ground. We walked on in silence straight towards him. I took the colt by
the bridle, on the other side, and the boy no doubt understood what I
intended to do, for he let me lead the way. I walked straight towards
the man, pretending not to know he was there. The colt backed, but we
pulled hard and made it advance. We were so near to the man that I
shuddered at the thought that the wretch would perhaps allow himself to
be trampled over by the animal and the light vehicle rather than reveal
his presence. Fortunately, I was mistaken. A stifled voice murmured,
“Take care there! I am wounded. You will run over me.” I took the gig
lantern down. We had covered it with a jacket, as the moon lighted us
better, and I now turned it on the face of this wretch. I was stupefied
to see a man of from sixty-five to seventy years of age, with a hollow-
looking face, framed with long, dirty white whiskers. He had a muffler
round his neck, and was wearing a peasant’s cloak of a dark colour.
Around him, shown up by the moon, were sword belts, brass buttons, sword
hilts, and other objects that the infamous old fellow had torn from the
poor dead.
“You are not wounded. You are a thief and a violator of tombs! I shall
call out and you will be killed. Do you hear that, you miserable
wretch?” I exclaimed, and I went so near to him that I could feel his
breath sully mine. He crouched down on his knees and, clasping his
criminal hands, implored me in a trembling, tearful voice.
“Leave your bag there, then,” I said, “and all those things. Empty your
pockets; leave everything and go. Run, for as soon as you are out of
sight I shall call one of those soldiers who are making searches, and
give them your plunder. I know I am doing wrong, though, in letting you
go free.”
He emptied his pockets, groaning all the time, and was just going away
when the lad whispered, “He’s hiding some boots under his cloak.” I was
furious with rage with this vile thief, and I pulled his big cloak off.
“Leave everything, you wretched man,” I exclaimed, “or I will call the
soldiers.”
Six pairs of boots, taken from the corpses, fell noisily on to the hard
ground. The man stooped down for his revolver, which he had taken out of
his pocket at the same time as the stolen objects.
“Will you leave that, and get away quickly?” I said. “My patience is at
an end.”
“But if I am caught I shan’t be able to defend myself,” he exclaimed, in
a fit of desperate rage.
“It will be because God willed it so,” I answered. “Go at once, or I
will call.” The man then made off, abusing me as he went.
Our little driver then fetched a soldier, to whom I related the
adventure, showing him the objects.
“Which way did the rascal go?” asked a sergeant who had come with the
soldier.
“I can’t say,” I replied.
“Oh well, I don’t care to run after him,” he said; “there are enough
dead men here.”
We continued our way until we came to a place where several roads met,
and it was then possible for us to take a route a little more suitable
for vehicles.
After going through Busigny and a wood, where there were bogs in which
we only just escaped being swallowed up, our painful journey came to an
end, and we arrived at Cateau in the night, half dead with fatigue,
fright, and despair.
I was obliged to take a day’s rest there, for I was prostrate with
feverishness. We had two little rooms, roughly white-washed but quite
clean. The floor was of red, shiny bricks, and there was a polished wood
bed and white curtains.
I sent for a doctor for my charming little Soubise, who, it seemed to
me, was worse than I was. He thought we were both in a very bad state,
though. A nervous feverishness had taken all the use out of my limbs and
made my head burn. She could not keep still, but kept seeing spectres
and fires, hearing shouts and turning round quickly, imagining that some
one had touched her on the shoulder. The good man gave us a soothing
draught to overcome our fatigue, and the next day a very hot bath
brought back the suppleness to our limbs. It was then six days since we
had left Paris, and it would take about twenty more hours to reach
Homburg, for in those days trains went much less quickly than at
present. I took a train for Brussels, where I was counting on buying a
trunk and a few necessary things.
From Cateau to Brussels there was no hindrance to our journey, and we
were able to take the train again the same evening.
I had replenished our wardrobe, which certainly needed it, and we
continued our journey without much difficulty as far as Cologne. But on
arriving in that city we had a cruel disappointment. The train had only
just entered the station, when a railway official, passing quickly in
front of the carriages, shouted something in German which I did not
catch. Every one seemed to be in a hurry, and men and women pushed each
other without any courtesy.
I addressed another official and showed him our tickets. He took up my
bag, very obligingly, and hurried after the crowd. We followed, but I
did not understand the excitement until the man flung my bag into a
compartment and signed to me to get in as quickly as possible.
Soubise was already on the step when she was pushed aside violently by a
railway porter, who slammed the door, and before I was fully aware of
what had happened the train had disappeared. My bag had gone, and our
trunk also. The trunk had been placed in a luggage van that had been
unhooked from the train which had just arrived, and immediately fastened
on to the express now departing. I began to cry with rage. An official
took pity on us and led us to the station-master. He was a very superior
sort of man, who spoke French fairly well. I sank down in his great
leather arm-chair and told him my misadventure, sobbing nervously. He
looked kind and sympathetic. He immediately telegraphed for my bag and
trunk to be given into the care of the station-master at the first
station.
“You will have them again to-morrow, towards mid-day,” he said.
“Then I cannot start this evening?” I asked.
“Oh no, that is impossible,” he replied. “There is no train, for the
express that will take you to Homburg does not start before to-morrow
morning.”
“Oh God, God!” I exclaimed, and I was seized with veritable despair,
which soon affected Mlle. Soubise too.
The poor station-master was rather embarrassed, and tried to soothe me.
“Do you know any one here?” he asked.
“No, no one. I do not know any one in Cologne.”
“Well then, I will have you driven to the Hôtel du Nord. My sister-in-
law has been there for two days, and she will look after you.”
Half an hour later his carriage arrived, and he took us to the Hôtel du
Nord, after driving a long way round to show us the city. But at that
epoch I did not admire anything belonging to the Germans.
On arriving at the Hôtel du Nord, he introduced us to his sister-in-law,
a fair-haired young woman, pretty, but too tall and too big for my
taste. I must say, though, that she was very sweet and affable. She
engaged two bedrooms for us near her own rooms. She had a flat on the
ground floor, and she invited us to dinner, which was served in her
drawing-room. Her brother-in-law joined us in the evening. The charming
woman was very musical. She played to us from Berlioz, Gounod, and even
Auber. I thoroughly appreciated the delicacy of this woman in only
letting us hear French composers. I asked her to play us something from
Mozart and Wagner. At that name she turned to me and exclaimed, “Do you
like Wagner?”
“I like his music,” I replied, “but I detest the man.”
Mlle. Soubise whispered to me, “Ask her to play Liszt.”
She overheard, and complied with infinite graciousness. I must admit
that I spent a delightful evening there.
At ten o’clock the station-master (whose name I have very stupidly
forgotten, and I cannot find it in any of my notes) told me that he
would call for us at eight the following morning, and he then took leave
of us. I fell asleep, lulled by Mozart, Gounod, &c.
At eight o’clock the next morning a servant came to tell me that the
carriage was waiting for us. There was a gentle knock at my door, and
our beautiful hostess of the previous evening said sweetly, “Come, you
must start!” I was really very much touched by the delicacy of the
pretty German woman.
It was such a fine day that I asked her if we should have time to walk
there, and on her reply in the affirmative we all three started for the
station, which is not far from the hotel. A special compartment had been
reserved for us, and we installed ourselves in it as comfortably as
possible. The brother and sister shook hands with us, and wished us a
pleasant journey.
When the train had started I discovered in one of the corners a bouquet
of forget-me-nots with the sister’s card and a box of chocolates from
the station-master.
I was at last about to arrive at my goal, and was in a state of wild
excitement at the idea of seeing once more all my beloved ones. I should
have liked to have gone to sleep. My eyes, which had grown larger with
anxiety, travelled through space more rapidly than the train went. I
fumed each time it stopped, and envied the birds I saw flying along. I
laughed with delight as I thought of the surprised faces of those I was
going to see again, and then I began to tremble with anxiety. What had
happened to them, and should I find them all? I should if——ah, those
“ifs,” those “becauses,” and those “buts”! My mind became full of them,
they bristled with illnesses and accidents, and I began to weep. My poor
little travelling companion began to weep too.
Finally we came within sight of Homburg. Twenty more minutes of this
turning of wheels and we should enter the station. But just as though
all the sprites and devils from the infernal regions had concerted to
torture my patience, we stopped short. All heads were out of the
windows. “What is it?” “What’s the matter?” “Why are we not going on?”
There was a train in front of us at a standstill, with a broken brake,
and the line had to be cleared. I fell back on my seat, clenching my
teeth and hands, and looking up in the air to distinguish the evil
spirits which were so bent on tormenting me, and then I resolutely
closed my eyes. I muttered some invectives against the invisible
sprites, and declared that, as I would not suffer any more, I was now
going to sleep. I then fell fast asleep, for the power of sleeping when
I wish is a precious gift which God has bestowed on me. In the most
frightful circumstances and the most cruel moments of life, when I have
felt that my reason was giving way under shocks that have been too great
or too painful, my will has laid hold of my reason, just as one holds a
bad-tempered little dog that wants to bite, and, subjugating it, my will
has said to my reason: “Enough. You can take up again to-morrow your
suffering and your plans, your anxiety, your sorrow and your anguish.
You have had enough for to-day. You would give way altogether under the
weight of so many troubles, and you would drag me along with you. I will
not have it! We will forget everything for so many hours and go to sleep
together!” And I have gone to sleep. This, I swear to.
Mlle. Soubise roused me as soon as the train entered the station. I was
refreshed and calmer. A minute later we were in a carriage and had given
the address, 7 Ober Strasse.
We were soon there, and I found all my adored ones, big and little, and
they were all very well. Oh, what happiness it was! The blood pulsed in
all my arteries. I had suffered so much that I burst out into delicious
laughter and sobs.
Who can ever describe the infinite pleasure of tears of joy! During the
next two days the maddest things occurred, which I will not relate, so
incredible would they sound. Among others, fire broke out in the house;
we had to escape in our night clothes and camp out for six hours in five
feet of snow, &c. &c.
XIX
MY RETURN TO PARIS—THE COMMUNE—AT ST. GERMAIN-EN-LAYE
Everybody being safe and sound, we set out for Paris, but on arriving at
St. Denis we found there were no more trains. It was four o’clock in the
morning. The Germans were masters of all the suburbs of Paris, and
trains only ran for their service. After an hour spent in running about,
in discussions and rebuffs, I met with an officer of higher rank, who
was better educated and more agreeable. He had a locomotive prepared to
take me to the Gare du Hâvre (Gare St. Lazare).
The journey was very amusing. My mother, my aunt, my sister Régina,
Mlle. Soubise, the two maids, the children, and I all squeezed into a
little square space, in which there was a very small, narrow bench,
which I think was the place for the signalman in those days. The engine
went very slowly, as the rails were frequently obstructed by carts or
railway carriages.
We left at five in the morning and arrived at seven. At a place which I
cannot locate our German conductors were exchanged for French
conductors. I questioned them, and learnt that revolutionary troubles
were beginning in Paris.
The stoker with whom I was talking was a very intelligent and very
advanced individual.
“You would do better to go somewhere else, and not to Paris,” he said,
“for before long they will come to blows there.”
We had arrived. But as no train was expected in at that hour, it was
impossible to find a carriage. I got down with my tribe from the
locomotive, to the great amazement of the station officials.
I was no longer very rich, but I offered twenty francs to one of the men
if he would see to our six bags. We were to send for my trunk and those
belonging to my family later on.
There was not a single carriage outside the station. The children were
very tired, but what was to be done? I was then living at No. 4 Rue de
Rome, and this was not far away, but my mother scarcely ever walked, for
she was delicate and had a weak heart. The children, too, were very,
very tired. Their eyes were puffed up and scarcely open, and their
little limbs were benumbed by the cold and immobility. I began to get
desperate, but a milk cart was just passing by, and I sent a porter to
hail it. I offered twenty francs if the man would drive my mother and
the two children to 4 Rue de Rome.
“And you too, if you like, young lady,” said the milkman. “You are
thinner than a grasshopper, and you won’t make it any heavier.”
I did not want inviting twice, although rather annoyed by the man’s
speech.
When once my mother was installed, in spite of her hesitation, by the
side of the milkman, and the children and I were in amongst the full and
empty milk-pails, I said to our driver, “Would you mind coming back to
fetch the others?” I pointed to the remaining group, and added, “You
shall have twenty francs more.”
“Right you are!” said the worthy fellow. “A good day’s work! Don’t you
tire your legs, you others. I’ll be back for you directly!”
He then whipped up his horse and we started at a wild rate. The children
rolled about and I held on. My mother set her teeth and did not utter a
word, but from under her long lashes she glanced at me with a displeased
look.
On arriving at my door the milkman drew up his horse so sharply that I
thought my mother would have fallen out on to the animal’s back. We had
arrived, though, and we got out. The cart started off again at full
speed. My mother would not speak to me for about an hour. Poor, pretty
mother, it was not my fault.
I had gone away from Paris eleven days before, and had then left a sad
city. The sadness had been painful, the result of a great and unexpected
misfortune. No one had dared to look up, fearing to be blown upon by the
same wind which was blowing the German flag floating yonder towards the
Arc de Triomphe.
I now found Paris effervescent and grumbling. The walls were placarded
with multi-coloured posters; and all these posters contained the wildest
harangues. Fine noble ideas were side by side with absurd threats.
Workmen on their way to their daily toil stopped in front of these
bills. One would read aloud, and the gathering crowd would begin to read
over again.
And all these human beings, who had just been suffering so much through
this abominable war, now echoed these appeals for vengeance. They were
very much to be excused.
This war, alas! had hollowed out under their very feet a gulf of ruin
and of mourning. Poverty had brought the women to rags, the privations
of the siege had lowered the vitality of the children, and the shame of
the defeat had discouraged the men.
Well, these appeals to rebellion, these anarchist shouts, these yells
from the crowd, shrieking: “Down with thrones! Down with the Republic!
Down with the rich! Down with the priests! Down with the Jews! Down with
the army! Down with the masters! Down with those who work! Down with
everything!”—all these cries roused the benumbed hearers. The Germans,
who fomented all these riots, rendered us a real service without
intending it. Those who had given themselves up to resignation were
stirred out of their torpor. Others, who demanded revenge, found an
aliment for their inactive forces. None of them agreed. There were ten
or twenty different parties, devouring each other and threatening each
other. It was terrible.
But it was the awakening. It was life after death. I had among my
friends about ten of the leaders of different opinions, and all of them
interested me, the maddest and the wisest of them.
I often saw Gambetta at Girardin’s, and it was a joy to me to listen to
this admirable man. What he said was so wise, so well-balanced, and so
captivating.
This man, with his heavy stomach, his short arms, and huge head, had a
halo of beauty round him when he spoke.
Gambetta was never common, never ordinary. He took snuff, and the
gesture of his hand when he brushed away the stray grains was full of
grace. He smoked huge cigars, but could smoke them without
inconveniencing any one. When he was tired of politics and talked
literature it was a real charm, for he knew everything and quoted poetry
admirably. One evening, after a dinner at Girardin’s, we played together
the whole scene of the first act of _Hernani_ with Dona Sol. And if he
was not as handsome as Mounet-Sully, he was just as admirable in it.
On another occasion he recited the whole of “Ruth and Boaz,” commencing
with the last verse.
But I preferred his political discussions, especially when he criticised
the speech of some one who was of the opposite opinion to himself. The
eminent qualities of this politician’s talent were logic and weight, and
his seductive force was his chauvinism. The early death of so great a
thinker is a disconcerting challenge flung at human pride.
I sometimes saw Rochefort, whose wit delighted me. I was not at ease
with him, though, for he was the cause of the fall of the Empire, and,
although I am very republican, I liked the Emperor Napoleon III. He had
been too trustful, but very unfortunate, and it seemed to me that
Rochefort insulted him too much after his misfortune.
I also frequently saw Paul de Rémusat, the favourite of Thiers. He had
great refinement of mind, broad ideas, and fascinating manners. Some
people accused him of Orleanism. He was a Republican, and a much more
advanced Republican than Thiers. One must have known him very little to
believe him to be anything else but what he said he was. Paul de Rémusat
had a horror of untruth. He was sensitive, and had a very
straightforward, strong character. He took no active part in politics,
except in private circles, and his advice always prevailed, even in the
Chamber and in the Senate. He would never speak except when in
committee. The Ministry of Fine Arts was offered to him a hundred times,
but he refused it a hundred times. Finally, after my repeated
entreaties, he almost allowed himself to be appointed Minister of Fine
Arts, but at the last moment he declined, and wrote me a delightful
letter, from which I quote a few passages. As the letter was not written
for publication, I do not consider that I have a right to give the whole
of it, but there seems to be no harm in publishing these few lines:
“Allow me, my charming friend, to remain in the shade. I can see
better there than in the dazzling brilliancy of honours. You are
grateful to me sometimes for being attentive to the miseries you point
out to me. Let me keep my independence. It is more agreeable to me to
have the right to relieve every one than to be obliged to relieve no
matter whom.... In matters of art I have made for myself an ideal of
beauty, which would naturally seem too partial....”
It is a great pity that the scruples of this delicate-minded man did not
allow him to accept this office. The reforms that he pointed out to me
were, and still are, very necessary ones. However, that cannot be
helped.
I also knew and frequently saw a mad sort of fellow, full of dreams and
Utopian follies. His name was Flourens, and he was tall and nice-
looking. He wanted every one to be happy and every one to have money,
and he shot down the soldiers without reflecting that he was commencing
by making one or more of them unhappy. Reasoning with him was
impossible, but he was charming and brave. I saw him two days before his
death. He came to see me with a very young girl who wanted to devote
herself to dramatic art. I promised him to help her. Two days later the
poor child came to tell me of the heroic death of Flourens. He had
refused to surrender, and, stretching out his arms, had shouted to the
hesitating soldiers, “Shoot, shoot! I should not have spared you!” And
their bullets had killed him.
Another man, not so interesting, whom I looked upon as a dangerous
madman, was a certain Raoul Rigault. For a short time he was Prefect of
Police. He was very young and very daring, wildly ambitious, determined
to do anything to succeed, and it seemed to him more easy to do harm
than good. That man was a real danger. He belonged to a group of
students who used to send me verses every day. I came across them
everywhere, enthusiastic and mad. They had been nicknamed in Paris the
_Saradoteurs_ (Sara-dotards). One day he brought me a little one-act
play. The piece was so stupid and the verses were so insipid that I sent
it him back with a few words, which he no doubt considered unkind, for
he bore me malice for them, and attempted to avenge himself in the
following way. He called on me one day, and Madame Guérard was there
when he was shown in.
“Do you know that I am all-powerful at present?” he said.
“In these days there is nothing surprising in that,” I replied.
“I have come to see you, either to make peace or declare war,” he
continued.
This way of talking did not suit me, and I sprang up. “As I can foresee
that your conditions of peace would not suit me, _cher Monsieur_, I will
not give you time to declare war. You are one of the men one would
prefer, no matter how spiteful they might be, as enemies rather than
friends.” With these words I rang for my footman to show the Prefect of
Police to the door. Madame Guérard was in despair. “That man will do us
some harm, my dear Sarah, I assure you,” she said.
She was not mistaken in her presentiment, except that she was thinking
of me and not of herself, for his first vengeance was taken on her, by
sending away one of her relatives, who was a police commissioner, to an
inferior and dangerous post. He then began to invent a hundred miseries
for me. One day I received an order to go at once to the Prefecture of
Police on urgent business. I took no notice. The following day a mounted
courier brought me a note from Sire Raoul Rigault, threatening to send a
prison van for me. I took no notice whatever of the threats of this
wretch, who was shot shortly after and died without showing any courage.
Life, however, was no longer possible in Paris, and I decided to go to
St. Germain-en-Laye. I asked my mother to go with me, but she went to
Switzerland with my youngest sister.
The departure from Paris was not as easy as I had hoped. Communists with
gun on shoulder stopped the trains and searched in all our bags and
pockets, and even under the cushions of the railway carriages. They were
afraid that the passengers were taking newspapers to Versailles. This
was monstrously stupid.
The installation at St. Germain was not an easy thing either. Nearly all
Paris had taken refuge in this little place, which is as pretty as it is
dull. From the height of the terrace, where the crowd remained morning
and night, we could see the alarming progress of the Commune.