but since all men are soldiers, why not take these guards and defenders
from among “all men”? We should only have schools for officers then, and
we should have no more of those horrible barracks which offend the eye.
And when sovereigns visit each other and are invited to a review, would
they not be much more edified as to the value of a nation if it could
show a thousandth part of its effective force chosen haphazard among its
soldiers, rather than the elegant evolutions of an army prepared for
parade? What magnificent reviews I have seen in all the different
countries I have visited! But I know from history that such and such an
army as was prancing about there so finely before us had taken flight,
without any great reason, before the enemy.
On July 19 war was seriously declared, and Paris then became the theatre
of the most touching and burlesque scenes. Excitable and delicate as I
was, I could not bear the sight of all these young men gone wild, who
were yelling the “Marseillaise” and rushing along the streets in close
file, shouting over and over again, “To Berlin! To Berlin!”
My heart used to beat wildly, for I too thought that they were going to
Berlin. I understood the fury they felt, for these people had provoked
us without plausible reasons, but at the same time it seemed to me that
they were getting ready for this great deed without sufficient respect
and dignity. My own impotence made me feel rebellious, and when I saw
all the mothers, with pale faces and eyes swollen with crying, holding
their boys in their arms and kissing them in despair, the most frightful
anguish seemed to choke me. I cried, too, almost unceasingly, and I was
wearing myself away with anxiety, but I did not foresee the horrible
catastrophe that was to take place.
The doctors decided that I must go to Eaux-Bonnes. I did not want to
leave Paris, for I had caught the general fever of excitement. My
weakness increased, though, day by day, and on July 27 I was taken away
in spite of myself. Madame Guérard, my man-servant, and my maid
accompanied me, and I also took my child with me.
In all the railway stations there were posters everywhere, announcing
that the Emperor Napoleon had gone to Metz to take command of the army.
At Eaux-Bonnes I was compelled to remain in bed. My condition was
considered very serious by Dr. Leudet, who told me afterwards that he
certainly thought I was going to die. I vomited blood, and had to have a
piece of ice in my mouth all the time. At the end of about twelve days,
however, I began to get up, and after this I soon recovered my strength
and my calmness, and went for long rides on horseback.
The war news led us to hope for victory. There was great joy and a
certain emotion felt by every one on hearing that the young Prince
Imperial had received his baptism of fire at Saarbruck, in the
engagement commanded by General Frossard.
Life seemed to me beautiful again, for I had great confidence in the
issue of the war. I pitied the Germans for having embarked on such an
adventure. But, alas! the fine, glorious progress which my brain had
been so active in imagining was cut short by the atrocious news from
Saint-Privat. The political news was posted up every day in the little
garden of the Casino at Eaux-Bonnes. The public went there to get
information. Detesting, as I did, tranquillity, I used to send my man-
servant to copy the telegrams. Oh, how grievous was that terrible
telegram from Saint-Privat, informing us laconically of the frightful
butchery; of the heroic defence of Marshal Canrobert; and of Bazaine’s
first treachery in not going to the rescue of his comrade.
I knew Canrobert, and was very fond of him. Later on he became one of my
faithful friends, and I shall always remember the exquisite hours spent
in listening to his accounts of the bravery of others—never of his own.
And what an abundance of anecdotes, what wit, what charm!
This news of the battle of Saint-Privat caused my feverishness to
return. My sleep was full of nightmares, and I had a relapse. The news
was worse every day. After Saint-Privat came Gravelotte, where 36,000
men, French and German, were cut down in a few hours. Then came the
sublime but powerless efforts of MacMahon, who was driven back as far as
Sedan; and finally Sedan.
Sedan! Ah, the horrible awakening! The month of August had finished the
night before, amidst a tumult of weapons and dying groans. But the
groans of the dying men were mingled still with hopeful cries. But the
month of September was cursed from its very birth. Its first war-cry was
stifled back by the brutal and cowardly hand of Destiny.
A hundred thousand men! A hundred thousand Frenchmen compelled to
capitulate, and the Emperor of France forced to hand his sword over to
the King of Prussia!
Ah! that cry of grief, that cry of rage, uttered by the whole nation. It
can never be forgotten!
On September 1, towards ten o’clock, Claude, my man-servant, knocked at
my door. I was not asleep, and he gave me a copy of the first telegrams:
“Battle of Sedan commenced. MacMahon wounded,” &c. &c.
“Ah! go back again,” I said, “and as soon as a fresh telegram comes,
bring me the news. I feel that something unheard of, something great and
quite different, is going to happen. We have suffered so terribly this
last month, that there can only be something good now, something fine,
for God’s scales mete out joy and suffering equally. Go at once,
Claude,” I added, and then, full of confidence, I soon fell asleep
again, and was so tired that I slept until one o’clock. When I awoke, my
maid Félicie, the most delightful girl imaginable, was seated near my
bed. Her pretty face and her large dark eyes were so mournful that my
heart stopped beating. I gazed at her anxiously, and she put into my
hands the copy of the last telegram:
“The Emperor Napoleon has just handed over his sword....”
Blood rushed to my head, and my lungs were too weak to control its flow.
I lay back on my pillow, and the blood escaped through my lips with the
groans of my whole being.
For three days I was between life and death. Dr. Leudet sent for one of
my father’s friends, a shipowner named M. Maunoir. He came at once,
bringing with him his young wife. She too was very ill, worse in reality
than I was, in spite of her fresh look, for she died six months later.
Thanks to their care and to the energetic treatment of Dr. Leudet, I
came through alive from this attack.
I decided to return at once to Paris, as the siege was about to be
proclaimed, and I did not want my mother and my sisters to remain in the
capital. Independently of this, every one at Eaux-Bonnes was seized with
a desire to get away, invalids and tourists alike. A post-chaise was
found, the owner of which agreed, for an exorbitant price, to drive me
to the nearest station without delay. When once in it, we were more or
less comfortably seated as far as Bordeaux, but it was impossible to
find five seats in the express from there. My man-servant was allowed to
travel with the engine-driver. I do not know where Madame Guérard and my
maid found room, but in the compartment I entered, with my little boy,
there were already nine persons. An ugly old man tried to push my child
out when I had put him in, but I pushed him back again energetically in
my turn.
“No human force will make us get out of this carriage,” I said. “Do you
hear that, you ugly old man? We are here, and we shall stay.”
A stout lady, who took up more room herself than three ordinary persons,
exclaimed:
“Well! that is lively, for we are suffocated already. It’s shameful to
let eleven persons get into a compartment where there are only seats for
eight!”
“Will you get out, then?” I retorted, turning to her quickly, “for
without you there would only be seven of us.”
The stifled laughter of the other travellers showed me that I had won
over my audience. Three young men offered me their places, but I
refused, declaring that I was going to stand. The three young men had
risen, and they declared that they would also stand. The stout lady
called a railway official. “Come here, please!” she began.
The official stopped an instant at the door.
“It is perfectly shameful,” she went on. “There are eleven in this
compartment, and it is impossible to move.”
“Don’t you believe it,” exclaimed one of the young men. “Just look for
yourself. We are standing up, and there are three seats empty. Send some
more people in here.”
The official went away laughing and muttering something about the woman
who had complained. She turned to the young man and began to talk
abusively to him. He bowed very respectfully in reply, and said:
“Madame, if you will calm down you shall be satisfied. We will seat
seven on the other side, including the child, and then you will only be
four on your side.”
The ugly old man was short and slight. He looked sideways at the stout
lady and murmured, “Four! Four!” His look and tone showed that he
considered the stout lady took up more than one seat. This look and tone
were not lost on the young man, and before the ugly old man had
comprehended he said to him, “Will you come over here and have this
corner? All the thin people will be together then,” he added, inviting a
placid, calm-looking young Englishman of eighteen to twenty years of age
to take the old man’s seat. The Englishman had the torso of a prize-
fighter, with a face like that of a fair-haired baby. A very young
woman, opposite the stout one, laughed till the tears came. All six of
us then found room on the thin people’s side of the carriage. We were a
little crushed, but had been considerably enlivened by this little
entertainment, and we certainly needed something to enliven us. The
young man who had taken the matter in hand in such a witty way was tall
and nice-looking. He had blue eyes, and his hair was almost white, and
this gave to his face a most attractive freshness and youthfulness. My
boy was on his knee during the night. With the exception of the child,
the stout lady, and the young Englishman, no one went to sleep. The heat
was overpowering, and the war was of course discussed. After some
hesitation, one of the young men told me that I resembled Mlle. Sarah
Bernhardt. I answered that there was every reason why I should resemble
her. The young men then introduced themselves. The one who had
recognised me was Albert Delpit, the second was a Dutchman, Baron van
Zelern or von Zerlen, I do not remember exactly which, and the young man
with white hair was Félix Faure. He told me that he was from Hâvre, and
that he knew my grandmother very well. I kept up a certain friendship
with these three men afterwards, but later on Albert Delpit became my
enemy. All three are now dead—Albert Delpit died a disappointed man, for
he had tried everything and succeeded in nothing, the Dutch baron was
killed in a railway accident, and Félix Faure was President of the
French Republic.
The young woman, on hearing my name, introduced herself in her turn.
“I think we are slightly related,” she said. “I am Madame Laroque.”
“Of Bordeaux?” I asked.
“Yes.”
My mother’s brother had married a Mlle. Laroque of Bordeaux, so that we
were able to talk of our family. Altogether the journey did not seem
very long, in spite of the heat, the overcrowding, and our thirst.
The arrival in Paris was more gloomy. We shook hands warmly with each
other. The stout lady’s husband was awaiting her; he handed her, in
silence, a telegram. The unfortunate woman read it, and then, uttering a
cry, burst into sobs and fell into his arms. I gazed at her, wondering
what sorrow had come upon her. Poor woman, I could no longer see
anything ridiculous about her! I felt a pang of remorse at the thought
that we had been laughing at her so much, when misfortune had already
singled her out.
On reaching home I sent word to my mother that I should be with her some
time during the day. She came at once, as she wanted to know how my
health was. We then arranged about the departure of the whole family,
with the exception of myself, as I wanted to stay in Paris during the
siege. My mother, my little boy and his nurse, my sisters, my Aunt
Annette, who kept house for me, and my mother’s maid were all ready to
start two days later. I had taken rooms at Frascati’s, at Hâvre, for the
whole tribe. But the desire to leave Paris was one thing, and the
possibility of doing so another. The stations were invaded by families
like mine, who thought it more prudent to emigrate. I sent my man-
servant to engage a compartment, and he came back three hours later with
his clothes torn, after receiving no end of kicks and blows.
“Madame cannot go into that crowd,” he assured me; “it is quite
impossible. I should not be able to protect her. Besides, Madame will
not be alone; there is Madame’s mother, the other ladies, and the
children. It is really quite impossible.”
I sent at once for three of my friends, explained my difficulty, and
asked them to accompany me. I told my steward to be ready, as well as my
other man-servant and my mother’s footman. He in his turn invited his
younger brother, who was a priest, and who was very willing to go with
us. We all set off in a railway omnibus. There were seventeen of us in
all, but only nine who were really travelling. Our eight protectors were
none too many, for those who were taking tickets were not human beings,
but wild beasts haunted by fear and spurred on by a desire to escape.
These brutes saw nothing but the little ticket office, the door leading
to the train, and then the train which would ensure their escape. The
presence of the young priest was a great help to us, for his religious
character made people refrain sometimes from blows.
When once all my people were installed in the compartment which had been
reserved for them, they waved their farewells, threw kisses, and the
train started. A shudder of terror ran through me, for I suddenly felt
so absolutely alone. It was the first time I had been separated from the
little child who was dearer to me than the whole world.
Two arms were then thrown affectionately round me, and a voice murmured,
“My dear Sarah, why did you not go, too? You are so delicate. Will you
be able to bear the solitude without the dear child?”
It was Madame Guérard, who had arrived too late to kiss the boy, but was
there now to comfort the mother. I gave way to my despair, regretting
that I had let him go away. And yet, as I said to myself, there might be
fighting in Paris! The idea never for an instant occurred to me that I
might have gone away with him. I thought that I might be of some use in
Paris. Of some use, but in what way? This I did not know. The idea
seemed stupid, but nevertheless that was my idea. It seemed to me that
every one who was fit ought to remain in Paris. In spite of my weakness,
I felt that I was fit, and with reason, as I proved later on. I
therefore remained, not knowing at all what I was going to do.
For some days I was perfectly dazed, missing the life around me, and
missing the affection.
XVI
SARAH BERNHARDT’S AMBULANCE AT THE ODÉON THEATRE
The defence, however, was being organised, and I decided to use my
strength and intelligence in tending the wounded. The question was,
where could we instal an ambulance?
The Odéon Theatre had closed its doors, but I moved heaven and earth to
get permission to organise an ambulance in that theatre, and, thanks to
Emile de Girardin and Duquesnel, my wish was gratified. I went to the
War Office and made my declaration and my request, and my offers were
accepted for a military ambulance. The next difficulty was that I wanted
food. I wrote a line to the Prefect of Police. A military courier
arrived very soon, with a note from the Prefect containing the following
lines:
“MADAME,—If you could possibly come at once, I would wait for you
until six o’clock. If not I will receive you to-morrow morning at
eight. Excuse the earliness of the hour, but I have to be at the
Chamber at nine in the morning, and, as your note seems to be urgent,
I am anxious to do all I can to be of service to you.
“COMTE DE KÉRATRY.”
I remembered a Comte de Kératry who had been introduced to me at my
aunt’s house, the evening I had recited poetry accompanied by Rossini,
but he was a young lieutenant, good-looking, witty, and lively. He had
introduced me to his mother. I had recited poetry at her _soirées_. The
young lieutenant had gone to Mexico, and for some time we had kept up a
correspondence, but this had gradually ceased, and we had not met again.
I asked Madame Guérard whether she thought that the Prefect were a near
relative of my young friend’s. “It may be so,” she replied, and we
discussed this in the carriage which was taking us at once to the
Tuileries Palace, where the Prefect had his offices. My heart was very
heavy when we came to the stone steps. Only a few months previously, one
April morning, I had been there with Madame Guérard. Then, as now, a
footman had come forward to open the door of my carriage, but the April
sunshine had then lighted up the steps, caught the shining lamps of the
State carriages, and sent its rays in all directions. There had been a
busy, joyful coming and going of the officers then, and elegant salutes
had been exchanged. On this occasion the misty, crafty-looking November
sun fell heavily on all it touched. Black, dirty-looking cabs drove up
one after the other, knocking against the iron gate, grazing the steps,
advancing or moving back, according to the coarse shouts of their
drivers. Instead of the elegant salutations I heard now such phrases as:
“Well, how are you, old chap?” “Oh, _la gueule de bois_!” “Well, any
news?” “Yes, it’s the very deuce with us!” &c. &c.
The Palace was no longer the same.
The very atmosphere had changed. The faint perfume which elegant women
leave in the air as they pass was no longer there. A vague odour of
tobacco, of greasy clothes, of dirty hair, made the atmosphere seem
heavy. Ah, the beautiful French Empress! I could see her again in her
blue dress embroidered with silver, calling to her aid Cinderella’s good
fairy to help her on again with her little slipper. The delightful young
Prince Imperial, too! I could see him helping me to arrange the pots of
verbena and marguerites, and holding in his arms, which were not strong
enough for it, a huge pot of rhododendrons, behind which his handsome
face completely disappeared. Then, too, I could see the Emperor Napoleon
III. with his half-closed eyes, clapping his hands at the rehearsal of
the curtseys intended for him.
And the fair Empress, dressed in strange clothes, had rushed away in the
carriage of her American dentist, for it was not even a Frenchman, but a
foreigner, who had had the courage to protect the unfortunate woman. And
the gentle Utopian Emperor had tried in vain to be killed on the battle-
field. Two horses had been killed under him, and he had not received so
much as a scratch. And after this he had given up his sword. And we at
home had all wept with anger, shame, and grief at this giving up of the
sword. And yet what courage it must have required for so brave a man to
carry out such an act. He had wanted to save a hundred thousand men, to
spare a hundred thousand lives, and to reassure a hundred thousand
mothers. Our poor, beloved Emperor! History will some day do him
justice, for he was good, humane, and confiding. Alas, alas! he was too
confiding!
I stopped a minute before entering the Prefect’s suite of rooms. I was
obliged to wipe my eyes, and in order to change the current of my
thoughts I said to _mon petit Dame_.
“Tell me, should you think me pretty if you saw me now for the first
time?”
“Oh yes!” she replied warmly.
“So much the better,” I said, “for I want this old Prefect to think me
pretty. There are so many things I must ask him for!”
On entering his room, my surprise was great when I recognised in him the
lieutenant I knew. He had become captain, and then Prefect of Police.
When my name was announced by the usher, he sprang up from his chair and
came forward with his face beaming and both hands stretched out.
“Ah, you had forgotten me!” he said, and then he turned to greet Madame
Guérard in a friendly way.
“But I never thought I was coming to see you!” I replied; “and I am
delighted,” I continued, “for you will let me have everything I ask
for.”
“Only that!” he remarked with a burst of laughter. “Well, will you give
your orders, Madame?” he continued.
“Yes. I want bread, milk, meat, vegetables, sugar, wine, brandy,
potatoes, eggs, coffee,” I said straight away.
“Oh, let me get my breath!” exclaimed the Count-Prefect. “You speak so
quickly that I am gasping.”
I was quiet for a moment, and then I continued:
“I have started an ambulance at the Odéon, but as it is a military
ambulance, the municipal authorities refuse me food. I have five wounded
men already, and I can manage for them, but other wounded men are being
sent to me, and I shall have to give them food.”
“You shall be supplied above and beyond all your wishes,” said the
Prefect. “There is food in the Palace which was being stored by the
unfortunate Empress. She had prepared enough for months and months. I
will have all you want sent to you, except meat, bread, and milk, and as
regards these I will give orders that your ambulance shall be included
in the municipal service, although it is a military one. Then I will
give you an order for salt and other things, which you will be able to
get from the Opéra.”
“From the Opéra?” I repeated, looking at him incredulously. “But it is
only being built, and there is nothing but scaffolding there yet.”
“Yes; but you must go through the little doorway under the scaffolding
opposite the Rue Scribe; you then go up the little spiral staircase
leading to the provision office, and there you will be supplied with
what you want.”
“There is still something else I want to ask,” I said.
“Go on; I am quite resigned, and ready for your orders,” he replied.
“Well, I am very uneasy,” I said, “for they have put a stock of powder
in the cellars under the Odéon. If Paris were to be bombarded and a
shell should fall on the building, we should all be blown up, and that
is not the aim and object of an ambulance.”
“You are quite right,” said the kind man, “and nothing could be more
stupid than to store powder there. I shall have more difficulty about
that, though,” he continued, “for I shall have to deal with a crowd of
stubborn _bourgeois_ who want to organise the defence in their own way.
You must try to get a petition for me, signed by the most influential
householders and tradespeople in the neighbourhood. Now are you
satisfied?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied, shaking both his hands cordially. “You have been most
kind and charming. Thank you very much.”
I then moved towards the door, but I stood still again suddenly, as
though hypnotised by an overcoat hanging over a chair. Madame Guérard
saw what had attracted my attention, and she pulled my sleeve gently.
“My dear Sarah,” she whispered, “do not do that.”
I looked beseechingly at the young Prefect, but he did not understand.
“What can I do now to oblige you, beautiful Madonna?” he asked.
I pointed to the coat and tried to look as charming as possible.
“I am very sorry,” he said, bewildered, “but I do not understand at
all.”
I was still pointing to the coat.
“Give it me, will you?” I said.
“My overcoat?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want it for?”
“For my wounded men when they are convalescent.”
He sank down on a chair in a fit of laughter. I was rather vexed at this
uncontrollable outburst, and I continued my explanation.
“There is nothing so funny about it,” I said. “I have a poor fellow, for
instance, two of whose fingers have been taken off. He does not need to
stay in bed for that, naturally, and his soldier’s cape is not warm
enough. It is very difficult to warm the big _foyer_ of the Odéon
sufficiently, and those who are well enough have to be there. The man I
tell you about is warm enough at present, because I took Henri Fould’s
overcoat when he came to see me the other day. My poor soldier is huge,
and as Henri Fould is a giant I might never have had such an opportunity
again. I shall want a great many overcoats, though, and this looks like
a very warm one.”
I stroked the furry lining of the coveted garment, and the young
Prefect, still choking with laughter, began to empty the pockets of his
overcoat. He pulled out a magnificent white silk muffler from the
largest pocket.
“Will you allow me to keep my muffler?” he asked.
I put on a resigned expression and nodded my consent.
Our host then rang, and when the usher appeared he handed him the
overcoat, and said in a solemn voice, in spite of the laughter in his
eyes:
“Will you carry this to the carriage for these ladies?”
I thanked him again, and went away feeling very happy.
Twelve days later I returned, taking with me a letter covered with the
signatures of the householders and tradesmen residing near the Odéon.