The Rehearsal.
THE REHEARSAL, once fair commenced, and the general attention drawn to the stage, Rousseau was no longer remarked, and it was he, on the contrary, who became the observer. He heard court lords who sang completely out of tune in their shepherd’s dresses, and saw ladies arrayed in their court dresses coquetting like shepherdesses.
The dauphiness sang correctly, but she was a bad actress, and her voice, moreover, was so weak that she could scarcely be heard. The king, not to intimidate any one, had retired to an obscure box, win-re he chatted with the ladies. The dauphin prompted the words of the opera, which went off royalty badly.
Rousseau determined not to listen, but he felt it very difficult to avoid overhearing what passed. He had one consolation, however, for he had just perceived a charming face among the illustrious figurantes, and the village maiden who was the possessor of this charming face had incomparably the most delightful voice of the entire company.
Rousseau’s attention became at once completely riveted, and from his position behind his desk, he gazed with his whole soul at the charming figurante, and listened with all his ears to drink in the enchanting melody of her voice.
When the dauphiness saw the author so deeply attentive, she felt persuaded, from his smile and his sentimental air, that he was pleased with the execution of his work, and, eager for a compliment — for she was a woman — she leaned forward to the desk, saying —
“Is our performance very bad. Monsieur Rousseau?”
But Rousseau, with lips apart and absent air, did not reply.
“Oh! we have made some blunders,” said the dauphiness, “and M. Rousseau dares not tell us! Pray do. Monsieur Rousseau!”
Rousseau’s gaze never left the beautiful personage, who on her side did not perceive in the least the attention which she excited.
“Ah!” said the dauphiness, following the direction of our philosopher’s eyes, “it is Mademoiselle Taverney who has been in fault!”
Andree blushed; she saw all eyes directed toward her.
“No! no!” exclaimed Rousseau; “it was not mademoiselle, for mademoiselle sings like an angel!”
Madame Dubarry darted at the philosopher a look keener than a javelin.
The Baron de Taverney, on the contrary, felt his heart bound with joy, and greeted Rousseau with a most enchanting smile.
“Do you think that young girl sings well?” said Madame Dubarry to the king, who was evidently struck by Rousseau’s words.
“In a chorus I cannot hear distinctly,” said Louis XV.; “it requires a musician to be able to distinguish.”
Meanwhile Rousseau was busy in the orchestra directing the chorus:
“Colin revient a sa bergere
Celebrons un retour si beau.”
As he turned to resume his seat, he saw M. de Jussieu bowing to him graciously.
It was no slight pleasure for the Genevese to be seen thus giving laws to the court by a courtier who had wounded him a little by his superiority. He returned his bow most ceremoniously, and continued to gaze at Andree, who looked even more lovely for the praises she had received.
As the rehearsal proceeded, Madame Dubarry became furious; twice had she surprised Louis XV.’s attention wandering, distracted by the spectacle before him from the sweet speeches she whispered.
The spectacle in the eyes of the jealous favorite meant Andree alone, but this did not prevent the dauphiness from receiving many compliments and being in charmingly gay spirits. M. de Richelieu fluttered around her with the agility of a young man, and succeeded in forming at the extremity of the stage, a circle of laughers, of which the dauphiness was the center, and which rendered the Dubarry party extremely uneasy.
“It appears.” said he aloud, “that Mademoiselle de Taverney has a sweet voice.”
“Charming!” said the dauphiness; “and had I not been too selfish, I should have allowed her to play Colette; but as it is for my amusement that I undertook the character, I will give it up to no one.”
“Oh! Mademoiselle de Taverney would not sing it better than your royal highness,” said Richelieu, “and —
“Mademoiselle is an excellent musician,” said Rousseau, with enthusiasm.
“Excellent!” responded the dauphiness; “and, to confess the truth, it is she who teaches me my part; besides, she dances enchanting, and I dance very badly.”
The effect of this conversation upon the king, upon Madame Dubarry, and the whole crowd of curious newsmongers and intriguers, may be imagined. All either tasted the pleasure of inflicting a wound, or received the blow with shame and grief. There were no indifferent spectators, except perhaps Andree herself.
The dauphiness, incited by Richelieu, ended by making Andree sing the air:
“I have lost my love — Colin leaves me.”
The king’s head was seen to mark the time with such evident tokens of pleasure, that Madame Dubarry’s rouge fell off from her agitation, in little flakes, as paintings fall to pieces from damp.
Richelieu, more malicious than a woman, enjoyed his revenge. He had drawn near the elder Taverney, and the two old men formed a tableau which might have been taken for Hypocrisy and Corruption sealing a project of union.
Their joy increased the more as Madame Dubarry’s features grew by degrees darker and darker. She added the finishing stroke to it by rising angrily, which was contrary to all etiquette, as the king was still seated.
The courtiers, like ants, felt the storm approach, and hastened to seek shelter with the strongest. The dauphiness was more closely surrounded by her own friends, Madame Dubarry was more courted by hers.
By degrees the interest of the rehearsal was diverted from its natural course, and was turned in quite a different direction. Colin and Colette were no more thought of, and many spectators thought it would soon be Madame Dubarry’s turn to sing:
“I have lost my love — Colin leaves me.”
“Do you mark,” whispered Richelieu to Taverney, “your daughter’s immense success?”
And he drew him into the corridor, pushing open a glass door, and causing a looker-on, who had been clinging to the framework in order to see into the hall, to fall backward.
“Plague take the wretch!” grumbled Richelieu, dusting his sleeve, which the rebound of the door had brushed against, and seeming still more angry when he saw that the looker-on was dressed like a workman of the chateau.
It was, in fact, a workman with a basket of flowers under his arm, who had succeeded in climbing up behind the glass, from which position he commanded a view of the entire salon.
He was pushed back into the corridor, and almost overturned; but, although he himself escaped falling, his basket was upset.
“Ah! I know the rascal,” said Taverney, angrily.
“Who is it?” asked the duke.
“What are you doing here, scoundrel?” said Taverney.
Gilbert — for the reader has doubtless already recognized him — replied haughtily:
“You see — I am looking.”
“Instead of being at your work?” said Richelieu.
“My work is done,” said Gilbert, humbly addressing the duke, without deigning to look at Taverney.
“Am I fated to meet this lazy rascal everywhere?” said Taverney.
“Gently, sir,” interrupted a voice; “gently. My little Gilbert is a good workman and an industrious botanist.”
Taverney turned, and saw M. de Jussieu, who was patting Gilbert on the head. The baron reddened with anger and moved off.
“Valets here!” muttered he.
“Hush!” said Richelieu, “there is Nicole! — look — up there, at the corner of the door. The little buxom witch! she is not making bad use of her eyes either.”
The marshal was correct. Partially concealed behind a score of the domestics of Trianon, Nicole raised her charming head above all the others, and her eyes, dilated with surprise and admiration, seemed to devour everything she saw.
Gilbert perceived her, and turned another way.
“Come, come!” said the duke to Taverney; “I fancy the king wishes to speak to you. He is looking this way.”
And the two friends disappeared in the direction of the royal box.
Madame Dubarry was standing behind the king, and interchanging signs with M. d’Aiguillon, who was also standing, and who did not lose one of his uncle’s movements.
Rousseau, now left alone, admired Audree; he was endeavoring, if we may use the expression, to fall in love with her.
The illustrious actors proceeded to disrobe in their boxes, which Gilbert had decorated with fresh flowers.
Taverney, left alone in the passage by M. de Richelieu, who had gone to rejoin the king, felt his heart alternately chilled and elated. At last the duke returned and placed his finger upon his lips. Taverney turned pale with joy and advanced to meet his friend, who drew him beneath the royal box. There they overheard the following conversation, which was quite inaudible to the rest of the company. Madame Dubarry was saying to the king:
“May I expect your majesty to supper this evening?”
And the king replied:
“I feel fatigued, countess; excuse me.”
At the same moment, the dauphin entered, treading almost on Madame Dubarry’s toes, without seeming to see her.
“Sire,” said he, “will your majesty do us the honor of supping with us at Trianon?”
“No, my son; I was just this moment saying to the countess that I feel fatigued. Our young people have made me giddy; I shall sup alone.”
The dauphin bowed and retired. Madame Dubarry curtseyed almost to the ground, and, trembling with rage, left the box. When she was gone, the king made a sign to the Duke de Richelieu.
“Duke.” said he, “I wish to speak to you about an affair which concerns you.”
“Sire—”
“I am not satisfied. I wish you to explain — stay, I shall sup alone; you will keep me company.”
And the king looked at Taverney.
“You know this gentleman, I think, duke?”
“Monsieur de Taverney? Yes, sire.”
“All! the father of the charming singer?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Listen, duke!”
And the king stooped to whisper in Richelieu’s ears. Taverney clenched his hands till the nails entered the flesh, to avoid showing any emotion. Immediately afterward Richelieu brushed past Taverney, and said:
“Follow me without making any remark.”
“Whither?” asked Taverney, in the same tone.
“No matter; follow me.”
The duke moved away. Taverney followed him at a little distance to the king’s apartment. The duke entered; Taverney waited in the anteroom.