There are multiple versions of Urbain’s “Noble Seigneurs” by contraltos of the Northern persuasion (you might try Louise Homer’s or Sigrid Onegin’s, in Italian and German, respectively, to see if the whole idea appeals to you). Marston presents a bright, fluid, chirpy soprano one, in French, by Charlotte Agussol. It’s fine of its sort, but I find of greater interest Marston’s offerings of two contraltos of the Italian type, who are apt to have more closely resembled Alboni, Ravogli, Scalchi, et al.: Armida Parsi-Pettinella in the exiled Act 2 song and, from an 1899 Bettini cylinder, Eugenia Mantelli in the “Vaga donna.” The brighter, more open tone of both these singers is certainly more suggestive of an adolescent than the maternal timbre of their Northerly cousins, and both “shallow out” their lower-middle ranges to accommodate the busy articulations and suggest attitude—something entirely different than we would hear from a present-day singer of any category.

Marston gives us a nice French-language version of Marguerite’s aria by Lily Dupré, and then, in the Appendix and in better sound than I have previously heard it, the extraordinary one in German by the Dresden prima donna Margarethe Siems, with a few leaned-into straight-sounding sustained tones, but tremendous virtuosic proficiency as well, and the strength of voice that shows how she could have been not only Strauss’s first Zerbinetta, but the first Chrysothemis and Marschallin as well. I’ve always been a fan of Selma Kurz’s recording (cavatina only), with its perfect high pianissimi, flickered ornaments, echo effects, patented trill, and wild ideas in the cadenza. Closer to home-country sobriety is the pure, tautly controlled singing of Alice Verlet (again, just the cavatina).

Between acoustical recording limitations and questionable execution, early vocal ensemble  recordings generally sound awful, and the Act 3 “Rataplan” (M) isn’t an exception, except for the fact that a tenor named Émile-Frantz Sardet, in the tiny role of Bois-Rosé, for whom this is the sole chance to shine, leads the number with clean, pinging tone and great élan.The disc suggests how these supporting parts might, in the right hands, make important contributions to the onstage world of the opera. And if we wish to encounter the full St. Bris, Jean-François Delmas (M, in the Appendix) is our man. He has only to show up to dominate, and here sings first the Conjuration as a solo, then the Bénédiction des Poignards with chorus. One more charming curiosity: in 1904, the Gramophone Company troubled to record the bass Henri Weber in the 1’39” of the Night Watchman’s curfew call (M).  It is sung after the riotous Catholic/Protestant dispute in the Pré aux Clercs scene, and foreshadows the Act 4 tolling of the bell that signals the onset of the massacre, not to mention Act 2 of Die Meistersinger.

Poor Nevers. Here’s a part once assumed by Magini-Coletti, Sammarco, Maurel, Scotti, and other leading baritones. Yet among all the sides from Les huguenots recorded in the early years of the 20th Century, only one devoted to this role has come to light, Mario Ancona’s singing of the little Act 3 address to Valentine (M). It’s neither much of a piece nor any great example of this fine baritone’s work, but the presence of this voice on these modest bars does give an idea of the effect the moment must have had on favorable evenings.