It was at the Theatre Francais that she won her final acceptance as the greatest of all tragedians of her time.  This was in her appearance in Corneille’s famous play of “Horace.”  She had now, in 1838, blazed forth with a power that shook her no, less than it stirred the emotions and the passions of her hearers.  The princes of the royal blood came in succession to see her.  King Louis Philippe himself was at last tempted by curiosity to be present.  Gifts of money and jewels were showered on her, and through sheer natural genius rather than through artifice she was able to master a great audience and bend it to her will.

She had no easy life, this girl of eighteen years, for other actresses carped at her, and she had had but little training.  The sordid ways of her old father excited a bitterness which was vented on the daughter.  She was still under age, and therefore was treated as a gold-mine by her exacting parents.  At the most she could play but twice a week.  Her form was frail and reed-like.  She was threatened with a complaint of the lungs; yet all this served to excite rather than to diminish public interest in her.  The newspapers published daily bulletins of her health, and her door was besieged by anxious callers who wished to know her condition.  As for the greed of her parents, every one said she was not to blame for that.  And so she passed from poverty to riches, from squalor to something like splendor, and from obscurity to fame.

Much has been written about her that is quite incorrect.  She has been credited with virtues which she never possessed; and, indeed, it may be said with only too much truth that she possessed no virtues whatsoever.  On the stage while the inspiration lasted she was magnificent.  Off the stage she was sly, treacherous, capricious, greedy, ungrateful, ignorant, and unchaste.  With such an ancestry as she had, with such an early childhood as had been hers, what else could one expect from her?

She and her old mother wrangled over money like two pickpockets.  Some of her best friends she treated shamefully.  Her avarice was without bounds.  Some one said that it was not really avarice, but only a reaction from generosity; but this seems an exceedingly subtle theory.  It is possible to give illustrations of it, however.  She did, indeed, make many presents with a lavish hand; yet, having made a present, she could not rest until she got it back.  The fact was so well known that her associates took it for granted.  The younger Dumas once received a ring from her.  Immediately he bowed low and returned it to her finger, saying: 

“Permit me, mademoiselle, to present it to you in my turn so as to save you the embarrassment of asking for it.”

Mr. Vandam relates among other anecdotes about her that one evening she dined at the house of Comte Duchatel.  The table was loaded with the most magnificent flowers; but Rachel’s keen eyes presently spied out the great silver centerpiece.  Immediately she began to admire the latter; and the count, fascinated by her manners, said that he would be glad to present it to her.  She accepted it at once, but was rather fearful lest he should change his mind.  She had come to dinner in a cab, and mentioned the fact.  The count offered to send her home in his carriage.