It was directed by four distinguished sans culottes—­Henriot, Chaumette, Le Rouxand, and Hebert.  The nominal director, however, was Francoeur, the same who first brought out Sophie Arnould in Louis XV.’s time.  Henriot, Danton, Hebert, and other chiefs of the Revolution would hardly take a turn in the coulisses or foyer before they would say to some actor or actress:  “We are going to your room; see that we are received properly.”  This of course meant a superb collation; and, after emptying many bottles of the costliest wines, the virtuous republicans would retire without troubling themselves on the score of expense.  As this was a nightly occurrence, and the poor actors had no money, the expense fell on the restaurateur, who was compelled to console himself by the reflection that it was in the cause of liberty.  Oftentimes the executioner, the dreaded Sanson, who as public official had the right of entree, would stroll in and in a jocular tone emphasize his abilities as a critic by saying to the singers that his opinion on the execution of the music ought to be respected.*

* So, too, the London hangman one night went into the pit of her Majesty’s Theatre to hear Jenny Lind sing, and remarked with a sigh of professional longing, “Ah, what a throat to scrag!”

Operatic kings and queens were suppressed, and the titles of royalty were prohibited both on the stage and in the greenroom.  It was necessary, indeed, to use the old monarchical repertoire; but kings were transformed into chiefs; princes and dukes became members of the Convention or representatives of the people; seigneurs became mayors, and substitutes were found for words like “crown,” “scepter,” “throne,” etc.  There was one great difficulty to overcome.  This was met by placing the scenes of the new operas in Italy, Portugal, etc.—­anywhere but in France, where it was indispensable from a political point of view, but impossible from the poetic and musical, to make lovers address each other as citoyen, citoyenne.

Hebert would frequently display proscriptive lists in the green-room, including the names of many of the actors and other operatic employees, and say, “I shall have to send you all to the guillotine some day, but I have been prevented hitherto by the fact that you have conduced to my amusement.”  The stratagem which saved them was to get the ferocious Hebert drunk, for he loved wine as well as blood, and steal the fatal document.  However, this operatic dilettante always appeared with a fresh one next day.  One bloodthirsty republican, Lefebvre, who was ambitious for musical fame, insisted on singing first characters.  He appeared as primo tenore, and was hissed; he then tried his luck as first bass, and was again hissed by his friends the sans culottes.  Enraged by the fiasco, he attributed it to the machinations of a counter-revolution, and nearly persuaded Robespierre to give him a platoon of musketeers to fire on the infamous emissaries of “Pitt and Coburg.”  Yet, though the Reign of Terror was a fearful time for art and artists, there were sixty-three theatres open, and they were always crowded in spite of war, famine, and the guillotine.