The Vampire Chronicles Collection - Anne Rice [203]
Of course I was very flattered to be called handsome, and I understood as I had years ago that Lelio, the lover, is supposed to have considerable style. An aristocrat with any breeding whatsoever was perfect for the part.
But if I was going to make the Paris audiences really notice me, if I was going to have them talking about me at the Comédie-Française, I had to be more than some yellow-haired angel fallen out of a marquis’s family onto the stage. I had to be a great actor, and that is exactly what I determined to be.
THAT night Nicolas and I celebrated with a colossal drunk. We had all the troupe up to our rooms for it, and I climbed out on the slippery rooftops and opened my arms to Paris and Nicolas played his violin in the window until we’d awakened the whole neighborhood.
The music was rapturous, yet people were snarling and screaming up the alleyways, and banging on pots and pans. We paid no attention. We were dancing and singing as we had in the witches’ place. I almost fell off the window ledge.
The next day, bottle in hand, I dictated the whole story to the Italian letter writer in the stinking sunshine in les Innocents and saw that the letter went off to my mother at once. I wanted to embrace everybody I saw in the streets. I was Lelio. I was an actor.
By September I had my name on the handbills. And I sent those to my mother, too.
And we weren’t doing the old commedia. We were performing a farce by a famous writer who, on account of a general playwrights’ strike, couldn’t get it performed at the Comédie-Française.
Of course we couldn’t say his name, but everyone knew it was his work, and half the court was packing Renaud’s House of Thesbians every night.
I wasn’t the lead, but I was the young lover, a sort of Lelio again really, which was almost better than the lead, and I stole every scene in which I appeared. Nicolas had taught me the part, bawling me out constantly for not learning to read. And by the fourth performance, the playwright had written extra lines for me.
Nicki was having his own moment at the intermezzo, when his latest rendering of a frothy little Mozart sonata was keeping the house in its seats. Even his student friends were back. We were getting invitations to private balls. I went tearing off to les Innocents every few days to write to my mother, and finally I had a clipping from an English paper, The Spectator, to send her, which praised our little play and in particular the blond-haired rogue who steals the hearts of the ladies in the third and fourth acts. Of course I couldn’t read this clipping. But the gentleman who’d brought it to me said it was complimentary, and Nicolas swore it was too.
When the first chill nights of fall came on, I wore the fur-lined red cloak on the stage. You could have seen it in the back row of the gallery even if you were almost blind. I had more skill now with the white makeup, shading it here and there to heighten the contours of my face, and though my eyes were ringed in black and my lips reddened a little, I looked both startling and human at the same time. I got love notes from the women in the crowd.
Nicolas was studying music in the mornings with an Italian maestro. Yet we had money enough for good food, wood, and coal. My mother’s letters came twice a week and said her health had taken a turn for the better. She wasn’t coughing as badly as last winter. She wasn’t in pain. But our fathers had disowned us and would not acknowledge any mention of our names.
We were too happy to worry about that. But the dark dread, the “malady of mortality,” was with me a lot when the cold weather came on.
THE cold seemed worse in Paris. It wasn’t clean as it had been in the mountains. The poor hovered in doorways, shivering and hungry, the crooked