My Neighbor Raymond Part 47

The third act began with Raymond on the stage. He walked forward and took his stand in front of the prompter's box.

"'What temper! what temper! [_To the prompter_: Why don't you prompt me?] She seemed appeased! Will someone tell me [Don't prompt me.]--will someone tell me who in the devil put it into her head to--to [Prompt me, will you?]--to refuse [What's that? I don't hear you.]--to refuse to take lessons from Don Basile. [Don't prompt me!] She knows that he is interfering about my marriage. Do everything in the world--do--do--[What?

what do I say next? What the devil! you don't know how to prompt at the right time!]'"

The audience concluded to laugh at our Bartholo; whereat Raymond rubbed his hands with a satisfied air, and, whenever he returned to the wings, exclaimed:

"How pleased they are! how it amuses them! No audience at the Francais ever laughed so much!"

The play came to an end at last, in spite of Raymond, who did all that he could to prevent it; but Rosine's grace, Figaro's hilarity, and, lastly,--for one must do one's self justice,--the warmth, the pa.s.sion, the ardor which gave life to my performance of Almaviva made the illusion complete; I obtained a brilliant triumph, and I read in Madame de Marsan's eyes the pleasure that my success afforded her.

_Le Barbier_ at an end, the performance of _Fanchon_ was hurried forward. All of the cast of the first play, with the exception of Madame de Marsan and myself, were to appear in the second. We two had plenty of time to change our costumes. All the dressing rooms opened on the garden; those of the ladies were separated from ours only by an avenue of lindens. Having resumed my civilian costume, I went out into the garden for a breath of air. The second play had begun long before, and everybody was on the stage or among the spectators. The solitude and tranquillity of the garden were in refres.h.i.+ng contrast to the clamor not far away. I was not sorry to be able to saunter there for a moment; but as I crossed the avenue of lindens, I saw a lady come from one of the dressing rooms opposite. I stopped; it was Madame de Marsan; it was my Rosine. She recognized me and came toward me.

"Where is Monsieur le Comte Almaviva going, pray?"

"I came out to enjoy this cool shade a moment; but I missed something: Almaviva cannot be happy without Rosine."

"Rosine is not at all sure that she ought to go with you."

"What! after consenting to allow yourself to be abducted?"

"In truth, I should play the cruel now with a bad grace; but remember that you swore to be true to me! to love me always, to love none but me!"

"Oh! I swear it again! I have no other desire than to repeat it every moment!"

"But where are you taking me? we seem to be going a long way. Why do you take the darkest paths? Why are we going in under these trees? It is too dark here!"

"Dear Rosine, what can you fear, with me?"

"Dear Lindor, I am ill at ease."

"Did you not intrust yourself unreservedly to me?"

"Ah! I fear that I was not wise. What are you doing? Kissing me like this! Oh! that isn't in the play."

"Do we refuse a kiss to the lover who is to be our husband?"

"Stop--Lindor--Dorsan---- Oh! this scene----"

"Dear Rosine, what is it but the natural sequel? ought it not to crown our love?"

Madame de Marsan tried in vain to resist; it was too late; I had entered too completely into the spirit of my role, and she had identified herself with hers. We added to _Le Barbier de Seville_ the scene which the audience does not see, but which it may well divine after the union of Almaviva and Rosine. For some time the thicket had witnessed that charming scene, half lighted by the moon. The fervor with which we played our parts caused us to forget the world and the fete. I was determined that Almaviva should obtain as great a triumph in the thicket as on the stage, and Rosine was so prompt in response that I could not lag behind. We had not begun to think of the denouement, when it was hastened by an unforeseen incident; but, to explain it, we must return to the theatre.

_Fanchon_ was acted indifferently well; many of the actors, not knowing their parts, had skipped several scenes; Raymond had done the same with his lines; so that the play was soon done. Neither Madame de Marsan's absence nor mine was noticed; the actors supposed that we were in the audience, the spectators, that we were behind the scenes.

The vaudeville being finished, Raymond arranged his little scene in honor of the lady who had played Fanchon, and whose birthday it was.

Everyone sang his or her couplet, and Raymond called for Madame de Marsan and myself to sing ours. As he did not find us, and as the denouement was at hand, he ran into the wings and seized the cord to which was attached the surprise that was to descend upon Fanchon's head.

He pulled it slightly, and the weight that he felt above set his mind at rest, convincing him that the gardener had not forgotten to attach the wreath.

The moment had come; the orchestra played

"What grace, what majesty!"

That was the signal for the wreath to descend. Raymond let the cord go; a sudden murmur ran through the hall, then bursts of laughter arose on all sides.

"Stop! stop!" someone called from the stage. Raymond put his head out from the wings to witness the tableau, and saw that, instead of a wreath of flowers, he had lowered a syringe on Fanchon's head.

The confusion was at its height; the hall rang with laughter, while on the stage wrath at Raymond's blundering folly was still predominant. The young lady who had played Fanchon was obliged to push the syringe away from her head. Raymond dropped the cord and ran out on the stage, crying:

"It wasn't my fault; it's Pourceaugnac's syringe--and that idiot of a gardener forgot to take it off! It should have been a wreath. But we'll make up for this.--Forward, Cupids!"

He gave the signal, the orchestra played Zephire's air from _Psyche_, and everybody waited impatiently for what was coming. Again Raymond clapped his hands.

"Come on, Cupids!" he cried; "come out, I say!"

But nothing came out of the prompter's box. The audience, tired of waiting to no purpose, prepared to leave the hall, and the actors to vacate the stage. In vain did Raymond try to detain them, crying:

"They're coming! they'll appear in a minute! they must be putting on the bands!"

n.o.body listened to him. In his rage he determined to find his Cupids, at all events; he jumped down into the prompter's box, looked under the stage and in every corner of the building, but he did not succeed in finding them.

The two little fellows were dressed and ready two hours before it was time for them to appear. The gardener, bewildered by all the orders he had received, had entirely forgotten the wreath; but he had made some bouquets, which he gave to the children, then led them to the prompter's box and said:

"Stay here; you're to go on the stage when you're called."

The children waited quietly for half an hour; but they were tired by that time; they thought that they had been forgotten; and as they could enjoy themselves much more in the garden than under the stage, they left their bouquets there and went outside to play. In running about they approached the house, and saw on the ground floor, in a well-lighted room, a sideboard covered with innumerable delicacies, the bare sight of which made them open their mouths and lick their chops.

They stopped, sighed, nudged each other, divined each other's thought, and looked behind them in obedience to the natural instinct of the man who is about to do wrong. There was no one in sight; all the servants had deserted the house for the play.

"Oh! see the nice things, brother!" said the smaller of the two; "we never saw anything like 'em!"

"Oh! Fanfan, mustn't that be sweet?"

"Say, Jean; just think--if we could eat some of it!"

"Look at them cakes!"

"There's no one there; let's climb in! Come on!"

They easily climbed in the ground-floor window; they ran to the sideboard, stuffed their mouths full, made ap.r.o.ns of their tunics, and filled them with fruit, meats, and cakes; lapped the cream that they could not carry away; dug their fingers into jars of preserves, and took refuge finally in the attic, to eat at their ease what they had filched.

While the little peasants were regaling themselves, Raymond was scouring the whole estate to find his Cupids. As he came out of the theatre, after a vain search, he met Monsieur de Marsan, who was looking for his wife, the company being surprised at her continued absence.

"Have you found them?" inquired Raymond.

"I don't know where she is; people are asking for her; ordinarily, I am not called upon to interfere in anything."

"Whom are you talking about?"

"My wife, who is not here to do the honors of the fete."