The Panorama-Dramatique no longer exists.A dwelling-house stands on the site of the once charming theatre in the Boulevard du Temple,where two successive managements collapsed without making a single hit;and yet Vignol,who has since fallen heir to some of Potier's popularity,made his debut there;and Florine,five years later a celebrated actress,made her first appearance in the theatre opposite the Rue Charlot.Play-houses,like men,have their vicissitudes.The Panorama-Dramatique suffered from competition.The machinations of its rivals,the Ambigu,the Gaite,the Porte Saint-Martin,and the Vaudeville,together with a plethora of restrictions and a scarcity of good plays,combined to bring about the downfall of the house.No dramatic author cared to quarrel with a prosperous theatre for the sake of the Panorama-Dramatique,whose existence was,to say the least,problematical.The management at this moment,however,was counting on the success of a new melodramatic comedy by M.du Bruel,a young author who,after working in collaboration with divers celebrities,had now produced a piece professedly entirely his own.It had been specially composed for the leading lady,a young actress who began her stage career as a supernumerary at the Gaite,and had been promoted to small parts for the last twelvemonth.But though Mlle.
Florine's acting had attracted some attention,she obtained no engagement,and the Panorama accordingly had carried her off.Coralie,another actress,was to make her debut at the same time.
Lucien was amazed at the power wielded by the press."This gentleman is with me,"said Etienne Lousteau,and the box-office clerks bowed before him as one man.
"You will find it no easy matter to get seats,"said the head-clerk.
"There is nothing left now but the stage box."A certain amount of time was wasted in controversies with the box-keepers in the lobbies,when Etienne said,"Let us go behind the scenes;we will speak to the manager,he will take us into the stage-box;and besides,I will introduce you to Florine,the heroine of the evening."At a sign from Etienne Lousteau,the doorkeeper of the orchestra took out a little key and unlocked a door in the thickness of the wall.
Lucien,following his friend,went suddenly out of the lighted corridor into the black darkness of the passage between the house and the wings.A short flight of damp steps surmounted,one of the strangest of all spectacles opened out before the provincial poet's eyes.The height of the roof,the slenderness of the props,the ladders hung with Argand lamps,the atrocious ugliness of scenery beheld at close quarters,the thick paint on the actors'faces,and their outlandish costumes,made of such coarse materials,the stage carpenters in greasy jackets,the firemen,the stage manager strutting about with his hat on his head,the supernumeraries sitting among the hanging back-scenes,the ropes and pulleys,the heterogeneous collection of absurdities,shabby,dirty,hideous,and gaudy,was something so altogether different from the stage seen over the footlights,that Lucien's astonishment knew no bounds.The curtain was just about to fall on a good old-fashioned melodrama entitled Bertram,a play adapted from a tragedy by Maturin which Charles Nodier,together with Byron and Sir Walter Scott,held in the highest esteem,though the play was a failure on the stage in Paris.
"Keep a tight hold of my arm,unless you have a mind to fall through a trap-door,or bring down a forest on your head;you will pull down a palace,or carry off a cottage,if you are not careful,"said Etienne.
--"Is Florine in her dressing-room,my pet?"he added,addressing an actress who stood waiting for her cue.
"Yes,love.Thank you for the things you said about me.You are so much nicer since Florine has come here.""Come,don't spoil your entry,little one.Quick with you,look sharp,and say,'Stop,wretched man!'nicely,for there are two thousand francs of takings."Lucien was struck with amazement when the girl's whole face suddenly changed,and she shrieked,"Stop,wretched man!"a cry that froze the blood in your veins.She was no longer the same creature.
"So this is the stage,"he said to Lousteau.
"It is like the bookseller's shop in the Wooden Galleries,or a literary paper,"said Etienne Lousteau;"it is a kitchen,neither more nor less."Nathan appeared at this moment.
"What brings you here?"inquired Lousteau.
"Why,I am doing the minor theatres for the Gazette until something better turns up.""Oh!come to supper with us this evening;speak well of Florine,and Iwill do as much for you."
"Very much at your service,"returned Nathan.
"You know;she is living in the Rue du Bondy now.""Lousteau,dear boy,who is the handsome young man that you have brought with you?"asked the actress,now returned to the wings.
"A great poet,dear,that will have a famous name one of these days.--M.Nathan,I must introduce M.Lucien de Rubempre to you,as you are to meet again at supper.""You have a good name,monsieur,"said Nathan.
"Lucien,M.Raoul Nathan,"continued Etienne.
"I read your book two days ago;and,upon my word,I cannot understand how you,who have written such a book,and such poetry,can be so humble to a journalist.""Wait till your first book comes out,"said Nathan,and a shrewd smile flitted over his face.
"I say!I say!here are Ultras and Liberals actually shaking hands!"cried Vernou,spying the trio.
"In the morning I hold the views of my paper,"said Nathan,"in the evening I think as I please;all journalists see double at night."Felicien Vernou turned to Lousteau.
"Finot is looking for you,Etienne;he came with me,and--here he is!""Ah,by the by,there is not a place in the house,is there?"asked Finot.
"You will always find a place in our hearts,"said the actress,with the sweetest smile imaginable.
