The death of Chilly momentarily saddened Sarah Bernhardt, but did not check her rapid advance to fame. That event indeed once again brought her abruptly face to face with the elemental facts of life; and, like other experiences of the same nature, had a profound effect on her character, while it served as welding material for the art she displayed in her theatrical interpretations.

Her nature was that of the true artist—highly sensitive; once an impression was made on her it remained for ever as a component part of the edifice of her talent. Just as a portrait painter, away from his oils, will observe and remember in its minutest detail some tantalising cast of expression in the face of his model and will later reproduce it on canvas, so Sarah’s brain was constantly receiving impressions which she later translated into life, through the medium of the characters she portrayed.

Sarah often told me of the fatal dinner during the course of which the little director Chilly died.

“I shall never forget a detail of that night, as long as I live,” she said. “It was so incredibly a masterpiece of the great dramatist, Fate.” (She frequently spoke in a figurative sense.) “It all happened as though written, rehearsed and stage-managed for weeks, with every person there an actor word-perfect.

“We were received at the entrance to the restaurant by Victor Hugo himself. It was summer and extremely hot. Duquesnel, Chilly, Berton and I arrived all together in my carriage. Throughout the journey from my flat, Berton and Chilly had been heaping reproaches on me for my decision to leave the OdÉon.

“Chilly was hurt and puzzled. He could not understand why a difference of only three thousand francs a year should make me leave the theatre which had been the birthplace of my celebrity. Berton was loudly querulous; he insisted on reminding me that it was he who had procured me my first engagement at the OdÉon, and once came right out with the statement that it was Sarcey who was at the back of my desire to leave the theatre.

“This latter statement, which was quite untrue and which Berton must have known to have been untrue, angered me to such an extent that I stopped the carriage.

“‘Monsieur,’ I said to Berton, ‘either you will retract what you have just said, or you will get out of this carriage!’

“‘Well, then, why are you leaving us?’ demanded Berton sulkily. The man was incorrigible. I laughed at him.

“‘If you insist upon knowing why I am leaving the OdÉon, Pierre,’ I answered him, ‘it is because I can no longer remain at the same theatre with you!’

“Chilly looked at me strangely, but said nothing. I know he was aware—the whole theatre was in possession of the main facts by this time—that I had broken with Berton, and I think he may have imagined there was some truth in the explanation I had jestingly given. At any rate, he ceased his complaints and said afterwards not a single word of protest at my leaving.

“I remember that, during the drive to the restaurant, Chilly frequently complained of the heat. He had been working hard all day, and we had, in fact, called at the theatre, and brought him directly from it in his working-clothes. He was the most indefatigable worker I have ever met.

“‘Ah,’ said Victor Hugo, on perceiving me, ‘here is Her Majesty the Queen!’ He seized my hand, kissed it twice and then, drawing me to him, kissed me on both cheeks. It was a characteristic salutation.

“‘I see that she is no longer the Queen, but has become again the artiste of Victor Hugo!’” exclaimed Duquesnel.

“Hugo shook his head violently. ‘No,’ he cried, ‘she is more than an artiste, more than a Queen—she is a woman!’

“We dined at a long table—more than sixty persons, including practically the whole Ruy Blas company. My chair had been placed at one end, but I had no sooner sat down than Hugo began looking round and running his hand through his hair in the nervous fashion I remember so well. When he saw me, he cried out: ‘Ah, no! My dinner will be spoiled!’ Then he added, speaking to Essler who was seated immediately opposite him: ‘Jane, you are older than Sarah; take the seat of honour at the end, and tell her Majesty to come here!’

“Jane did as he requested, but with excusably bad grace. Before I had come to the OdÉon, she had been its bright, particular star.

“The order was given to open all the doors and windows, and everyone was provided with fans, but the heat was stifling. Nobody could eat anything. Duquesnel sat next to me on one side, and ThÉophile Gautier, the poet, on the other. Immediately opposite to me was Victor Hugo. On his right was Chilly, and on his left Madame Lambquin, who played the part of the Camerera Major, and who was the doyenne of the OdÉon. “I remember that I did not touch the first course at all—it was a species of hors-d’oeuvres made from beetroot, a vegetable which I then detested. Paul de St. Victor, who sat next to Madame Lambquin, apparently adored the vegetable and ate so much that the juice ran down his cheeks. For a poet, he was the fattest and most repulsive being I have ever known. I hated him, and he knew it.

“I managed to eat a little of the fish, which came next, but the horrible manners of St. Victor had completely spoiled my appetite. As I very seldom ate meat—I attribute my long life partly to the fact that I have rarely departed from vegetarianism—I got very little to eat that night.

“When the vegetable course was over, Duquesnel rose to his feet and, in a few words, proposed our host, Victor Hugo’s, health. Hugo then replied in a long address, full of sentiment and expression, in which he was good enough to refer to me as the ‘animatrice’ of the play.

“‘I,’ he declared, ‘have only written the piece, but she has lived it!’ Then, turning to me and bowing, he said: ‘Mademoiselle, you have a voice of gold!’

“When I rose to my feet and started to reply, Paul de St. Victor, who had been awaiting an opportunity to vent his spite, brought down his glass so violently that it was broken. I handed him mine.

“‘Use this, monsieur,’ I said to him. ‘You would not look natural without a glass in your hand.’

“The table laughed, and I was given courage to continue. I was in the middle of a little eulogy of my co-workers in the piece, when my gaze suddenly fell on the face of Chilly, and I stopped short.

“The little director’s face was ashen, where a moment before it had been red and perspiring. His eyes were wide open and staring at me, with a glassy look about them that frightened me.

“‘Chilly! Mon ami!’ I cried.

“His eyes met mine without a shade of expression, though his mouth opened and shut, as if he was trying to speak.

“‘Chilly!’ I cried, terror-stricken, and everyone at the table rose to their feet. I rushed to his side and, kneeling, put my arms about him as he sat in his chair. ‘Tell me, what is the matter?’ I asked.

“‘Somebody is holding me!’ he muttered, in a thick voice. ‘I cannot move!’

“‘It is the heat; he has had a little stroke; it is nothing!’ said Victor Hugo, with authority.

“Chilly was carried into one of the small dining-rooms, and laid on a couch. Victor Hugo and Duquesnel stood at the door, as guards, to keep the curious away. To everyone they declared that it was nothing and that Chilly would be all right in a few moments.

“I returned to the table and sat down. In my heart I realised that Chilly would not be all right—that it was the end. And I thought of all the times that this little man had befriended me, reviewed in my mind the occasions—yes, even on that very day—when I had been thoughtless and even brutal with him. Ah, I was sorry! If I could but have obtained his forgiveness....

“No sooner had this idea come into my head than I rushed away to put it into execution. I would fall on my knees beside my friend and teacher, and beg his forgiveness....

“At the door I was met by Victor Hugo. One look at his face and I knew that I was too late.

“Raising his voice, Hugo announced to the room: ‘Monsieur Chilly has been taken to his home; we hope that he will recover to-morrow.’ He could not tell them the truth, as they sat there at his table. Then, to me, in reply to my mute and terrified inquiry, he said, in a low voice: ‘He has gone.... A beautiful death!’

“Those who did not know the truth remained to finish dinner. Duquesnel took me home. I cried all night. And the next day a lawyer came to me and told me that almost the last act of Chilly—he had threatened it, but I had never believed that he would keep his word—had been to begin an action against me for breach of contract. I lost the case, and was sentenced to pay ten thousand francs damages, but this was paid by the ComÉdie, as provided in my contract.”

The death of Chilly was not the strangest event of that fatal dinner. Madame Lambquin became suddenly ill. She told everyone that a fortune-teller, only a few days previously, had prophesied she would die within a week of the death of “a little dark man.” Chilly was small and dark, and precisely seven days after his death, Madame Lambquin died.

Victor Hugo, when he heard of this latest tragedy, exclaimed:

“Without a doubt Death himself was at my dinner. I think he aimed at me, but he must be short-sighted, for one of his arrows went to my right, and slew Chilly, and the other swerved to my left, and killed Lambquin!” A few days later Sarah received a note from Sarcey, asking her to be present at a conference in the directors’ office at the ComÉdie, to decide which was to be her first rÔle. Sarah wished to play the part of Britanicus as her dÉbut, and naturally, as Sarcey’s note spoke of a “conference,” she anticipated that her wishes were to be deferred to.

On the way to the theatre she confided her desire to play Britanicus to Sarcey, who said nothing. Judge of Sarah’s surprise, therefore, when Sarcey opened the “conference” by announcing abruptly: “Mlle. Bernhardt believes that she would prefer to make her dÉbut in Mademoiselle de Belle Isle.”

Sarah was so astounded she could scarcely speak, and before she could make an adequate protest she was outside the door of Perrin’s office, with the play a chose jugÉe. Then she turned upon Sarcey furiously.

“Why did you do that?” she asked.

“I wish you to play this part! You can have your Britanicus afterwards, if you like!”

Sarcey spoke carelessly, and his manner was an indication of the influence he exerted at the ComÉdie. Sarah was wise enough not to dispute his decision, but she was nevertheless angry with him, and refused to see or write to him for several days.

Her anger was increased when she found that her rÔle in Mademoiselle de Belle Isle was not in reality the most prominent part in the play. Two other famous actresses, public favourites of the ComÉdie, were in the cast—Sophie Croizette and Madeleine Brohan. The latter, by her own request, retired from the play during rehearsals. Sophie Croizette was Sarah’s great rival for popular favour. She had held the first female rÔle at the FranÇais for several years—since before the war, in fact.

Sarah decided that she would play the name part, Mademoiselle de Belle Isle, so extravagantly well that none of the audience would spare a second thought for Croizette, in her part of the Marquise de Prie, who in the play is kissed in the dark by the Duc de Richelieu, in mistake for the lady from Belle Isle. At rehearsals Sarah was magnificent. Croizette, who was an intimate friend, despite their rivalry, used to come to her in despair.

“You are splendid—but you give no opportunity to the rest of us!”

The play was produced on November 6, 1872, and the first act was a triumph for Sarah. There was indeed every indication that new glory was about to descend on the immortal queen of Ruy Blas when, at the beginning of the second act, she caught sight of her mother in a stage-box.

Julie was leaning back in a chair, her eyes closed, and beads of perspiration on her forehead. Sarah knew immediately what had happened. Her mother suffered from a weak heart, and several times before had had a similar seizure.

The tragic death of Chilly, which she had all but witnessed, was fresh in Sarah’s mind, and doctors had told her years before that she must expect her mother’s disease to end fatally one day. She watched the stage-box in agonised fashion, while the audience became bewildered at the extraordinary change which had come over their star.

Sarah stumbled through the rest of the play, and immediately afterwards, learning that Julie had been carried there from the theatre, hurried to her mother’s home. Meanwhile the danger had passed. When Sarah arrived, she found her mother pale, but otherwise recovered, and taking nourishment.

Returning to her own flat she found a note from Sarcey:

“It was ludicrous. Shall I ever understand you? The first act was wonderful; in the others you spoilt the play!”

Furious that he should not have seen the reason for her agitation, Sarah refused to make any excuse for herself or to give him the slightest explanation. So, when his criticism of the play appeared in Le Temps, five days later, he was evidently in two minds as to whether to praise or condemn. His hesitation shows itself in several passages.

At the beginning of his critique he said:

“It must be admitted that, independently of her personal merit, there have formed around the person of Sarah Bernhardt a number of true or false legends, which excite the curiosity of the public. But it was a disappointment when she appeared. Her costume exaggerated her slenderness, and her face had been whitened too much with powder. The impression was not agreeable.”

This was because he had urged her to modify her costume and she had not done so. Further on, Sarcey wrote that she “trembled convulsively” during the play, and while admitting that she had “marvellous grace,” still insisted that she “was lost in the strong passages.” But he added, “were she to possess a vibrant dramatic quality equal to her enchanting voice, she would be a perfect actress, an actress unequalled at the present day.” This, when his previous articles are remembered, was quite an admission, and he ended his article with a real eulogy:

“At the close of the play the artiste apparently found herself, and for a brief space we could recognise in her Our Sarah—the Sarah of twenty successes.”

By the way, he had not admitted one of those successes himself!

It was only after the publication of his critique—which in the circumstances Sarah recognised as just—that he discovered the real reason for her poor performance. He then had the grace not only to apologise personally, but to publish an account of what had happened in a later issue of Le Temps.

His apology, however, could not alter the fact that the public thought her explanation only an artiste’s excuse, and the honours of the play went definitely to Sophie Croizette, who was really one of the most accomplished artistes who have ever adorned the French stage.

For the next ten years there was a terrific rivalry between these two—not only in Paris, but abroad.

If Sarah created a rÔle one week, Sophie created one the next, and critics were divided in their opinion as to which was the greater actress. If Sarah went on tour, so did Sophie; and the duel between these two close friends kept Paris perpetually entertained.

It was generally agreed, finally, that Sarah was the greater actress, but that she was also the more eccentric, the more apt to lose her head; nor, it was said, did she have the innate technique that distinguished Croizette’s performances.

Croizette had few enemies—and perhaps that is why she has been forgotten, or nearly so, by the public. Sarah, on the contrary, used to say that she counted a day lost wherein she had not made “either a true enemy or a supposedly true friend.”