The beginning of May 1881 saw an air of anxious anticipation hanging over Paris.
The more than month-long closure of the theaters had been like a prolonged cultural drought, leaving all of France's theater audiences, especially those in Paris, in a state of craving.
They urgently needed to return to the dim yet sacred auditorium, to let the joys and sorrows on stage wash away the mediocrity and boredom of daily life.
Although the Paris Opéra had reopened three days prior, hastily staging the previously sensational A Doll's House, the impact was minimal.
Ticket sales there were sparse, forming a sharp contrast to the hustle and bustle on the Rue de Richelieu at the Comédie-Française.
All eyes, all enthusiasm, all conversation, were focused on Lionel Sorel's Thunderstorm.
This unprecedented attention was directly reflected in ticket prices.
For the first time in the history of the Comédie-Française, the base ticket prices were set to match those of the Paris Opéra, but this was only the official price.
In the black market and private transfers, the soaring ticket prices reached a frenzied level.
Orchestra seats, originally 15 francs, were being scalped for 75 francs—a full five times the price; balcony seats also rose from 8 francs to over 25 francs.
As for the private boxes, with their excellent views and status symbols, they could no longer be bought with money; they had become true "social currency."
Thunderstorm box tickets circulated and were flaunted only silently among the nobility, the wealthy, and the top literary circles.
Possessing a ticket for the premiere night of Thunderstorm meant you were at the forefront of the Parisian social season!
As evening approached on May 5th, the Rue de Richelieu and the adjacent streets were completely clogged with carriages and crowds.
The small square in front of the Comédie-Française had entirely transformed into a boiling sea of people.
Well-dressed ladies and gentlemen, surrounded by servants, struggled to make their way through the masses toward the brightly lit entrance of the theater.
Even more people gathered around the square, craning their necks, their eager eyes scanning everyone heading toward the theater as if tickets were written on their faces.
"Sir! Madam! Do you have an extra ticket? I'll pay double the price!"
"Triple! I'll pay triple! Just one balcony seat! Standing room is fine too!"
"Who has access to a box share? Even one seat would do!"
Such shouts, pleas, and disappointed sighs rose and fell, intertwining into a chorus.
The police had to link arms to form a human chain, maintaining basic order to prevent accidents due to overcrowding.
Lionel, along with Sophie, Alice, and Pettit, had taken a carriage to the Comédie-Française early, but they found themselves unable to move forward a block away from the theater.
They had to get out early and walk, though their destination was the theater's side entrance.
There, they met Zola, Maupassant, and Huysmans—who had been dragged along by Maupassant—also arriving to attend.
The tickets for these men had been reserved for them by Lionel through Émile Perrin.
Maupassant's face was glowing with excitement, as if the premiere tonight was his own work.
He heartily slapped Lionel on the back:
"Lio! Tonight is destined to go down in history!"
Zola was much calmer, whispering:
"Relax, Lio. The audience's eyes are sharp; good work speaks for itself."
Entering the theater through the side door, the clamor was temporarily shut out.
In the foyer, the early arrivals were gathered in small groups, conversing in low voices.
Involuntarily, everyone's gaze was drawn to the newly installed electric lights on the ceiling and walls.
The bright, steady, unwavering white-yellow light shone uniformly throughout the space.
The lighting clearly revealed the texture of the marble columns and the details of the murals.
This was completely different from the hazy, dim atmosphere, tinged with flickering shadows, created by gas lamps and candlelight before.
"Look at these lights! They're so bright!"
"Are these electric lights? They are certainly clearer than gas lamps."
"I heard they used a lot on the stage too..."
"The Comédie-Française spared no expense this time."
Sounds of astonishment and admiration were endless.
The audience seating area was also largely illuminated by electric lights, with only some large, auxiliary gas lamps still in use overhead.
The entire theater appeared exceptionally bright, possessing an unprecedented sense of modernity.
Shortly after entering, Lionel separated from Sophie, Zola, and the others and headed backstage alone.
Director Émile Perrin was pacing there in a frenzy, like an overwound fat spinning top, his forehead covered in fine beads of sweat.
Seeing Lionel, he looked as if he had seen a savior:
"Lionel! You're finally here! God, my stomach is cramping with nerves! Did you see the crowd outside? Every important person in Paris is here! If..."
Lionel cut off his anxiety, his tone calm:
"There is no 'if,' Émile. Are the actors ready?"
Émile Perrin nodded:
"Ready, all ready! Madame Bellet is in good shape, and François too... But I just can't settle my heart..."
Lionel didn't say more.
He walked to the edge of the curtain and peered through a tiny gap into the audience.
The orchestra stalls and balconies were almost full, a dense mass, like a tide waiting to surge.
The boxes were glittering with jewels; he saw Madame Rothschild conversing quietly with her companion, wearing perhaps the most magnificent gown he had ever seen.
In another box, Sofia Durova-Shcherbatova was also present, dressed in a gorgeous, dazzling crimson gown, her expression still haughty.
Louis-Antoine-Augustin Gibot was, of course, also in a box; as the "Bishop of the People," he would not miss such an occasion.
Lionel withdrew his gaze and took a deep breath.
He knew the decisive moment was approaching.
As the clock approached eight, the lights in the auditorium began to dim slowly.
The previously boisterous murmur of the crowd seemed to be grasped by an invisible hand, quickly subsiding until it turned into complete silence.
Only the occasional cough and the faint sound of ladies fanning themselves could be heard.
The deep red curtain, under the focused gaze of the entire audience, rose heavily and slowly.
The lights came up, and the scene on stage was revealed without reservation to all the spectators.
In an instant, a collective gasp echoed through the entire Salle Richelieu.
No painted backdrop, no false perspective—on stage stood a drawing-room living room, structurally real, with two levels! A heavy oak staircase wound upwards, connecting to the second-floor corridor; the pillars were real plaster, and the railings were carved wood.
Oil paintings hung on the walls, the fireplace looked like it was made of stone, and there were velvet curtains, massive sofas, and exquisite cabinets...
All the furniture and decorations exuded an aura of luxury.
The lighting system, a combination of gas lamps and electric lights, illuminated this space as brightly as day.
The layers of light and shadow were distinct, and the areas where the actors moved were perfectly clear.
This was no longer a traditional stage set; it was as if an entire mansion's living room had been moved, intact, into the Comédie-Française!
"My God..." someone couldn't help but exclaim.
"This... how did they do this?"
"They really built a house on the stage!"
Shock, an unprecedented shock, swept over every member of the audience.
They forgot to converse, forgot their status, and all their attention was firmly seized by this hyper-realistic stage.
They even overlooked the actors on stage...
(End of Chapter)