two days of preliminaries! They were the most unnerving days of any for
the besieged. False reports were spread. We were told of the maddest and
most exorbitant demands on the part of the Germans, who certainly were
not tender to the vanquished.
There was a moment of stupor when we heard that we had to pay two
hundred million francs in cash immediately, for our finances were in
such a pitiful state that we shuddered at the idea that we might not be
able to make up the sum of two hundred millions.
Baron Alphonse de Rothschild, who was shut up in Paris with his wife and
brothers, gave his signature for the two hundred millions. This fine
deed was soon forgotten, and there are even people who gainsay it.
Ah, the ingratitude of the masses is a disgrace to civilised humanity!
“Ingratitude is the evil peculiar to the white races,” said a Red-skin,
and he was right.
When we heard in Paris that the armistice was signed for twenty days, a
frightful sadness took possession of us all, even of those who most
ardently wished for peace.
Every Parisian felt on his cheek the hand of the conqueror. It was the
brand of shame, the blow given by the abominable treaty of peace.
Oh, that 31st of January 1871! I remember so well that I was anæmic from
privation, undermined by grief, tortured with anxiety about my family,
and I went out with Madame Guérard and two friends towards the Parc
Monceau. Suddenly one of my friends, M. de Plancy, turned as pale as
death. I looked to see what was the matter, and noticed a soldier
passing by. He had no weapons. Two others passed, and they also had no
weapons. And they were so pale too, these poor disarmed soldiers, these
humble heroes; there was such evident grief and hopelessness in their
very gait; and their eyes, as they looked at us women, seemed to say,
“It is not our fault!” It was all so pitiful, so touching. I burst out
sobbing, and went back home at once, for I did not want to meet any more
disarmed French soldiers.
I decided to set off now as quickly as possible in search of my family.
I asked Paul de Rémusat to get me an audience with M. Thiers, in order
to obtain from him a passport for leaving Paris. But I could not go
alone. I felt that the journey I was about to undertake was a very
dangerous one. M. Thiers and Paul de Rémusat had warned me of this. I
could see, therefore, that I should be constantly in the society of my
travelling companion, and on this account I decided not to take a
servant with me, but a friend. I very naturally went at once to Madame
Guérard. Her husband, gentle though he was, refused absolutely to let
her go with me, as he considered this expedition mad and dangerous. Mad
it certainly was, and dangerous too.
I did not insist, but I sent for my son’s governess, Mlle. Soubise. I
asked her whether she would go with me, and did not attempt to conceal
from her any of the dangers of the journey. She jumped with joy, and
said she would be ready within twelve hours. This girl is at present the
wife of Commandant Monfils Chesneau. And how strange life is, for she is
now teaching the two daughters of my son, her former pupil.
Mlle. Soubise was then very young, and in appearance like a Creole. She
had very beautiful dark eyes, with a gentle, timid expression, and the
voice of a child. Her head, however, was full of adventure, romance, and
day-dreams. In appearance we might both have been taken for quite young
girls, for, although I was older than she was, my slenderness and my
face made me look younger. It would have been absurd to try to take a
trunk with us, so I took a bag for us both. We only had a change of
linen and some stockings. I had my revolver, and I offered one to Mlle.
Soubise, but she refused it with horror, and showed me an enormous pair
of scissors in an enormous case.
“But what are you going to do with them?” I asked.
“I shall kill myself if we are attacked,” she replied.
I was surprised at the difference in our characters. I was taking a
revolver, determined to protect myself by killing others; she was
determined to protect herself by killing herself.
XVIII
A BOLD JOURNEY THROUGH THE GERMAN LINES
On February 4 we started on this journey, which was to have lasted three
days, and lasted eleven. At the first gate at which I presented myself
for leaving Paris I was sent back in the most brutal fashion.
Permissions to go outside the city had to be submitted for signature at
the German outposts. I went to another gate, but it was only at the
postern gate of Poissonniers that I could get my passport signed.
We were taken into a little shed which had been transformed into an
office. A Prussian general was seated there. He looked me up and down,
and then said:
“Are you Sarah Bernhardt?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“And this young lady is with you?”
“Yes.”
“And you think you are going to cross easily?”
“I hope so.”
“Well then, you are mistaken, and you would do better to stay inside
Paris.”
“No; I want to leave. I’ll see myself what will happen, but I want to
leave.”
He shrugged his shoulders, called an officer, said something I did not
understand in German, and then went out, leaving us alone without our
passports.
We had been there about a quarter of an hour when I suddenly heard a
voice I knew. It was that of one of my friends, René Griffon, who had
heard of my departure, and had come after me to try to dissuade me. The
trouble he had taken was all in vain, though, as I was determined to
leave. The general returned soon after, and Griffon was anxious to know
what might happen to us.
“Everything!” returned the officer. “And worse than everything!”
Griffon spoke German, and had a short colloquy with the officer about
us. This rather annoyed me, for, as I did not understand, I imagined
that he was urging the general to prevent us from starting. I
nevertheless resisted all persuasions, supplications, and even threats.
A few minutes later a well-appointed vehicle drew up at the door of the
shed.
“There you are!” said the German officer roughly. “I am sending you to
Gonesse, where you will find the provision train which starts in an
hour. I am recommending you to the care of the station-master, the
Commandant X. After that may God take care of you!”
I stepped into the general’s carriage, and said farewell to my friend,
who was in despair. We arrived at Gonesse, and got out at the station,
where we saw a little group of people talking in low voices. The
coachman made me a military salute, refused what I wished to give him,
and drove away at full speed. I advanced towards the group, wondering to
whom I ought to speak, when a friendly voice exclaimed, “What, you here!
Where have you come from? Where are you going?” It was Villaret, the
tenor in vogue at the Opéra. He was going to his young wife, I believe,
of whom he had had no news for five months. He introduced one of his
friends, who was travelling with him, and whose name I do not remember;
General Pelissier’s son, and a very old man, so pale, and so sad-looking
and woebegone, that I felt quite sorry for him. He was a M. Gerson, and
was going to Belgium to take his grandson to his godmother’s. His two
sons had been killed during this pitiful war. One of the sons was
married, and his wife had died of sorrow and despair. He was taking the
orphan boy to his godmother, and he hoped to die himself as soon as
possible afterwards.
Ah, the poor fellow, he was only fifty-nine then, and he was so cruelly
ravaged by his grief that I took him for seventy.
Besides these five persons, there was an unbearable chatterer named
Théodore Joussian, a wine dealer. Oh, he did not require any
introduction.
“How do you do, Madame?” he began. “How fortunate that you are going to
travel with us. Ah, the journey will be a difficult one. Where are you
going? Two women alone! It is not at all prudent, especially as all the
routes are crowded with German and French sharpshooters, marauders, and
thieves. Oh, haven’t I demolished some of those German sharpshooters!
Sh—— We must speak quietly, though; these sly fellows are very quick of
hearing!” He then pointed to the German officers who were walking up and
down. “Ah, the rascals!” he went on. “If I had my uniform and my gun
they would not walk so boldly in front of Théodore Joussian. I have no
fewer than six helmets at home....”
The man got on my nerves, and I turned my back on him and looked to see
which of the men before me could be the station-master.
A tall young German, with his arm in a sling, came towards me with an
open letter. It was the one which the general’s coachman had handed to
him, recommending me to his care. He held out his sound arm to me, but I
refused it. He bowed and led the way, and I followed him, accompanied by
Mlle. Soubise.
On arriving in his office he gave us seats at a little table, upon which
knives and forks were placed for two persons. It was then three o’clock
in the afternoon, and we had had nothing, not even a drop of water,
since the evening before. I was very much touched by this
thoughtfulness, and we did honour to the very simple but refreshing meal
offered us by the young officer.
Whilst we lunched I looked at him when he was not noticing me. He was
very young, and his face bore traces of recent suffering. I felt a
compassionate tenderness for this unfortunate man, who was crippled for
life, and my hatred for war increased still more.
He suddenly said to me, in rather bad French, “I think I can give you
news of one of your friends.”
“What is his name?” I asked.
“Emmanuel Bocher.”
“Oh yes, he is certainly a great friend of mine. How is he?”
“He is still a prisoner, but he is very well.”
“But I thought he had been released,” I said.
“Some of those who were taken with him were released, on giving their
word never to take up arms against us again, but he refused to give his
word.”
“Oh, the brave soldier!” I exclaimed, in spite of myself.
The young German looked at me with his clear sad eyes.
“Yes,” he said simply, “the brave soldier!”
When we had finished our luncheon I rose to return to the other
travellers.
“The compartment reserved for you will not be here for two hours,” said
the young officer. “If you would like to rest, ladies, I will come for
you at the right time.” He went away, and before long I was sound
asleep. I was nearly dead with fatigue.
Mlle. Soubise touched me on the shoulder to rouse me. The train was
ready to start, and the young officer walked with me to it. I was a
little amazed when I saw the carriage in which I was to travel. It had
no roof, and was filled with coal. The officer had several empty sacks
put in, one on the top of the other, to make our seats less hard. He
sent for his officer’s cloak, begging me to take it with us and send it
him back, but I refused this odious disguise most energetically. It was
a deadly cold day, but I preferred dying of cold to muffling up in a
cloak belonging to the enemy.
The whistle was blown, the wounded officer saluted, and the train
started. There were Prussian soldiers in the carriages. The
subordinates, the employés, and the soldiers were just as brutish and
rude as the German officers were polite and courteous.
The train stopped without any plausible reason, it started again to stop
again, and it then stood still for an hour on this icy cold night. On
arriving at Creil, the stoker, the engine-driver, the soldiers, and
every one else got out. I watched all these men, whistling, bawling to
each other, spitting, and bursting into laughter as they pointed to us.
Were they not the conquerors and we the conquered?
At Creil we stayed more than two hours. We could hear the distant sound
of foreign music and the hurrahs of Germans who were making merry. All
this hubbub came from a white house about five hundred yards away. We
could distinguish the outlines of human beings locked in each other’s
arms, waltzing and turning round and round in a giddy revel.
It began to get on my nerves, for it seemed likely to continue until
daylight.
I got out with Villaret, intending at any rate to stretch my limbs. We
went towards the white house, and then, as I did not want to tell him my
plan, I asked him to wait there for me.
Very fortunately, though, for me, I had not time to cross the threshold
of this vile lodging-house, for an officer, smoking a cigarette, was
just coming out of a small door. He spoke to me in German.
“I am French,” I replied, and he then came up to me, speaking my
language, for they could all talk French.
He asked me what I was doing there. My nerves were overstrung. I told
him feverishly of our lamentable Odyssey since our departure from
Gonesse, and finally of our waiting two hours in an icy cold carriage
while the stokers, engine-drivers, and conductors were all dancing in
this house.
“But I had no idea that there were passengers in those carriages, and it
was I who gave permission to these men to dance and drink. The guard of
the train told me that he was taking cattle and goods, and that he did
not need to arrive before eight in the morning, and I believed him——”
“Well, Monsieur,” I said, “the only cattle in the train are the eight
French passengers, and I should be very much obliged if you would give
orders that the journey should be continued.”
“Make your mind easy about that, Madame,” he replied. “Will you come in
and rest? I am here just now on a round of inspection, and am staying
for a few days in this inn. You shall have a cup of tea, and that will
refresh you.”
I told him that I had a friend waiting for me in the road and a lady in
the railway carriage.
“But that makes no difference,” he said. “Let us go and fetch them.”
A few minutes later we found poor Villaret seated on a milestone. His
head was on his knees, and he was asleep. I asked him to fetch Mlle.
Soubise.
“And if your other travelling companions will come and take a cup of tea
they will be welcome,” said the officer. I went back with him, and we
entered by the little door through which I had seen him come out. It was
a fairly large room which we entered, on a level with the meadow; there
were some mats on the floor, a very low bed, and an enormous table, on
which were two large maps of France. One of these was studded over with
pins and small flags. There was also a portrait of the Emperor William,
mounted and fastened up with four pins. All this belonged to the
officer.
On the chimney-piece, under an enormous glass shade, were a bride’s
wreath, a military medal, and a plait of white hair. On each side of the
glass shade was a china vase containing a branch of box. All this,
together with the table and the bed, belonged to the landlady, who had
given up her room to the officer.
There were five cane chairs round the table, a velvet arm-chair, and a
wooden bench covered with books against the wall. A sword and belt were
lying on the table, and two horse-pistols.
I was philosophising to myself on all these heterogeneous objects, when
the others arrived: Mlle. Soubise, Villaret, young Gerson, and that
unbearable Théodore Joussian. (I hope he will forgive me if he is living
now, poor man, but the thought of him still irritates me.)
The officer had some boiling hot tea made for us, and it was a veritable
treat, as we were exhausted with hunger and cold.
When the door was opened for the tea to be brought in Théodore Joussian
caught a glimpse of the throng of girls, soldiers, and other people.
“Ah, my friends,” he exclaimed, with a burst of laughter, “we are at His
Majesty William’s; there is a reception on, and it’s _chic_—I can tell
you that!” With this he smacked his tongue twice. Villaret reminded him
that we were the guests of a German, and that it was preferable to be
quiet.
“That’s enough, that’s enough!” he replied, lighting a cigarette.
A frightful uproar of oaths and shouts now took the place of the
deafening sound of the orchestra, and the incorrigible Southerner half
opened the door.
I could see the officer giving orders to two sub-officers, who in their
turn separated the groups, seizing the stoker, the engine-driver, and
the other men belonging to the train, so roughly that I was sorry for
them. They were kicked in the back, they received blows with the flat of
the sword on the shoulder; a blow with the butt end of a gun knocked the
guard of the train down. He was the ugliest brute, though, that I have
ever seen. All these people were sobered in a few seconds, and went back
towards our carriage with a hang-dog look and a threatening mien.
We followed them, but I did not feel any too satisfied as to what might
happen to us on the way with this queer lot. The officer evidently had a
similar idea, for he ordered one of the sub-officers to accompany us as
far as Amiens. This sub-officer got into our carriage, and we set off
again. We arrived at Amiens at six in the morning. Daylight had not yet
succeeded in piercing through the night clouds. Light rain was falling,
which was hardened by the cold. There was not a carriage to be had, not
even a porter. I wanted to go to the Hôtel du Cheval-Blanc, but a man
who happened to be there said to me: “It’s no use, my little lady;
there’s no room there, even for a lath like you. Go to the house over
there with a balcony; they can put some people up.”
With these words he turned his back on me. Villaret had gone off without
saying a word. M. Gerson and his grandson had disappeared silently in a
covered country cart hermetically closed. A stout, ruddy, thick-set
matronly woman was waiting for them, but the coachman looked as though
he were in the service of well-to-do people. General Pelissier’s son,
who had not uttered a word since we had left Gonesse, had disappeared
like a ball from the hands of a conjurer.
Théodore Joussian politely offered to accompany us, and I was so weary
that I accepted his offer. He picked up our bag and began to walk at
full speed, so that we had difficulty in keeping up with him. He was so
breathless with the walk that he could not talk, which was a great
relief to me.
Finally we arrived at the house and entered, but my horror was great on
seeing that the hall of the hotel had been transformed into a dormitory.
We could scarcely walk between the mattresses laid down on the ground,
and the grumbling of the people was by no means promising.
When once we were in the office a young girl in mourning told us that
there was not a room vacant. I sank down on a chair, and Mlle. Soubise
leaned against the wall with her arms hanging down, looking most
dejected.
The odious Joussian then yelled out that they could not let two women as
young as we were be out in the street all night. He went to the
proprietress of the hotel and said something quietly about me. I do not
know what it was, but I heard my name distinctly. The young woman in
mourning then looked up with moist eyes.
“My brother was a poet,” she said. “He wrote a very pretty sonnet about
you after seeing you play in _Le Passant_ more than ten times. He took
me, too, to see you, and I enjoyed myself so much that night. It is all
over, though.” She lifted her hands towards her head and sobbed, trying
to stifle back her cries. “It’s all over!” she repeated. “He is dead!
They have killed him! It is all over! All over!”
I got up, moved to the depth of my being by this terrible grief. I put
my arms round her and kissed her, crying myself, and whispering to her
words of comfort and hope.
Calmed by my words and touched by my sisterliness, she wiped her eyes,
and taking my hand, led me gently away. Soubise followed. I signed to
Joussian in an authoritative way to stay where he was, and we went up
the two flights of stairs of the hotel in silence. At the end of a
narrow corridor she opened a door. We found ourselves in rather a big
room, reeking with the smell of tobacco. A small night-lamp, placed on a
little table by the bed, was the only light in this large room. The
wheezing respiration of a human breast disturbed the silence. I looked
towards the bed, and by the faint light from the little lamp I saw a man
half seated, propped up by a heap of pillows. The man was aged-looking
rather than really old. His beard and hair were white, and his face bore
traces of suffering. Two large furrows were formed from the eyes to the
corners of the mouth. What tears must have rolled down that poor
emaciated face!
The girl went quietly towards the bed, signed to us to come inside the
room, and then shut the door. We walked across on tip-toes to the far
end of the room, our arms stretched out to maintain our equilibrium. I
sat down with precaution on a large Empire couch, and Soubise took a
seat beside me. The man in bed half opened his eyes.
“What is it, my child?” he asked.
“Nothing, father; nothing serious,” she replied. “I wanted to tell you,
so that you should not be surprised when you woke up. I have just given
hospitality in our room to two ladies who are here.”
He turned his head in an annoyed way, and tried to look at us at the end
of the room.
“The lady with fair hair,” continued the girl, “is Sarah Bernhardt, whom
Lucien liked so much, you remember?”
The man sat up, and shading his eyes with his hand peered at us. I went
near to him. He gazed at me silently, and then made a gesture with his
hand. His daughter understood the gesture, and brought him an envelope
from a small bureau. The unhappy father’s hands trembled as he took it.
He drew out slowly three sheets of paper and a photograph. He fixed his
gaze on me and then on the portrait.
“Yes, yes; it certainly is you, it certainly is you,” he murmured.
I recognised my photograph, taken in _Le Passant_, smelling a rose.
“You see,” said the poor man, his eyes veiled by tears, “you were this
child’s idol. These are the lines he wrote about you.”
He then read me, in his quavering voice, with a slight Picardian accent,
a very pretty sonnet, which he refused to give me. He then unfolded a
second paper, on which some verses to Sarah Bernhardt were scrawled. The
third paper was a sort of triumphant chant, celebrating all our
victories over the enemy.
“The poor fellow still hoped, until he was killed,” said the father. “He
has only been dead five weeks. He had three shots in his head. The first
shattered his jaw, but he did not fall. He continued firing on the
scoundrels like a man possessed. The second took his ear off, and the
third struck him in his right eye. He fell then, never to rise again.
His comrade told us all this. He was twenty-two years old. And now—it’s
all over!”
The unhappy man’s head fell back on the heap of pillows. His two inert
hands had let the papers fall, and great tears rolled down his pale
cheeks, in the furrows formed by grief. A stifled groan burst from his
lips. The girl had fallen on her knees, and buried her head in the bed-
clothes, to deaden the sound of her sobs. Soubise and I were completely
upset. Ah! those stifled sobs, those deadened groans seemed to buzz in
my ears, and I felt everything giving way under me. I stretched my hands
out into space and closed my eyes.
Soon there was a distant rumbling noise, which increased and came
nearer; then yells of pain, bones knocking against each other, the dull
sound of horses’ feet dashing out human brains; armed men passed by like
a destructive whirlwind, shouting, “_Vive la guerre!_” And women on
their knees, with outstretched arms, crying out, “War is infamous! In
the name of our wombs which bore you, of our breasts which suckled you,
in the name of our pain in childbirth, in the name of our anguish over
your cradles, let this cease!”
But the savage whirlwind passed by, riding over the women. I stretched
my arms out in a supreme effort which woke me suddenly. I was lying in
the girl’s bed. Mlle. Soubise, who was near me, was holding my hand. A
man whom I did not know, but whom some one called doctor, laid me gently
down again on the bed. I had some difficulty in collecting my thoughts.
“How long have I been here?” I asked.
“Since last night,” replied the gentle voice of Soubise. “You fainted,
and the doctor told us that you had an attack of fever. Oh, I have been
very frightened!”
I turned my face to the doctor.
“Yes, dear lady,” he said. “You must be very prudent now for the next
forty-eight hours, and then you may set out again. But you have had a
great many shocks for one with such delicate health. You must take
care.”
I took the draught that he was holding out to me, apologised to the
owner of the house, who had just come in, and then turned round with my
face to the wall. I needed rest so very, very much.