After the second intermission, there should have been many
empty seats as theatre goers went off to other amusements.
But according to Madame Legrand, the lead actress was such a
success that she kept everyone until the end. The best they
could do was stools near the stage.
"Madame Guerrier already rivals the best actresses of our
time," she said as she accepted their money. "You are just
in time, too. She is about to kill Claudius."
"She is playing Hamlet himself? Not Ophelia?" Ferguson asked.
Madame Legrand nodded, leading them inside. "Strange, I
know. But when you see her, you will wonder how the role
could ever be played by another. Even the great Mrs.
Siddons's performances as Hamlet are cast into the shade by
her."
That was high praise indeed — Mrs. Siddons was the
greatest actress of her generation. His companions
snickered. None of them believed that the next star of the
stage would be found in Seven Dials.
Madame Legrand ushered them to a door near the foot of the
stage. The orchestra, which was not blessed with good
instruments or the talent to play them, was mercifully
falling silent. As with many other small venues, they played
music under most of the play to skirt around the legal
monopoly held by the few theatres allowed to stage serious
drama. After a whispered order from Madame Legrand, a
footman picked up four small stools from a darkened corner
and carried them a few feet away from the door, setting them
in front of a merchant and his irritated wife.
As they settled into their seats, Ferguson realized he had
never heard a theatre so silent. Even Marsham and his
cronies stopped their jokes, shamed into it by a sharp
rebuke from the harpy behind them. Most theatres were merely
an excuse for people to congregate, with the audience
ignoring the actors on stage—but here, every head in
the house turned in the direction of the "man" who entered
from the wings.
The actress wore clothing more suited to the previous
century, with a wellΒpowdered wig, an elaborate coat,
breeches, and highΒheeled shoes. Her face was partially
obscured by the wig—the disheveled hair of Hamlet in
his maddest hour—and the frothy cravat high up under
her chin, but there was a definite feminine tilt to her
nose. He guessed that they were in for a tedious hour. Her
figure was trim and neat, but she lacked the stature to be
convincing as a man.
But then the actress opened her mouth and he understood why
the audience was enthralled. The last act was familiar to
him; Hamlet's lines about the skull of "poor Yorick" would
turn to melodrama in the hands of a lesser actor. Yet even
though she was small, her voice was rich, warm, and imbued
with precisely the right amount of tragedy for the moment.
Her French accent was also more convincing than Madame
Legrand's. It was a voice made for whispering naughty
desires in the dark, and yet somehow suited to Hamlet's
unraveling sanity.
He stared at her as her voice washed over him — then
stared more intently as he realized that he was seeing a
woman far more clearly than even the fastest society ladies,
in their lowΒcut bodices and dampened chemises, could ever
be viewed.
She wore padded shoulders to pass for a man, but the flare
of her hips and the soft curve of her buttocks in the
scandalously tight breeches betrayed her. He looked down, to
the slender calves outlined in ivory hose, then to the
perfectly trim ankles giving way to diminutive feet within
the bejeweled heels. Her damned cravat unfortunately
concealed her bosom, but the hint of its swell was there.
Even in Hamlet's madness—especially in his
madness— she was a vision.
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