IV Madame Dugazon
When, at the close of the year 1774, Justine Favart retired from the stage of the Comédie-Italienne, to die alas! a few months later, she left behind her, in the person of a young girl of nineteen, a worthy successor, whose budding talents she had been one of the first to recognise and encourage.
Louise Rosalie Lefèvre, known to fame as Madame Dugazon, was born, at Berlin, on June 18, 1755, of French parents. Her father, François Joseph Lefèvre, was a dancing-master, formerly of the Comédie-Italienne, and when, in 1767, the little Louise, who had been from a very early age destined for the stage, made her first appearance on the boards of that theatre, it was as a danseuse in a pas de deux introduced into the Nouvelle École des femmes, a comedy in three acts and in prose, by Moissy.
It was not, however, as a danseuse that Louise Lefèvre was to attain her immense reputation. Ere long her grace, refinement, and command of facial expression attracted the attention of the composer Grétry, who after some conversation with her, promised her a part in his next opera. He was as good as his word, and when, in 1769, he produced his Lucile, it was for the little Lefèvre that he composed the pretty air:
“On dit qu’à quinze ans.”
The grace, charm, and naïveté with which she rendered it decided her future. Pleased at finding his previsions confirmed, the composer advised her to devote herself seriously to the study of music, promising that he would bear her in mind; and from that day the girl “divided her time between dancing, which was her duty, and the study of music, which was her passion.”127
She was fortunate in her teachers, particularly in Madame Favart, who, with a magnanimity far from common on the stage, did all in her power to aid and encourage the young aspirant. The lessons were not thrown away, nor was the pupil wanting in gratitude; for even in her old age, when she had retired from the theatre, Madame Dugazon could not mention the name of Justine Favart without tears in her eyes.
At length, on June 19, 1774, Mlle. Lefèvre was promoted to a definite part, that of Pauline, in Sylvain, words by Marmontel, music by Grétry. Her success was instantaneous, unprecedented. At a single bound, she attained the highest rank, an elevation from which she never afterwards descended. Never in the history of the Comédie-Italienne had such talent been exhibited by so young an actress, and never had talent been so keenly appreciated by its patrons. It sufficed for her to undertake the principal part in any new work to ensure for it a favourable, if not a triumphant, reception. Les Événements imprévus, l’Amant jaloux, Les Amours d’été, and many other pieces owed the vogue which they enjoyed entirely to her masterly impersonations.
Four days after her appearance in Sylvain, Mlle. Lefèvre was received à l’essai, with a salary of 1800 livres, which, in the following April, was increased to 2400 livres. But promotion was slow in those days, even for the most brilliant talents, and it was not until April 7, 1776, that she became a sociétaire.128
But long before this—almost, indeed, from the evening on which she had first played Pauline—the public had taken her to its heart. People seemed never tired of lauding “her sympathetic voice, her exquisite sensibility, her gaiety, which was so contagious, her acting, which was so tender and impassioned.” Some enthusiasts even went so far as to declare that such remarkable talent must be the product of some divine inspiration.
Mlle. Lefèvre was not strictly beautiful, but “adorably pretty,” dainty, and refined. She had delicate features, a mobile face, “and an expressive mouth, sometimes mocking, sometimes pouting.” But her greatest charm seems to have been her splendid eyes, fringed with long lashes, which, in turn, “shone with mischief and gaiety, or closed in order to allow the soft tears to flow.” Her figure, we are told, “without being tall, was well-proportioned, and all her movements were characterised by a peculiar charm.”
Naturally, she was speedily surrounded by a throng of adorers. No actress of the time was so sought after, courted, adulated. “Jupiters of all conditions solicited the honour of descending at her feet in a shower of gold.” The most brilliant propositions were made to her: furnished hôtels, gorgeous equipages, ravishing toilettes, parures of diamonds, together with the hearts, if not the hands, of the noblest in the land, were at her disposal. She repulsed them all; she had decided to marry—to marry in her own profession. And her choice fell upon Dugazon, of the Comédie-Française.
A singular character was this Dugazon. Born at Marseilles, in 1749, he made his first appearance on the Paris stage in 1771, and at once succeeded in ingratiating himself with his audience. Handsome and well made, he united to a profound knowledge of his art and a wealth of humour, a physiognomy of extraordinary flexibility, which he could so change at any moment that it seemed as if he had put on a mask. “By the play or the contraction of certain muscles of his face, he possessed the faculty of disfiguring himself instantly and so completely as to become unrecognisable.” There can be no question that he was a great comedian, though his style was in the spirit of farce rather than of comedy, and by the side of Préville, who, with all his vivacity, never condescended to what was low or trivial, he must have appeared a mere caricaturist. But in broad comedy he was unsurpassed, and in the farces of Scarron and Le Grand, as Scapin in the Fourberies, Monsieur Jourdain in the Bourgeois Gentilhomme, Mascarille in l’Étourdi, and Sganerelle in Don Juan, no actor of the time could even approach him.
But if the actor was excellent, the man was altogether insupportable. In the café or the tavern, a quarrelsome braggart, as ready with his sword as with his tongue. In the salon—for, in his character of privileged buffoon, he was admitted into the highest circles—a rude jester, who respected neither age nor sex, and who took the most outrageous liberties with every one who did not make him keep his distance. Many are the stories told of his eccentricities, one at least of which will bear repetition here.
One day the actor received a summons to Versailles, from Louis XVI. himself. Wondering much what his sovereign could require of him, he repaired thither, and, on his arrival, was ushered into the King’s cabinet, where he found his Majesty alone. The King bade him be seated, and then informed him that he required his assistance in a matter closely concerning the dignity of the Royal Family. He was, said he, extremely displeased at her Majesty continuing to attend the balls at the Opera, in the face of his oft-expressed disapproval of these gatherings. He had therefore bethought him of a means of curing her of this deplorable weakness for mixed society. Dugazon must attend the next ball, in disguise, treat the august lady as if she were nothing but a common bourgeoise, and so shock and disgust her that she would never care to attend another.
Dugazon obeyed with alacrity; the commission entrusted to him was one after his own heart. At the next ball he appeared disguised as a fishwife, a veritable virago of the Halles, foul of tongue, unkempt and dirty, and, taking the Queen aside, behaved to her—it was the King’s express command, be it remembered—with such outrageous coarseness and familiarity that the spectators were absolutely horrified.
Next morning, the King slyly inquired how her Majesty had enjoyed herself the previous evening.
“Never,” answered Marie Antoinette, laughing heartily, “never was I so much diverted as yesterday!”
The marriage between Louise Lefèvre and Dugazon was celebrated at Saint-Eustache on August 20, 1776. It was not a happy one. The husband was bad-tempered, exacting, and jealous; the wife pleasure-loving, coquettish and self-willed. Before the honeymoon was well over, they were quarrelling like cat and dog. Before a year had passed, their domestic differences were the talk of Paris. Madame’s marriage vows weighed very lightly upon her, and she made but small attempt to disguise her amours; Monsieur went about, complaining to every one whom he could persuade to listen to him of his wife’s conduct, and boasting of the terrible retribution he intended for her lovers.
In 1778, there was a grave scandal. A certain M. de Cazes, a young maître des requêtes, fell madly in love with Madame Dugazon, who condescended to reciprocate his passion. In order to conceal their intrigue and, at the same time, facilitate their interviews, M. de Cazes presented the Dugazons to his father, a wealthy farmer-general, who invited them to his house, where actor and magistrate often performed scenes from popular comedies for the entertainment of the company. Their most diverting performance, however, took place in private, a fact to be regretted, since it must have been worth going a very long way to see.
Dugazon had for some time suspected the motive of his introduction to this family and the very cordial reception which had been accorded him. But the guilty pair had observed so much discretion that he had not a particle of evidence to justify his interference and was, therefore, at a loss how to proceed. Jealousy, however, prompted him to a bold move. One morning, M. de Cazes was in his cabinet, dreaming of his inamorata, when Dugazon entered unannounced, and, locking the door behind him, drew a pistol from his pocket, held it to the young man’s head, informed him that he knew everything, and that he would blow out his brains on the instant, if he did not immediately deliver up his wife’s portrait and letters.
The unfortunate gallant believed that Madame Dugazon had made a confession to her husband or that in some way he had been betrayed, and, in fear and trembling, handed over both portrait and letters to his assailant, who retired, enchanted with the success of his expedition.
No sooner, however, had the actor and his pistol departed, than M. de Cazes’s alarm gave way to indignation, and he followed in pursuit, shouting: “Thief! Assassin! Stop the villain!” And the servants, roused by his cries, came running to the spot.
Dugazon, who was leisurely descending the stairs, turned round, and, in no way disconcerted, coolly replied: “Perfect, Monsieur; admirably played! The scene is excellent! The servants would be quite deceived by it, were they not accustomed to our farces.” Then, without quickening his pace, he passed through the astonished lackeys—who, uncertain whether it was a comedy or not, did not dare to lay hands on him—gained the door, made the discomfited magistrate a profound congé, and swaggered off.
Some days later, M. de Gazes happened to be on the stage of the Comédie-Italienne, at the conclusion of the performance, and was there espied by Dugazon, who could not resist the temptation to read his wife’s admirer a second lesson. Accordingly, he waited until the crowd had dispersed and he was unobserved, and then, stealing up behind the maître des requêtes, dealt him four or five sharp cuts across the shoulders with a cane.
The luckless young man turned round, furious with rage and pain, and, perceiving his “rival,” poured forth a torrent of abuse and threats.
The actor, quite unmoved, begged him to explain himself and inquired, with a bland smile, if he were rehearsing a tirade from some play.
The infuriated magistrate rejoined by calling Dugazon “an assassin,” and asserting that he had just dealt him several blows with a cane.
The latter assumed an air of injured innocence, assured M. de Cazes that he must be labouring under some extraordinary delusion, and inquired how he could possibly imagine that a poor player like himself should have been guilty of so shocking an outrage.
As there were no witnesses to the assault, and M. de Cazes had no mind to give the actor, who was an expert swordsman, the satisfaction of running him through the body, the affair went no further. Dugazon, however, did not fail to boast everywhere he went of the thrashing he had inflicted on madame’s lover; conduct which, the Mémoires secrets tell us, “revolted honourable men.”
If Dugazon had taken upon himself to detect and punish all his wife’s infidelities, it is to be feared that he would have had but little time to devote to his professional duties. “The singing-bird had taken flight and returned but seldom to the conjugal nest.” However, for a time, he did his best, and, in the course of the following year, had an affray at the house of Sallé, the director of the winter Vauxhall, with the Marquis de Langeac, who had succeeded M. de Cazes in the actress’s affections.
Dugazon had written an angry letter to his wife, reminding the lady of her numerous escapades and bitterly reproaching her with having accepted the homage of M. de Langeac, to whom he alluded in terms of the most unmitigated contempt. This letter Madame Dugazon promptly handed to the marquis, who, talking the matter over with his friend Sallé, announced his intention of subjecting the actor to “a hundred blows with his cane,” on the very next occasion on which they should chance to meet. Scarcely were the words out of his mouth, when the object of his resentment, who had been an unseen auditor of all that he had said, stood before him, and, with a profound bow, intimated that he was entirely at Monsieur le Marquis’s service.
The marquis replied with a blow from his fist; the actor returned the compliment with interest, and an Homeric combat was in progress, when the bystanders interfered and separated the parties.
This adventure had no more consequences than the other. Dugazon, who, to do him justice, was no coward, would have been only too ready to continue the battle in the manner prescribed by the etiquette of that day. But M. de Langeac, a notorious poltroon—he had, some time before, taken, without any attempt at retaliation, a severe thrashing from Guérin, the Prince de Conti’s surgeon—sheltered himself behind his rank and declined to cross swords with an actor.
His affray with the Marquis de Langeac appears to have been the last occasion on which Dugazon attempted to avenge his honour. He resigned himself to the situation; and when, soon afterwards, the “singing-bird” flew away altogether and established herself in a gilded cage prepared for her by a rich financier of the name of Boudreau, received the news with fashionable complacency. From that time, husband and wife never lived together again, and, when the Revolution came, both hastened to avail themselves of the law permitting divorce.
Madame Dugazon had barely remained long enough in the gilded cage to take stock of all the marvels of art and decoration which the amorous financier had provided for her benefit, when she fell in love with a foreign count, whose name the chroniclers of scandal, with a discretion very uncommon with them, forbear to mention, and left poor M. Boudreau to meditate upon the inconstancy of woman. This last affair would appear to have been a serious one, on the lady’s part, at any rate; but it was of very brief duration, as the count was suddenly recalled to his own country, and she saw him no more.
Consolation, however, was not long in forthcoming. Her lover’s departure happened to synchronise with the arrival from Bordeaux of a handsome youth of eighteen, “with the most interesting face conceivable, and the most surprising, the most wonderful voice possible to imagine.” Without knowing a single note of music, he could imitate the voice of every singer of the Opera and the sound of every instrument in the orchestra, so perfectly as to deceive even the most experienced ear. By himself, it was said, he could imitate an entire opera. This prodigy, Garat by name, aroused a perfect furore in fashionable, as well as in musical circles, and after Marie Antoinette had sent a coach and six to fetch him to Versailles, the enthusiasm of the ladies was raised to the highest pitch; they literally fought for him. Madame Dugazon bore away the prize, and is believed to have given the youthful singer lessons in his art as well as in love. But she could not long retain possession of “this brilliant butterfly, who had only to open his wings to alight upon the most beautiful flowers,” and, for the first time in her life, was fated to taste something of the mortification which she had so often occasioned.
From these discreditable gallantries, it is a relief to turn to Madame Dugazon’s professional career, which, happily, seems to have been no more affected by the irregularities of her private life than those of Mlle. Clairon and Madeleine Guimard. The enthusiasm with which even the most fastidious of her contemporaries acclaim her talent is truly remarkable. “I have often,” writes Bouilly, “admired Madame Saint-Huberty, at the Opera, in lyric tragedy, Mlle. Raucourt in the masterpieces of our French stage, and the brilliant Mlle. Contat in comedy; but not one of these celebrated women united, in my opinion, that variety of perfections, that incomprehensible medley of pathos and gaiety, of nobleness and simplicity, of finesse and naturalness, which made Madame Dugazon admired in the different rôles wherein, in turn, she showed herself princess and peasant, soubrette and tender mother, ingénue and coquette, wealthy woman and poor one. She seized with an admirable fidelity upon all the shades of Nature, all the movements of the human heart, all the inspirations of the most eager imagination.... One was, in turn, moved, ravished, transported; from tears the most abundant one passed to laughter the most irrepressible, from terror to gaiety the most natural and the most infectious; one passed, in a word, through all the windings of the human heart; one experienced all the sensations which leave a perfect remembrance. And this was the work of one woman, whose admirable intelligence did not cease to be the interpreter of Nature, whose talent, flexible and always natural, was cited by authors and friends of the art as the most perfect model possessed by our lyric stage.”129
And Madame Vigée Lebrun says:
“And now I come to her whose dramatic career I have followed from beginning to end, to the most perfect actress ever possessed by the Opéra-Comique, to Madame Dugazon. Hers was a natural talent, which owed nothing apparently to study. Noble, naïve, graceful, piquant, she had twenty faces, and always suited her accent to the person she represented at the time. Her voice was somewhat weak, but she adapted it equally well to tears, laughter, and every situation.”130
That Madame Dugazon was far greater as an actress than as a vocalist there can, we think, be no question. The father of French opéra-comique, Grétry, gives it as his opinion that she was not a singer at all, but “an actress who spoke song with the truest and most passionate expression.” And Boïeldieu, the author of La Dame Blanche, says much the same. “What an astonishing woman!” he exclaimed, after the first performance of Le Calife de Bagdad. “They say that she does not understand music; yet I never heard any one sing with such taste and expression, such nature and fidelity.”131
Madame Dugazon’s voice indeed, though limited in range, was pure and flexible and of an enchanting tone, and, as was the case with Garat, her natural endowments far outweighed the disadvantages of a deficient musical education.
To recall all the successes of this charming actress, it would be necessary, as M. Campardon very truly remarks, to cite practically the whole répertoire of the Comédie-Italienne, and we will, therefore, confine ourselves to those of her “creations” upon which contemporary writers have left us the fullest information.
An opera called Blaise et Babet, libretto by Monvel, music by Desaides, produced on June 30, 1783, marks the commencement of the most brilliant period of her career. This little work provided Madame Dugazon with a magnificent triumph. “What fine and delicate shades,” writes Grimm, “does the voice of Madame Dugazon impart, in this rôle of Babet, to the most simple expressions! There is not one of her inflections, there is not a movement in her acting, which does not add to the movement of the scene, and does not vary it with as much truth as grace.”132 And the critic of the Mercure writes: “It is difficult to describe all the shades of talent that Madame Dugazon has developed in the rôle of Babet. Natural, comical, naïve, intelligent, sensible, she has not allowed one of the traits which make up the character of the person whom she represents to escape.”
The third performance of Blaise et Babet was graced by the presence of the Queen, who was so enchanted with the part played by Madame Dugazon that she forthwith resolved to act it herself, and soon afterwards the piece was presented at the royal theatre at Trianon, with Marie Antoinette as Babet. Madame Dugazon and Fleury were summoned to Court to preside over the rehearsals and aid the Queen with their counsels. Nor were their pains thrown away, for, if we are to believe the Fleury Mémoires, her Majesty’s rendering of Babet almost equalled that of the actress herself:
“She was a thousand times to be applauded, when she was vexed, crushed her flowers, threw them into the basket, and exclaimed, with the most charming toss of her head: ‘Tu m’as fait endêver... endêve... endêve!’
“It was such a delightful medley of pouting and sentiment, of tears and vexation, of anger and love, that I saw proud courtiers moved by it, and, courtiers though they were, forget to applaud, because they were weeping.”
The comedy entitled Alexis et Justine, by the same authors, produced on January 17, 1785, was for Madame Dugazon, who played the part of Justine, the occasion of another triumph, which Grimm records in these terms:
“Madame Dugazon has just developed a new kind of talent in the rôle of Justine. It was difficult to unite to this degree the most lively and the most passionate sensibility with a naïveté the most sweet and the most attractive. This charming actress has been truly eloquent in the scene of the second act with M. de Longpré. Our best tragédiennes could not render with more energy and with variations more just and more profound all the sentiment of this part, one of the most pathetic that has ever been seen on the stage.”133
In November of the same year, was produced La Dot, a comedy in three acts by Desfontaines, music by Dalayrac, in which Madame Dugazon gave so charming a rendering of the part of the heroine Colette, that a poet, who elected to remain anonymous, but who, M. Campardon thinks, was, in all probability, the author of the piece himself, thanked her in the following verses for the pleasure she had given him:
“Dis moi donc par quelle magie,
Ne changeant au plus que de nom,
Tu fais, à la voix de Thalie,
Changer de maintien et de ton?
Babet m’avoit semblé parfaite,
Je l’admirerois a chaque trait,
Et depuis que j’ai vu Colette,
Je songe un peu moins à Babet.
Plus naturelle et plus sublime,
Par un mot, un geste, un soupir,
Tout à la fois Colette exprime
Le sentiment et le plaisir.
Partout c’est la vérité pure,
Que Colette prends sur le fait,
Et pour dot la simple nature
Lui fit présent de son secret.”134
Madame Dugazon now found herself at the apogee of her talent, and it appeared hardly possible that she could soar any higher, when, in May 1786, her creation of the part of Nina, in Nina, ou la Folle par amour, a drama in one act, by Marsollier de Vivetières, music by Dalayrac, exhibited her in a new light and excited among the Parisians an enthusiasm almost unprecedented.
The genesis of this piece is interesting. It was suggested to Marsollier by a touching anecdote of a young girl who had lived in the neighbourhood of Sedan. On her wedding morning, the maiden had preceded her lover to the church where the ceremony was to be performed. On nearing it, she was met by a friend, who informed her that the young man had been seized with a sudden attack of illness and was dead. The grief of the unhappy girl was such that she lost her reason. Thenceforth, until her own death, ten years later, she walked daily more than two leagues to the spot where she had arranged to meet her lover, and, on arriving there, would sit down and wait for him the entire day. At length, when the shades of evening were falling, she would rise and retrace her steps, exclaiming: “Let us go. He has not yet arrived; I will return to-morrow.”
When he had completed the libretto, Marsollier sent it to Dalayrac, who, quick to recognise the splendid possibilities it offered for musical effect, gladly promised his co-operation. The score was soon written, but, for some little time, the authors hesitated to submit it to the Comédie-Italienne, fearing that their attempt to depict madness on the stage was too hazardous, and might expose them to the risk of a disastrous failure.
While they were still in doubt, Mlle. Guimard offered them the use of her private theatre, in the Chaussée-d’Antin, for an experimental performance. They gratefully accepted, and it was on the erotic stage of the Temple of Terpsichore, “on those boards whereon the coryphées of the fricassée had so many times bounded,” that Madame Dugazon created the part of Nina, before the usual mixed audience of noblemen, grandes dames, and courtesans. The result was a prodigious, an astonishing success, and, on May 15, 1786, the curtain of the Comédie-Italienne rose on Nina, ou la Folle par amour.
The creation of Nina dominates Madame Dugazon’s whole career and eclipses all her earlier triumphs. Never within the memory of man, says M. Campardon, had there been a like success. The actress threw into the part her whole soul, and it was very often remarked that on the days on which she had been playing Nina, she retained throughout the remainder of the evening the haggard eyes and singular gestures of the unhappy mad woman whom she had just been impersonating. “She played the part,” writes Bouilly, “with a perfection impossible to describe; one must have seen and heard her to form a correct idea of that penetrating voice, of that frenzy, heartrending and yet full of charm, of that energy of expression which thrilled every heart.”135 Grimm pronounces her in this piece superior to herself and to all the actresses that are the most applauded at the other theatres. “Never,” says he, “was there displayed a sensibility more exquisite and more profound. Never did any one know how to assume more happily the most diverse tones. Never did any one vary them with more correctness. It is the sensibility of her acting that decided essentially the success of the work, for the tears which she has caused to flow do not prevent one from perceiving that it leaves much to desire.”136
But whatever the shortcomings of Nina may have been, the public seemed resolved to ignore them, and the enthusiasm with which the work and its “inspired interpreter” were received passed all bounds. “When one beheld her, her hair unbound, her eyes staring, a bouquet in her hand, advance towards the grassy bank near which she awaits her ‘bien-aimé,’ when the plaints of the poor distracted girl were translated by the naïve and tender music of Dalayrac, it seemed as if emotion had reached its limits. One wept for Nina, as one wept for Garat, Miss Billington, Todi, Maillard, or Saint-Huberty.”137
The tears, the applause, baffled all description. Six times at the conclusion of the play was the “sublime lunatic” recalled. The public could not applaud enough, and at each performance the enthusiasm increased; it seemed inexhaustible. Every evening the doors of the theatre were besieged by an enormous crowd. “Men went thither to be moved by the sorrows which were able to cause such abandon, women to seek emotions and the secret of tears.” Not an evening passed without some lady in the audience swooning with emotion.
Madness became on a sudden the fashionable disease. In the salons a host of young women found occupation in playing the part of Nina, and some of them appeared to have worked themselves into a condition bordering on lunacy. The critics essayed in vain to combat this ridiculous infatuation. They pronounced the subject monstrous, the libretto insipid, the music detestable, and loudly bewailed the decay of art upon the stage. They might have saved their paper and ink. The public continued to applaud and to weep, and the receipts of the Comédie-Italienne to increase. “It seemed,” remarks one of the lady’s biographers, “that each spectator was of the opinion of an enthusiast who, on the evening of the first representation, improvised the following verses in honour of Nina-Dugazon:
“‘Tous les cœurs sont émus à tes divins accords,
On ne sait qu’admirer, ton génie ou tes charmes.
Tu pleures, aussitôt tu fais couler mes larmes:
Qui donc resterait froid à tes brûlants transports?
Mais la toile se baisse et la pièce est finie,
Aussitôt cesse ta folie,
Mais moi, d’amour pour toi perdre la raison.’”138
The provinces, in their turn, desired to witness this wonderful work and to applaud the idolised actress; and Madame Dugazon, accordingly, paid a visit to Lyons, where a magnificent reception awaited her. Such was the enthusiasm she evoked that her admirers would have liked to raise a triumphal arch in her honour, but, as the city authorities did not quite see their way to gratify this desire, they were fain to content themselves with composing verses in her praise, which were read upon the stage, crowning her with flowers, and applauding until the rafters rang.
On her return to Paris, Madame Dugazon found herself, if it were possible, more the rage than ever, and so completely did her popularity eclipse that of her rivals, that, on the evenings on which she did not appear, the directors of the Comédie-Italienne—that nursery of pretty women—had the mortification to see the boxes empty and their theatre a desert. Their consternation, therefore, may be imagined when, towards the end of that year, the lady, without a moment’s warning, set out for London.
It was at first believed that she had been enticed away by magnificent offers from London managers, but it subsequently transpired that love and not money had drawn her to England; that she had gone thither in the company of a young man with whom she had fallen desperately in love, whether an Englishman or one of her own countrymen contemporary chroniclers do not tell us.
The directors were in despair and wrote letter upon letter, commanding—for she had departed without obtaining the necessary congé—requesting, finally imploring her to return. But the actress replied that she was very content where she was and that they might dispose of her rôles. In vain they attempted to replace her. In vain the beautiful Madame Pitrot, the pretty Lescot, and the charming Colombe tried their fascinations upon the audience. The public would have none of them; scarcely could they obtain a single plaudit. And night after night the curtain rose upon empty benches.
At length, Madame Dugazon, wearying of London or of love—or of both—condescended to return, and, with her, came Fortune once more to the Comédie-Italienne. The empty boxes, the deserted parterre, filled as if by magic, the theatre once more rang with applause, and the directors, who had lately seen ruin staring them in the face, were all smiles and good-humour as they complacently regarded their swelling coffers.
Advancing years brought no decline in the popularity of Madame Dugazon. Unlike the great majority of actresses, who persist in clinging to the very last to the genre in which they first attained celebrity, she was quick to realise the incongruity of a woman whose youth was long past, and whose figure had begun to show a decided tendency to embonpoint, continuing to impersonate juvenile heroines, and, accordingly, resolved to devote herself to the representation of young matrons. Anxious to retain the services of an actress who assured the success of every work in which she appeared, the directors of the Comédie-Italienne readily entered into her views, and provided her with the parts she desired. Her success in the matronly style was phenomenal, and her triumph in Camille, ou le souterrain almost equalled that which she had obtained in Nina.
Notwithstanding the laxity of her morals, Madame Dugazon, in private life, possessed many amiable qualities. Gay, light-hearted, and witty, though without a spark of malice, she was as popular off the stage as upon it; while, if she were faithful neither to husband nor lover, she was, nevertheless, a staunch friend, who endeared herself to a very large circle of acquaintances. All the authors and composers who worked for her seemed to have held her in the highest esteem: Grétry, Sedaine, Étienne, Marsollier, Dalayrac, Laujon, and many others remained to the last sincerely attached to her. Always sympathetic and ready to oblige, her advice was never sought in vain, and more than one young writer was indebted for his first success to the hints which he had received from the experienced actress. Bouilly, who cherished for her the most lively gratitude and affection, declared that he owed everything to her.139
Although never wealthy, for not even the most talented actress or singer of those days could hope for more than a modest competence, while none of her numerous love-affairs, if we except the very brief one with M. Boudreau, seem to have been prompted by any mercenary consideration, she was charitable to the utmost limit of her means, and was ever ready to relieve those in distress. It was at her instigation that, during the severe winter of 1784, special performances were organised for the benefit of the suffering poor and a very large sum realised, which was duly handed over to the Church for distribution. The Church, we are told, was very grateful for this timely assistance. But, with her usual intolerance where the theatrical profession was concerned, she decided that the curés must not be permitted to touch money which came direct from the hands of persons without her pale and, therefore, gave instructions that the alms should be purified by being made to pass through the exchequer of the Lieutenant of Police. This pretty piece of casuistry inspired a wit to the following epistle, supposed to be addressed by St. Augustine to Madame Dugazon and her colleagues:
“Salut à la troupe italique,
A ce comité catholique
Dont le cœur loyal s’attendrit
Sur la calamité publique,
C’est le fils de sainte Monique,
C’est Augustin qui vous écrit.
Oui, mes amis, par cette épître,
J’abjure maint et maint chapitre
Où j’ai frondé votre métier
Comme un tant soit peu diabolique.
..........
Oui, sans être garant de rien,
Je croirais qu’un comédien
Risque, s’il est homme de bien,
D’être sauvé tout comme un autre.
Un mime, en face d’un apôtre,
C’est un scandale, dira-t-on;
Saint Paul à côté de Rosière,
Trial vis à vis de saint Pierre,
Et bienheureuse Dugazon,
Aux pieds d’un diacre ou d’un vicaire,
Le paradis serait bouffon.
Tant pis pour qui s’en scandalise:
Allez au ciel par vos vertus
Et laissez clabauder l’Église.”
A Royalist to the core, Madame Dugazon, when the Revolution came, viewed with feelings of indignation and regret the downfall of the King and Queen, the latter of whom had treated her with marked kindness.140 Nor did she lack the courage of her opinions, as an unsigned letter once in the possession of Mrs. Elliot, the lady who inspired the “First Gentleman in Europe” with so lively a passion, will testify:
“After the 20th of June, 1792, those who wished well to the Royal Family urged the Queen to show herself occasionally in public with the Dauphin, an interesting and beautiful child, and her charming daughter, Madame Royale.
“She went therefore to the Comédie-Italienne, with her children, Madame Élisabeth, the King’s sister, and Madame de Tourzel, gouvernante of the ‘children of France.’ This was the last time that the Queen appeared in public. I was in my box, exactly facing that of the Queen; and, as she was much more interesting than the play, I kept my eyes fixed upon her and her family.
“The piece represented was the Événements imprévus, and Madame Dugazon played the soubrette.
“Her Majesty, from the moment she entered the theatre, seemed very sad. She was much affected by the applause of the public, and I saw her several times wipe the tears from her eyes. The little Dauphin, who sat the whole evening upon her knees, appeared anxious to know the cause of his unhappy mother’s tears. She was seen to caress him, and the audience seemed moved by the cruel situation of this unhappy Queen.
“There is a duet in this opera sung by the soubrette and the valet, and Madame Dugazon had to say:
“‘J’aime mon maître tendrement,
Ah! combien j’aime ma maîtresse!’
“As, in singing these verses, she placed her hand on her heart and looked at the Queen, every one perfectly understood the allusion.
“Immediately, a number of Jacobins who were among the audience sprang upon the stage, and, if the actors had not concealed Madame Dugazon, they would certainly have killed her. They then drove the poor Queen and her suite from the theatre, and it was all that the guard could do to place them safe and sound in their carriages.
“In the meanwhile, the Queen’s party had joined battle with the Jacobins; but the soldiers intervened and the broil had no serious consequences.”
Shortly after this incident, Madame Dugazon temporarily retired from the Comédie-Italienne, on the plea of ill-health; but really, according to Madame Lebrun, because the public, in a spirit of revenge, had endeavoured to make her sing a revolutionary song upon the stage.141 In 1795 she reappeared and was received with all the old enthusiasm. At the time of her return, she was merely a pensioner; but, in 1801, when the two Opéra-Comiques were united in a single troupe at the Théâtre-Feydeau, she was admitted a sociétaire and given a seat on the administrative council.
No one was more rejoiced at the Restoration than this most ardent Royalist. “I feel,” she observed to one of her friends, “that now I shall die more happy.” She started at once for Saint-Ouen, and was one of the first to whom Louis XVIII. granted an audience. On being admitted to the royal presence, her emotion overcame her, and she threw herself at the King’s feet, bathed in tears.
The monarch, himself much moved, raised her up. “You have not forgotten me,” said he, kindly, “and I shall always remember the pleasure you gave me at Versailles. I am very grieved that the state of your health has compelled you to retire from the stage. I should be enchanted to see you again.”
After her interview with Louis XVIII., we hear little of Madame Dugazon. She lived a very retired life in the midst of a little circle of intimate friends. All her affection was centred in her son Gustave, a young composer, who, at an early age, showed remarkable promise, which, however, does not seem to have been quite fulfilled.142 Such was her anxiety for his success that when he had an opera in rehearsal, she is said to have invariably fallen ill and not to have recovered until after the first performance.143
She died on September 21, 1821, after a long and painful illness, and was buried in Père-Lachaise. The cortège was followed by a large crowd, and Bouilly, her devoted friend of twenty years, pronounced a funeral oration.