gait, the best of friends with truly than the author had drawn her, because she was, all simply, the ribald seller of apples from the streets of Montmartre. the attentive producer. His speeches to her were as honey that dripped from his tongue. Had she been his own mother, he could have shown her no more knightly courtesy. had Imagine the exultation of César Corneille ! Once again his expectation was verified. How had he worked this strange miracle? Like all great deeds, here was a simple thing. I hesitate to disclose it. But I tell you this: each evening thereafter, before the first curtain and between every act, a small tumbler of cognac was left in her dressing-room, nor would any one inquire what had become of it. Sufficient to say that it always disappeared. Night after night that first great success was repeated, Mère Fradeau merely repeating her lines, acting only in the manner which time had taught to the old woman, La Goulue. In that last great scene the beggar's respectability flown to the winds. Mère Fradeau was herself. No more genteel accents; her voice was her own, harsh as the croak of a crow, shrill as a cry of torment in the moments of tense emotion. Ah, that dramatic meeting between mother and daughter! Her denunciation was worthy of a Rachel. The Did Cécé know that here he house held all its collective flirted with danger? One canbreath until the sob of a not say. The success of the woman broke a silence too moment was ample for him. intense, and, at the end of the Each night the theatre was scene, against all precedent, filled to the doors, while many the audience laughed and wept clamoured for admittance outin the hysteria of applause. side. Seats were sold for many To all of this Mère Fradeau weeks in advance. The wonderpaid no least attention. Only ful acting of mother and daugha moment later, in a queer, ter became all the talk of the cracked, comical voice, her boulevards. The glory of La anger forgotten, she was beg- Poupée was equally shared with #ging for sous, the beggar's her disreputable parent. Will whine to the life, changing to you believe it? The old woman curses for all the uncharitable; never thought to ask for a a portrait so excellent that the salary! Fame pleased her mirth of the audience burst enough. Her familiarity with upward to the dome. Mes theatrical customs was nothing amis, she was the beggar more at all. One may imagine that gabegie?" our Poupée was less heedless. It is almost a certainty that Mère Fradeau paid her daughter exorbitant interest on that five hundred francs a month. Messieurs, you have, without doubt, often heard the old proverb, Chassez le naturel, il revient au galop." That, indeed, was something to be expected. Now I tell you of the fall of Madame Fradeau. One comes to the second week of her ordained triumph. The first act passed without incident. Never so perfect was the acting of Mère Fradeau. Speaking that one line in the second act, she seemed somewhat uncertain; stumbled and hesitated over a little word. These things may happen to any actress at times. Never with such natural clumsiness of old age had she made her entrance for the third act, rags fluttering about her, grey hair in disarray, a pitiable figure of senile poverty and abject misery. Yet her eyes were bright; her first lines spoken with unusual emphasis. César Corneille, from the wings, regarded her closely. Always alert throughout every performance, delicate instinct warned him that there was something almost too natural in the acting of Mère Fradeau. The supers passed by her, entering the painted doors of the mimic cathedral. Whining, she held out her skinny hands for alms. Then, unfortunately, one of them stumbled against her. once in choler. One understands that the line was not in the play. The stumbler passed and said nothing, because the author had given her nothing to say. Mère Fradeau was unused to bring ignored so completely. She reached up to seize a fistful of silken skirt which compelled delay. "Gaffeuse!" she growled. "I demand to know why you kicked me ? " "Let me loose, what?" implored the detained one, with an anxious glance towards the wings. Epastrouillant!" cheered a voice from the gallery. At the sound of that barbaric word in familiar argot, Mère Fradeau looked up. She was feeling in a very good humour. "Toi, de l'esbrouffe !" she "Que fiches-tu là avec cette called back good-naturedly. Now, for the first time in many weeks, Mère Fradeau was really enjoying herself. This was an encounter quite in her usual style. The joy of the riff-raff under the ceiling was not less pronounced. "V'là !" cried the gallery. "Let fly, Grandma Gaga! Rouspetez jusqu'à la gauche ! Chirp on, old cricket! Give us more of that love-making. Sweetheart, sing us a song!" Something like panic reigned in the fauteuils and the boxes. More than panic clutched at the heart of César Corneille. That this should happen on the stage of the Comédie! Only Mère Fradeau was wholly at ease. 'Pif-paf is it, then!" she screamed at her tormentors. Believe you that one gets that way on water, hein?" Her voice was hoarse with the passion of futile anger. If only she had them within reach of her claws! "Pif-paf! Voyous! Talk when you are able to take something other than milk!" From the darkened wings two stage hands crept out; moved toward the old woman cautiously from behind. It was to be expected. Some gamin of the gallery recognised an old acquaintance. A little figure far overhead leaned out perilously over the railing. "Oh, hé, kiss me, Mother Goulue!" R édie, La Goulue paused to take stock of the situation. She had no least idea just where she found herself. She thought, indeed, of going straightway home to the Villa des Enchantées, but she had only the vaguest notion of where that was. Somewhere to the south of Paris, but north, south, east, or west were all the same to her. She wandered aimlessly forward only because to stand still was wearisome. That, also, was not so very amusing after a while. She had turned into a little mean street where the darkness welcomed her. Light bloomed in the window of an obscure estaminet. was the excitement, no doubt, that made her so terribly thirsty. She felt in her pockets; fifteen francs, besides the mock charity sous bestowed as alms on the stage. More than sufficient! As a moth of the night seeks the flame, her feet, without volition, conducted the old woman through the inviting door of the estaminet. It René Guizet paused, raised his glass, sipped the last of his bock with appreciation. And there, he said, we come to the end of the story. The explanation? Simple enough, needing only one more little fact to make everything clear. Mère Fradeau left only one thing behind for which she would ever have any regret ; a half-bottle of cognac, found in her dressing-room. Yes, mes amis, this is certainly true; chase out the natural; at a gallop it swiftly returns. It returns, indeed, with an added impetus. It is better to be oneself than to act a part, as indeed one must be, although to be natural, after playing a rôle, may strangely result in great disadvantages. From such a calamity La Goulue was saved only because she had so little to lose. She lost naught that she wanted, and much that made her more comfortable leaving it all behind. Nor, indeed, did any one suffer either from her redemption or her relapse. L'Allumeuse' continued to play to packed houses. Tradition sustained it. Paris had flocked to see mother and daughter, our Poupée and La Goulue. They continued from habit, because Paris loves La Poupée, because no play had ever received such publicity before. Cécé is contented. True, he failed to make a great actress of La Goulue. But that, it will be remembered, was only the second of his intentions. It was, he had said, the man of affairs in him who knew that advertisement is more important than actors to the success of a play. La Goulue? She sells apples at the old place near the Pont de Clichy. She has no regrets for her lost position. She has but added one new phrase to her astounding vocabulary. Once, when I was a great actress In any contest of wits, that is now her final answer, the last word she uses to express haughty disdain. |