22

‘It’s in the Blood’

La Grange had summoned the police at once.

By the time that Oscar and I arrived at the theatre, soon after two o’clock, the body of Agnès La Grange had already been removed from the building, and the police, under the brisk direction of one Brigadier Malthus, were concluding a series of preliminary interviews with those whom Malthus described as ‘essential witnesses.

‘You fall into that category, gentlemen,’ Malthus said to us pleasantly, as we presented ourselves at Edmond La Grange’s dressing-room door. ‘At least, I think you do.’

The dressing room was crowded with people, yet quiet as the grave. Malthus, two younger policemen in uniform, and eight senior members of the La Grange company were standing, side by side, shoulders touching, ranged around the walls, like mourners at the graveside. Dr Emile Blanche was also there. He had arrived from his clinic an hour before, not because he had heard the news, but because he was concerned that Agnès had not returned to Passy the night before as he and his staff had expected. Dr Blanche was perched on the edge of the Molière chaise longue, next to Liselotte La Grange. He held the old woman’s hand in his. (Not knowing her well, he instinctively offered her the comfort that those close to her no longer could.) Carlos Branco stood, slumped against the back of the dressing-room door, his head lolling forward, his eyes open, gazing blankly at the ground. He wore a brightly coloured striped dressing gown, put on before he had heard the news.

The great La Grange sat in the midst of this throng, almost invisible, bent over his dressing table, his arms folded, his eyes closed, his head tilted at a curious angle, as if he were still in the act of flinching away from unseen horror. Brigadier Malthus stood at his side. Occasionally, the police officer placed a reassuring hand on the old actor’s shoulder. The two men were friends. They were of an age. Edmond La Grange, Pierre Ferrand and Félix Malthus had been at school together.

Brigadier Malthus was not an Englishman’s idea of a French policeman. He was impressively tall, cadaverously thin, yet upright and youthful-looking for his age, clean-shaven and silver-haired, with high, prominent cheekbones and a large aquiline nose. He was dressed in a well-cut, dark blue serge suit. On his lapel he wore the distinctive ribbon of a commandant of the Légion d’Honneur. He had the appearance of a lawyer or a banker, combined with the surprising, gentle, slightly teasing manner of a mildly eccentric university professor.

‘You have heard the dreadful news?’ he asked, once he had confirmed that we were indeed who he had taken us to be.

‘A moment ago,’ said Oscar. ‘From the stage doorkeeper, as we came in.’

Brigadier Malthus sighed and let his tongue loll momentarily over his lower lip, like a lizard feeling for food. ‘It is very distressing,’ he said. (His voice was not the voice of a Paris policeman, either. It was cultivated, refined.)

‘Most terrible,’ said Oscar. ‘Tragic.’ Tears pricked his eyes.

‘I am just trying to establish who might have seen Mademoiselle La Grange last,’ Malthus continued lightly. ‘To assess her state of mind. You understand?’ Oscar nodded. ‘Everyone saw her take her curtain-call, of course. But nobody seems to have seen her since.’ The policeman looked around the assembled company and smiled. He had pale blue eyes. Slowly, he turned them in my direction. ‘Monsieur Sherard,’ he said amiably, ‘you are Monsieur La Grange’s dresser, as I understand?’

‘Yes, sir,’ I said.

‘Monsieur La Grange tells me that he gave you a note to take to Mademoiselle La Grange at the end of last night’s performance.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘But you brought back the note because Mademoiselle La Grange was not in her dressing room.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Her room was empty.’

‘I can vouch for that,’ said Gabrielle de la Tourbillon. She was standing at the back of the room, in the far corner by the sideboard, half hidden behind Eddie Garstrang and Dr Ferrand. I had not noticed her presence in the room before. I had not seen her that morning. After our night together in the rue de la Pierre Levée, I had woken at dawn to find her gone. Seeing her suddenly, hearing her speak, I blushed.

Brigadier Malthus appeared not to notice my embarrassment. He looked round to where Gabrielle was standing. ‘As you have told us, mademoiselle,’ he said courteously. ‘It is noted.’ He pushed out his lower lip once more and turned his gaze on Oscar. ‘Monsieur Wilde,’ he began.

‘I cannot help,’ said Oscar. ‘Alas. I watched the play with Mr Garstrang. When it was over we left the theatre with the rest of the audience and made our way in a leisurely fashion around the building to the stage door. Mr Garstrang told me that he was going to play cards with Monsieur La Grange, as usual, and bade me good-night. He went up to the private apartment above the theatre, while I waited outside the stage door, smoking a cigarette.’

‘Did you see Mademoiselle La Grange leave the theatre?’

‘The stage door is always crowded after a performance. There is always a rush to leave. I saw several of the actors depart. I spoke with Bernard La Grange, briefly, when he came out — to congratulate him. I did not see Agnès.’

‘Thank you, Monsieur Wilde,’ said the police officer, bowing towards Oscar. He looked around the room once more. ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. You have all been most helpful in the most trying of circumstances. I shall need to speak to one or two of you more fully in the coming days’ — he nodded in the direction of Dr Blanche and of the stagehand who had found the body — ‘but it seems all too clear what has happened, does it not?’ He laid a kindly hand on Edmond La Grange’s shoulder as he continued to address the room. ‘Suicide is not a crime—’

‘It is a sin!’ cried Liselotte La Grange.

‘It is a tragedy. It is heart-breaking. I offer my sincere condolences to all those who knew and loved Agnès La Grange.’

‘Her mother committed suicide,’ said Liselotte La Grange loudly, staring directly at Brigadier Malthus. ‘Suicide is an inherited characteristic.’

Dr Blanche caressed the old lady’s hand. Madame La Grange pulled it away from him angrily. ‘It’s in the blood,’ she squawked. ‘It’s in the blood.’ No one paid her any attention.

Brigadier Malthus leant over Edmond La Grange and spoke into his ear. ‘I should see Bernard at some stage. He’s not here. Do you know where he is?’

La Grange opened his eyes and looked up at the police officer wearily. ‘No. I’ve not seen him since last night.’ He turned his head towards the doorway and looked at Oscar. ‘Monsieur Wilde found Agnès yesterday. Perhaps he can help you find Bernard today.’

Brigadier Malthus turned to Oscar with eyebrows raised.

‘You might try the Room of the Dead,’ suggested Oscar.

‘Thank you,’ said the police officer. ‘I’m obliged. That is all for now. We will take our leave.’

As Malthus and his men departed, slowly the dressing room began to clear. No one looked anyone directly in the eye. No one spoke, except Liselotte La Grange. She pulled herself to her feet, leaning on Dr Blanche’s arm. ‘The play must continue,’ she barked.

‘Of course, Maman,’ said Edmond quietly.

As the room emptied, I watched La Grange closely.

Gradually his back straightened and his eyes began to gleam again.

Word of Agnès’s death spread quickly. Members of the company began to arrive, drifting into the theatre hours earlier than usual. Members of the press arrived, also. Richard Marais marshalled them together on the stage and, at five o’clock, La Grange emerged from his dressing room to give a brief statement. To one of the journalists —an old friend, a card-playing crony — he granted an interview. I stood in the corner of the dressing room while the two men talked: La Grange remained calm throughout. He spoke of Agnès without tears but with heart-rending affection; he described her contribution to ‘the perfect Hamlet’ with unashamed pride. His self-control was extraordinary, but, early in the evening, when I left him alone in his room to take his usual pre-performance siesta, as I stood in the wings I could hear him sobbing.

The police did not find Bernard La Grange at the Room of the Dead. Oscar found him, as he had expected that he might, at Sarah Bernhardt’s studio in Montmartre, with Maurice Rollinat. It was Oscar who broke the news to Bernard of his sister’s death. Outwardly, the young actor took it calmly, stoically, just as his father had done. He said nothing— or, rather, as Oscar described it to me later, he began quoting a line from a poem by Baudelaire and then, ‘seeming to recognise how trite the rhyme sounded in face of the reality of what had occurred, fell into silence’. Oscar told Bernard what little he knew of the circumstances of Agnès’s death and that the police officer investigating the tragedy appeared to be competent and conscientious: ‘a decent and civilised man, in fact’.

‘Is it Malthus?’ asked Bernard.

‘It is,’ said Oscar. ‘He is a friend of your father’s, I think.’

Bernard La Grange laughed. ‘But he can be trusted, nonetheless. What does he think?’

‘Malthus? Of Agnès’s death? He believes that it was suicide.’

‘Yes,’ said Bernard softly. ‘It’s in the blood.’

Sarah Bernhardt took the young actor in her arms and embraced him as a mother might. Maurice Rollinat embraced him, too, and as he did so (as Oscar noticed, but Sarah Bernhardt did not) slipped three small, glass phials of liquid opium into his coat pocket.

At six o’clock, Oscar brought Hamlet back to the theatre by cab. Bernard La Grange was neither shocked nor surprised that his father — and his grandmother —wanted to continue with the evening’s performance. It was what he wanted, also. ‘It’s what we do,’ he said.

La Grange, père et fils, gave magnificent performances that night, thrilling in their intensity. Agnès’s understudy rose to the occasion, equally. ‘She is a fine young actress, ‘Edmond La Grange murmured to me as we stood together in the wings. Other members of the company were much less assured in their playing: Gabrielle de la Tourbillon was more muted than I had ever known her be on stage, and Carlos Branco forgot his lines on several occasions. ‘He’s playing Polonius,’ Edmond La Grange muttered to me scornfully. ‘Polonius is an old fool. No one will notice. No one will care.’

At the end of the performance, La Grange sent me to find Oscar and Bernard to invite them to join him for a drink in his dressing room. ‘If you see Garstrang or Marais, get them to take care of Maman,’ he added as I made to leave. ‘I don’t want her here. I have had enough of Maman.’

I found Bernard at the stage door, talking to a young woman. She was a pretty girl, in a blue cape and bonnet, a member of the audience, who had come to ask him for his autograph. Oscar was with them, smoking a cigarette. Bernard gave the girl his signature and kissed her hand with a Gallic show of gallantry. I told him that his father wanted to see him. ‘Must I?’ he asked wearily.

‘I think you must,’ said Oscar.

I brought them back to La Grange’s dressing room.

The old actor had undressed and dressed himself again.

He had already opened a bottle of champagne. We raised our glasses to Agnès’s memory — and to the Théâtre La Grange and ‘the perfect Hamlet’.

La Grange announced that, for once, he was not in the mood for cards. He had ordered Marais to fetch a cab. He proposed to take us out to supper — in Agnès’s honour. ‘I have reserved a table at Pharamond. It is Oscar’s favourite. Oscar shall speak to us of Shakespeare’s heroines and of mortality. Will you not, Oscar?’

‘If that is what you wish,’ answered Oscar.

Bernard got to his feet and said that, alas, he could not join us: he was committed to going to Le Chat Noir with Maurice Rollinat and Jacques-Emile Blanche. He was sure he had mentioned it earlier.

‘Le Chat Noir?’ repeated Edmond. ‘Tonight?’

‘I have not seen Jacques-Emile since the news of Agnès … He loved her very much. He will be desolated. I feel that I should see him.’

Edmond La Grange drained his glass and placed it on the dressing table. ‘You did say so, and I understand,’ he said. ‘Go. Take a cab. I’ll pay for it. In fact, take the cab that’s at the stage door now. I’ll order another.’

Bernard embraced his father, asked Oscar for a cigarette, wished us goodnight and went on his way.

‘Take care,’ said Oscar, opening his cigarette case and giving Bernard two or three of his cigarettes.

We remained in the dressing room, finishing our wine. The clock struck the half-hour. ‘Perhaps we’ll forget Pharamond,’ said La Grange. ‘This is cosy. Shall we just stay here and open another bottle?’

A minute later, as I was fetching a second bottle of Perrier-Jouët from the case that was kept in a corner of the dresser’s cubicle, we heard a dreadful hubbub coming from the wings: shouting, cries of alarm, running feet. The dressing-room door burst open violently.

It was Eddie Garstrang, distraught. ‘It’s Bernard!’ he cried. ‘In the street …

‘He’s dead?’ gasped Edmond La Grange.

‘Almost certainly.’

‘Consumed by fire?’ asked Oscar.

‘Yes. Exactly.’