you have to do, however, is to look around this 
house. You will find here a nest of swallows into which has 
squeezed himself a travelling sparrow. He came on a stormy night, 
sick, tired, and with a broken wing. The swallows treated him 
hospitably, made room for him, gave him for his bed the softest 
down and for his nourishment the most delicate grains. While 
the hospitable male swallow goes forth into the field to look for 
seeds, the convalescing sparrow, fat and hearty, relates to the lady 
swallow his trials and his tribulations. The lady swallow has a soft 
heart. She pities him. The sparrow weeps. Tenderly, with her 
little claw, she wipes his eyes. His tears flow more freely. She 
wipes them with the tip of her wing. The crafty fellow faints. She 
.doesn't know what to do. She fears he is going to die. She timidly^ 
extends first her claw, then her wing, at last her beak. 

Maurice— Well, what does all this mean? 

Tholosan — Mean? Why, nothing, of course. 

Maurice— Well, where did you learn all this you are telling me? 
Where did you see it? 

Tholosan — ^In this lemonade. It is the adorable privilege ox\ 
woman always to do things better for a lover than for a husband.y 
Did you ever notice the difference in the slippers made for the 
husband and the other? Now, this lemonade, made for Sparrow, is 
delicious. It is exactly right Just enough sugar, just enough 
lemon-juice, not a single lemon-pip in the bottom. Yet, if it were^ 
made for Caussade, he might have choked himself with lemon-pipsj 
20 



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806 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

Maurice— Some one has been talking to you— talking about her 
and me. I insist on knowing who it is. 

Tholosan— Who? Why, certainly. She. 

Mausicb— She? 

Tholosan— Yes; and you. 

Maurice— I? What have I said? 

Tholosan — ^Why, you have been babbling for a quarter of an 
hour, and you have told me all I wanted to know. Does that 
astonish you? Were you so unsuspecting? Why, my dear fellow, 
there are three kinds of confessors— the priest, the judge, and the 
physician. The priest never knows all, precisely because people tell 
him all, and there is a fashion of telling things which minimises 
them. The judge knows a little more, because people lie to him, 
and he has only to assume the exact opposite of what they tell him 
to divine all that they do not tell him. As to the doctor, my boy, 
... he comes in, takes out his watch, looks at your tongue, punches 
you in the midriff, and talks to you about neuralgia, gastralgia, and 
all that sort of thing, and you reply to him, talking about fatigue, 
ennui, misery, debauch, and that tired feeling. And when he puts 

/his watch back in liis pocket, he knows all, because you tried to tell 
him nothing, and in trying to tell him nothing you succeeded in 
concealing nothing. 

Maurice [sneeringly] — ^Indeed ! 

Tholosan — ^And now do you wish me to feel the pulse of your 
fever and tell you where you stand? 

Maurice [still sneeringly]'-Yes; where are we, sorcerer? 

Tholosan— At the third period. 

Maurice— Already ? 

Tholosan— Yes, already. At the First Period, or Sympathetic 
Period, there are sweet and melting glances; reciprocal and in- 
stinctive quests for one another; pressures of the hand slightly 
prolonged; temperature normal. This period manifests itself, say, 
about Monday evening in reading together a romance, and may last 
up to, say, Wednesday morning, when you will have entered into the 
Second Period, or Magnetic Period: in this the glances are much 
more earnest, with a certain moisture about the eyes; tendency of 
the heads to incline together; a heightening of the colour is notice- 
able; the hand-pressure now is humid, about the temperature of a 
conservatory, at times slightly interrupted when the lady quickly 
retires her fingers as if shocked by an electric battery. This new 
state may prolong itself from Wednesday to Saturday morning, 
which is to-day, when you have entered into the Third Period, or 



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NOS INTIMES 807 

Angelic Period, characterised by shivers and shudders, genuine or 
affected, solemn oaths to confine this attachment to a pure, dis- 
interested, and angelic affection forever; such phrases as ''I will 
be your sister," "You shall be my brother," and the abuse of the 
words "friend," "friendly," "friendship," characterise this period. 
It is now accompanied by glances which do not stop, and hand- 
pressures at about the temperature of a boiled egg. This state will 
probably be prolonged until to-morrow evening, when you will enter 
into the PhilosophO'ecstaticO'mystico Period. Isn't tiiat about it? 

Mausicb— You are the devil ! 

Tholosan— The devil ! It is you who are the devil, you seducer 
of married women I I knew you in pre-historic times in the Garden 
of Eden. In those days you were a serpent, and you were picking 
apples with Mme. Caussade, who was a blonde lady. I was a mos- 
quito, and I was biting the nose of Caussade, who was snoring. He 
is the only one who has not changed. He is snoring still. \ 

Tholosan, the middle-aged physician, is in love with 
Caussade's eighteen-year-old daughter Benjamine. Tholo- 
san is naturally interested in checking the sentimental pas- 
sion of Cecile and Maurice, partly out of regard for his 
friend, Caussade, partly because he loves the daughter. 
He determines to protect Caussade's conjugal peace by 
gettmg Maurice to leave. But Maurice refuses, and this 
scene ensues: 

Tholosan — I warn you, now, that I am a declared champion of 
the husband. 

Maurice [jn^mn^/y]— As friend of the husband or of the wife? 

Tholosan — Of neither. Caussade is not my friend, and there- 
fore I am not making love to his wife. But as I am soon to enter 
into matrimony I am naturally an ally of the state of matrimony. 
Besides, Caussade is weak and good-natured, and his wife is weak 
and foolish. She may be false to him. These are the reasons why 
I enroll myself on his side. 

Maurice— That means, I suppose, that you will warn him? 

Tholosan — ^No, indeed ; it is the dear friends—" Nos Intimes " — 
who do that, of whom I am not one. No, I will play fair. Here 
comes Mme. Caussade. Be off. 

[Tholosan ^re/^ne/j to be writing in a note-book as CfeciLE ap- 
proaches,] 



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\ 



808 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

C£ciLB— Doctor ! [anxiously,] Doctor, are you writing a pre- 
scription? 

Tholosan — Exactly. A prescription. 

C6CILB— For Maurice? I mean for Monsieur Maurice? 

Tholosan — Yes, for Maurice. 

CiciLB [anxiously] — ^Is he not doing well ? He looks very well, 
doctor. 

Tholosan [shaking his A^(w^]— Ah, poor fellow, he looks well, 
but he is in a very dangerous condition. I have just been auscultat- 
ing him, and I find that he has one of those frightfully abnormal 
hearts. It is possible for him to live to be seventy or eighty if he is 
careful, but he must avoid shocks and emotions. Above all, he must 
avoid a declaration of love. Why, my dear madame, a sudden 
movement to put his arm around a woman, to huri himself on his 
knees at her feet, to say, "I love you" — why, in his condition he 
might never get up I It gives me goose-flesh to think of it. 

CtoLE— Oh, doctor, this is horrible. Are you not mistaken? 

Tholosan — ^Unfortunately, no. If he utters to a woman the 
words, " I love you," it will be his death-warrant. 

In the midst of this interesting and intriguing family 
circle there descends a batch of Caussade's intimate friends. 
Hence the name of the play, "Nos Intimes." Some of 
them are cousins, others city acquaintances, college chums, 
and the like. The first to come are Mmc. and M. Vigneux, 
who are poor, envious, and disagreeable. Next comes 
Marecat, who brings his hobble-de-hoy of a boy, Raphael, 
without being invited. Marecat objects to his room, and 
Caussade asks Vigneux to give up the blue room, at which 
Vigneux takes umbrage. '^Is it because he is rich and I 
am poor that I should give up to him my room?" The 
next to appearis Abdallah Pasha, a Franco-Moor whom 
Caussade ha^tj^mbwn in Algeria. He carries an arsenal of 
weapons, and embraces Caussade, taking him to his bosom 
like a brother in arms. 

The unfortunate Caussade soon finds that his dear 
friends are hard to please. They do not like his garden, his 
horses, his table, or his wines, and they do not scruple to 



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NOS INTIMES 809 

tell him so. If he shows dissatisfaction, they grow offended, 
and ask him if he does not appreciate the frankness of 
friendship. Some of them are discussing him in his garden : 

ViGNEUX [with a sneer] — ^R^^ar country-house isn't it? 

Mme. Vigneux — Yes; and a magnificent park. 

ViGNEUx— A flower-garden, a vegetable-garden . . . 

Mme. Vigneux — Yes, and a poultry-yard. 

Vigneux — Nothing is lacking. 

[Enter Tholosan.] 

Mme. Vigneux — ^Ah, doctor I M. Vigneux and I are discussing 
the famous park. 

Tholosan — A fine property, Caussade's, is it not? 

Vigneux — Yes; and proud enough he is of it 

Mme. Vigneux — Yes; and he has often enough urged us to 
come and visit at his house. 

Tholosan — Yes; he wants his friends to come and share his 
good fortune with him. 

Mme. Vigneux— Well, I don't see why he should all the time 
be talking about it 

Tholosan— In fact, it is a little tiresome for those who are not 
so fortunate. 

Vigneux — ^If it were only tiresome, I should not mind. But it 
is irritating. Nothing but my house, my garden, my horses. Bah ! 

Mme. Vigneux— Well, my dear, you know all purse-proud 
people are like that 

Vigneux — ^If he were not a friend, now, I would not care; but «-^ 
what cuts me is that he is my friend. 

Tholosan — ^That your friend should be rich? ^ 

Vigneux — No; but that he should be so ostentatious with his 
riches. For it is scarcely in good taste for him to bespatter us with 
his luxury— we who are not rich. 

Mme. Vigneux— Yes; and his wife, with her gorgeous toilets. 
Dear met 

Vigneux— Yes; ifs petty, that's what it is. It's petty. It's 
taking pleasure in humiliating those who are poorer than he. 

Tholosan — But is it not well that he has his fortune, even if 
you have not?— for he has often obliged you, has he not? 

Vigneux — Oh, yes; but he does it in a kind of a way that I 
don't like. He doesn't wait to be asked; he always comes and oifers I 
you his purse — offers you hb assistance. 

\ 



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810 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

Tholosan — I see. A good-hearted man would never offer 
assistance to his friends. You are quite right I understand you 
perfectly. 

ViGNEUx [aside to his wife]--'! think this doctor is a fool. He 
doesn't understand what we're talking about 

[Enter Mar£cat, another dear friend.] 

Tholosan— Good-morning, M. Mar6cat How did you sleep? 

Mar^cat— Didn't sleep at all. 

MiiB. ViGNBUX — ^These country beds are so hard. 

ViGNBUX— -I'll bet that yours was better than mine. 

Mar£cat— No, indeed. And it wasn't the bed only. I'm getting 
enough of the country. Animals and insects keep me from eating, 
from drinking, and from sleeping. When we had lunch yesterday, 
under the vine arbor, every moment I thought I would find a worm 
in my glass or a spider on my fork. Ugh! When I walk in the 
garden, the butterflies bump around my nose. If I sit down, the 
flies buzz in my ears. When I go to bed, the mosquitoes sing and 
bite me. Distant dogs bark and keep me awake. When I sink into 
a troubled sleep toward morning the accursed cocks in the poultry- 
yard wake me again. To the devil with the country ! 

Caussade [entering, vivacious and smiling] — Good-morning, 
good-morning. How is everybody? Beautiful morning, isn't it? 
Did you sleep well, Mar^cat? 

Mar£cat^No. G>uldn't sle^. Your poultry-yard chorus and 
your dogs kept me awake. 

Caussade [laughing gayly]-^Too bad, too bad. But isn't it 
beautiful this morning, Mme. Vigneux? How do you like the 
country round about? 

MiiE. Vigneux— Not bad, but it lacks horizon. 

Vigneux— I think ifs a little damp, isn't it? 

Caussade [somewhat disconcerted] — ^Damp? 

Mar^cat"— Of course it is. Even the bed-clothes are damp. 

Vigneux — ^Yes, there's so much stagnant water in the 
neighbourhood. 

Caussade— Stagnant water! Why, I did not know 

Vigneux— You will know in a year or so. 

Mak£cat— When you are all twisted with rheumatism. 

Caussade— When I am twisted 

Mme. Vigneux [sententiously] — ^There's nothing so dangerous 
as living in houses near standing water. 

Mar£cat— I wouldn't live here if you paid me to. 

Mme. Vigneux— I think it must be nudarial here, too. 



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NOS INTIMES 811 

Mar£cat— Malarial f Why, I kncmr a man who lived near here 
for a few months some years ago and who caught malarial fever. 

Caussade [disturbed]"^We\l? 

Mar£cat— Lived right here, I say. I think it was the next 
place to yours. 

CAUSSADE—Well, what happened to him? 

MAa£cAT— What happened to him? Why, he died. Thafs what 
happened to him. 

Caussade— Is it possible that this country is so deadly? 

ViGNEUX— This country! Why, you don't own the whole 
country, do you? 

Mar£cat — ^Why, yes, of course he does. He's a great man — 
Caussade. 

MiiE. ViGNEUX — ^But he doesn't seem to be at home on his 
own place. 

MAR£cAT^-Fact. He looks like his own gardener. 

Mme. Vigneux— Yes, everybody says: "How did he ever 
come to have such a place?" 

Vigneux— When more deserving people have none at all. ^ 

MARicAT— It is not his intelligence. 

ViGNEUX—Nor his polish. 

Mme. Vigneux— Nor his wit. 

Caussams [protesting] — Come, come, my friends; are you not a 
little hard on me? 

All [together]— Set there! He can't stand a single frank and 
friendly word. 

Tholosan [who has watched the scene from one side] — ^M. 
Caussade, it is possible for a man to have so many friends that 
he has none. 

Caussade— Come, come, doctor, you are too severe. All 
friends are not alike. 

Tholosan — ^Indeed they are not. Dear friends are divided into 
many kinds. There is the Despotic Friend, who makes us execute 
his commissions; the Witty Friend, who makes jokes about us 
behind our backs; the Indiscreet Friend, who gives away our little 
weaknesses and infirmities; the Parasitic Friend, who sponges upon 
us; the Speculative Friend, who loses our money; and seventeen 
different kinds of Borrowing Friends, from the one who borrows 
your books and does not return them, to the one who borrows your 
wife and does return her. 



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818 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

Caussade's dear friends, with the ferocious Abdallah at 
the head, embroil him in a duel with a neighbour, and refuse 
to allow him to apologise. Then they inform him that his 
wife is false to him, and that his friend, Maurice, has be- 
trayed his friendship. Caussade refuses to believe their 
accusations, and they insist that he shall pretend to leave 
for Paris, return unexpectedly, and surprise the lovers. He 
refuses, but they tell his wife that he is going, so he is 
forced to consent. He does return, arriving just after the 
critical moment of a passionate scene between his wife, 
Cecile, and his friend, Maurice. Maurice breaks the bell- 
cord to prevent her ringing. Cecile is attempting desper- 
ately to prevent Maurice from making a declaration of love. 
Dr. Tholosan's warnings are still sounding in her ears — she 
fears that an avowal will stretch Maurice lifeless at her 
feet. Suddenly an idea flashes across her mind, and she 
tells him some one is looking through the window, which 
gives upon the balcony. He throws open the window and 
leaps out on the balcony. She darts to the window, fastens 
it, and falls breathless into a chair. At that moment she 
hears the grating of a key in an unused door opening upon 
the garden. It opens and her husband appears. He says, 
under his breath : " Thank God ! They lied ! she is alone." 

As is the way on the stage, all the intimate friends at 
once enter and shake their heads significantly at Caussade. 
One points to an overturned chair, another to the broken 
bell-cord, but Dr. Tholosan, who has just entered, explains 
that the Angel Boy, Raphael, has been smoking a cigar and 
is violently sick; that he overturned the chair in hurriedly 
assisting him; that he broke the bell-cord in ringing for 
help. And when Vigneux points to the open door leading 
into Maurice's room, Tholosan explains that he opened it 
to carry in the wretched and retching Raphael, who is lying 
now on Maurice's bed. Caussade's face gradually brightens 
as these suspicious circumstances are cleared away, and he 



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NOS INTIMES 818 

goes to the balcony window to open it for air, which, poor 
man, he sorely needs. It will not open. Cedle almost 
faints as she whispers to Tholosan that Maurice is hiding 
on the balcony. Like a flash the clever doctor at once 
begins shouting : ^' Jump, jump ! " 

"Who jump? What jump?" says Marecat. 

"This cork," says the doctor, holding up a medicine- 
bottle for Raphael. "It won't come out. Jump, jump, 
you rascal ! " and he pries the cork out with a key. 

The husband smiles and says : " The jump is made." 

"Yes, indeed, it is," says the doctor, significantly, to 
Cecile, as the husband opens the window on the empty 
balcony, and the curtain falls. 

In the last act the indiscreet wife goes to her rescuer. 
Dr. Tholosan, and tells him that her husband has remained 
up all night seated at the window watching the garden; 
that at daybreak he had suddenly descended to the garden 
and she had not seen him since. She fears the worst. She 
is convinced that he has gone forth to slay Maurice. The 
doctor goes out to learn what he can and re-assures her. 
The first person he meets is Maurice. Maurice tells him 
he had leaped twenty feet from the balcony, falling on his 
side with no injury but a sprain to his right wrist, but in his 
fall he had struck a magnificent cactus and completely de- 
stroyed it. When he came to himself he was about to 
enter the house, but saw Caussade apparently watching 
from the balcony, so he had remained hidden in the 
shrubbery. 

Tholosan and Maurice return to the house and there 
meet Caussade. He greets them with a pre-occupied air. 
Maurice says that he is suddenly summoned to Paris and 
must at once make his adieux. Caussade abruptly asks 
Maurice to write his Paris address for him in his own 
hand. Maurice points at his sprained wrist to Tholosan, 
who whispers : " You must do it." With the perspiration 



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814 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

starting from his brow, the young man writes the address 
with his sprained hand, and almost faints with pain. As he 
bids farewell to Cecile and her husband, Caussade says to 
him: "Why do you not shake hands?" Maurice me- 
chanically extends his right hand, and Caussade g^ves it a 
grip which makes him wince. While Tholosan is support- 
ing Maurice, as he goes out, Caussade rapidly leaves the 
room. He returns at once, carrying a pistol. He also goes 
out, following them. A shot is heard. Cecile utters a cry : 
"My God, I have killed him I" Outside, the voice of 
Caussade is heard: "Dead! at last." In a moment Caus- 
sade enters, in one hand a pistol, in the other a dead fox. 
He explains that the animal had been preying upon his 
garden, so he sat up all the previous night watching for 
him ; the beast had ruined a magnificent cactus, but he had 
just that moment spied him in the garden and killed him. 
The intimate friends prepare to leave, disappointed at 
having made so little mischief. But on rounding them up, 
Raphael, the Angel Boy, is found to be missing. Marecat, 
his agitated father, discovers that the young rascal has 
eloped with Mme. Caussade's chambermaid. Marecat bit- 
terly reproaches Caussade, and launches a formal curse on 
him and his. " Be thou accursed, Lucien Caussade ! " 
Having cursed Caussade, Marecat goes forth to seek his 
Angel Boy. 

Abdallah— Luci^ff Caussade! Do you call yourself Lucien f 

Caussade— Why, yts. 

Abdallah — ^Then you are not Evariste Caussade, non-com. in 
the African army? 

CAussADE—Not at all. 

Abdallah [heatedly]— This is a nice state of affairs. Then 
what am I doing here, I'd like to know? 

Caussade— Thafs what I'd like to know, too. 

Abdallah [excitedly] — ^I'm not acquainted with you, sir. I 
don't know you at all. 

Caussade— -And I've been wondering who the deuce you arc. 



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NOS INTIMES 816 

Abdallah — Why, confound it, I have been here for days, eat- 
ing, drinking, amusing myself, just as if you were a friend of minei 
I don't like this sort of thing! 

Caussade— Well, how about me? 

Abdallah [angrily] — Confound it, sir, I don't wish to be under 
obligations to a total stranger. You're no friend of mine! 

And with the rapid departure of Abdallah the last of 
Caussade's " dear friends " drop out of the play. 

There remains, however, one. But he is a son-in-law 
rather than a dear friend, for Dr. Tholosan weds Caussade's 
daughter Ben j amine. 



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FERREOL 

In " Ferreol," Sardou made an incursion into the drama 
of criminal procedure. It was said at the time that his play 
had been taken from a novel by Jules Sandeau, entitled 
"Un Debut dans la Magistrature." But if so it suffered 
such a transformation that the plot was unrecognisable. 

A dreadful crime has been committed in the vicinity of 
Aix. Some peasants, on their way to work in the morn- 
ing, have heard a gun-shot. They hasten to the spot, where 
they discover the body of a dead man. Another man had 
been leaning over the body, perhaps to finish his dreadful 
task ; but when he saw the peasants he had fled, before they 
could overtake or recognise him. They discover that 
the murdered man is du Bouscal, a rascally usurer. The 
dead man dealt in shady affairs, and had the reputation of 
being a low libertine and a person of evil repute. 

At the news of the murder, the servants, the peasantry, 
and all that little world which makes up public opinion in a 
country town, cry as with one voice, " D'Aigremont is the 
murderer." This D'Aigremont, it seems, is the son of a 
well-to-do family, but leads a rather irregular life. He is 
something of a spendthrift, and what is generally called a 
ne'er-do-well. He owed money to du Bouscal, and a note 
for a considerable sum fell due on the day of the murder. 
He went to request of the usurer that it should be renewed, 
but du Bouscal refused, and the two men separated with 
mutual menaces. An hour after the murder, the usurer's 
pocketbook had been found in a straw heap by one Martial, 
game-keeper to the Marquis de Boismartel, the President 
of the Criminal Court of Aix. In the pocketbook are found 
some bank-notes and several private papers belonging to the 
dead man, but D'Aigremont's promissory note has disap- 
316 



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FERREOL 817 

peared. This last fact clearly establishes a circumstantial 
case against D'Aigremont. He is arrested and taken before 
the Criminal Court of Aix, presided over by de Boismartel. 

At an evening reception in the upper circles of Aix, the 
old city is in a flurry. Everybody takes sides for or against 
the accused man. General astonishment is expressed that 
so weak a youth should be guilty of so great a crime. 
Although D'Aigremont's life had been dissipated, he had 
never shown any signs of being a criminal. Pity is ex- 
pressed for his young sister Therese, who is engaged to 
marry Lieut. Ferreol, of the Army of Africa. 

In the midst of all this agitation preliminary to the 
criminal trial, Ferreol apparently arrives from Africa, on 
a fortnight's furlough. He has learned from the news- 
papers of the dreadful accusation which hangs over his 
future brother-in-law, and he has hastened to defend 
D'Aigremont, and to save him if he can. 

But Ferreol, in a rendezvous with Madame de Bois- 
martel, the wife of the President of the Court, discloses to 
us that he has not just arrived from Africa, but has for 
some days been hiding near Aix. 

This interview also reveals to us the secret of the mur- 
der. D'Aigremont is innocent. The usurer, du Bouscal, 
was slain by a shot from the gun of the game-keeper, Mar- 
tial, whose wife the usurer had debauched. Ferreol at this 
early morning hour was leaving the chamber of Madame 
de Boismartel; thus he was an involuntary witness of the 
murder, at the moment he was about to leap the ditch 
which separates the estate of the Marquis de Boismartel 
from the highway. 

Let us hiasten to say that the nocturnal interview of 
Madame de Boismartel with Ferreol, however culpable had 
been its first intention, had terminated in the triumph of 
honour and virtue. At the moment of receiving in her cham- 
ber the friend of her childhood, whose wife she once had 



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818 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

hoped to be, Madame de Boismartel was suddenly stricken 
with remorse. Her little daughter's sudden illness had 
come to her as a warning from heaven, and Ferreol had 
found in her not a mistress, but a faithful wife and a devoted 
mother. He withdrew, swearing that he would never 
attempt to see her again. 

But he must break his promise — ^it is to reveal to her 
the secret which is weighing upon his conscience. Shall he 
allow the unfortunate D'Aigremont to go to his death? 
Yet if Ferreol shall speak, how can he explain his presence 
at the scene of the murder, at a time when everyone be- 
lieved him to be on his way from Africa? Despite the 
dreadful peril that menaces her reputation, Madame de 
Boismartel understands that Ferreol must speak, and must 
save an innocent man from a condemnation, all the more 
infamous that the murder seems to be coupled with robbery. 

For a time she has a respite — rumours from the court 
soon reach her. She hears that the eloquent argument of 
Lauriot, the celebrated Paris lawyer who defends D'Aigre- 
mont, has so influenced the jurors that it is believed they 
will acquit him. Why, then, should Ferreol speak? Why 
should he expose her to danger? If she is compromised, 
her justly offended husband could demand a separation, and 
perhaps deprive her of her child. To this dreadful feeling 
Madame de Boismartel feels herself giving way. She begs 
Ferreol to be silent. But in the midst of their hesitation 
and mental anguish, the solemn hour comes. The jury has 
found D'Aigremont guilty. He is condemned to the gal- 
leys for life. 

It is as if a thunderbolt had fallen on Ferreol. He does 
not wish to ruin the woman whom he has loved, but he can- 
not suflfer an innocent man to undergo a penalty more cruel 
than death. He addresses himself, therefore, to the real 
murderer. He promises to secure him a pardon, on condi- 
tion that the man shall leave the coimtry, first writing the 



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FERREOL 819 

Magistrate a letter in which he shaU avow his crime. But 
Martial refuses. He loves the wife who has been unfaith- 
ful to him — he will not accept an exile which would 
take him from her side. Moreover, he has seen Ferr&)l 
escaping from Madame de Boismartel's window. If they 
denounce him, he will denounce them — ^he will cover them' 
all with shame. 

Ferreol, wild with desperation and remorse, takes the 
frenzied resolution of giving himself up to the Magistrate 
as the murderer. His declaration is received by the Magis- 
trate, de Boismartel, with incredulity. Still, his assistant, 
Lavardin, reminds him of the old maxim : " Search for the 
woman." This thqr do, and it is under the direction of the 
unsuspecting husband that this search is undertaken. At 
last the olHScers of justice are c«i the right path. From the 
self-accused Ferreol they come to Miartial; from Martial 
they are led directly to suspect Madame de Boismartel. 

The unfortunate Marquis is at once Magistrate and 
husband. His heart is breaking, but he bids his assistant 
interrogate Madame de Boismartel. The stricken woman 
avows everything, and the truth is disclosed. But while 
she is making her confession, news comes that the true 
murderer. Martial, who is in prison, awaiting his examina- 
ticai, has hanged himself. There is no further reason to 
pursue him. The dreadful task of the Magistrate is finished. 
The husband opens his arms to his wife, and Lieut. Ferreol 
weds Mademoiselle Therese D'Aigremont, whose brother 
is set free. 



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SPIRITISME 

The story begins with an exploit of Mme. Simone 
d'Aubenas, a young matron of thirty. She is by no means 
vicious, and does not detest her very worthy husband, but 
she is bored with her quiet life. So, to pass the time, she 
falls in love with a handsome Wallachian, Michael de 
Stoudza. This very evening she is about to take the train 
for her chateau in Poitou, where her husband is to join her 
in a few days. She ostensibly goes to the railway station, 
accompanied by her confidential friend, Theda. On the 
way, however, she leaves Theda to go to the station alone, 
while Simone herself repairs to a rendezvous where she is 
awaited by her handsome Wallachian. 

But a dreadful and unforeseen event occurs. The train 
which Mme. Simone was to take has collided with a heavy 
tank-train loaded with petroleum. The people on the pas- 
senger train have all been burned to death in the wreck. 
The little bag in which Mme. Simone carried her jewels has 
been found on the skdeton of a woman. This causes M. 
d'Aubenas to believe that the calcined body is that of his 
wife. Maddened with grief, he bears back to his home these 
dreadful remains. 

The next morning Simone, who is with her handsome 
Wallachian, learns these things. With what successive 
stages of surprise, of terror, of despair they gpradually pos- 
sess her, one may easily imagine. After she has weakly 
wnmg her hands for a time, she asks herself what she shall 
do. If she reveals herself to her husband, it would be a 
frank avowal of her sin. There is a simple solution of the 
difficulty — since she is believed to be dead, she will profit by 



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spramsME 8«i 

it. She will go away with her handsome Michael to his 
picturesque Wallachian fatherland, where they will spend 
their lives together in blissful idleness, the world forget- 
ting, by the world forgot. 

But the handsome Michael does not grow enthusiastic 
over the solution. If Simone is dead in the eyes of the 
world, that means that Simone, being dead, possesses 
nothing. She can take nothing with her to the other 
world, or rather to the picturesque Wallachian fatherland. 
What the gentleman prefers to Simone presumably dead 
and in reality poor, is Simone certainly divorced and in 
reality rich. Beneath the handsome exterior of her lover, 
Mme. Simone discovers his ignominious soul, and she spits 
her contempt into his face. 

There remains but (Hie course for her to follow. It is to 
avow all to her husband. But just at this moment there 
comes through the open window from without the sound of 
the monotonous voices of priests mumbling the prayers for 
the dead. Looking forth from the window, Simone sees, 
walking behind the bier, in which he believes her body lies, 
her husband, pale, broken, shaking with sobs. The stage 
scene is a strong one. The audience breathlessly waits, 
hoping that she will cry out to her husband, and that his 
joy at finding her will cause him to pardon her. But 
Simone does not reveal herself yet. She leaves him for some 
days in the most profound dejection, haunted with all sorts 
of shadows from the other world. For M. d'Aubenas is a 
believer in Spiritualism. 

Simone takes into her confidence a cousin as counsellor, 
who arranges a materialising seance. In the vast hall, 
empty, dark, but finally flooded by the light of the rising 
moon, Simone appears to her husband, who takes her for 
a spirit. Their meeting is an affecting one. She confesses 

21 



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8JM THE SARDOU PLAYS 

her fault to her husband, and d'Aubenas does not hesitate 
to pardon her whom he believes to be dead. The spirit 
asks: ''But would you pardon the erring wife were she 
living?" By the vibrant ring in her voice, her sobs, and her 
passion-shaken form, d'Aubenas perceives that it is not the 
dead Simone who faces him, but a flesh-and-blood being — 
Simone alive indeed. Although she is not a spirit, he 
pardons her again, and husband and wife are reunited. 



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GISMONDA 

Few well-read people— even those well-read in his- 
tory — remember that there was once a feudal Greece. It 
came between the two great sieges of G>nstantinople, the 
one by the Crusaders, the other by the Turks. Not only 
was there a feudal Greece, there was also a Duchy of 
Athens. Sardou, who was in the habit of ransacking his- 
tory's odd comers, was familiar with this forgotten fact 
Probably his imagination must have revelled in the his- 
torical decorations to be placed in a play in setting it m that 
twilight epoch — Christian barons cheek by jowl with pagan 
gods and goddesses, mediaeval armour set in a background 
of Athenian architecture. Shakespeare had a Duke of 
Athens, and the period is alluded to by Chaucer, Dante, 
and Boccaccio. 

The first act of "Gismonda" begins with some ten 
minutes' conversation, in which four noblemen favour the 
audience with a course in Grecian history. If it be asked 
why four noblemen, the answer is simple, because it gives 
scope for that number of handsome costumes. If it be 
asked why the ten-minute course in Grecian history, the 
answer is equally simple — ^it is to enable the late-comers in 
the audience to seat themselves. 

From the conversation of the noble four, we learn that 
the Duchess Gismonda has been left a widow with a six- 
year-old boy, Francesco. These four noblemen are paying 
their court to her. A fifth suitor arrives in the person of 
Zaccaria. This Zaccaria has some vague claim to the 
Duchy of Athens, as the son of a former duke who has been 
dispossessed. He is a man of uncertain antecedents, for he 
has been several years at the Court of the Sultan Mourad, 
and he is suspected of having denied the Christian faith 

323 



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8«4 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

and of entertaining impious and immoral doctrines. His 
scheme is not only to wed Gismonda, but to make away with 
the lawful heir. These schemes he cautiously suggests to 
the ex-bravo Gregoras, his trusted confidant, who is now 
acting as Chamberlain to the Duchess. 

An Asiatic Prince has sent a gift to Gismonda, a tiger, 
which for the nonce is confined in the bottom of a cistern. 
The cunning Gregoras leads the boy Francesco to look at 
the fierce beast, and apparently by accident, lets the child 
fall into the pit. Gismonda cries in her agony to the four 
noblemen, " I swear before God that my person and my 
Duchy shall go to the man who saves my son." The boy is 
saved, not by one of the four noblemen, but by the falconer 
Almerio, illegitimate son of a Venetian noble and an 
Athenian maid-servant. When the Duchess made her vow 
she had no thought of this poor falconer, who happens to be 
a tall handsome fellow. She wavers — she does not wish to 
keep her vow. "I will cover you with wealth and heap 
riches upon you," she tells him. But he replies: "The 
only recompense I ask is that which you have promised 
me." And the Bishop Sophron says gravely, " Your High- 
ness, you must keep the oath you have sworn." 

In the next act we find Gismonda in a convent, whither 
she has gone to withdraw for a time from the world. She 
has besought the Pope to release her from her vow, but 
Bishop Sophron brings her the refusal of the Holy Father. 
The Pontiff sees no way for her to extricate herself from 
her dilemma, unless she turns nun, in which event the Holy 
Father will kindly charge himself with the regency of her 
little Duchy. Gismonda does not seem pleased with his 
decision. She pomts out the case of Queen Johanna of 
Naples, who, having killed her husband and wedded her 
lover, was absolved by the Pope, who thus acquired Avig- 
non at a low price. She is absolutely lacking in respect for 



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6ISM0NDA 8S6 

the head of the Christian world, but she finishes by submit- 
ting, through fear of excommunication. 

The Duchess has promised the District of Sula to the 
man who shall rid it of the Catalan pirates installed at 
Marathon. Almerio quickly assembles a band of dare- 
devil companions, and brings back the head of the Pirate 
Chief slung to his saddle-bow. The Athenian people love 
him for his heroism, and because he is bom of a daughter 
of their people; they surround the convent where Gis- 
monda has taken refuge, shouting for Almerio and giving 
signs of revolt. Almerio succeeds in pacif)n[ng them, but 
makes his way to Gismonda, and again demands his recom- 
pense. The four noblemen and the traitor Zaccaria accuse 
him of rebellion, and demand his death. The Duchess lis- 
tens ; her pride is as yet unconquered, but she cannot forget 
that this handsome plebeian has saved her son's life and 
delivered her land from foreign pirates. Although base- 
bom, he is nobler in her eyes than the noblemen who so 
bitterly strive to compass his destmction. Therefore, wish- 
ing to save his life, she has him placed in the semblance of 
a prison. 

In the third act, Gismonda is troubled by the thought of 
her prisoner. She sends for him, and has speech with him 
alone. She says to him that she is grateful for what he has 
dcme; she will add to the province of Sula, which she has 
already given him, other lands and other castles; further, 
she will give him in marriage the richest and fairest of her 
maids of honour; all this on condition that he release her 
from her vow. But Almerio firmly refuses. Then she 
tums upon him, reproaching him bitterly for his gpreed. She 
tells him that to have so rapacious a soul he must be half 
Venetian and half Greek — that what he craves is all her 
Duchy and all her riches. 

"You are mistaken," replies Almerio. " What I desire 



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8«6 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

and what I will have is yourself, Duchess. I care nothing 
for your Duchy." 

This comes upon the Duchess as a revelatbn. Then 
it would seem that this half-savage warrior really loves her 
for herself. 

" If I should become your mistress would you release 

"Yes." 

" Swear it." 

" I swear it." 

" Swear that, if I yield myself to you, you will never 
betray me." 

" I swear." 

" Swear also that you will publicly release me from my 
vow." 

Almerio hesitates, but at last he mutters : " I swear." 

Then she turns upon him with bitter scorn, crying: 
" You are a lackey, a stable boy, a slave 1 Go back to your 
hut — ^but — leave your door open to-night'* 

That night Gismonda, accompanied by her trusted maid, 
is leaving the cabin of Almerio, which is near the ruins of 
a Temple of Venus. The women see two cloaked forms in 
the darkness, and hurriedly conceal themselves behind a 
tree. The two strangers pause and converse in low tones. 
It is Zaccaria and Gregoras. Zaccaria, after spying through 
the window of Almerio's hut, says to the rufiian: 

"He is asleep. Enter, and drive your dagger into his 
heart." 

But the bravo hesitates. 

"Why so many airs?" sneers Zaccaria. "You did not 
hesitate at dropping the boy Francesco into the tiger's den." 

Gismonda, from her Wding-place behind the tree, has 
heard this avowal. She rapidly reaches the door of the 
hut at the moment that Zaccaria is about to enter, and with 
an axe which stands there, she cleaves his skull. 



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6ISM0NDA 827 

In the next scene, which takes place in a Byzantine 
Church, there is an episcopal procession, with prelates and 
priests wearing the gorgeous vestments of the Greek 
clergy. After the celebration of the mass, Almerio pre- 
sents himself, and declares publicly that he releases the 
Duchess from her vow. But a messenger enters, who an- 
nounces to Gismonda that they have discovered, near the 
Temple of Venus, the dead body of Zaccaria. 

Here Gregoras enters, cr3ring, "Almerio is the mur- 
derer." 

Almerio replies briefly, " It is true.'* 

Gismonda takes him aside, saying: " Do you not know 
that they will put you to the torture?" 

" I know it," replies the generous youth, " but I have 
sworn that no one shall ever know what you have done 
for me. Since I saved you, and since my night of happiness 
with you, I die content." 

Gismonda suddenly orders her archers to seize and bind 
Gregoras. 

" This wretch," cries she, " assisted by Zaccaria, let fall 
my son into the tiger's den, and Zaccaria would have mur- 
dered Almerio in his sleep had not I, with my own hand, 
cloven the traitor's skull. I was leaving Almerio's hut, 
whither I had gone to be his mistress, as a bribe to force 
him to release me from my vow. I confess it thus publicly, 
for my punishment." And kneeling before Almerio she 
says, " I loved you secretly, now I love you before God and 
man. I will keep my vow and wed you. Good Archbishop, 
if it pleases you, bless our nuptials." And in the midst of 
the brilliantly lighted church, with the gorgeously vestured 
ecclesiastics surrounding them, the Duchess and the Fal- 
coner are made man and wife. 



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LES GENS NERVEUX 

The play begins with the appearance of Tiburce, a 
post-office employee, who has come to seek the hand of 
Marion, the adopted daughter of Marteau, a neurasthenic 
capitalist. Living in the same house are Bergerin, also a 
rich neurasthenic bachelor, and Tuffier, another wealthy 
neurasthenic, with a nervous son. When the astonished 
Tiburce learns into what sort of a place he has fallen, he 
remarks : 

''Well, this is a nice place. Bergerin a neurasthenic, old man 
Tuffier a neurasthenic, young Tuffier a neurasthenic, and old man 
Marteau a neurasthenic. Why, the very house must have epilepsy." 

Louis here enters in a rage at the servants, for not an- 
swering his bell. He begins pounding on the table and 
yelling at the top of his voice for the servants until Tiburce, 
frightened, escapes. 

This new neurasthenic is in love with Marion, whose 
hand Tiburce has come to seek. Louis loves the lady 
madly, but his irritable nerves so upset her that in the 
opening of the play they have a violent quarrel, and she 
vows never to see him again. At the crisis of this quarrel 
M. Tuffier comes in, and the nervous father remarks to the 
nervous son: 

"What, you again? I thought I told you to keep out of 
my sight. You know you are so nervous you always put me 
in a nervous state, and to-day the weather is changing so that 
my nerves arc all on edge." 

Here Mme. Tuffier enters ; she is a French Mrs. Toodles, 
and she rambles on until she drives her nervous husband 
half mad : 



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LES GENS NERVEUX 8«9 

Louis — Come, come, father, the weather will not upset yoo. 
Don't be so fearful. 

TuFFiER— Me, fearful! Why, you rascal, Vm not fearful 
I was in the militia for eighteen months, and I was never afraid. 
Why, I was in camp at St. Germain. 

Mme. Tuffier [who holds her fancy-work in her hand, and 
never hears anything but the last word of a sentence] — So you are 
talking of St. Germain. 

Tuffier— Well ! 

Mme. Tuffier— So you still intend to go and visit the La- 
combe family at St. Germain. 

Tuffier— Mme. Tuffier, I have told you a hundred times that 
you have a mania for getting things mixed. 

Mme. Tuffier— Mania ! I knew perfectly well that you would 
insist on this mania of yours for going to St. Germain, and I con- 
sider it absolutely ridiculous, because 

Tuffier — Good heavens! Now she's wound up. 

Mme. Tuffier— Because you know perfectly well the La- 
combes do not expect us until late in the summer. Do they, 
Louis? 

Tuffier— O Lord! IGroans dismally.] 

Mme. Tuffier— Besides, you know perfectly well the La- 
combes are not rich— not that I condemn them for that— pov- 
erty is no crime. But they are not rolling in wealth, and it 
would upset them a great deal if we were to drop in on them 
without warning. 

Tuffier— Mme. Tuffier, will you let me speak? 

Mme. Tuffier— Besides, it is three miles from the station 
to the Lacombes' house, and you know perfectly well in your 
condition of health you have no business to make that drive. 

Tuffier and Louis [shouting together]— Dry up! Dry up! 
"Stop! for heaven's sake, stop!" he cries, as he falls into a 
chair and shakes his fist at his wife. As Bergerin enters, he 
explains: "It's Mme. Tuffier. She will kill me, Bergerin," and 
as Mme. Tuffier again begins to talk, he shrieks : '* Take her away ! 
Take her away ! " 

Louis unfastens his father's cravat, and says: "Come and 
help me to restore him, M. Bergerin." 

But Bergerin turns his back, and hastily replies: "Oh, no, 
indeed, Louis, I could not stand it. I break down even at seeing 
an animal suffer. I would not look at Tuffier suffering for anything 
in the world. Why, the mere thought of it almost gives me a ner- 



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880 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

vous attack. I must sit down." He carefully turns his back on 
Tuffier, sits down, and goes on: "Oh, my dear young man, Tm 
nothing but a bundle of nerves. The least emotion, the least 
opposition, the least contrariety, upsets me, even a change in the 
weather. Why, take to-day. A harsh, cold wind is beginning to 
blow from the north." 

Tuffier here suddenly recovers and interrupts: "It isn't! 
It's a moist wind, and it's blowing from the south." 

But Bergerin waves Tuffier aside and ignores him. He goes 
on: "Ah, if you knew what a strict rigime I am forced to 
follow! I am obliged to lead a calm and measured life. I must 
take pleasant walks, I am forced to confine myself to the best 
of cooking, I must go to the theatre often, and only to see 
pleasant spectacles. I am obliged to have a most comfortable 
chamber, with rich hangings and thick carpets, I must avoid 
all painful impressions, I must not gaze upon suffering and 
misery. For this reason, I am condemned to a life of celibacy. 
I am deprived of the society of lovely woman. Love, love 
quarrels, jealousy— all these things would agitate my unfortunate 
nerves. If it is difficult to get along with a wife, think of children. 
A child cries at night. It suffers while teething. I would have 
to get up at night and go for the doctor. Do you think I could 
see my infant suffer? No, no, poor little one! I would be obliged 
to leave my wife with the baby, and go to the country." 

Here the chief neurasthenic enters. It is Marteau. 
He has his hands behind his back, his head inclined upon 
his breast with a most lugfubrious air. Every one receives 
him in silence. He shakes TulHBer^s hand without looking 
at him, and passes on in silence. He salutes Bergerin in 
the same silent way. He reaches Tiburce, whom he does 
not know, but Marteau takes his hand without looking at 
him, begins shaking it, stops, looks at him in astonishment, 
drops his hand, and walks away: 

Bergerin— Feeling bad to-day? 

Marteau— Yes. 

Bergerin — Nerves ? 

Marteau — ^Yes. 

Tuffier— Change in the wind? 

Marteau— Yes. 



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LES GENS NERVEUX 881 

Bergerin— That's what I said. North wind. 

TuFFiER — No, south wind. 

Marteau— Yes. 

Bekgerin — Have you tried those electric belts? 

[Masteau unfolds a newspaper and hands it to Tuffier.] 

TuFFiER— Shall I read it? 

[Marteau points out the place, nods his head, and sinks back 
in his chair,] 

Tuffier [reading]— ^" Ttn thousand francs reward to any 
person who can cure a chronic nervous affection. Address No. 35 
Church Street. Monsieur M. " M. Is that you, Marteau? 

[Marteau nods his head,] 

Tuffier— EMd any one answer it? 

[MAjtTEAU holds up ten fingers,] 

Bergerin — Quacks ? 

[Marteau nods his head,] 

Tuffier— Where arc they? 

[Marteau makes a kick.] 

Tuffier— Fired out? 

[Marteau nods his head,] 

Tiburce here interrupts with some suggestion concern- 
ing the quacks, which leads Marteau to ask who he is. 
Bergerin presents him, and announces that he is employed 
in the post-olHBce, at a salary of twelve hundred francs, 
that he has ten thousand francs of his own, and that he 
has come to solicit the hand of Marteau's adopted daughter, 
Marion : 

Marteau [exploding] — How is this for luck? My dinner 
went wrong; the roast was raw; the chicken was burned; the 
coffee was cold, and my stomach is out of order to-night. This 
is all that is necessary to upset it completely. [He walks feverishly 
up and dotvn,] How can I know the good qualities or defects of 
this gentleman, because the temperament of a son-in-law is a vital 
point. [Addressing Bergerin.] Is his temperament nervous? 

Tiburce— No, sir. No. 

Marteau [Still tvalking up and down and not noticing Ti- 
burce] — Sanguine ? 

Tiburce— No. 

Marteau— Bilious ? 



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882 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

TiBURCE— No. 

Marteau — Bilioso-sanguine ? 

TiBURCE— No. 

Marteau — Nervoso-sanguine ? 

TiBURCE— No. 

Marteau — Nervoso-bilioso^sanguine ? 

TiBURCE— No, no! 

Marteau [stopping in front of Bergerin] — ^Then he has 
absolutely no temperament at all. If no temperament, then no 
character. 

TiBURCE [in a weak tone] — Is it absolutely necessary that 
I must have some temperament? Well, then, I think I am in- 
clined to be sanguine. 

Marteau — Sanguine? Ah, predisposed to congestion, to 
apoplexy. He would be dangerous to his wife, his children, 
to his father-in-law. Black-balled! 

TiBURCE — No, I didn't mean sanguine. Bilious is what I 
meant — ^bilious. 

Marteau— Bilious? Then this means predisposition to melan- 
cholia; to gloom, to madness — dangerous to his wife, to his 
children, to his father-in-law. Black-balled! 

TiBURCE — ^Excuse me, but I remember now that I am not 
bilious, I think I am nervous. 

Marteau, Bergerin, and Tuffier [all shouting together] — 
Nervous ! 

TiBURCE— That is, a little nervous. 

Marteau — ^Then that would settle you. A nervous son-in- 
law would be all that is lacking to drive me crazy. But if, 
on the other hand, you are of a cheerful temperament, alwajrs 
thoughtful, easy to get along with, I would consider your claims. 
But if you always choose such disagreeable subjects of conversa- 
tion; if you can not laugh without laughing too loudly, nor blow 
your nose without making a noise; if you can not agree to remain 
absolutely motionless, and above all, if you continue to use that 
smelly pomade on your hair, and to wear such loud waistcoats and 
shrieking neckties, you are unanimously black-balled. 

TiBURCE— But 

Marteau — ^Don't interrupt me. I have sworn that my two 
datighters shall marry no matter whom, so that he be not nervous. 
Do you understand? 

TiBURCE — Ah, sir, I am exactly your man, then. There is not 
the slightest trace of nervousness about me. 



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LES GENS NERVEUX 883 

Marteau— That's an easy thing to say, well see about that 
[He comes behind Tiburce, and while Tiburce is not observing 
he hits him a tremendous blow on the shoulder, suddenly seises 
his wrist, takes out his watch, and begins to count his pulse,] 

Tiburce [surprised] — Ouch! You nearly dislocated my 
shoulder. 

Marteau [calmly counting] — ^That's nothing. His pulse is 
even, steady, very good; let's try another test. [Going to the sofa.] 
Come here, young man [making the motion of scratching the horse- 
hair sofa], let's see if you can do this with your nails. 

Tiburce— That's easy. [He scratches the horse-hair violently 
with his nails.] 

Bergerin, Tuffier, and Marteau [all three put their fingers 
in their ears] — ^Enough, enough, for heaven's sake stop! 

Tiburce— Is that all? 

Marteau — Not yet [He gives him a cork and a knife.] 
Now, let's see you cut this cork. [Tiburce cuts the cork, which 
squeaks loudly.] 

Tuffier, Bergerin, and Marteau [grind their teeth and 
shout together] — Enough, enough, stop! [Tuffier snatches the 
knife and cork from Tiburce's hands.] 

Marteau [solemnly, to Tiburce] — ^Young man, you! have 
passed all the tests — ^you are not nervous. You feel nothing. 
You are simply a machine. You have no nerves. I permit you 
to make application for the hand of Marion. 

Louis [entering suddenly] — ^What, Marion? 

Marteau [firmly] — ^Yes, Marion. 

Louis — I forbid him to marry Marion. 

Marteau — ^Leave, monsieur. 

Louis [screaming] — ^If he marries her I will kill him. 

Tiburce— Kill me? 

Louis [tearing his hair] — ^Yes, and I shall set fire to the 
house. 

[Tiburce, Tuffier, Bergerin, and Marteau all rush to the 
window and shout "Fire! Fire!"] 

At this moment Csesar, Marteau's nephew, enters and 
demands to know where the fire is, but the entire gathering 
informs him it is " nothing but nerves." Marteau suddenly 
bethinks himself, and says to Caesar: "Why, you rascal, 
did I not drive you from here with my malediction?" To 



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884 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

which Caesar replies: "Yes, uncle, but I brought it back. 
I couldn't borrow a thing on it." "What, then," asks 
Marteau, " brings you under my roof?" " I have come for 
ten thousand francs," replies Caesar, taking out a news- 
paper, and beginning to read: " Ten thousand francs re- 
ward to the person who can cure a chronic, inveterate, 
nervous affection/* The exasperated Marteau takes a cane 
to chastise his nephew, and the ne'er-do-well escapes just 
in time. 

We next find Lucie playing scales on the piano. Marion 
is setting the clock. Marteau is seated in a reclining-chair, 
wrapped from head to foot in electro-medical chains. The 
dodc is striking nine o'clock, half-past nine, ten o'clock, 
half-past ten, and so on. The maid, Placide, is dusting the 
outer room. Marteau suddenly explodes, and shouts: 

"For God's sake, Marion!" 

"What is it, papa?" replies Marion, continuing to turn the 
hands. 

Marteau suddenly changes to the utmost mildness. "No," he 
mutters, "I must not fly into a rage with the electro-magnetic 
chains on me. With these powerful currents, you never can tell 
with electridty what may happen." Then, addressing Marion in 
honeyed tones : " Do you think you'll soon be finished, my dearest 
child?" 

"But, papa," replies Marion, "I must make it strike on the 
hour." 

"Don't you think you could skip a few?" asks Marteau. 

"What an idea, papa! Why, it would strike all wrong. I'll 
soon be finished, I'm nearly at half-past eleven— and it's half- 
past twelve now." 

"I verily believe," mutters Marteau, "that those machines 
were invented to drive people crazy. Whenever I try to wind 
them the hand is always on one of the key-holes. I never knew 
it to fail" As the clock strikes twelve, Marteau bawls: "Jump- 
ing Jehosephat, they'll drive me crazy! Lucie!" 

"Yes, papa," says Lucie, without stopping her scales. 

"I mustn't get angry," says Marteau, and mildly asks: 
"Lucie, my child, is it absolutely necessary for you to do that?" 



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LES GENS NERVEUX 8S6 

" Why, yes, papa," replies Lucie, " I must practice my music" 

He rings the bell, and the maid answers. 

"If my nephew, Caesar," he roars, "dares to present himself 
here, shut the door in his face. Do you hear?" 

" Yes, but I won't though," replies the maid. 

"What, you impudent thing— you won't?" roars the master. 
"Ifs lucky for you that I have on these electric chains, and that 
I don't dare to fly into a passion. I discharge you." 

" Discharge, indeed I " replies the maid. " The same as yester- 
day and the day before, I suppose?" 

" No I " shouts the furious Marteau, " for good this time." 

And he begins tearing his chains from him and hurling 
them in pieces at Pladde. Marion and Lucie push her out 
of the door, and urge him to be calm. He grows calmer, 
and bids them go to the piano and do their scales. They 
place themselves at the piano and begin to play four-handed 
scales. Martfeau writhes. "To think," says he, "that I 
should be in these chains since seven o'clock this morning 
with this result.'' The four-handed scales continue more 
loudly than ever. Marteau grinds his teeth. A violent 
pounding is heard on the ceiling. It develops that the other 
neurasthenics on the flbor above object to the music. They 
are testifying their displeasure by pounding on the floor, 
Bergerin with the tongs, and Tuffier with a cane. 

There follows an interview between the three rich neu- 
rasthenics and Tiburce, the suitor for the hand of Marion. 
Marteau tells him that some fifteen years before, an old 
friend had died leaving forty thousand francs to him 
(Marteau), twelve thousand francs to Bergerin, and thir- 
teen thousand francs to Tufiier. They had, just left the 
lawyer's office after settling up this succession, when, turn- 
ing the comer of a street, they saw an infant lying on the 
sidewalk wrapped in a rug. It was evidently a foundling. 
No one knew anything about it. The pitiful plight of the 
little one so moved Marteau that he proposed to the others 
that he should adopt it, and that all three of them should 



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886 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

contribute toward the little girl's dof; that they should 
purchase a coffer, in which all three should put, year in 
and year out, what they had to spare. Marteau shows to 
Tiburce this coffer, and tells him that the dot of Marion is 
within. Tiburce desires that it be opened, but Csesar sud- 
denly enters,.and demands to know whether Tiburce wishes 
to wed the young lady or the dot. Tiburce is somewhat 
embarrassed, and is finally given two hours to decide 
whether he will marry the lady without opening the coffer. 
Each one of the three fathers has a key to the coffer. In 
the meantime, Louis, the neurasthenic son of Tuffier, ap- 
pears, and first threatens to drown himself, when he hears 
that Marion is to marry Tiburce, and when he encounters 
that gentleman, changes his mind and determines to kill 
him. At the end of the second act, Tiburce is fleeing, with 
Louis in hot pursuit. 

The three fathers and Tiburce and Louis are assembled, 
Louis's appearance causing some little alarm to Tiburce. 
The coffpr is about to be opened, and Tiburce announces 
that he is willing to sign the marriage contract before the 
opening. Both Bergerin and Tuffier show great reluctance 
to give up their keys. They make all sorts of demands, 
until fiinally Marteau, in disgust, orders the notary to draw 
up the contract, giving the coffer to the newly married 
couple locked. But such is the wrangling involved by the 
proposition that Tiburce finally renounces the lady. Mar- 
teau then gives her to Louis, with the contents of the coffer, 
which he, finally securing the keys, opens. All look in. 
It contains nothing. All three of the adoptive fathers have 
failed to put anything into the savings-bank. But Marteau 
had foreseen this end. He takes out a pocketbook contain- 
ing fifty thousand francs, which, in expectation of the empty 
coffer, he had brought with him, and he gives this to Marion 
for her dower when she weds Louis. 



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MAISON NEUVE ^ 

In the title "Maison Neuve" there is a play upon 
words. Maison — ^in French, as in English — ^means not 
only "house" or "building," but mercantile "house" or 
"firm" as well. The play is concerned with the fortunes 
of the firm of Genevoix & Pillerat, which for many years 
has done business at the sign of " The Old Cockade " in 
the Old House. But the younger members of the firm 
sigh for more modern quarters, in a new street, in a new 
establishment, and under a new name — in short, a New 
House. Hence " Maison Neuve." 

In the opening of the play, we are in the old home of 
the firm. It is the typical establishment of a lesser whole- 
sale dealer in Paris. The firm handles ribbons, laces, veil- 
ings, and similar feminine fripperies en gros, or wholesale. 
On the ground floor and in the basement are the salesrooms. 
On the floor above, live the family. ^ 

Uncle Genevoix, an old bachelor, is the head of the 
firm ; Rene Pillerat, his nephew, is his partner ; and Claire, 
Rent's wife, acts as bookkeeper. Gabrielle, a younger sis- 
ter of Rene, has just returned from boarding-school, where 
she has "finished her education." It happens also to be 
the birthday of Claire, likewise the tenth anniversary of her 
marriage with Rend. She has no children. 

A lady has come to " The Old Cockade " to match some 
silk, which she could not find at the retailer's. She sees 
Qaire, and is delighted at the meeting. They are school- 
girl friends. The newcomer, Th6odosie, has not seen Claire 
since eleven years before, when they were at school. Since 
that time she has married the Baron de Laverdec, by whom 
she had one child; the Baron died, leaving a very small 

1 Best-known English versions, "Vanity," "May fair." 

22 337 



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888 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

fortune for his daughter, of whom Th^odosie was made the 
guardian. But if she remarries, she loses all share in in- 
come and principal. Hence, as she discontentedly explains, 
there is no chance for her to marry again, so she spends 
her time as well as she can on her modest income, amusing 
herself by ''taking a flyer on the stock market when she 
can get a tip from some financier/' Having told her story, 
she asks Qaire to give some account of herself. 

Claire replies that her story is soon told. " I am here 
in the Rue Thevenot in the morning, in the Rue Thevenot 
in the evening — ^that is my life. Is is not melancholy? My 
father was in trade, and I was intended for a tradesman's 
wife. But I was sent to a grand boarding-school in the 
Champs-Elysees, where my school-fellows were the daugh- 
ters of noblemen and bankers. I was taught to dance, to 
sing, to paint, to play the piano. In short, I was given 
what is called a brilliant education. But one day our old 
friend, M. Genevoix, came to me in tears. My poor father 
had been stricken by apoplexy. His death left his aflfairs 
much involved. While his assets were large, his liabilities 
were larger, and the first use to which I was forced to put 
my brilliant education was the keeping of accounts, scmie- 
thing they had not taught me at boarding-school. I found 
that my life was not to consist of watercolor painting, riding 
on horseback, and playing the piano, but of adding up 
columns of figures. When everything was settled, there 
remained out of the wreck only 40,000 francs for my dot. 
With terror, I foimd myself doomed to be an old maid, or 
perhaps married to some petty shopkeeper. When Rene 
Pillerat appeared as a suitor, he pleased me; besides, it 
meant that I would not be condenmed to a horrible little 
shop. To marry him meant to be the wife of a wholesale 
dealer, in an old and solid establishment, with comfort at 
once, and with wealth some day, perhaps. So I said yes— 
without enthusiasm, but without regret." 



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MAISON NEUVE 889 

The complaints of Qaire to her sympathetic friend 
mirror the life of a French woman of the Petite Bour- 
geoisie, or upper shopkeeper class. Theodosie asks her 
how she passes her time. 

"My time?" replies Claire, bitterly. "It passes rap- 
idly enough. I am at my desk at eight o'clock. My hours 
are crowded with writing business letters, making out state- 
ments of account, entries, and bills of lading. My busiest 
time is in the morning. We take our midday dinner when 
and how we can. These office duties occupy me until three 
o'clock, when the cashier relieves me. I can go out then, 
but where can I go? In winter it is almost dark at four. 
In summer, the pleasant part of Paris is too far away. So 
I go up to my bedroom, where I read novels. When supper 
time comes, my husband and my unde discuss exchange 
on London or the crisis in cotton. In summer I go after 
supper to my garden, which is twelve feet square, sur- 
rounded by high walls. In winter, I sit by the fireside and 
read the papers, while my husband and uncle play dominoes. 
At ten o'clock I go to bed, and the next day it is the same 
routine all over again. Such, my dear, has been my life 
for ten years, with absolutely no incidents except an occa- 
sional cold in the head, the yearly stock-taking, and perhaps 
the chimney catching fire." 

"And you — 2l true Parisian — graceful, pretty, chic, to 
lead such a life! " cries the sympathetic Theodosie. " And 
do you never sigh for anything better than this? ** 

"Indeed, indeed, I do," replies Claire. "Although we 
are in Paris, it seems as if I were buried in the country. 
Everything here is old and faded. My uncle is good, but 
he is an antique. Our old servant is good, but she wearies 
me. The furniture is good, but it is old-fashioned. Yet 
only a hundred yards away is the new Paris — the brilliant, 
throbbing, feverish, dazzling Paris of the great boulevard. 
Whiffs of its incense are borne to me by the winds. There 



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840 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

is the new Paris, here is the old. All around us buildings 
are being demolished and other merchants going to newer 
quarters. All save us. Here we remain." 

Theodosie suggests that they should go into the new 
quarter and open a brilliant establishment there. But Claire 
shakes her head. She says that her uncle would not listen 
to any such suggestion ; the affairs of the firm are prosper- 
ing, and he would not leave a certain present for an un- 
certain future. " Our partnership articles expire to-day," 
she says, " and they will be renewed. For our part, we, my 
husband and I, have made not less than 500,000 francs, net." 

While they are speaking, a note is brought from another 
shopkeeper's wife, who has left the old quarter and opened 
an establishment on the boulevard. She sends her valet de 
chambre — in her carriage with her monogram on the panel — 
to match some goods. Claire is s e cr e tly - much incensed 
at this display by her former neighbour. 

Uncle Genevoix appears. He is a typical French 
bourgeois — ^kind-hearted, not very refined, devoted to his 
business and to his family. He is delighted at the return 
of his niece Gabrielle. He brings in some of the trusted 
employees of the Old House, who had known her when she 
was a little child playing around the court-yard. Among 
them is Andre, who, although young, is a trusted clerk. 
Gabrielle looks at him with interested eyes. Another is 
old Gudin, the veteran cashier. Her uncle tells her that 
in the crisis of 1848 the firm was on the point of going 
under, but old Gudin brought the savings of thirty years 
and put them in her father's hands, thus rescuing the firm. 
Her uncle shows her the big easy-chair where her father 
used to doze every evening; the very desk in which her 
grandfather locked up the first money he made in his 
little fancy-goods shop. Genevoix tells her that they are 
rich enough to replace all these things, but that he loves 
them, and he hopes she will love them too. They go out 



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MAISON NEUVE 841 

into the dining-room to see the table spread for the family 
feast 

Rene returns. He tells Claire that he has a present for 
her, and she asks to see it. Looking around cautiously, Rene 
says: "This is your present — ^an entirely new establish- 
ment: basement, ground floor, and entresol for the sales- 
rooms and storerooms ; the first floor for your living-rooms ; 
a new building on the new Boulevard Malesherbes ; a lease 
for a term of years ; everything complete ; your apartments 
fidly furnished; your salon hung in blue silk and your 
boudoir in rose pink." 

Claire is overcome with joy. " To think that I should 
have both a boudoir and a salon ! " she cries. " Let us go 
and see the place at once." 

But Rene restrains her. Uncle Genevoix would be much 
hurt at the mere thought of their failing to renew their 
articles of partnership with him and quitting the Old House 
for a new one. But if Uncle Genevoix is carefully managed, 
Rene thinks he might accompany them to the New House, 
sign new articles, and lease the Old House for what they 
could get. 

As they are discussing this subject, Uncle Genevoix 
enters. With much trepidation the young couple suggest 
moving to new and modern quarters on the boulevard. He 
listens to them — at first with surprise, and then with ill-con- 
cealed vexation. He endeavours to dissuade them from any 
such move. He tells them that their modest fortune will be 
swallowed up by the enormous expenses of the new build- 
ings on the boulevard; that if they remain where they are 
in the Old House for five years more, he will then have one 
hundred thousand francs income. They too will have a 
handsome income, and they may all retire ; he will then pur- 
chase a fine place in the country, and all his fortune will be 
divided between them after his death. As Uncle Genevoix 
is earnestly begging them not to abandon the Old House, 



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848 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

he is called by Gabrielle to the dining-room^ and leaves them 
for a moment. 

Such is the profound chagrin of the old man over the 
mere contemplation of their new step that Rene and Qaire 
are afraid to break to him the truth — that they have already 
taken that step and leased the New House. So they leave a 
note, telling him in writing what they dared not tell him 
face to face, and ignominiously flee. The note is presented 
to Uncle Genevoix just as he is about to sit down to the 
family feast to which he had looked forward with so much 
anticipation. Old Genevoix is heart-broken. Rene and 
Claire are gone. There remain of the family only himself 
and Gabrielle. 

In the second act, we are in the New House of IJlene 
and Claire. Everything is very elegant, but very new. 
There is a new valet de chambre, who calls himself a 
maitre d'hotel; there is also a new femme de chambre. They 
exchange confidences concerning their new master and 
mistress. The valet tells the maid of the magnificent ban- 
quet with which the New House 'was inaugurated some 
weeks before ; of the paid puflfs concerning it in the boule- 
vard journals. When asked as to the occupants of the 
house, he replies: 

" We are a little mixed. In the basement, on the ground 
floor and the entresol, we have ouf store-rooms. Here, on 
the first floor we have seven windows looking c«i the boule- 
vard with a balcony. This is our apartment. The seven 
adjoining windows belong to our neighbour, M. de 
Marsille, a very lively club-man. On the second floor, we 
have Mile. Mandarine, a very lively lady with orange- 
coloured hair. On the third floor is the Baroness de Laver- 
dec, a friend of Madame. Lastly, in a small bedroom on the 
same floor, is M. de Pontarme, a friend of Monsieur." 

" And has Madame any lovers yet? " inquires the maid. 

" Not yet," replied the lackey, " but Monsieur de Mar- 



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MAISON NEUVE 848 

sille is making eyes at her. Then, you see, his windows 
open on the same balcony, which is quite promising." 

Uncle Genevoix comes in to see his relatives. He is 
still on friendly terms with them, although their paths have 
diverged. He is amazed at the fine-lady airs of the maid, 
and amused at the mock-gentleman airs of the lackey. 
While he is waiting for Claire, who is dressing, Pontarme 
enters, accompanied by Gaspard. They are talking of the 
night before at the dub. The elegant Gaspard, who wears 
a single eye-glass and a gardenia in his buttonhole, tells 
Pontarme of his winning a hundred louis on the race 
course the day before, but adds that he went to a little 
supper party with some actresses and lost all his money at 
cards after supper. He leaves some letters for Rene, and 
then goes out to purchase some favours for the cotillion, 
* which he is to lead that evening. Genevoix asks who this 
fashionable gentleman may be, and to his amazement is 
told that Gaspard is the cashier of the New House. 

Rene at last returns, and is frankly glad to see his 
uncle. Genevoix says he is waiting for Qaire, but the maid 
tells him she never is dressed at so early an hour. It is 
now five in the afternoon. Rene assents, saying that he 
never sees her himself in the morning. They have separate 
apartments, and he goes out every morning for his canter. 
Back from his ride at eleven o'clock he breakfasts at the 
club, looks over the papers, smokes a cigar, goes to the 
stock exchange for a while, and then comes home. 

"But how about the business?" asks the unde. 

"The business!" replies Rene, "oh, it goes by itself 
in the New House." 

Rene then rapidly sketches a long list of dinners, teas, 
suppers, theatre-parties, and drives to the races which take 
up all of his and Claire's time, both night and day. To this 
recital Uncle Genevoix listens with growing disgust, and 



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844 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

finally departs, saying that he will call again to see Qaire 
when she is up, and " when it is not so early." 

After the departure of Uncle Genevoix, Rene entrusts 
a letter to Pontarme. It seems that this valued friend of 
the family is acting as a bearer of billet-doux between Rene 
and Mile. Mandarine, the lady upstairs with the orange 
hair. 

Their discussion of this intrigue is interrupted by the 
arrival of Claire and Theodosie. Claire tells Rene that 
she will not dine at home, as she and Theodoise are going 
to dine at the restaurant ; from there they go to the theatre, 
where Theodosie has a box. Claire picks up the evening 
paper to see what the performance is, and to her delight 
finds something of interest there. She cries : " Why, Rene, 
what do you think I have found? Here are our names — 
yours and mine — in the paper! It says: 'Among those 
present at the Brazilian Ambassador's ball was the charm- 
ing Mme. Pillerat attired in a dainty costume as a Summer 
Mist, which showed her beautiful figure to extreme advan- 
tage. M. Pillerat, one of our leading commercial gentle- 
men, wore the costume of a lobster!" 

Rene is as delighted as is Claire at this evidence of their 
social advancement. 

On the heels of this agreeable discovery the Comte de 
Marsille is announced, rather to Claire's surprise, as she 
does not know that gentleman. He comes to say that the 
concierge informs him of his neighbours' desire that the 
board partition on the bakony be removed, as it obstructs 
the view from Madame's window. 

" But," interrupts Claire, somewhat curtly, " I made no 
such request." 

" It was I, my dear," said Rene. " Don't you remember 
you told me it interrupted your view of the boulevard?" 

" Really, Rene," replies Claire, " it was only a passing 
remark. I cannot think of asking this gentleman to remove 



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MAISON NEUVE 846 

the partition; on second thought, I do not desire it 
removed." 

"I beg of you, Madame," interrupts M. de Marsille, 
" to say no more about it." And he enters into so subtle a 
protestation, in which he affects to believe that Claire de- 
sires the partition removed, but does not wish to trouble 
him to remove it, that the yoimg woman finally grows con- 
fused. She is not used to the deferential manner, the 
polished flattery, of a man of the world like de Marsille. 
He is gazing at her with bold eyes, while he protests his 
desire to consult her wishes in the matter, yet at the same 
tipie^fo^cing her to accede to his own. He is aided by her 
foolish ht^band, who is so delighted at having a nobleman 
imder his ^oof that he can scarcely contain himself. When 
de Mar^e takes his departure it is understood that the 
partition on the balcony between his apartment and Qaire's 
is to be removed. 

In the third act, the salon of the New House is being 
prepared by workmen for a grand ball. Rene and Claire 
have had some twenty-five "intimate" friends at dinner, 
and their dear five hundred friends are bidden to the ball 
which is to follow the dinner. Pontarme is advising Rene 
about the arrangement of the decorations. These, it would 
appear, have been hired for the night — ^hangings, rugs, 
tapestries, jardinieres, plants, silver, crystal, and candelabra. 
Pontarme asks about the price, which Rene tells him; he 
also confides to Pontarme that he is a little pinched for 
money, and must meet a note for sixty thousand francs the 
following day, as Mile. Mandarine is costing him a good 
deal of money. He suggests that Pontarme should lend 
him thirty or forty thousand francs. Pontarme replies that 
he has no money at all, and lives by dining with his friends, 
getting commissions on their clothes from tailors, on their 
horses from horse-dealers, and on their pictures from pict- 
ure-dealers. Rene suggests that Pontarme must have got 



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846 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

a commission on the horses he sold to him. Whereat Pont- 
arme grins, and admits that he did. 

They are interrupted by Claire, who has left her guests 
to confer with Rene about the cotillion, which is to be led 
by Gaspard, the cashier of the New House, Gaspard comes 
in with some favours. 

Pontarme says to him in a low voice : " I hear you have 
been hit pretty hard in the stock market, old man." 

"Yes, yes,*' replies Gaspard, hastily. "I have had a 
little bad luck." 

" Bad luck, eh? " continues the pitiless Pontarme. " Is 
that why you sold all your pictures and your hpasls ^ 
auction this morning?" / 

"So you have heard that?" says Gaspard^ "Hush, ^ 
don't say anything about it." And he turns with«l^s cotil- 
lion favours to confer with Claire. ^ 

Qaire can hardly keep her eyes open in talking with 
him, and dismisses him in a few moments. She tells her 
Uncle Genevoix, who is concerned about her appearance, 
that she has been suffering lately from sleeplessness. Her 
doctor had prescribed a sleeping potion ; as she felt so tired 
that afternoon, she had taken a few drops, but it was more 
powerful than she had expected, and she was irresistibly 
impelled to sleep. Genevoix advises her to go to her 
boudoir for a little sleep, if only for a few moments. But 
at this moment, M. de Marsille enters, offers her his arm, 
and saluting Genevoix, they go toward the ball-room. 

Uncle Genevoix is looking for Ren^. He has heard of 
his nephew's financial embarrassment. He wants to know 
the figure of his debts. Poor Ren^ is obliged to make a 
clean breast of it. It is necessary, for the hard-hearted 
uncle apparently knows all, even about the expensive lady 
with the bleached hair. He strikes a rapid balance, and 
shows Ren£ that he must without fail have one hundred 
and fifty thousand francs on hand in the morning. Rent's 



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MAISON NEUVE 847 

countenance falls, but it suddenly lights up as he says : 
"I can surely borrow at least half of that among the 
friends I have here to-night." Unde Genevoix shakes his 
head with a sardonic smile as Ren6 starts out upon his 
quest. 

As they leave the room, Claire and M. de Marsille 
enter. Claire's head is still in a whirl, partly from the 
waltz and partly from the drug she has taken. She tells 
de Marsille of her somnolent condition, seats herself, and 
asks him to stand in front of her and shield her from view 
as if he were talking to her, while she endeavours to snatch 
a few momen/ts' sleep. De Marsille immediately seizes the 
opporttmity and presses his suit. He tells her that she is 
worthy of a more brilliant sphere in life than to be the wife 
of a shop-keeper. He sneers at Rene. He paints a picture 
of Claire with him in a palace at Venice, decked with 
diamonds, attended like a queen. 

"Hush! you know I am sleeping," she murmurs 
drowsily. 

He becomes bolder with her lack of resistance, and 
declares he will come to her window that evening, by way 
of the balcony. 

" Stop ! " she says, wamingly. " I am waking." 

But the fiery de Marsille will not be repulsed. He vows 
he will come to her window, and will enter if she leaves it 
unfastened. 

"Monsieur," says Claire, rising suddenly, "I told you 
that I was waking. Now I am awake. Go, sir ! " 

De Marsille attempts to make peace with the offended 
beauty, but they are interrupted by Gaspard, who has come 
to claim a dance; as she gives Gaspard her arm, Rene 
excitedly enters. 

" Let this dance go," says Ren6. " How much money 
have you on hand, Gaspard? " 



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848 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

The cashier lcx)ks at him with ill-concealed terror. 
" About ninety thousand francs," he replies. 

"And how much do you collect to-morrow?" 

" Twenty-seven thousand." 

" And how much is there to pay? " 

" One hundred and twelve thousand four hundred and 
thirty-two francs." 

"Then you think we have enough?" asks Rene. 

"Oh, yes, Monsieur, I think so." 

" Nevertheless," replies Rene, " let us go over the cash- 
book and count the cash on hand. Go down at once to the 
office, light up, and open the safe." 

Gaspard turns a ghastly colour. Claire asks him if he 
is ill. 

" No, Madame," he replies, " I am a little dizzy from 
the waltzing and the heated air. I will go to my room and 
get the key of the safe." 

Theodosie enters. She has just come from the opera, 
and she brings news from the ministry of foreign affairs 
which will send up the stock market with a bound on the 
following day. 

Rene groans. "Just my luck again,". he exclaims. "I 
have been selling stocks short for a fall, and if the market 
goes up five points I stand to lose 400,000 francs." 

Qaire is frightened at his pallor, and bids Gabrielle 
go for Gaspard, telling her that he is in the office of the New 
House, counting the cash. 

Gabrielle returns in a few moments, saying, " He is liot 
there." 

" But he must be there ! " cries Rene. 

." No," replies Gabrielle, '* he is not there. The office 
is lighted, the books are scattered over the desk, the safe 
is open, but Gaspard is gone." 

They hasten to the office, and they find that Gabrielle 
has spoken only too truly. Not only is Gaspard gone, but 



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MAISON NEUVE 849 

with him there is gone all the money that was in the safe 
to meet to-morrow's indebtedness. 

By this time the agitation of the family has commtmi- 
cated itself to the guests. They catch a word here and 
there-— debts, accounts, flight of the cashier, losses on the 
stock exchange. Soon, a rumour runs around that Gaspard 
has fled; that he has stolen 500,000 francs. It speedily 
becomes 800,000. In five minutes it has risen to 900,000, 
and one agitated guest says that the ofiicers of the law 
are already on the way to seize everything in the house for 
protested drafts. The head workmen and stewards in charge 
of ornaments, table service, and decorations become alarmed. 
They are responsible for their employer's goods. Speedily 
the waiters and the extra lackeys are set at work, and in 
a few moments the amazed guests see workmen on ladders 
taking down portieres, others rolling up tapestries, and 
waiters packing up silver and glass. Soon the musicians 
are seen folding up their music, packing up their instru- 
ments, and silently filing out. The lights begin to go out, 
the candelabra to disappear. Qaire's insolent maid and 
valet de chambre demand their wages, and when Claire, 
weeping with wounded pride, tells them she has no money 
and offers her diamonds as security to the maid, the insolent 
creature says : " Why, they're no good. You know as well 
as I do they're paste ! " 

To this dialogue two cynical gfuests listen as they are 
going out. Says one to the other : " Probably a pretty bad 
failure." To which the other replies: "Must be a fraud- 
ulent bankruptcy, I think. Have you got a cigar, old man? 
Thanks." And they light their cigars in the vestibule and 
go out into the night. 

In the fourth act, Qaire is in her chamber with 
Gabrielle, who has learned that they need 50,000 francs in 
the morning; this is exactly her dot, and as she wishes to 
help Claire and Rene, she will give them her little forttme 



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860 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

to save the honour of the Old House. Claire is overcome 
with emotion; she refuses, but finally yields, saying she 
will accept only on condition that Unde Genevoix approves. 

As Gabrielle goes out, Qaire muses: "What a dear 
little creature! And to think I shall never see her again! 
For now that I have learned of Rent's faithlessness, I have 
left my window open. De Marsille will see the light on 
my balcony, and when he comes I shall not remain another 
hour in this vile house. To think that I am under the same 
roof with that creature! I should have known that there 
was a woman in the case. Rene could not spend so much 
money in any other way. It was not for me, it was for her, 
and I never guessed it, fool that I was. Twenty times I 
have met that creature swishing her laces by me on the 
stair, and wearing lingerie paid for by me. I should have 
guessed it by her insolent smile. Yet while I was repulsing 
the advances of a lover on this floor, my husband on the 
floor above was making love to this vile woman." She 
begins throwing objects of apparel and toilet articles into 
a travelling bag. Taking up one she says : " Here is my 
sleeping potion. It means sleep. Taidng enough of it 
might mean death." She starts. "What is that noise? 
It is he!" 

It is indeed de Marsille. He has a vinous laugh, a 
flushed face, a confident smile. He closes the window be- 
hind him as he enters. But he sees by her face that some- 
thing has happened, and asks her what it is. She tells 
him briefly that disaster has followed disaster ; her husband 
has lost 300,000 francs in the stock market, and the cashier, 
having stolen all that remained, has fled. But worse than 
all, she has discovered her husband's mtrigue with the 
woman. Mandarine, on the floor above. De Marsille makes 
vague attempts at consolation, but his thickly uttered plati- 
tudes at last attract the attention of the semi-hysterical 
Qaire. She listens, at first uncomprehendingly, to his 



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MAISON NEUVE 861 

chatter, and at last a dim suspicion steals into her mind. 
She approaches him, and looks into his eyes. 

" You have just left table? " she asks. 

''Yes, I have been to a little supper. Why do you 
ask?" 

" Because it is easily to be seen," replies Claire, coldly, 
" you are not sober.'* 

De Marsille protests in a thick utterance that he has had 
only a little wine, but Claire looks at him with cold eyes. 

"And it is for this," she bitterly reflects, "that I atti 
throwing my honour away ! This is what they call romantic 
and guilty love I But this creature with the filmy eyes and 
the stupid laugh— can this be a romantic lover? This is 
not passion, it is vice. This is not love, it is debauchery. 
This is not intoxication, it is drunkenness. Be off, you 
sot, leave me!" 

But Claire finds that it is difficult to manage a drunken 
man. De Marsille tipsily protests — ^first, that he will not go ; 
next, that he will not go unless she accompanies him; then 
that he will not go tmless she gives him something to drink. 
And as he, in his mixture of amorousness and drunken 
persistence, seizes her and will not let her go, she suddenly 
conceives the idea of giving him some of her sleeping potion, 
telling him it is a cordial that will sober him. She pours 
a few drops into a glass of water and bids him take it ; she 
assures him, with feminine cajolery, that as soon as he is 
sobered she will listen to his suit. He drinks the potion, 
but looking at her, after a moment, with a silly laugh, he 
says: 

" That doesn't sober me. I have not had enough — give 
me some more!" Before she can check him, he seizes 
the vial and drains it to the last drop. As he does so, he 
looks at her strangely. 

"What is that stuff?" he says, thickly. "What a 
devilish queer taste! It's bitter; it tastes like opium. I 



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86« THE SARDOU PLAYS 

wonder if it is opium? Oh, my head! My God! What 
is happening to me? I cannot see! Air! Air! Give me 
air!" 

With these words he falls at full length on the floor 
between the door of her bedroom and the sofa. 

Claire is overcome with horror. She throws herself 
upon the limp body and strives to bring it back to life. 
She is about to call for help, but reflects that she dare not 
call. What could she say? How could she account for de 
MarsiUe's presence in her room? How could she explain 
away two damning facts — ^the vial of poison in his hand 
and a letter from her in his pocket? She feels his heart. 
It does not beat. 

" He is dead ! " she moans. " But, even if it be robbing 
a corpse, I must have this vial and I must have my letter." 

She begins hurriedly to search his pockets with one 
hand, while she strives with the other to force open the 
cold hand which holds the vial. 

While she is thus engaged, loud knocks are heard at the 
door. Qaire is shaking with fear and horror. She hears 
a voice from without. It is the voice of Rene calling to 
her. He cries : " Open, Claire ! It is I. I am here with 
the Commissary of Police." 

Qaire bounds toward the body, and rolls it over two or 
three times, dragging the sofa before it. Then, when it is 
half concealed, she opens the door. 

The Commissary of Police enters with Rene, and apolo- 
gises for the lateness of his visit He has just been to the 
office examining the safe, and has made a formal statement 
of the condition of affairs, which he wishes her and Rene 
to sign. Rene says he will go to her bedroom for ink and 
pen. If he does so, reflects Qaire, he will pass the sofa 
and surely see the body. With a wild shriek Claire re- 
strains him, and points to ink and pens on a table in the 
comer. He lodes at her in astonishment, and goes to get 



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MAISON NEUYE S0S 

them there. As he is about to present the pen to her, the 
Commissary of Police walks round the table to put the 
paper before hen Thus he almost comes within view of 
the body of de Marsille. With another scream, Qaire 
almost forces him and Rene to seat themselves on the sofa, 
the very sofa behind which lies the body of de Marsille. 
The officer also looks at her in astonishment, but she signs 
her name, and they both go out with the papers, leaving 
her in her chamber alone with the body. 

In the last act we find ourselves in the Old House at 
the sign of the "Old Cockade*'* Ren6, Unde Genevoix, 
and Gabrielle are there, and Rene, with tears in his eyes, 
is e3q)laining to Gabrielle why he cannot accept the offer 
of her dot to save the firm. But Uncle Genevoix, whose 
eyes are also moist, says : 

''Come, come, this is no time for talking; it is seven 
o'clock. The banking hour is ten, and we have three hours 
in which to find 50,000 francs.'* 

" But," timidly interposes Gabrielle, " I have the 50,000 
francs. I can't see why you won't take my money." 

Both Ren6 and Uncle Genevoix smile, and tell her that 
she "doesn't tmderstand business." Genevoix then rapidly 
produces papers for Rene to sign with him before the 
notary; thus they will raise on their notes 60,000 francs, 
and Genevoix has raised on his own notes 40,000 francs, 
which leaves them only 50,000 short. But Rene's counten- 
ance brightens when Genevoix explains that L'Aub6pin, 
an old friend of the Old House, a plain, retired clerk, is 
coming with 50,000 francs to help Ren6 out. Rene turns 
crimson, as he explains to his unde that L'Aub6pin had 
once called to see them at the famous New House at dmner- 
time, and had sent in word that he would take pot-luck 
with them; but they had Count de Marsille and some other 
swells with them, and Rene was obliged to turn L'Aub6pin 
away. He fears that he cannot accept a favour from an 
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S54 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

old friend whom they had treated so shabbily. But 
L'Aubepin enters in the midst of this shamefaced con- 
fession, slaps him on the back, and thrusts into his hand 
a bundle of banknotes, saying: ''Pshaw, Rene, it was 
all my fault I ought not to have come when you had a 
dinner-party on hand. You'll forgive me, won't you?" 

Genevoix here brings in Gudin, the faithful veteran 
who has served the Old House as cashier for forty years, 
and who once in a financial panic pulled them through with 
his savings of a lifetime. Gudin is given the accounts of 
the elegant cashier Gaspard, is informed how matters 
stand, and he starts for the desk of the fugitive. He is 
confident that with the 60,000 francs on hand he can tide 
over the more urgent creditors and pay slowly until they 
get in money enough to carry them through the fateful day. 
Rene accompanies the veteran cashier from the Old House 
to the New. 

Uncle Genevoix remains behind to meet the notary 
with the papers. But he is surprised by the entrance of 
Claire, who has just come from the New House to the Old, 
bareheaded and excited. Her uncle bids her be calm, 
for matters are so arranged that the obligations will be met 
and the firm pulled through. But Qaire pays little heed to 
his remarks, and goes on in a half hysterical way to tell 
him that she is in fear of arrest. When he asks her why, 
she shudderingly replies that she has killed a man. Gene- 
voix thinks that she is mad, but when he interrogates her 
she tells him a man came to her room at night by way of the 
balcony ; that he is still in her room, and she believes him 
to be dead. When Genevoix asks her if it is " her lover, 
de Marsille," she repudiates with indignation the accusa- 
tion, and says de Marsille never was her lover. She tells 
Genevoix that de Marsille came to her room by the balcony 
and would not leave; she had been weak enough to write 
him a letter which he refused to return to her; he was not 



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MAISON NEUVE 866 

sober, and seizing a sleeping potion, which she had there, 
drank it at a gulp, and fell to the floor a corpse. Qaire 
tells how she tried to take the letter from his person, but 
was interrupted; and fearing discovery by the Commissary 
of Police, who was in the building, she had fled; she had 
been roaming the streets like a mad woman ever since, and 
finally had come to the Old House. 

Here Pontarme enters, much excited, and tells them 
that he has just come from the New House, where the body 
of de Marsille has been found in Claire's room; it was be- 
lieved there were traces of life, and they sent for the doc- 
tor ; Rene, who was there, would be back at the Old House 
almost immediately. Pontarme adds that when Rene was 
leaving the room where de Marsille lay, he had expressed a 
violent desire to see Claire. 

Even as he is speaking, Rene enters, and Qaire trembles. 
Rene is waving a telegram. He says that while he was at 
the bedside of de Marsille, over whom the doctors were 
working, a telegram was brought to him, saying that the 
cashier, Gaspard, had been arrested on the frontier with 
all the funds upon him that he had taken from Rene's safe. 

" While I was reading it," says Rene, " poor de Marsille, 
upon whom the doctor had been working so long, opened 
his eyes. He looked at me with a singular expression, utter- 
ing indistinct words, which sounded something like 'the 
letter, the letter.' At first nobody knew what letter he 
meant, but, on looking around, both the doctor and I 
noticed a piece of paper on the floor twisted into a wad. 
The doctor picked it up, and unrolled it as if to read it. 
But I saw poor de Marsille's face so contorted with anguish, 
and his hands so trembling with nervousness, that I could 
not contain myself; and tearing the letter from the doctor's 
hands I cried : * Stop— he does not want it read,' and I tore 
it into a thousand pieces.'* 

Genevoix looks at Claire with an encouraging smile, 



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866 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

and she bursts into tears and throws her arms around her 
husband's neck. 

Genevoix receives a note announcing that the run on 
the house of Pillerat has ceased, as cashier Gudin has met 
all obligations promptly. But none the less they decide 
that instead of leasing the Old House and occup}ring the 
New, they will leave the New House and occupy the Old. 
Fresh articles of partnership are thereupon signed, with 
Gabrielle and the young clerk Andre, her lover, as addi- 
tional partners, tmder the name and style of the ''Old 
Cockade." 



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LES MERVEILLEUSES 

Those who reproach Sardou with lack of originality are 
obviously in the wrong. There are few who have succeeded 
in putting upon the stage so many environments new to the 
stage. It may be at times that his plays or parts of his 
plays resemble those of other writers, but who can deny 
that before the eyes of audiences he has placed detached 
bits of our nineteenth century life, hitherto unknown upon 
the stage? Take the rebuilding of Paris, by Baron Hauss- 
mann, in '' Maison Neuve." Take the opening up of the 
provinces to railways in "Les Ganaches." Take the ex- 
ploitation of gambling-houses in " Femande " ; of diplomatic 
intrigue as in " Dora " ; of the winter life of the idle rich 
at Nice as in " Odette," or the hysterical gaiety of the days 
of the Directory, as in " Les M^erveilleuses." 

The plot of the piece is of the lightest The young and 
beautiful Illyrine has secured a divorce, in those easy days 
of divorce, from her husband, Dorlis. But Dorlis returns 
from the army of Italy, crowned with laurels, on the very 
day that Illyrine is consoling herself for her wrecked life 
with citizen St. Amour, Secretary of Director Barras. She 
suddenly sees that she has been mistaken, that she loves only 
Dorlis, and she marries him all over again, under the name 
of Dorival. 

Such is the light plot, as light and diaphanous as the 
gauzy textures in which the beautiful Directory maids and 
matrons of the time were costumed, for the piece fairly 
riots in costimie. It was indeed a picturesque time. There 
were, of course, not wanting those who accused Sardou 
of .borrowing from other writers. In this particular case, 
they said that he had been made envious by the g^eat suc- 
cess of the opera of " Madame Angot." Apart from the 

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868 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

fact that both pieces are laid in the time of the Directory, 
there is no resemblance. There is a book by Jules Claretie 
entitled " Les Muscadins/' the scene of which is also laid 
in the Directory time, and which has the same colour as 
Sardou's play ; in fact, the two phrases, " Les Muscadins," 
and " Les Merveilleuses," mean the same thing. Both are 
slang terms for the young dandies, male and female, of the 
period of the Directory, probably the most picturesque time, 
in point of costume, since the world began. Sardou took 
the handsome actresses through whom he introduced the 
roles, and had them make up after famous portraits by 
Boilly, Dlsabey, Vemet, and St. Aubin. By entrusting 
this department to the able hands of Eugene La Coste, he 
was able to place on the stage a series of most brilliant 
tableaux. Sardou's subtle taste in the matter of bric-a- 
brac is well known, and it fotmd in this piece a congenial 
field for its display, for the dramatist always felt specially 
at home in the picturesque period of the Directory. 

The period indeed was not only a picturesque, but a 
strange one. Life seemed made up of dancing, drinking, 
flirting, and riotous living. The most gorgeous luxury; 
the most shameful corruption in government bureaus; the 
most shameless vice in social circles; mad festivals going 
on in the city; platoons of soldiers being shot down on 
the plains outside the city; political exiles being deported 
to the poisonous shores of Cayenne; the Paris streets filled 
with material filth, due to the neglect of unpaid government 
employees; the stenches of physical and moral filth dis- 
guised by the perfume o^ musk and millefleurs, — such was 
the decadent society which General Bonaparte crushed when 
he overturned the Directory, and such this striking epoch 
which Sardou chose for the framework of his play "Les 
Merveilleuses." 



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FERNANDE 

As in the case of many of his plays, Sardou was accused 
of borrowing the plot of " Fernande " from earlier writers. 
In this case it was said that he took the plot from a romance 
by Diderot, in which a gentlewoman, abandoned by her 
lover, avenges herself by inveigling him into a marriage 
with a lost woman. But there are others who claim that 
they detect the influence of Alexandre Dumas, rather than 
that of Diderot, in " Fernande." If these critics differ so 
radically, it is possible that Sardou may have taken it from 
both, from another source, or from none. It would seem 
that the resemblance to the modem playwright is simply 
in the choice of environment, for Sardou in "Fernande" 
has chosen for a setting what Dumas called in his plays 
" the demi-monde." 

The first act of " Fernande " takes place in one of the 
luxurious g^ambling hells which have always been common 
in the French capital. There is nothing exactly like them 
elsewhere. They are generally kept by a woman, who 
passes herself off as the widow of a general or a diplomat, 
and who may or may not have been a lady. She is usually 
a person of education, and clever enough to be dangerous. 
She surrounds herself with a circle of adventurers and 
adventuresses, card sharpers and worse, and this gang of 
harpies prey upon whatever luckless scion of a wealthy 
family or rich stranger may fall into their clutches. The 
pretence is kept up that the establishment is a private house. 
Hence, the police, as a rule, are powerless. But these 
establishments are closely watched, and on the first indica- 
tion of an obviously criminal act, they are broken up, and 
the principals arrested, if possible. Usually, however, such 
an outcry is raised over " invasion of a private domicile," 

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860 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

that this, together with the silence of the plucked pigeon, 
leads to the defeat of the law. The police rarely accomplish 
anything more than closing the house. 

The establishment in which the first act of " Femande " 
takes place is kept by Madame Sen6chal. There is with 
her a beautiful girl, Femande, one of those unfortunate 
" flowers of the pavement," of which Paris is so full ; of 
a good heart despite her evil training, but devoted to vice 
almost from her infancy ; led astray — abused — ^perhaps out- 
raged—even that is hinted at in the play. There is a certain 
Marquis who frequents the gambling house of Madame 
Sen^chal. The Marquis is represented as being a conceited 
fop, but handsome enough to win the admiring glances of 
many women. A lady of position and wealth, Madame 
Qotilde, has fallen in love with him, and he has prcnnised 
to marry her, but he is such a fatuous Lovelace that he 
wrings her heart and humiliates her pride every day by 
his gross flirtations. He even relates to her his adventures 
as he follows shop girls, or ogles actresses in the minor 
theatres. He makes her his confidant concerning all his 
amorous affairs. At last he awakens within her such a 
sentiment of anger that she determines to be revenged upon 
him for his insults, and her revenge takes the form of 
entrapping him into a marriage with Femande. The un- 
fortunate girl is led to believe that he knows of her past 
and is marrying her with open eyes. After the marriage 
has taken place, both of them leara the truth, he that she 
is a lost wcnnan, she that he believed she was an honest 
woman. 



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LA PAPILLONNE 

This piece was a failure when produced at the Com^ie- 
Fran9aise in 1862, but after Sardou had writtai "Lsl 
Famille Benoiton," " Rabagas/' " La Haine," " Dora," '' Les 
Bourgeois de Pont-Arcy," and " Daniel Rochat," he deter- 
mined to put oti this early play again. It was reproduced 
on October 2, 1880, at the Gymnase Theatre. This time 
the piece was ^ great success. 

The plot is simple. Monsieur de Champignac is a 
newly married man, but although just become a benedict, he 
is seized with that malady which sometimes attacks the 
newly married man, and which Sardou calls " butterflying." 
The meaning of the term is obvious. De Champignac is 
one of those men who cannot be constant to any one 
woman — ^particularly in her absence. For the moment he 
is separated from his wife, who has gone to a country-house 
at Meltm, which she is engaged in preparing for their 
occupancy. Her devoted husband, while she is thus en- 
gaged, is leading a gay life in Paris. One afternoon he 
sees a veiled lady — ^she has a beautiful figure, a trim ankle — 
she takes his fancy. He follows her. She goes to the rail- 
way station, she gets on the train. He gets on the same 
train, in the same compartment. She descends at Melun 
station; so does he. She drives to a handsome country 
house; so does he. He succeeds in accosting a modestly 
dressed woman, whom he takes for the stranger's maid. 
With her he arranges a rendezvous with the veiled lady, 
and he is conducted within the handsome country house 
with bandaged eyes. The meeting takes place with the 
veiled lady. Another is in the room, although he does not 
know it. The lady speaks with a strong Italian accent, and 
he kisses her hands with passion, and when the unfortunate 



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868 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

man has thoroughly committed himself, she lifts the bandage 
from his eyes, and he finds that he is in his own country 
house, and making love to his own wife. 

It was said that when the piece was originally produced 
at the Comedie-Frangaise, it was considered too much in 
the vein of the Palais-Royal; further, that if it had been 
played at the Palais-Royal, it would have been considered 
too much in the style of the Comedie-Fran^aise. However, 
a play lying between these two extremes seemed to be 
admirably placed at the G)rmnase, and there it was very 
successful. 



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LES GANACHES 

The plot of " Les Ganaches" presents a contrast between 
the ancient regime and the modern world ; between the aris- 
tocracy and the mercantile spirit ; it discusses the fusion of 
classes brought about by conventional marriages. These 
themes have largely furnished plots for plays ever since 
the end of the French Revolution. Nevertheless, Sardou 
has been accused of borrowing his plot from two plays, 
" Mademoisdle de Seigliere," by Jules Sandeau, and " Par 
Droit de Conquete," by E. Legouve. There is not much 
resemblance between ''Les Ganaches" and the supposed 
models. In the case of Sardou's play, the hero is the 
grandson of a nobleman's steward, and in Sandeau's play 
he is the son of a farmer on a nobleman's estate. Legouve 
in his play was one of the first to utilise engineers as 
dramatic characters in a play. Sardou has done the same 
in this piece, but certainly the role of the engineer can 
scarcely be considered as patented by his predecessors. 
Sardou introduced the character to good advantage. His 
engineer, Marcel Cavalier, represents in the fossilised home 
at Quimperle modem science, steam, and electricity, and 
the contrast between these powerful agents of modem life 
and the mouldy ruins of aristocratic superstition, found in 
the ancient family there, is a striking one. 

The play may be sketched in few words. The Marquis 
de la Rochepeans is the head of the fossil family. He 
represents in his person everything that is reactionary, 
everything that is opposed to modem progress. He pushes 
his conservatism so far in the play that he moves heaven 
and earth to prevent his little village of Quimperle from 
obtaining a railway, which the engineer. Marcel Cavalier, 
is about to mn through the place. When this play was pro- 
ses 



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S64 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

duced the critics mocked at such a ridiculous instance of 
conservatism. But Sardou — always a fighter — ^proved that 
not many years before, the city of Beauvais, when threat- 
ened with the passage of one of the great Northern railways 
through its precincts, set on foot against it the most power- 
ful influences at its command. When it succeeded, and the 
joyful tidings were brought that the ancient city was not to 
be desecrated by the modem vandals of the railway, bon- 
fires were lighted on the street comers, and the entire city 
was illuminated. 

Of course, there is a love-story in the piece, and the 
prejudices of the ancient regime are overturned by the 
energy of the younger element. Sardou's favourite charac- 
ter — ^materialist, atheist, good-natured, philosophical — 
appears in this play under the name of Vauclin. He serves 
as an excellent foil for the reactionary Marquis. 



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LA SORCIERE 

In "La Sorciere" the scene is laid at Toledo in 1507, 
the very year in which Cardinal Ximenes de Cisneros was 
appointed Grand Inquisitor of Gistille. His entry upon 
that office was signalised by an outburst of fanaticism. 
The persecution of the Jews and Moors waxed ever fiercer 
and fiercer. The cruelty bom of bigotry, racial and re- 
ligious animosities, and the love story, form the ground- 
work. 

In describing his heroine, Zoraya, Sardou recalled to a 
friend how more than fifty years before when he was a 
young man he " dabbled " in medicine, and became keenly 
interested in the phenomena of what we now call hypnotic 
suggestion. "Little by little," he said, "as the study of 
it developed into a science, it occurred to me that h3rpnotism 
explained all that the Middle Ages believed to be sorcery. 
There were no sorcerers or sorceresses. Those that declared 
they were such and those that hunted and condemned them 
were equally absurd. There was only hypnotic suggestion." 

The first act of "La Sorci^re" is set in a beautiful 
ravine near Toledo. Don Enrique de Palados, Captain of 
Crossbowmen, enters with a troop of his men. One Kalem 
had been hanged for breaking the law which forbade love 
IMT marriage between Christian and Infidel. The body had 
been cut down and buried, and it was to investigate this 
act of defiance that Don Enrique came. He suspects the 
Moorish girl Zora)ra of the offence, and his neighbours when 
questioned lay the blame on the Sorceress, as she is called, 
from the occult knowledge which she had inherited with her 
wealth from her father, a Moorish physician. Zoraya ap- 
pears on the scene, and at first Don Enrique treats her 

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866 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

roughly, but soon becomes more gentle in his manner, 
checks the archer who wishes to shoot the infidel down, and 
ends by falling violently in love with his beautiful visitor. 

The second act introduces us into Zora3ra's sumptuous 
home in the outskirts of Toledo. Here it is that Don En- 
rique visits his lady love every evening, and now, after an 
unexplained absence of two days, he comes to see her once 
again. Zoraya's original purpose was merely to inveigle 
her Christian lover as a means of taking vengeance on cme 
of the persecutors of her race. She, too, finally falls in 
love, and Don Enrique reciprocates her passion, though 
there are serious dangers to be encountered, for the house 
is watched by the spies of the Inquisition. 

Here it is that one day Zoraya receives a visit from one 
Fatoum, a Moorish convert, who is now the duena in charge 
of Juana, the daughter of Don Lopez de Padilla, the Gov- 
ernor of Toledo. Juana, who is to be married that very 
day to Don Enrique, suflFers from somnambulism, and it is 
to effect a cure that Fatoum brings her to Zoraya's house. 
The latter sends Juana into an hypnotic sleep, and promises 
to go to the Governor's palace to complete the cure. On the 
way Zoraya hears a joyous pealing of bells, and on inquir- 
ing the cause learns that it is for the wedding of Don 
Enrique and Juana. She utters a cry of rage and despair. 

In the third act we have the celebration of the nuptials. 
The inner courtyard of Don Enrique's house is crowded with 
wedding guests, and other visitors, including some famil- 
iars of the Inquisition, rejoiced at the prospective resump- 
tion of autO'da-fis. Anxious on Zoraya's behalf, Don En- 
rique goes to his nuptial chamber and finds her on the 
threshold. She had just hypnotised Juana into a profoimd 
sleep. Zoraya demands from Don Enrique an account of 
his supposed betrayal. Mutual explanations are soon 
made, but the meeting is interrupted by Cardenos, a familiar 
sent by the Holy OfiRce to arrest Zoraya on a charge of 



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LA SORCIERE 867 

witchcraft and poisoning. Don Enrique defends her. A 
terrible struggle ensues; Cardenos is strangled and his 
corpse left lying on the ground. The two lovers then fly 
through the town, pursued by the bigoted rabble. 

In the fourth act, Zoraya and Dcm Enrique, who had 
been arrested by the mob, are brought into the Grand Hall 
of the Palace of the Inquisition. Don Enrique is a good 
Catholic and the Governor's son-in-law. Girdinal Ximenes, 
the president of the Court, therefore is bent on finding him 
innocent, though he has confessed to his intercourse with 
Zoraya, his projected flight, and the murder of the familiar. 

Zoraya foils all attempts of Ximenes to entangle her, 
and stoutly denies her intercourse with Satan. But the 
crafty Cardinal finds means to browbeat two witnesses into 
supporting the charge of witchcraft, and by holding out a 
prospect of safety for Don Enrique, induces Zoraya to 
make a supreme sacrifice. She performs a sudden volte- 
face, and with passionate exaltation proclaims herself a 
witch. She is forthwith condemned to die by fire. 

The scene in the fifth act represents a street in Toledo 
near the Cathedral. The dirge of the exorcists is heard as 
they endeavour to rouse Juana frcxn her cataleptic sleep. In 
the square stands the stake all ready for Zoraya's execu- 
tion. Don Enrique has arranged with the executioner to 
shorten her torments, and Fatoum has given her a deadly 
poison. The denoument is delayed. Zoraya alone can 
waken Juana, and the Governor promises to pardon her if 
she will perform that miracle. Juana is roused from her 
coma, and Zoraya is about to fly with her lover, who at last 
realises her devotion, when the fanatical populace, stirred 
up by the mcHiks, intercept their flight and pin them against 
the cathedral doors. 

The two lovers have now no resource left but suicide. 
Locked in a last embrace, they crush, as their lips meet, 
the vial of poison, and death delivers them from the flames. 



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ROBESPIERRE 

The opening scene of "Robespierre" is laid in the 
forest of Montmorency. The play begins with a meeting 
between Mr. Vaughan, a Whig member of the House of 
Commons, who had been sent to France with peace pro- 
posals, and a Madame de Mauluson, with whose family he 
was on intimate terms. M. de Mauluson, who had recently 
died in London, had fought in the Vendee against the 
Republic, and his whole family was suspected of disaffection. 
Mme. Clarisse de Mauluson has a niece, Marie Therese, 
and a son, Olivier, whose real father was Robespierre him- 
self, when he was still a yotmg lawyer and secretary to a 
Counsellor of the Parlement of Paris. 

Vaughan has his appointed interview with Robespierre, 
who declines his proposals. The Dictator is at the height 
of his power, and the recent passage of Couthon's Law of 
Prairial on June lo, 1794, had made the Reign of Terror 
more violent than ever. Vaughan had also taken the op- 
portunity to request for Madame de Mauluson and her 
son and niece a passport to quit France. Toward the end 
of the act, Le Bas, the member of the Convention, and 
Cabinet-maker Duplay, with all his family, drive up, and 
invite Robespierre to breakfast 0/ fresco. 

In the second act young Olivier is searching for his 
mother and cousin Marie Th6rese, of whose arrest he is 
aware, and finds them at the Bourbe prison. A vivid scene 
describes life in the prison and the calling over of the names 
picked by the Revolutionary Tribunal for the next batch of 
victims. The hatred of Olivier for Robespierre is whetted 
to an extreme pitch. 

On the next day, while Robespierre is attending the 
fete of the "Supreme Being," a voice from the crowd 
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ROBESPIERRE S69 

shouts: "Down with the tyrant! down with the guillo- 
tine!" It is Olivier, who is forthwith arrested by order of 
Robespierre. 

The third act represents a domestic scene at the house 
of the Duplay family. Robespierre is there, enjoying the 
quiet of domesticity. Suddenly the music is interrupted by 
the entrance of Olivier, who is brought in as a prisoner to 
be questioned by Robespierre. One of the papers taken 
from him proves to be in the handwriting of the Counsellor 
whose secretary he had been and whose daughter Clarisse 
he had seduced before she became Madame de Mauluson. 
In fact, Olivier is his own son. 

Robespierre is deeply agitated, and in spite of the in- 
sults heaped upon him by the young man, resolves to effect 
his rescue and save him from the guillotine. But he is 
afraid to do so too openly, as the disturbance at the fete of 
the Supreme Being was too notorious. 

A letter from Mme. de Mauluson at the Bourbe is 
handed to Robespierre, and Olivier, wrongly inferring from 
a remark dropped by the Dictator that his mother is doomed, 
faints away, and is conveyed to prison by Robespierre's 
orders. 

In the fourth act Madame de Mauluson and her niece, 
released from the Bourbe by Robespierre, are hiding in the 
Rue de Martray, when Clarisse has an interview with her 
former lover. She is naturally anxious about the fate of 
her son Olivier, but Robespierre tries to reassure her. 
Clarisse reproaches Robespierre with his murderous activ- 
ity, but he defends his conduct by an appeal to the idealism 
of his aims. At this moment noises are heard in the streets. 
It is an array of tumbrils passing with a batch of victims. 
Clarisse appeals to him to stop the bloodshed. 

Soon afterwards Le Bas returns from La Force prison 
to report that Olivier has been removed. He must be in 
that batch on the way to the guillotine. Robespierre turns 
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870 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

pale at the thought, and resolves to brave any peril to save 
him. 

But Olivier is no longer a prisoner. The Committee of 
Public Safety, knowing his hatred of the Dictator, have 
released Olivier and conmiissioned him to slay Robespierre 
if the accusation they are drawing up against the Dictator 
should fail. 

The play concludes with the fall of Robespierre and his 
flight from the Convention Hall to the Commune, where 
he shoots himself in the jaw just as Olivier is about to cut 
him down. Clarisse arrives in time to comfort the last 
moments of the dying man. 

"At last the child is saved," cries Robespierre, *'and 
you too. At least I have lived to receive your pardon." 



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DANTE 

The spectacular drama '' Dante " opens with a prologue 
the scene of which is laid at Pisa. In the background is 
seen " The Tower of Hunger," in which the fallen tyrant 
Ugolino with his sons and grandsons are confined to die of 
starvation. First Dante enters, and meets the mother of his 
child Gemma, Pia dei Tolomei, the successor to Beatrice in 
Dante's love. Then Helen of Swabia, Count Ugolino's 
daughter-in-law, enters, and strives to obtain mercy from 
the pitiless crowd, the jailors, and the ruthless archbishop 
Ruggieri, but in vain. Dante then expostulates with the 
archbishop, but is only excommunicated for his pains. The 
poet replies with curses, and prophesies the downfall of Pisa. 

The first act opens with a springtime festival at Flor- 
ence ten years afterwards. Into this gay scene — which is 
artistically devised to relieve the gloomy prologue — ^Dante 
enters, disguised as a monk, but is recognised by his friend 
Giotto, who is there working at his easel. Before long a 
deed of blood is wrought: maddened by jealousy, Mala- 
testa slays his wife Francesca da Rimini and her lover 
Paolo. Meanwhile Dante has an interview with his natural 
daughter Gemma, who is in great peril Her mother Pia, 
too, who has been wedded to Nello della Pietra, is confined 
by her husband in his castle in the Maremma to die of 
malaria and neglect. The pretended monk is summoned to 
absolve the dying woman. One result of this interview is 
the disclosure of the secret of Gemma's birth. Gemma ap- 
pears, but before she can reach her father is hurried off by 
Nello to some unknown destination. 

In the second act Pia dies, and Dante, having discovered 
the whereabouts of Gemma, goes to the convent of San 
Pietrp to rescue her. The abbess and nuns who are in 

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878 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

league with Nello strive in vain to induce Gemma to take 
the vows. But Nello and his supporters enter with drawn 
swords, and when Dante attempts forcibly to carry off his 
daughter to a place of safety, Nello Itmges at the curtain, 
and Dante is severely wounded in the breast and left for 
dead on the floor. 

But the poet was not dead. His friend Castella had 
staunched his wounds and saved his life. In the third act 
we find Dante, in obedience to the behest of the spirit of 
Beatrice, daring the descent to Hades in the company of 
Virgil. This part of the play is a triumph of spectacular 
art. They pass through the dread portal with its awe-in- 
spiring inscription. Charon, the City of Dis, the Fiery 
Tombs, and the Circle of Ice, are all visited, and the spirits 
of Ugolino, Ruggiero, Paolo, and Francesca parleyed with. 
Then over the Bridge of Rocks they pass into the Valley 
of Asphodels, and there amid the meads and flowers of 
Purgatory they encounter the spirit of Pia dei Tolomei 
with her attendant spirits. 

The fourth act passes at the Papal Palace at Avignon, 
whither Dante, as a result of his interview with Pia, has 
gone in pursuit of Gemma. Cardinal Colonna is about to 
bum Gemma and her lover Bernardino as heretics, but 
Dante frightens the wicked Cardinal by a message from 
Hades to the effect that his own hour is come. Colonna 
falls down dead at the hour foretold, and Gemma and Ber- 
nardino are saved from their impending fate. 



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PAMELA 

The scene of " Pamela, Marchande de Frivolit^s," was 
laid in Sardou's favourite period, the Directory. The 
whole story of the play turns on the conspiracy to eflFect 
the escape of the boy Louis XVII., which for dramatic pur- 
poses the playwright assumes to have been successful. 

In the opening of the piece we see Paul Francois Barras 
at work in his office. He is President of the Convention 
and a leading spirit of the Directory. Police agents and 
others call, and conduct their business, not without copious 
libations ; among his visitors is Pamela, the heroine of the 
play, who merely comes to present a bill for payment on 
account of his friend Josephine (later the wife of General 
Bonaparte). Director Barras is aware that a conspiracy is 
on foot to secure the release of the boy king, and when two 
royalists are brought in on suspicion of favouring the escape 
of Louis, Barras closely cross-examines them ; but, failing 
to bring the charge home to them, he lets them go. 

Then follows one of the most striking scenes in the play. 
Barras conducts a troupe of pretty women — merveilleuses 
— ^to the Temple, to show them the little Louis XVII. in his 
prison. The poor boy is brought from his apartment, and 
the ladies gush and express their pity; but Louis, either 
dazed or sullen, keeps silent. On their departure Pamela 
is left alone with the child. She caresses him and wins his 
confidence. He asks her for news of his mother, and on 
learning of her death, bursts into tears and faints away. 

The next scene is laid in the work-shop of a cabinet- 
maker. The supposed workmen are conspirators in dis- 
guise, who have dug an underground passage leading into 
the yard of the prison. They have contrived to gain over 
the wardens at the Temple prison, and the laundrywoman, 

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874 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

who has agreed to smuggle the boy away in a basket of 
linen. Her courage fails her at the last moment, however, 
and she runs away, but the dauntless Pamela steps into the 
breach, and volunteers to undertake the dangerous task. 

Next follows a feast at Director Barras's house. He 
informs Pamela that he knows everything, but entrusts to 
her a master-key to give her access to the Temple at all 
hours " on condition that the child shall be handed over to 
me;" for he may be useful in an emergency, and the pru- 
dent Barras wishes to be on the safe side in the event of a 
turn in the political wheel. Pamela then meets her patriot 
lover Bergerin, who has his suspicions ; she confesses all to 
him, thereby placing that staunch republican in a sore 
dilemma. 

Meanwhile the conspirators are just finishing their sub- 
terranean passage. They strongly suspect that one of their 
number is a traitor, though they are unable to identify him. 
The mystery is soon solved, however. By preconcerted ar- 
rangement a posse of sham police agents force their way 
into the passage, and arrest all the conspirators, but the 
traitor produces his policeman's warrant and is thus caught. 

Then comes the enlevement, the second eflFective scene in 
the play. On the very evening when he is to be removed, 
Pamela's lover Bergerin discovers the little king in the 
basket of linen going to the laundress. The boy, half 
asleep, throws his arms around Bergerin's neck, who no 
longer has the heart to do his duty as a citizen. He allows 
Pamela to carry the little fellow away to the conspirators, 
who are waiting for him at the entrance to the under- 
ground passage. 

Once safely out of the Temple the boy is not taken to 
Barras, as arranged, but to an adjoining house. Barras 
goes to find him, but is surrounded by a troop of angry 
peasants armed with scythes. The pretended peasants. 



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PAMELA 876 

making hay on the banks of the Seine, are, of course, the 
conspirators bent on preventing the recapture of the young 
King Louis. Barras, however, is equal to the occasion. He 
asks permission to present his respects to his Majesty Louis 
XVII., and when Uie child is brought in on a litter decked 
with flowers and leaves, Barras respectfully kisses his hand, 
time-server that he is, and assures him — ^all being well— of 
his devotion. 



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LA TAVERNE DES ETUDIANTS 

"La Taverne des Etudiants/' the disastrous failure 
of which effectually closed the doors of all the Paris the- 
atres to young Sardou, was first performed on Saturday, 
April I, 1854. There was a triple bill that evening: "Le 
Jeu de TAmour," " La Taverne des Etudiants," and " Le 
Laquais." The other items on the bill achieved some meas- 
ure of success, and even the first act of "La Taverne" 
drew some signs of approval from the house. It was not 
till the commencement of the second act that the situation 
became critical, and the rest of the play was lost in a hub- 
hub of catcalls. 

A second performance was given on Monday, April 3, 
but the management found it impossible to obtain a hearing 
for the piece, which was forthwith withdrawn. Under 
these circumstances the critics were working under diffi- 
culties. Yet on the whole their tone was not unkindly. 
They blamed the audience rather than the author. The 
work was immature, it was true, but it was amusing, and the 
verses ran smoothly enough, and so youthful a dramatist 
should have been treated more sympathetically by the young 
men of whom his audience mainly consisted. 

The plot of " La Taverne des Etudiants " is of the sim- 
plest description. Leo, a young student at a German uni- 
versity, is found at the opening of the first act under the 
balcony of Linda, his beloved, and is throwing pebbles to 
attract his Juliet's attention. Linda promptly appears, to 
save her windows from being broken. She is fair and 
timorous, but deeply in love with Leo. Her father, M. 
Wilier, unfortunately overhears the dialogue and the vows 
of marriage exchanged without his permission. The lovers 
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LA TAVERNE DES ETUDIANTS 877 

part, on the understanding that the nuptial knot is to be 
tied on the morrow. 

Wilier is furious, and in a Roman Catholic country would 
doubtless have sent his daughter to a convent. Just at that 
moment M. Carloman, a bachelor friend of Wilier, calls, 
and succeeds in bringing him to a more reasonable frame of 
mind ; for, after all. Wilier wants his daughter to be happy, 
and his bark is worse than his bite. He resolves to see for 
himself whether this young man is worthy of his daughter. 
Wilier and Carloman put their heads together, and form 
a plan, in pursuance of which, in the disguise of university 
students, they visit the taveme, which is chiefly fre- 
quented by these young gentlemen. Here, Carloman 
becomes fuddled with drink, and when he tries to ex- 
plain the position of aflfairs to Leo the latter is led to believe 
that Wilier, with whom he is personally unacquainted, is 
some bourgeois anxious to marry him to his daughter. But 
as Leo desires to wed Linda, and Linda only, he purposely 
begins to rap out a few energetic oaths, and then to boast 
of all manner of riotous living. Wilier is aghast at the 
self-accused young desperado's language, transfers his 
aflfection to Carloman's nephew Karl, who was with the 
party, and in his inmost heart determines to make him his 
son-in-law. Leo takes advantage of this situation to slip 
away, and when Wilier returns home he finds him tranquilly 
watering Madame Willer's flowers and doing his best to 
make himself agreeable to Linda and her mother. Wilier 
is again furious, and turns Leo out of the house. However, 
he soon learns that Karl is Carloman's nephew, and that 
the young man is head over ears in debt. The result of 
this discovery is that Wilier returns to his senses, a match 
is arranged between Leo and Linda, and all ends happily 
to the sound of wedding bells. 



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LE CROCODILE 

The opening scene of the play is laid on board the S. S. 
Crocodile, and the spectators are first of all introduced to 
the twenty passengers and their various amusing character- 
istics. They make the acquaintance of Peterbecque, the 
orator of the party, with his interminable discussions; of 
Chevrillac, the typical Parisian boulevardier ; of the shifty 
Greek Strapoulos, the villain of the piece. Besides these, 
there are the stewardess, Bertholin ; Jimmy, the ship's doc- 
tor, who is head over ears in love with Olivia; Richard 
Kolb; Liliane; the Japanese prince, Ncmo-Miki; Baroness 
Jordeans, and the English Miss Chipsick, who is " English 
in France and French in England." 

Scarcely have we made the acquaintance of the pas- 
sengers when the alarm of fire is raised. All is terror and 
turmoil; the boats are launched only just in time to save 
every life before the Crocodile is engulfed in the waves. 

The shipwrecked people safely land on an island of 
wondrous tropical vegetation, the He dcs Paletuviers, or 
" Mangrove Island." The first thing to do is to explore 
the island, and to take stock of their provisions and ammu- 
nition. The sailors show signs of a mutinous spirit, and 
are about to broach a keg of brandy, when Richard Kolb 
compels them to desist. This incipient mutiny proves the 
necessity of some form of government. A meeting is ac- 
cordingly held, at which the women are allowed to vote, 
and a chief with plenary powers is elected, to whom all 
swear obedience. The choice falls on Richard Kolb. But 
opposition springs up, headed by Peterbecque and Strap- 
oulos, supported by the crew, still angry at the loss of their 
brandy. 

Meanwhile Kolb establishes the new society dreamed of 
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LE CROCODILE 879 

in his last talk with Liliane. All distinctions of rank and 
fortune are to be abolished, work to be provided for all, and 
equality and fraternity to triumph. 

In the third act the camp is shifted to a forest of banyan 
trees in the interior of the island. When the curtain rises 
the village encampment is seen to be en fete in honour of 
the marriage of Dr. Jimmy to Miss Olivia, over whom the 
Rev. Mr. Coppemick, one of the shipwrecked passengers, 
is to pronounce the nuptial benediction. But the crew are 
still in a rebellious state, and object to the manual labour 
assigned to them. Strapoulos schemes with their aid to 
seize all the arms and ammunition at the height of the fete, 
and to capture and bind Richard Kolb. Their designs are 
all carried out to the letter. 

The fourth act shows the conspirators assembled in 
council. To their alarm they find that the ammunition 
boxes they have seized are empty and that they have only 
six cartridges between them. Dr. Jimmy, whose marriage 
had been so disagreeably interrupted, encounters them, 
and Strapoulos and his gang demand the stock of ammu- 
nition, in exchange for which they will release Richard 
Kolb, who, however, refuses to accept his liberty on those 
terms. 

Liliane, in her anxiety about his fate, searches for Rich- 
ard, and finds him as he is on the point of effecting his 
escape. At that moment Strapoulos returns from a vain 
quest after ammunition. Richard refuses to say where it is 
hidden, and to the anguish of Liliane is dragged off to the 
nearest baobab tree. 

At this juncture a sail appears on the horizon. The rest 
rush off to meet their deliverers, and leave Liliane in a faint 
and Richard Kolb with a rope around his neck. The sup- 
posed deliverers prove, however, to be Malay pirates, who 
carry away the entire colony, with the exception of Richard 



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880 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

and Liliane, whom they faU to discover. Richard manages 
to find an axe, and frees himself from his bonds. 

In the fifth act we see the primeval tropical forest. 
Richard enters, bearing in his arms the swooning Liliane. 
Their village has been destroyed. They are alone with 
their love. But no — ^Richard does not speak of love. It 
is a confession he is making of his brigand life, and that 
he is none other than the redoubtable George Morgan. 

Sardou's idea was to show his young friends that " any 
fault, however trifling, brings eternal remorse." Richard 
confesses that he had robbed his uncle under extenuating 
circumstances, had acknowledged his crime by letter, and 
expatriated himself to gain money and make restitution. 
Liliane at any rate pardons Richard, and desires to live with 
him henceforth on the deserted island. 

But a ship arrives, with civilised men on board this time. 
The pair of lovers are forced to go on board and are taken 
to Batavia, where they find old friends, and learn that the 
old uncle was dead and had pardoned Richard, leaving him 
his sole heir. The play concludes with the marriage of 
Richard and Liliane. 

The absence of a love scene when Richard and Liliane 
were left alone on the island was a feature that caused much 
adverse criticism at the first production. 



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LA FILLE DE TABARIN 

In the first act we find ourselves in the manor of Ta- 
barin, the actor, who in the reign of Henry IV. and in the 
succeeding reign had amassed wealth and retired to Poitou 
to settle down as a country gentleman under the name of 
the Baron de Beauval, under which title he was rich, gener- 
ous, and respected by all ; only his maidservant Nicole was 
in possession of his secret. 

Strangely enough, the newcomer, of whom so little was 
known, became on intimate terms with the neighbouring 
gentry, and his adopted daughter Diane was betrothed to 
Roger, the son of the neighbouring Count de la Brede. The 
objections raised by this gentleman are overcome, and the 
betrothal is formally announced. While the company are 
assembled at a g^y supper to celebrate the event, voices are 
heard. It is a carriage full of strolling comedians in dis- 
tress. Beauval wishes to send them away, but Diane pleads 
for them. Mondor, the leader of the troupe — ^who is none 
other than Tabarin's old chief — ^asks and receives the hos- 
pitality of the chateau. 

A country fete is proceeding in the second act, and 
while de la Brede reviews the archers Mondor gives a per- 
formance, with small encouragement. Diane, leaning on 
Roger's arm, goes through the fair, and consults a gypsy 
woman, who foretells misfortune. With difficulty Mondor 
persuades Beauval to allow a performance in the orangery 
at the Chateau. Mondor recognises Tabarin, who admits 
all, but Mondor promises to be discreet, and arrangements 
are made for the performance. 

The scene in the third act is Mondor's theatre in the 
orangery. The piece is " Le Capitaine Mort et Ressuscite," 
a play in which Tabarin had once won many tritmiphs. He 

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88« THE SARDOU PLAYS 

criticises Podel, who pkys his old part, offers suggestions^ 
and ends by mounting the stage himself, and throwing him- 
self enthusiastically into the part. Spectators drop in to 
watch the rehearsal, among them the old Marquis de La- 
roche-Posay, who recognises Tabarin by voice and gesture. 
The secret is now out. The gentlemen will have no more to 
do with the ex-actor. He has wrecked the future of Diane, 
who, with Nicole, vainly tries to console him. 

De la Brede is furious, and will not hear of the mar- 
riage. Horns are heard, for a hunting party is about to 
begin, and servants hand firearms to the gentlemen, among 
others to Tabarin. No sooner have Diane and Nicole, fol- 
lowed by Roger, returned to the house, than a shot is heard 
outside. A cortege of huntsmen is seen bringing back Ta- 
barin— dying, it is supposed, from the effect of an accident 
while he was leaping a ditch. De la Brede alone guesses 
the truth. He takes Tabarin's hand and consoles him with 
the promise: "Your desire shall be accomplished; your 
daughter is my daughter." Tabarin has only time to mur- 
mur his thanks when his head falls back and he is dead. 



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LES BARBARES 

At the opening of this lyrical tragedy a horde of Ger- 
mans is over-running the south of Gaul and laying siege to 
Orange. The Roman consuls, Scaurus and Euryalus, offer 
a desperate defence. Floria, the priestess of Vesta, gathers 
around her the women and children and the Vestal Virgins 
in the theatre which afforded a last stronghold to the 
Romans, and there implores heaven for. victory. With 
her is Livia, the wife of Euryalus, who puts her faith in 
Roman valour, while Floria trusts that the Germans will 
respect the hearth of Vesta. A watcher announces the fall 
of Euryalus, and soon afterward Scaurus brings in his 
bleeding corpse and advises the women to fly while he and 
his few heroes sell their lives as dearly as possible. 

Livia thereupon vows vengeance, and swears to slay the 
slayer of her husband with her own hand. Floria calms the 
panic of the women, but the vain resistance of Scaurus is 
beaten down, and Hildebrath's barbarians invade the the- 
atre and rush at the Vestals. Marcomir their chief then 
enters, and confirms the murderous purpose of Hildebrath. 

Suddenly, at a gesture of Floria, the altar of Vesta 
flames up, and the barbarians shrink back in terror, for they 
worship Fire under the name of Thor. Marcomir is sub- 
jugated by the proud beauty of Floria, converses with her, 
and for the present drives his warriors from their spoils. 

In the second act it is night. Livia, observing the influ- 
ence of Floria over Marcomir, attributes their safety to the 
intervention of Venus and not to Vesta. Scaurus enters, 
wounded, and escaping to the theatre, offers to guide the 
women to the Roman legions who are marching to the re- 
lief from the Alps. Floria refuses to fly, and trusts Mar- 
comir. 

888 



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884 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

Scaurus is recognised and surrenders to Hildebrath, who 
is about to slay him when Floria calls, not in vain, to Mar- 
comir to save him. Marcomir now claims his reward from 
Floria. She is alarmed and indignant, but after a severe 
internal struggle consents to redeem the lives of the others 
and save the town. The course of a conversation reveals 
the innate magnanimity and delicacy of Marcomir to Floria. 
She feels first gratitude and then love for the conqueror. 

The opening of the third act sees the departure of the 
Germans from Orange at daybreak, with their plunder, but 
respecting the dwellings of the inhabitants. Scaurus or- 
ganises sacrifices and festal games and dances, and the 
people show their gratitude to Floria when they learn that 
they owe their safety to her. It is arranged for Floria to 
go with Marcomir. The Vestals desire to accompany her, 
but she will only take Livia, who is still eager to discover 
the slayer of her husband. During the funeral Floria dis- 
covers that it was Marcomir who had dealt the fatal blow. 
She resolves to keep Livia away from him, and suddenly 
refuses point-blank to take her. But Livia guesses it was 
Marcomir, and resorts to a stratagem. She accuses him of 
having treacherously slain the Consul by striking him in 
the back. 

" You lie, it was in the heart," cries the angry and un- 
suspecting barbarian. "To the heart then," cries Livia, 
and stabs him to the heart. Thus by the death of Marcomir 
the outrage to the sanctity of Vesta and the death of Eury- 
alus are avenged. 



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PART THIRD 

THE SARDOU PLAYS IN THE 
UNITED STATES 



26 



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A 



THE SARDOU PLAYS IN THE 
UNITED STATES 

A SCRAP OF PAPER 

In the United States, as in London and Paris, Sardou's first 
success was with " Les Pattes de Mouche." The version produced 
in the United States was that entitled "A Scrap of Paper," the 
work of J. Palgrave Simpson. This was the first Palgrave Simpson 
version; it was written for Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Wigan, and was 
played by them in England. It retained the French names and the 
French setting of the original Sardou play. His second version 
was written for the Kendals. 

There seems to have been no production in the United States of 
Charles Matthews's version entitled "The Adventures of aBilletDoux." 

The Simpson version was first produced in New York City, 
at Wallack's Theatre, <m March lo, 1879. The cast included 
Lester Wallack, as Prosper Couramont; John Gilbert, as Brise- 
mouche; and Rose Coghlan, as Suzanne. Others in the cast were 
Charles Rockwell, N. S. Wood, C E. Edwin, J. Peck, Stella Boni- 
face, Effie Germon, Kate Bartlett, E. Blaisdell, Pearl Eytinge. 

The play ran to large business for seven weeks; a good run 
for those days. 

The play was produced at the Brooklyn Park Theatre in Sep- 
tember, 1879, with Ed. Lamb as Brisemouche, and Rosa Rand as 
Suzanne. 

It was revived at Wallack's Theatre, in January, 1880, when 
Tom Je£ferson (son of Joseph Je£ferson) played Anatole, and 
Suzanne was played by Ada Dyas. 

At the Grand Opera House, New York City, it was given in 
March, 1880, members of the company being N. S. Wood, J. W. 
Shannon, W. H. Lytell, and Kate Meet, the latter playing Suzanne. 

Another revival took place at Wallack's Theatre on February 
29, 1881, when Rose Coghlan was again the Suzanne. 

Yet again was the play revived at Wallack's Theatre on April 33, 
1884, when the Suzanne was Louise Moodie. Again the Prosper was 
Lester Wallack ; it was his first appearance after a long illness, and 
Louise Moodie's first appearance in the part; again the play was 
highly successful. 

At the Lyceum Theatre, New York Qty, in December, 1886, 

387 



a>^ 






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388 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

the play was produced with E. H. Sothem as Prosper, and Helen 
Dauvray as Suzanne; the lady was once known to the variety stage 
as "Little Nell, the California Diamond." That E. H. Sothern 
once played " Prosper " will not be remembered by many. A year 
later at the same theatre the play was revived with Helen Dauvray 
and others. 

At the Fifth Avenue Theatre, New York, on October 7, 1889, 
Mr. and Mrs. Kendal, and their English company, gave the second 
Palgrave-Simpson version. "Colonel Blake" (who was Prosper 
Couramont) was played by Mr. Kendal. "Susan Hartley" (ci- 
devant Suzanne) by Mrs. Kendal. 

The second Palgrave-Simpson version was made for Mr. and 
Mrs. Kendal. In this version the French names were changed 
to English, and the scene was set in an English country-house. 

A little later, in 1890, at the Harlem Opera House, New York, 
Mr. and Mrs. Kendal revived their version, and again at Palmer's 
Theatre, New York, in 1891 and 1892 ; at the Star Theatre in 1892 
and in 1894; and again at Abbey's Theatre, New York, in 1895. 
Again they revived it at the Harlem Opera House some months 
later. In all these seasons they were successful. 

At the Garrick Theatre, New York, on October 23, 1905, 
Henrietta Crosman presented "a new adaptation" of the play 
entitled, "Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary." Miss Crosman played 
the part of "Mary" (ci-devant Suzanne). The other members of 
the company were Addison Pitt, Mirian Nesbitt, Louise Galloway, 
Kate Jepson, John Marble, (Jeorge Woodward, Ida Vernon, Walter 
Thomas, Boyd Putnam, C. A. Chandos. 

The critics did not seem to think highly of the " new adapta- 
tion," which, they said, was merely "an adaptation of an adapta- 
tion's—the old and well-known Simpson version. Furthermore, 
they objected to the changing of the names and nationality of the 
characters from French to English— as, for example. Prosper was 
transformed from a gay French man of the world to an English 
globe-trotter. 

DIPLOMACY 

The version of the Sardou play "Dora" called "Diplomacy" 
(by Scott and Stephenson), was first played in the United States 
at Wallack's Theatre, New York, on April i, 1878, with this cast: 

Henry Beauderc Lester Wallace 

Capt. Julian Beauderc H. J. Montagus 

Count Orloff 1 . . . . Frederic Robinson 

Algie Fairfax W. R Lloyd 



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IN THE UNITED STATES 889 

Borofi SUin J. W. Shannon 

Morkkam W. J. Leonard 

Crawen W. A. Eytinge 

Skeppard C. E. Edwin 

AfOoine H. Ayling 

Franfois J. Pbak 

CounUss Zicka Rose Coghlan 

Dora Maude Granger 

Marquise de Rio Zores Madame Ponisi 

Mian Pearl Eytinge 

Lady H*nry Fairfax Sara Stevens 

This production was most successful, the "scene of the three 
men," "Count Orloflf," "Henry Beauclerc," and "Baron Stein," 
being the talk of New York. Rose Coghlan's " Zicka " was greatly 
admired, as was Shannon's "Baron Stein," whom he had made up 
to resemble Bismarck, who is the deus ex machind of the original 
play, although not named. The play ran to the end of the season, 
seventy-seven performances. 

At the close of this run a Wallack company was organised 
to take the play to San Francisco, H. J. Montague replacing Wal- 
lack as "Henry Beauclerc," and Miss Jeffreys Lewis replacing 
Rose Coghlan as "Zicka." The play ran to large business at the 
California Theatre, San Francisco, for several weeks, when its 
run was interrupted by the sudden illness and death of H. J. 
Montague. 

A revival of "Diplomacy" took place at Wallack's New 
Theatre, on March i6, 1885. There were some changes in the cast, 
which now included the following: 

CounUss Zicka Rose Coghlan 

Henry Beauclerc Lester Wallack 

Capt. Julian Beauclerc Osmond Tbarlb 

Count Orloff Herbert Kblcby 

Dora Annie Robe 

Baron Stein Harry Edwards 

Algie Fairfax J. C. Buckstone 

The play was again revived at Wallack's New Theatre on April 
22, 1885, when "Count Orloff" was played by Walter Reynolds. 

Again " Diplomacy " wa^ revived on October 24, 1892, when the 
Star Theatre, New York, was opened by Rose Coghlan. In this 
revival "Henry Beauclerc" was played by Charles Coghlan, and 
"Dora" by Sadie Martinot Others in the cast were: John G. 
Sullivan, Frederic Robinson, Sophie Von Troutmann, and Beatrice 
Moreland. 

At another revival at the Fifth Avenue Theatre in March, 
1893, "Count Orloff" was played by Frederic de Belleville, and 
still later, in April, 1893, at the same theatre, "Orloff" was played 



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890 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

by Frederic Robinson. At the American Theatre, in 1894, Rose 
Coghlan revived the play. 

In 1898 at the Columbus Theatre it was produced by a stock 
company. The same year at the Herald Square Theatre it was again 
revived by another stock company. 

After a lapse of several years, "Diplomacy" was produced 
at the Empire Theatre, New York, on April 15, 1901, by the Empire 
Stock Company. The cast follows: 

H§nry B*aud*re William Favbrsham 

Capt. Julian Beaudwc Charlbs Richican 

Count Orloff Guy Standing 

Dora Margaret Anglin 

CounUst Zicka Jbssib Millward 

Lady Henry Fairfax Bthbl Hornick 

Marquise de Rio Zares Mrs. Thomas Whifpbn 

Baron SUin Edwin Stbvbns 

Again after a period of years, the play was revived— this time 
with a new version by George Pleyddl. The production took place 
at Maxine Elliott's Theatre, New York, on September 13, 1910, 
with this cast: 

Henry BeaucUre Charlbs Richmam 

Julian BtaucUrc Milton Sills 

Couni Orloff Thurlow Bbrgbn 

Alii* Fairfax Effingham Pinto 

Baron Stein Thbodorb Robbrts 

Markham Prbdbrick Esmblton 

SkePPard Lbslib Bassbtt 

AnMne.: C. E. Harris 

Countess Zicka Florbncb Robbrts 

Dora Chrystal Hbarnb 

Marquise de Rio Zares Mrs. Lb Motnb 

Lady Fairfax Marion Ballou 

Mion JBWBLL POWBR 

The New York critics seemed to think that the eariier pro- 
ductions were better played. 

FEDORA 

Among the Sardou plays most frequently produced in the 
United States, "Fedora" stands near the head. It was produced 
on circuit all over the United States by the late Fanny Davenport 
The casts of all these productions are not given here, as they were 
practically identical with those of her companies when she played 
in New York, which will be found below. 

"Fedora" was first played in America at Haverly's Theatre 
(later the Foutteenth Street Theatre), on October 2, 1883, "Fe- 
dora" being played by Fanny Davenport, and "Loris Ipanoff" by 



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IN THE XJNITBD STATES 891 

Robert Mantell. Others in the cast were: Ada Monck, Helen 
Bertram, and S. C Dubois. On this first production "Fedora" 
had a run of three months. It was revived at Haverly's Theatre 
in November, 1884. Again the "Fedora" was Fanny Davenport 
This time "Loris Ipano£f" was played by Henry Lee, and 
"G>untess Olga" by Blanche Weaver. It was revived at Niblo's 
Theatre, New York, in January, 1885, "Fedora" again played by 
Miss Davenport, and at the Grand Opera House in March, 1885, 
with the same actress in the name part Two years later at the 
People's Theatre, New York, on December 27, 1887, Miss Daven- 
port again produced the play. This time "Loris Ipano£f" was 
played by J. H. Barnes, and "Countess Olga" by Genevieve 
Lytton. 

At another revival at the Star Theatre, New York, in April, 
1887, Miss Davenport was again supported by R. B. Mantell as 
" Ipanoff." Later in the same year she gave the play at the Grand 
Opera House, New York; this time "Loris Ipanoff" was played 
by Melbourne MacDowell, and " G>untess Olga " by Judith Berolde. 
Four years later she produced the play once more at the Broadway 
Theatre, New York, on April 37, 1891. 

The play was produced in Italian at the Fifth Avenue Theatre, 
New York, on February 37, 1893, when "F6dora" was played 
by Eleonora Duse^ and "Loris Ipanoff" by Signor Ando. 

A week earlier, at the same theatre^ on February 21, 1893, a 
'' special professional matinee" was given, at which Signora Duse 
appeared as " Fedora " with her Italian company. 

That, beside Fanny Davenport, only Eleonora Duse and Sarah 
Bernhardt appeared in "Fedora" in the United States is due to 
the fact that Miss Davenport had purchased the exclusive English 
rights for this country from Sardou. She died in 1898, leaving 
her plays to her husband, Melbourne MacDowelL In 1900 Mr. 
MacDowell sold to Clarence M. Brume the rights which Miss 
Davenport had owned in Sardou's plays of " Fedora," " Q^opatre," 
"U Tosca," and "Gism<Mida." 

" Fedora " was produced by Sarah Bernhardt in America many 
times. 

LA TOSCA 

" La Tosca " was first played in the United States in English on 
February 27, 1888, at the Broadway Theatre, New York. The 
cast was: 



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S9« THE SARDOU PLAYS 

Floria Tosea Pannt Davbmport 

BaronSearpia Pkank MoRDAxnrr 

Mario Cavaradossi Mblbouhnb MacDowbll 

Cesofe AngeloUi Harry Davkmport 

Marquis AUavanti W. B. Murray 

Busehe W. T. M. Harbby 

Vicomte de Treveliae Archibald Coupbr 

Caprecia H. A. Carr 

Trivulce Prank McDonald 

Sciarrone .J. Wbldon 

Prince d'Arragon J. H. Roberts 

General Predbrick Pbtbrs 

Reine Marie Carolina Judith Bbroldb 

Princess Orlonia Elbanor Mbrron 

Fanny Davenport was still playing "La Tosea" up to 1894, 
when she was seen in it at the Grand Opera House, New York. 
There were few changes in her company, the most important being 
for a time F. McCollough Ross to replace MacDowell in the role 
of " Mario," and Eleanor Merron playing ** Queen Marie Caroline," 
in place of Judith Berolde. 

"La Tosea" was first played in French in the United States 
on February 5, 1891, at the Garden Theatre, New York. The 
cast was: 

Floria Tosea Madamb Bernhardt 

Reine Marie Caroline Madame Mba 

Le Baron Scarpia M. Duqubsne 

Mario Cavaradossi M. Plbury 

Cesare AngeloUi M. Angelo 

Le Marquis Attavanti M. Munib 

Madame Bernhardt also played "La Tosea" at the Standard 
Theatre, New York, in the same year, and at many other theatres 
throughout the country. 

CLEOPATRE 

" Cl^opatre " was first played in French in the United States 
at the Garden Theatre, New York, on February 9, i8pi. The 
cast was: 

Cliopdire Mmb. Sarah Bernhardt 

Odawie , . . Mmb. Mba 

Charmiane Mmb. ' Simonson 

Jras Mmb. B. Gilbert 

Mare Antoine M. Darmont 

Demetrius M. Duqubsne 

Some months later an English version, "Qeopatra," was pro- 
duced at the Fifth Avenue Theatre, New Yorl^ on December 
23, 1891. The cast was: 



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IN THE UNITED STATES 898 

Cleopatra Panmt Davenport 

Ociavia Ida Prohawk 

Mark Antony Mblbournb MacDowbll 

Kephren Thbodorb Roberts 

Thyseus Gborgb Osbournb 

Charmian Blanche Moulton 

Iras Lillian Burke 

On March 21, 1892, and on December 12, 1893, Fanny Davenport 
again appeared in "Cleopatra," at the Harlem Opera House, New 
York. Miss Davenport appeared as "Qeopatra" many times m 
various American cities up to 1898. 



GISMONDA 

Fanny Davenport also produced "Gismonda" for the first 
time in the United States, at the Fifth Avenue Theatre, New York, 
on December 11, 1894. The cast was, in part: 

Gismonda Panny Davenport 

Almerio Melbourne MacDowbll 

Zacearia Theodore Roberts 

Bishop Sophron Arthur Eluot 

Thisbe Mary E. Barker 

When Fanny Davenport presented "Gismonda" at the Boston 
Theatre, on February 26, 1895, it ran for four weeks. The receipts 
for the twenty-eight performances were $42,005.25; an average of 
$1500 for each performance. "Gismonda" is one of the least 
successful of the Sardou plays, which gives some idea of how much 
money Miss Davenport must have made from her Sardou engage- 
ments, which extended over a number of years. 

THEODORA 

"Theodora" was first played in the United States at Niblo*s 
Garden, New York, on September 13, 1886. This was the first 
English translation, made by arrangement between Sardou and 
Miss Lillian Olcott, who played "Theodora." Other members of 
the cast were: 

Andreas John H. Gilmore 

Justinian Hudson Liston 

Antonina Carrie G. Vinton 

Tamyris Laura L. Phillips 

"Theodora" (in French) was played at the Star Theatre, New 
York, in 1887, by Sarah Bernhardt. 



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894 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

"Theodora" (in French) was played at the Standard Theatre, 
New York, in November, 1891, and at the Metropolitan Opera 
House, New York, in April, 1892, on Sarah Bernhardt's fourth 
American tour, the part of the Empress being taken by Madame 
Bernhardt. 

BOSOM FRIENDS 

One of Sardou's earliest successes was "Nos Intimes," several 
versions of which have been played. The best-known is the version 
by Horace Wigan, entitled in England, "Friends or Foes." This 
version, under the title of "Bosom Friends," was produced at 
Wallack's Theatre, New York, in October, 1863. The cast was : 

Mr, Union Lester Wallack 

Dr, Bland Charles Fisher 

Mr, Yielding John Gilbert 

Mr, Meauley A. W. Young 

Mrs. MtauUy Mrs. Vernon 

Mrs, Union Mrs. Hoey 

Pevril W. B. Reynolds 

BorrowgU liJ^^^ Sefton 

Donoghue w. H. Norton 

This version was revived at Wallack's, on April 29, 1865, the 
leading roles being thus cast: 

Mr, Union Charles Fisher 

Dr. Bland W. R. Floyd 

Mrs. Union Madeline Henriqubs 

It was again revived at Wallack's on December 6, 1875, with 
a cast beginning thus: 

Mr, Union Edward Arnott 

Dr, Bland H. J. Montague 

Mr, Yielding John Gilbert 

Mrs, Union Ada Dyas 

Another version of "Nos Intimes," by Scott and Sephenson, 
entitled "Peril," was played by Mrs. Lily Langtry and her com- 
pany, at Niblo's Garden, New York, in February, 1885, and at the 
Fifth Avenue Theatre, cm October 4, 1886. In January, 1894, " Nos 
Intimes" was produced at Abbey's Theatre, with Coquelin and 
Jane Hading in the leading roles. 

AGNES 

A Sardou play that was first produced in the United States 
was billed as "Agnes, a five-act drama written expressly for Miss 
Agnes Ethel, and played for the first time on any stage in New 
York, on Tuesday, September 17, 1872." The original French 



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IN THE UNITED STATES 895 

version was performed at the Paris Gymnase, on March 17, 1873, 
tinder the title of "Andrda." Miss Ethel's version was produced 
at the Union Square Theatre, New York, on September 17, 1872, 
with the following cast: 

Agnes, Viseountiss de Thomury Miss Agnbs Ethbl 

MU€, StMa, Pr$miire Dans€us$ ai ths Grand Opera 

Miss Philus Glovbr 

The Baroness de FauireiUe Miss Plbssy Mordaunt 

Mme, Crandiguard Miss BkfiLY Mbstaybr 

Delpkine ^•~ t-™' ^ — 

Therese Misi 

Dressmaker 

MiUiner li 

SUphen, Viseaunt de Thomery 

Jean Bonnardi 

MiUeJUur 

BieneiUe 

Boby, Dieclar '<rf the Opera, \ \ \ \ \ '. 

Baroldi, Frefeet of Police 

Polydor Morant 

Dr, Coulisse 

And nine minor chantcten on the progra 
ttage cari>enten. etc. 

DIVORgONS 

An English version of " Divorgons " was presented at Abbey's 
Park Theatre, New York, on March 14, 1882. ** Cjrprienne " was 
played by Alice Dunning (Lingard), "M. Des Prundles" by Fred- 
eric Robinson, and "Adhemar de Gratignan" by C. B. Welles. 
This was the first presentation of the play in the United States 
in English. It was subsequently produced many times in various 
versions and languages in England and America. 

The best-known English version is "The Queen's Proctor," 
by Herman Merrivale, referred to elsewhere. "Divorgons" was 
first played in New York at Abbey's Park Theatre, on March 14, 

1882, as set forth above. In May of the same year Grau's French 
Opera Company presented it with Paola Marie as " Cyprienne." 
Since then it has been played in New York by Marie Aimee in 

1883, at the Fifth Avenue Theatre; by Madame Judic at Wallack's 
in 1885; by Modjeska at Wallack's in 1886; by Frau Hedwing 
Niemann-Raabe at Wallack's in 1888; by Re jane at Abbey's in 
189s; by Duse at the Fifth Avenue in 1893 and 1895; by Arthur 
Bourchier, at the Bijou in December, 1896; by Mrs. Fiske at the 
Fifth Avenue in May, 1897; by Emily Raucker under the title of 
"A Divorce Cure," at the Mutray Hill in March, 1897; by Mrs. 
Flske again in 1898, at the Fifth Avenue, and later at the Man- 
hattan. A new version by Margaret Mayo was produced by Grace 
George, at Wallack's in April, 1907. 



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896 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

A performance in Italian by Eleonora Duse and her company 
was given at the Fifth Avenue Theatre, New York, on February 
I7» 1893. The cast follows: 

CyPrienne Eleonora Dusk 

Des PruneUes P. Ando 

Adhimar A. Galliani 

Clavignac S. Bonivbnto 

Madame de Brionne Signora G. Magazzari 

Madamt d$ Valfontaine Signora £. Ropblo 

Madame de Lusignan Signora C. Buffi 

Mrs. Minnie Maddern Fiske produced a version of her own at 
the Fifth Avenue Theatre, New York, on June 10, 1898. The cast 
follows : 

CyPrienne Minnie Maddern 

Des PruneUes Frederic db Bbllbvillb 

Adhimar Max Figman 

Clavignac George Trader 

Commissioner of Police Wilfred North 

The Waiter Nick Long 

Madame de Brionne Sydney Cowell 

Mdlle. de Lusignan Harriet Sterling 

FERNANDE 

"Fernande" was first played in New York on June 7, 1870, 
at Daly's Fifth Avenue Theatre. The cast follows: 



Marquis Andri George Clarke 

Philtp Pomerol D. H. Harkins 

Jarbi .James Lewis 



Philip Pomerol D. H. Harkins 

Jarbi .Tames Lewis 

RoqueviUe G. F. de Verb 



Bracassin Georgb Parkbs 

The Baron P. Chapman 

Santa Cru% Mr. Pierce 

Alfred H. Stewart 

Frederic H. Bebkbcan 

Femande Agnes Ethel 

Countess Clotilde Fanny Morant 

Georgette Fanny Davenport 

Madame Seneschal Mrs. Gilbert 

Madame de la Brienne Amy Ames 

The Baroness Miss Rowland 

Peachblossom Roberta Norwood 

Cibratta Fanny Reeves 

Therese Emily Kiehl 

" Femande " was revived at Daly's Fifth Avenue Theatre, New 
York, in November, 1870, with Linda Dietz as ** Georgette *' ; again 
in March, 1870, with Louis James as " Andre " ; at the Grand Opera 
House on February 5, 1877, by Augustin Daly's company; and at 
Daly's Theatre in November, 1879, with Ada Rehan as "Georg- 
ette," others in the cast being John Drew, C. Leclercq, G. Parkes, 



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IN THE UNITED STATES 897 

Miss Estelle Clayton, and Miss Mary Fielding. Again at Daly's 
Theatre it was played three times in the spring season of 1880. 

Another version of ** Femande," entitled "Qotilde," said to 
be the work of David Belasco, was first played at the Union Square 
Theatre, New York, on June 4, 1873. The cast follows : 

Pernande Agnbs Ethel 

Countess Clotilde Mrs. B. L. Davenport 

CeorgeUe Kate Claxton 

Madame Seneschal Emily Mbstayer 

Madame de la Brienne Josephine Laxhucns 

Peaehblossom Fanny Hayward 

Gihratta Helen Forrest 

The Baroness Charlotte Cave 

Therese Kate Holland 

Babette Mrs. Wilder 

Philip Pomerol D. H. Harkins 

Marquis Andri Claude Burroughs 

Commander Jarbi Ed. Lamb 

RoqueviUe W. B. Laurens 

Bracassin H. W. Montgomery 

Baron W. Stuart 

Frederic W. H. Wilder 

Alfred Prank Lamb 

Antoine W. S. Quiglby 

This was the first appearance of Mrs. E. L. Davenport in New 
York for several years, and the first appearance of Kate Qaxton 
at this theatre. " Femande " was presented in New York at various 
other times by practically the same company. 

"Femande" in Italian was produced at the Fifth Avenue 
Theatre, New York, on January 30, February 10, and February 13, 
1893, "Gotilde" being played by Eleonora Duse. 

MADAME SANS-G^NE 

" Madame Sans-Gene " was produced in English at the Broad- 
way Theatre, New York, on January 18, 1895, with the following 
cast: 

Madame Sans-Gine Kathryn Kidder 

Napoleon Augustus Cook 

Lefebvre Harold Russell 

Pouchi Wallace Shaw 

De Neipperg James K. Hackett 

Despreaux Charles Plunkett 

Queen Caroline of Naples Marie Sbotwell 

Princess Elisa Henrietta Lander 

" Madame Sans-Gene " was played at Abbey's Theatre, New 
York, on February 27, 1895, advertised as by "the original Paris 
company." The cast was in part: 



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398 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

Madam* Sans-C$m, Madams R^jamb 

NaPoUon M . DuquBSNB 

FouckS M. OXLDBS 

L^ehne M. Caudb 

?ue$n Caroline Aim^b Martial 
finctss Elita Maoamb Duluc Maurt 

At Wallack's Theatre "Madame Sans-Gene" was played for 
two weeks beginning April 6, 1896. It was played at the Harlem 
Opera House January 27, 1897, with Kathryn Kidder in the title 
role; and at the Grand Opera House, March og, 1897. At the 
Irving Place Theatre it was seen in October, 1898, with Anna 
Braga as "Madame Sans-Gene," and Emil Marx as "Napoleon." 

The play was revived at Daly's Theatre, New York, on Jan- 
uary 3, 1899, " Madame Sans-Gene " being played by Ada Rehan. 
Others in the cast were: 

NaPoUon Gborgb Clark 

L^ebvre Charlbs Richman 

PoHcki Sydnbt Hbrbbrt 

De NHpperg Wbitb Whtttlbsby 

Satary William Owbn 

Desprtaux Wiltrbd Clarkb 

Queen of Naples May Cargill 

Princess Elina Mabbl Robbuck 

In this presentation Ada Rehan did not make a popular success 
in the part of " Madame Sans-Gene," although she was at the time 
a great favourite. On October 30, 1899, the play was put on at the 
Murray Hill Theatre. 

The Irving-Terry company revived the play at the ICnicker- 

bocker Theatre, New York, on October 28, 1901. The cast was in 

part: 

Napoleon Sn Hbnrt Irving 

Madame Sans-Cine Bllbn Tbrrt 

Pouchi Lawrbncb Irving 

Lefehwe J. H. Barnbs 

Comte de Neipperg A. Royston 

Queen of Naples Maud Milton 

DANIEL ROCHAT 

" Daniel Rochat *' was produced at the Union Square Theatre, 
New York, on October 16, 1880. The cast fdlows: 

Danid Rochat Charlbs R. Thornb 

Dr, Bidache J. H. Stoddard 

William Pargis •JJ^bn Parsbllb 

Casimir Pargis Waldbn Ramsay 

Lea Henderson Sara Jbwbtt 

Esther Henderson Maud Harrison 

Mrs. Powers Mrs. B. J. Phillips 

BUen Bloomfidd Nbtta Guion 



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The piece ran till December 14, 1880. It was revived at the 
Union Square Theatre on November 14, 1881. Frederic de Belle- 
ville figured in the cast; otherwise the principals were the same 
as in 1880. 

THERMIDOR 

An English version of " Thermidor " was produced at Proctor's 
Theatre, New York, on October 5, 1891. The cast was in part: 
Martial Hugon, J. Forbes Robertson; Charles Labussiere, Fred- 
eric Bond; Fabienne Lecoulteux, Elsie de Wolfe. 

It was played at the Harlem Opera House, December 21, 1891. 

The piece was played in French at Abbey's Theatre, New York, 
on January 8, 1894, when the principals were: 

Fabitnne LtconlUux Janb Hading 

LabUSSUf M. COQUBLIN 

MarUol^ Hugom M. Volnbt 

M. JBAN COQUKUN 



JoUhon}' 



AMERICANS ABROAD 



"Americans Abroad/' advertised as **A Three-act Comedy, 
by Victorien Sardou," was produced at the Lyceum Theatre, New 
York, on December s, 1892, with the following cast: 

GUbtrt Raymond Hbrbbrt Ksloet 

Riehard Fairbanks W. J. Lb Motnb 

Landaipke B. J. Ratcliffb 

Florence Wintkrop Miss Gborgia Cayvan 

Barantss de Beaumont Mrs. Chas. Walcot 

Madame PonUawi Miss Mat Robson 

Madame Olitarea Miss Madgb Carr 

Casimif Lajotty Mr. Fritz Williams 

Bardin Mr. Charlbs W. King 

Pendieion Mr. Augustus Cook 

Lord SalUmstall Mr. King 

Mareel Mr. V. Glasbr 

Angela Miss Gbrtrudb Rtvbrs 

Ida Miss Wintona Shannon 

Jnlie Miss Josbphinb Bbnnbtt 

This play ran through the season at the Lyceum Theatre. At 
the Harlem Opera House it appeared on December 4, 1893. 

A WOMAN'S SILENCE 

An English version of an unnamed MS. play by Sardou, 
made by J, Comyns Carr, was called in the United States "A 



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400 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

Woman's Silence." It was produced at the Lyceum Theatre, New 
York, on November 20, 1894, with the following cast: 

Maurice Herbert Kelcbt 

Hector W. J. Le Moyne 

Sir Arthur Greyson Stephen Grattan 

Jf . DuPret Charles Walcot 

Dorothea March Georgia Cayvan 

Lucy Gordon Katharine Florence 

Ddphine Adrienna Dairollbs 

Baroness won Stannits Bessie Tyreb 

This was the last appearance of Miss Georgia Ca}ryan on the 
stage prior to her illness and death. 

This same version, under the name of "Delia Harding/' was 
produced in L<Midon, at the Comedy Theatre, on April 17, 1895. 

UNCLE SAM 

A VERSION of the Sardou play, "Uncle Sam," was produced at 
the Grand Opera House, New York, on March 17, 1873, and with- 
drawn after a few representations. 

SPIRITISME 

An English version of " Spiritisme," in four acts, was pro. 
duced at the Knickerbocker Theatre, New York, on February 22, 
1897, with the following cast: 

Manod Clavagal Maxtricb Barrymorb 

ValenUne ClavHres J. H. Gilmour 

Robert D'Aubenas Nelson Wbbatcroft 

Dr. Parisot W. P. Owen 

Dr. James Douglas Chas. Harbury 

George D'Aubenas Fritz Williams 

Simone Virginia Harned 

Theda Oltve Oliver 



ROBESPIERRE 

La WHENCE Irving's translation of " Robespierre " was produced 
at the Knickerbocker Theatre, New York, on October 30, 1899, 
by the London Lyceum Company, with Sir Henry Irving and 
^len Terry in the cast. It ran for two weeks. 

Henry Irving returned to the Knickerbocker Theatre in " Robes- 
pierre'' on March 12, 1900; and again on March 19 and 20, of the 
'same year, with Ellen Terry. 



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LA SORCE^RE 

An English version of "La Sordto," entitled "The Sorcer- 
ess" (translated by Louis N. Parker), was first produced in New 
York, on October lo, 1904, at the New Amsterdam Theatre, with 
the following cast : 

Cardinal Ximanas Frbdbuck Pbkry 

Dan BnHaiuM ds Paiadas Guy Standing 

Lap€s de FaiiUa Gborgb Riddbll 

Cardanos L. Rogers Lytton 

CUofas PuLLBR Mblush 

(Hinmra H. Ogdbn Cranb 

Ramiro Ormb Caldara 

Fray Bugtnio Calabaaas H. L. Porbbs 

Pray TaoJUo Ibarra R. C. Morsb 

Pray Mignd Molina P. M . Wildbr 

Pray Htrnando Albornos B. J. Glbndxnning 

Parn William Balfour 

D'AquUar Laurbncb Bddingbr 

Gil Andrgs John W. Thompson 

Don Ambrotio C. H. Ogdbn 

Rioubos Gborgb Lanb 

Vtlasco Waltbr Hbnry 

Christobal W. Raulton 

A Goatktrd Bdgar Allan Woolb 

Gin€s William Marston 

Arias Hbnry Porbbs 

Zoraya Mrs. Patrick Campbbll 

I Afrida Alicb Butlbr 

Manugla Gbrtrudb Cogblan 

PaUmm Margarbt Bourns 

Aisha Mxldrbd Bbvbrly 

Joana Martha Waldron 

Zaqnir Kathbrinb Raynorb 

Dona Rnfina Plorbncb GBLBARr 

Dona Syrena Sara Lbigh 

Dona SeraMna Giulia Strakosch 

Dona Pabta Bdna Larkin 

A Piasant Woman Bugbnia Plagg 

THE LOVE LETTER 

An English version of "La Piste," made by Ferdinand Gotts- 
chalk, was produced at the Lyric Theatre, New York, on October 
10, 1905. The cast included W. J. Ferguson, William Courtenay, 
Albert Grau, Charles Quinn, Virginia Hamed, Eleanor Moretti, 
and Mary Stockwell. 

ANDRE FORTIER 

In 1879 the managers of the Bostpn Theatre commissioned 
Sardou to write a play expressly for them. It was entitled " Andr6 
Fortier, the Hero of the Calaveras," and was produced at their 
theatre in Boston, on March 11, 1879. It ran four weeks, but does 
not seem to have been revived since. 
26 



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408 THE SARDOU PLAYS 

THE EXILES 

A nvE-ACT drama adapted from Sardou, Nus, and Lubomirsky, 
by L R. Shewdl, entitled " The Exiles/' was produced in Boston, 
on December lo, 1877, at the Boston Theatre. It ran to large 
houses for ten weeks. Among the cast were Louis James, £. J. 
Buckley, and Miss Marie Wainwright. 

In New York "The Exiles" was first produced by James 
Duflf, at the Broadway Theatre (later Daly's), on March 2, 1878. 
On April 10, of the same year, it was put on at Booth's Theatre. 
On November 11, 1889, it was put on at Niblo's Garden, New York, 
and on December g, 1889, it was seen at the Harlem Opera House. 
On February 10, 1890, it was produced at the Grand Opera House, 
and on March 24, 1890, at the People's Theatre. 

PATRIE 

"Patrie" was first played in America at the Grand Opera 
House, New York, on May 24, 1869. It ran for two weeks. It 
was revived on September 13, 1869. The part of " Captain Karloo " 
was played by Frank Mayo. 

An English version of "Patrie," called "Dolores," made by 
Mrs. Sarah Lane, was produced in Boston, on March 19, 1888, at 
the Boston Theatre, by Bolossy Kiralfy; in New York at Niblo's 
Garden, April 2, 1888; and at the Grand Opera House, May 21, 
1888. 

A MAN OF HONOR 

During the winter season of 1873, at Wallack's Theatre, New 
York, an adaptation by Dion Boucicault from a Sardou play (French 
original not identified), entitled, **A Man of Honor," ran for four 
weeks. Among the members of the Wallack company were Lester 
Wallack, Harry Beckett, H. J. Montague, John Gilbert, E. M. 
Holland, C. A. Stevenson, Miss Jeflfreys Lewis, Miss Dyas, Madame 
Ponisi, Miss Effie Germon. 

A FAST FAMILY 

The autumn season of 1866 at Wallack's Theatre, New York, 
was opened with a version of "La Famille Benoiton," entitled, 
"A Fast Family." It was produced on September 18, 1866^ and 



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IN THE UNITED STATES 408 

ran for four weeks to about $40,000, and was reproduced later in 
the same season. 

On September 5, 1874, it was put on at the New Fifth Avenue 
Theatre, with Louis James, Ada Dyas, and Sara Jewett among 
others in the cast 

PICCOLINO 

On September 28, 1886, at the Union Square Theatre, New 
York, Marie Aim^e and her company appeared in " Marita," a 
translation by Barton Hill, of Sardou's " Piccolino " ; after three 
performances it was withdrawn. 

ODETTE 

On February 6, 1882, at Daly's Theatre, New York, an adapta- 
tiwi by Daly of Sardou's " Odette," was first acted. Among others 
in the cast were John Drew and Ada Rehan; it ran seventy-seven 
times. In January, 1883, at Booth's Theatre, New York, Modjeska 
appeared in "Odette." At Stetson's Fifth Avenue Theatre it was 
put on in April, 1883 ; s^nd again in January, 1886, Modjeska played 
in " Odette," at the Star Theatre. 

In September, 1891, at the Fourteenth Street Theatre, in 
October at the Grand Opera House, and in December of the same 
year at the People's Theatre, Qara Morris appeared in "Odette." 

Ths End 



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