The press began to notice this infant prodigy, who
wished to remain quite unheralded until her debut.
Francois Darbois, in spite of his friendship with
several journalists, could not make them adhere to
their promises of silence, and when he complained bitterly
to the head of a great daily, “But, my friend,”
the editor rejoined, “that daughter of yours
is particularly fascinating, and certainly when you
launched her into this whirlpool, you should have remembered
that the only exits are triumph or despair!”
The philosopher grew pale.
“I believe,” went on his friend, “that
this child will vanquish every obstacle by the force
of her will, will stifle all jealousies by the grace
of her purity, and she already belongs to the public,
while the fame of your name has simply served for
a stepping-stone. You, in your wisdom, have been
able to impart true wisdom to your child. But
before the public has ever seen her she is famous,
and Sardou affirms that the day after her appearance
she will be the idol of all Paris. I owe it to
the profession of journalism to write her up in my
paper, and I am doing it, you must admit, with the
utmost reserve.”
And so at last the day of the performance came.
Esperance, who was so easily shaken by the ordinary
events of life, met any danger or great event quite
calmly. For this young girl, so delicately fair,
so frail of frame, possessed the soul of a warrior.
The sale of tickets had opened eight days in advance.
The agents had realized big profits. The first
night always creates a sensation in Paris. All
the social celebrities were in the audience: and,
what is less usual, many “intellectuals.”
They wished to testify by their presence their friendship
for Francois Darbois, and to protest against certain
journalists, who had not hesitated to say in print
that such a furore about an actress (poor Esperance)
was prejudicial to the dignity of philosophy.
In a box was the Minister of Belgium, who had been
married lately, and wanted to show his young wife
a “first night” in Paris. The First
Secretary of the Legation was sitting behind the Minister’s
wife.
“Look there, that is Count Albert Styvens,”
said a journalist, pointing out the Secretary to his
neighbour, a young beauty in a very decolletee
gown.
The neighbour laughed. “Is he as reserved
and as serious as he looks?” she inquired.
“So they say.”
“Poor fellow,” answered the pretty woman,
with affected pity, examining him through her opera
glasses.
Sardou, behind the scenes, was coming and going, arranging
a chair, changing the position of a table, catching
his foot in a carpet, swearing, nervous in the extreme.
He made a hundred suggestions to the manager, which
were received with weariness. He entered into
conversation with the firemen. “Watch and
listen, won’t you, so that you can give me your
impression after the first act?” For Sardou
always preferred the spontaneous expressions of workmen
and common people to the compliments of his own confreres.
