I at once rose and he continued:

“Will you come into my office, mademoiselle?”

Montigny had been an actor, and was plump and good-humored. He appeared

to be somewhat infatuated with his own personality, with his _ego_, but

that did not matter to me. After some friendly conversation, he preached

a little to me about my outburst at the Comédie and made me a great many

promises about the rôles he should give me. He prepared my engagement

and gave it to me to take home for my mother’s signature and that of my

family.

“I am quite free,” I said to him, “so that my own signature is all that

is required.”

“Oh, very good!” he said, “but what nonsense to give such a self-willed

girl full liberty. Your parents did not do you a good turn by that.”

I was just on the point of replying that what my parents chose to do did

not concern him, but I held my peace, signed the engagement, and hurried

home feeling very joyful.

Montigny kept his word at first. He let me understudy Victoria

Lafontaine, a young _artiste_ very much in vogue just then, who had the

most delightful talent. I played in “La Maison sans Enfants,” and I took

her rôle at a moment’s notice in “Le Démon du Jeu,” a piece which had

great success. I was fairly good in both pieces, but Montigny, in spite

of my entreaties, never came to see me in them, and the spiteful stage

manager played me various tricks. I used to feel a sullen anger stirring

within me and I struggled with myself as much as possible to keep my

nerves calm.

One evening, on leaving the theater, a notice was handed to me

requesting me to be present at the reading of a play the following day.

Montigny had promised me a good rôle, and I fell asleep that night

lulled by fairies who carried me off into the land of glory and success.

On arriving at the theater I found Blanche Pierson and Céline Montalant

already there. Two of the prettiest creatures that God has been pleased

to create, the one as fair as the rising sun, and the other as dark as a

starry night, for she was brilliant looking in spite of her black hair.

There were other women there, too, very, very pretty ones.

The play to be read was entitled, “Un Mari qui Lance sa Femme,” and it

was by Raymond Deslandes. I listened to it without any great pleasure

and I thought it stupid. I waited anxiously to see what rôle was to be

given to me, and I discovered this only too soon. It was a certain

_Princess Dimchinka_, a frivolous, foolish, laughing individual, who was

always eating or dancing. I did not like this rôle at all. I was very

inexperienced on the stage and my timidity made me rather awkward. Then,

too, I had not worked for three years with such persistency and

conviction to create now the rôle of an idiotic woman in an imbecile

play. I was in despair, and the wildest ideas came into my head. I

wanted to give up the stage and go into business. I spoke of this to our

old family friend, Meydieu, who was so unbearable. He approved of my

idea, and wanted me to take a shop, a confectioner’s, on the Boulevard

des Italiens. This became a fixed idea with the worthy man. He loved

sweets himself, and he knew lots of recipes for kinds that were not

generally known, and which he wanted to introduce. I remember one kind

that he wanted to call “_bonbon nègre_.” It was a mixture of chocolate

and essence of coffee to be rolled into grilled licorice root. It was

like black _praline_ and was extremely good. I was very persistent in

this idea at first, and went with Meydieu to look at a shop, but when he

showed me the little flat over it where I should have to live, it upset

me so much that I gave up forever the idea of business.

I went every day to the rehearsal of the stupid piece and was

bad-tempered all the time. Finally, the first performance took place,

and my part was neither a success nor a failure. I simply was not

noticed, and at night my mother remarked:

“My poor child, you were ridiculous in your Russian princess rôle and I

was very much grieved!”

I did not answer at all, but I should honestly have liked to kill

myself. I slept very badly that night and toward six in the morning I

rushed up to Mme. Guérard’s. I asked her to give me some laudanum, but

she refused. When she saw that I really wanted it, the poor, dear woman

understood my idea.

“Well, then,” I said, “swear by your children that you will not tell

anyone what I am going to do, and then I will not kill myself.”

A sudden idea had just come into my mind, and without weighing it, I

wanted to carry it out at once. She promised, and I then told her that I

should go at once to Spain, as I had wanted to see that country for a

long time.

“Go to Spain!” she exclaimed. “With whom, and when?”

“With the money I have saved,” I answered, “and this very morning.

Everyone is asleep at home. I shall go and pack my trunk and start at

once with you!”

“No, no, I cannot go!” exclaimed Mme. Guérard, nearly beside herself.

“There is my husband to think of and, then, too, I have my children.”

Her little girl was scarcely two years old at that time.

“Well, then, _ma petite dame_, find me some one to go with me.”

“I do not know anyone,” she answered, crying in her excitement. “My dear

little Sarah, give up such an idea, I beseech you.”

But by this time it was a fixed idea with me and I was very determined

about it. I went downstairs, packed my trunk, and then returned to Mme.

Guérard’s. I had wrapped up a pewter fork in paper and this I threw

against one of the panes of glass in a skylight window opposite. The

window was opened abruptly and the sleepy, angry face of a young woman

appeared. I made a trumpet of my two hands and called out:

“Caroline, will you start with me at once to Spain?”

The bewildered expression on the young woman’s face showed that she had

not comprehended what I had said, but she replied at once:

“I am coming, mademoiselle.” She then closed her window and ten minutes

later Caroline was tapping at the door. Mme. Guérard had sunk down

aghast in an armchair. M. Guérard had asked several times from his

bedroom what was going on.

“Sarah is here,” his wife had replied; “I will tell you later on.”

Caroline did dressmaking by the day at Mme. Guérard’s and she had

offered her services to me as lady’s maid. She was agreeable and rather

daring, and she now accepted my offer at once. But as it would not do to

arouse the suspicions of the _concierge_ it was decided that I should

take her dresses in my trunk, and that she should put her linen into a

bag that _ma petite dame_ should lend her. Poor, dear Mme. Guérard had

given in. She was quite conquered and soon began to help in my

preparations, which certainly did not take me long. The next thing was

that I did not know how to get to Spain.

“You go through Bordeaux,” said Mme. Guérard.

“Oh, no!” exclaimed Caroline, “my brother-in-law is a skipper and he

often goes to Spain by Marseilles.”

I had saved nine hundred francs and Mme. Guérard lent me six hundred. It

was perfectly mad, but I felt ready to conquer the world and nothing

would have induced me to give up my plan. Then, too, it seemed to me as

though I had been wishing to see Spain for a long time. I had got it

into my head that my Fate willed it, that I must obey my star, and a

hundred other ideas, each one more foolish than the other, strengthened

me in my plan. I was destined to act in this way, I thought.

I went downstairs again. The door was still ajar. With Caroline’s help I

carried the empty trunk up to Mme. Guérard’s, and Caroline emptied my

wardrobe and drawers and then packed the trunk. I shall never forget

that delightful moment. It seemed to me as though the world was about to

be mine. I was going to start off with a woman to wait on me. I was

about to travel alone, with no one to criticise what I decided to do. I

should see an unknown country about which I had dreamed, and I should

cross the sea. Oh, how happy I was! Twenty times I must have gone up and

down the staircase which separated our two flats. Everyone was asleep

and the flat was so constructed that not a sound of our going in and out

could reach my mother. I could go through the kitchen from my bedroom

without any difficulty.

My trunk was at last strapped, Caroline’s valise fastened, and my little

bag crammed full. I was quite ready to start, but the fingers of the

clock had moved along by this time, and to my horror I discovered that

it was eight o’clock. Marguerite would be going down from her bedroom at

the top of the house to prepare my mother’s coffee, my chocolate, and

bread and milk for my sisters. In a fit of despair and wild

determination I kissed Mme. Guérard with such violence as almost to

stifle her and rushed once more to my room to get my little Virgin Mary

which went with me everywhere. I threw a hundred kisses to my mother’s

room, and then, with wet eyes and a joyful heart went downstairs. My

_petite dame_ had asked the man who polished the floors to take the

trunk and valise down, and Caroline had fetched a cab. I went like a

whirlwind past the _concierge’s_ door. She had her back turned toward me

and was sweeping the floor. I sprang into the cab and the driver whipped

up his horse. I was on my way to Spain. I had written an affectionate

letter to my mother begging her to forgive me and not to be grieved. I

had written a stupid letter of explanation to Montigny, the manager of

the Gymnase Theater. The letter did not explain anything though. It was

written by a child whose brain was certainly a little affected, and I

finished up with these words: “Have pity on a poor, crazy girl.”

Sardou told me later on that he happened to be in Montigny’s office when

he received my letter.

“I had been talking to Montigny for over an hour,” he said, “about a

piece I was going to write. The conversation was very animated, and when

the door was opened Montigny exclaimed in a fury: ‘I had given orders

that I was not to be disturbed!’ He was somewhat appeased, however, on

seeing old Monval’s troubled look and he knew there was some urgent

matter. ‘Oh, what’s happened now?’ he asked, taking the letter that the

old stage manager held out to him. On recognizing my paper, with its

gray border, he said: ‘Oh, it’s from that mad child! Is she ill?’”

“No,” said Monval, “she has gone to Spain.”

“She can go to the deuce!” exclaimed Montigny. “Send for Mme. Dieudonnée

to take her part. Bernhardt has a good memory, and half the rôle must be

cut. That will settle it.”

“Any trouble for to-night?” Sardou asked Montigny.

“Oh, nothing,” he answered. “It is that little Sarah Bernhardt who has

cleared off to Spain!”

“That girl from the Français who boxed Nathalie’s ears?”

“Yes.”

“She’s rather amusing.”

“Yes, but not for her managers,” remarked Montigny, continuing

immediately afterwards the conversation which had been interrupted.

This is exactly as Victorien Sardou related the incident.

On arriving at Marseilles, Caroline went to get information about the

journey. The result was that we embarked on an abominable trading boat,

a dirty coaster smelling of oil and stale fish, a perfect horror.

I had never been on the sea, so I fancied that all the boats were like

this and that it was no good complaining. After six days of rough sea we

landed at Alicante. Oh, that landing, how well I remember it! I had to

jump from boat to boat, from plank to plank, with the risk of falling

into the water a hundred times over, for I am naturally inclined to

dizziness and the little bridges without any rails, rope, or anything,

thrown across from one boat to another and bending under my light

weight, seemed to me like mere ropes stretched across space.

Exhausted with fatigue and hunger I went to the first hotel recommended

to us at Alicante. Oh, what a hotel it was! The house itself was built

of stone with low arcades. Rooms on the first floor were given to me,

and certainly the owners of it had never had two ladies in their house

before. The bedroom was large, but with a low ceiling. By way of

decoration there were enormous real fish bones arranged in garlands

caught up by the heads of fish. By half shutting one’s eyes this

decoration might be taken for delicate sculpture of ancient times.

I had a bed put up for Caroline in this sinister-looking room. We pulled

the furniture across against the doors, and I did not undress, for I

could not venture on those sheets. I was accustomed to fine sheets

perfumed with iris, for my pretty little mother, like all Dutch women,

had a mania for linen and cleanliness and she had inculcated me with

this harmless mania.

It was about five in the morning when I opened my eyes, no doubt

instinctively, as there had been no sound to rouse me. A door, leading I

did not know where, opened, and a man looked in. I gave a shrill cry,

seized my little Virgin Mary, and waved her about, wild with terror.

Caroline roused up with a start and courageously rushed to the window.

She threw it up screaming: “Fire! Thieves! Help.”

The man disappeared and the house was soon invaded by the police. I

leave it to be imagined what the police of Alicante forty years ago were

like. I answered all the questions asked me by a Vice-Consul who was

Hungarian and spoke French. I had seen the man and he had a silk

handkerchief on his head. He had a beard, and on his shoulder a

_poncho_, but that was all I knew. The Hungarian Vice-Consul who, I

believe, represented France, Austria, and Hungary, asked me the color of

the brigand’s beard, silk handkerchief and _poncho_. It had been too

dark for me to distinguish the colors exactly. The worthy man was very

much annoyed at my answer. After taking down a few notes he was very

thoughtful for a moment and then gave orders for a message to be taken

to his home. It was to ask his wife to send a carriage and to prepare a

room in order to receive a young foreigner in distress. I prepared to go

with him, and after paying my bill at the hotel, we started off in the

Hungarian’s carriage, and I was welcomed by his wife with the most

touching cordiality. I drank the coffee with thick cream which she

poured for me, and, during breakfast, told her who I was, and where I

was going. She then told me in return that her father was an important

manufacturer of cloth, that he was from Bohemia, and a great friend of

my father’s. And she took me to the room that had been prepared for me,

made me go to bed, and told me that while I was asleep she would write

me some letters of introduction in Madrid. I slept for ten hours without

waking, and at six in the evening when I roused up, was thoroughly

rested in mind and body. I wanted to send a telegram to my mother, but

this was impossible, as there was no telegraph at Alicante. I wrote a

letter, therefore, to my poor, dear mother, telling her that I was in

the house of friends of my father.

The following day I started for Madrid with a letter for the landlord of

the Hotel de la Puerta del Sol. Nice rooms were given to us and I sent

messengers with the letters from Mme. Rudcouritz. I spent a fortnight in

Madrid, and was made a great deal of and generally fêted. I went to all

the bullfights, and was infatuated with them. I had the honor of being

invited to a great _corrida_ given in honor of Victor Emmanuel who was

just then the guest of the Queen of Spain. I forgot Paris, my sorrows,

disappointments, ambitions, and everything else, and I wanted to live in

Spain. A telegram sent by Mme. Guérard made me change all my plans. My

mother was very ill, the telegram informed me. I packed my trunk and

wanted to start off at once, but when my hotel bill was paid I had not a

fraction for the railway journey. The landlord of the hotel took my two

bank notes, prepared me a basket of provisions and gave me two hundred

francs at the station, telling me that he had received orders from Mme.

Rudcouritz not to let me want for anything. She and her husband were

certainly most delightful people.

My heart beat fast when I reached my mother’s house in Paris. My _petite

dame_ was waiting for me downstairs in the _concierge’s_ room. She was

very excited to see me looking so well and kissed me with her eyes full

of tears of joy. The _concierge_ and family poured forth their

compliments. Mme. Guérard went upstairs before me to prepare my mother,

and I waited a moment in the kitchen and was hugged by our old servant

Marguerite. My sisters both came running in. Jeanne kissed me, then

turned me round and examined me. Régina, with her hands behind her back,

leaned against the stove gazing at me furiously.

“Well, won’t you kiss me, Régina?” I asked, stooping down to her.

“No, don’t like you,” she answered. “You’ve went off without me. Don’t

like you now.” She turned away brusquely to avoid my kiss and knocked

her head against the stove.

Finally, Mme. Guérard appeared again, and I went with her. Oh, how

repentant I was, and how deeply affected! I knocked gently at the door

of the room which was hung with pale blue rep. My mother looked very

white, lying in her bed. Her face was thinner, but wonderfully

beautiful. She stretched out her arms like two wings and I rushed

forward to this loving, white nest. My mother cried silently, as she

always did. Then her hands played with my hair, which she let down and

combed with her long, taper fingers. Then we asked each other a hundred

questions. I wanted to know everything, and she did, too, so that we had

the most amusing duet of words, phrases, and kisses. I found that my

mother had had a rather severe attack of pleurisy, that she was now

getting better, but was not yet well. I, therefore, took up my abode

again with her, and for the time being went back to my old bedroom. Mme.

Guérard had told me in a letter that my grandmother on my father’s side,

had at last agreed to the proposal made by my mother. My father had left

a certain sum of money which I was to have on my wedding-day. My mother,

at my request, had asked my grandmother to let me have half this sum,

and she had at last consented, saying that she should use the interest

of the other half, but that the half would still be there for me if I

changed my mind, and consented to marry. I was, therefore, quite decided

to live my life as I wished, to go away from home, and be quite

independent. I adored my mother, but our ideas were quite different.

Then, too, my godfather was perfectly odious to me, and for years and

years he had been in the habit of lunching and dining with us every day,

and of playing whist every evening. He was always hurting my feelings in

one way or another. He was an old bachelor, very rich, and with no near

relatives. He adored my mother, but she had always refused to marry him.

She had put up with him at first because he was a friend of my father.

After my father’s death she had put up with him still, because she was

then accustomed to him, until finally she quite missed him when he was

ill or traveling. But, placid as she was, my mother was positive, and

could not endure any kind of constraint. She, therefore, rebelled

against the idea of another master. She was very gentle, but determined,

and this determination of hers ended sometimes in the most violent

anger. She used then to turn very pale and violet rings would come round

her eyes, her lips would tremble, her teeth chatter, her beautiful eyes

take a fixed gaze, the words would come at intervals from her throat,

all chopped up, hissing and hoarse. After this she would faint, and the

veins of her throat then used to swell, and her hands and feet turn icy

cold. Sometimes she would be unconscious for hours, and the doctors told

us that she might die in one of these attacks so that we did all ill our

power to avoid these terrible accidents. My mother knew this and rather

took advantage of it, and, as I had inherited this tendency to fits of

rage from her, I could not and did not wish to live with her. As for me

I am not placid. I am active, and always ready for fight, and what I

want I always want immediately. I have not the gentle obstinacy peculiar

to my mother. The blood begins to boil under my temples before I have

time to control it. Time has made me wiser in this respect, but not

sufficiently so. I am aware of this and it causes me suffering.

I did not say anything about my plans to our dear invalid, but I asked

our old friend, Meydieu, to find me a flat. The old man who had

tormented me so much during my childhood had been most kind to me ever

since my début at the Théâtre Français, and, in spite of my escapade

with Nathalie and my exploit when at the Gymnase, he was now ready to

see the best in me. When he came to see us the day after my return home,

I stayed talking with him for a time in the drawing-room and confided my

intentions to him. He quite approved and said that my intercourse with

my mother would be all the more agreeable through this separation. I

took a flat in the Rue Duphot, quite near to my mother, and Mme. Guérard

undertook to have it furnished for me. As soon as my mother was well

again I talked to her about it, and several times over induced her to

agree that it was really better I should live by myself and in my own

way. When once she had accepted the situation everything went along

satisfactorily. My sisters were present when we were talking about it.

Jeanne was close to my mother, and Régina, who had refused to speak to

me or look at me ever since my return three weeks ago, suddenly jumped

on my lap.

“Take me with you this time,” she exclaimed suddenly. “I will kiss you

if you will.”

I glanced at my mother, rather embarrassed.

“Oh, take her,” she said, “for she is unbearable!”

Régina jumped down again and began to dance a jig, muttering the rudest,

silliest things at the same time. She then nearly stifled me with

kisses, sprang on to my mother’s armchair and kissed her hair, her eyes,

her cheeks, saying:

“You are glad I am going, aren’t you? You can give everything to your

Jenny.”

My mother colored slightly, but as her eyes fell on Jeanne her

expression changed, and a look of unspeakable affection came over her

face. She pushed Régina gently aside, and the child went on with her

jig.

“We two will stay together,” said my mother, leaning her head back on

Jeanne’s shoulder, and she said this quite unconscious of the full force

of her words, just in the same way as she had gazed at my sister. I was

perfectly stupefied and closed my eyes so that I should not see. I could

only hear my little sister dancing her jig and emphasizing every stamp

on the floor with the words: “And we two, as well, we two, we two!”

It was a very painful little drama that was stirring our four hearts in

this little _bourgeois_ home, and the result of it was that I settled

down finally with my little sister in the flat in Rue Duphot. I kept

Caroline with me and engaged a cook. My _petite dame_, Mme. Guérard, was

with me nearly all day and I dined every evening with my mother.

CHAPTER IX

I RETURN TO THE STAGE

I was still on friendly terms with an actor from the Porte Saint Martin

Theater, who had been appointed stage manager there. Marc Fournier was

at that time manager of this theater. A piece entitled “La Biche au

Bois” was then being played. It was a fairyland story, and was having

great success. A delicious actress from the Odéon Theater, Mlle. Debay,

had been engaged for the principal rôle. She played tragedy princesses

most charmingly. I often had tickets for the Porte Saint Martin, and I

thoroughly enjoyed “La Biche au Bois.” Mme. Ulgade sang admirably in her

rôle of the young prince, and amazed me. Then, too, Marquita charmed me

with her dancing. She was delightful in her dances, which were so

animated, so characteristic, and always so full of distinction. Thanks

to old Josse I knew everyone; but to my surprise and terror, one

evening, toward five o’clock, on arriving at the theater to take our

seats, he exclaimed on seeing me:

“Why, here is our princess, our little “Biche au Bois.” Here she is! It

is the Providence that watches over theaters who has sent her!”

I struggled like an eel caught in a net, but it was all in vain. M. Marc

Fournier, who could be very charming, gave me to understand that I

should be doing him a veritable service and keeping up the receipts.

Josse, who guessed what my scruples were, exclaimed:

“But, my dear child, it will still be your high art, for it is Mlle.

Debay from the Odéon Theater who is playing this rôle of _Princess_, and

Mlle. Debay is the first _artiste_ at the Odéon, and the Odéon is an

imperial theater, so that it cannot be any disgrace after your studies.”

Marquita, who had just arrived, also persuaded me, and Mme. Ulgade was

sent for to rehearse the duos I was to sing. Yes, and I was to sing with

a veritable _artiste_, one who was considered to be the first _artiste_

of the Opéra Comique.

The time passed by, and Josse helped me to rehearse my rôle, which I

almost knew, as I had seen the piece often, and I had an extraordinary

memory. The minutes flew, and the half hours made up entire hours. I

kept looking at the clock, the large clock in the manager’s room, where

I was studying my rôle. Mme. Ulgade rehearsed with me. She thought my

voice was pretty, but I kept singing wrong, and she helped and

encouraged me all the time.

I was dressed up in Mlle. Debay’s clothes, and finally the moment

arrived and the curtain was raised. Poor me! I was more dead than alive,

but my courage returned after a triple burst of applause for the couplet

which I sang on waking, in very much the same way as I should have

murmured a series of Racine’s lines.

When the performance was over Marc Fournier offered me, through Josse, a

three years’ engagement; but I asked to be allowed to think it over.

Josse had introduced me to a dramatic author, Lambert Thiboust, a

charming man who was certainly talented, too. He thought I was just the

ideal actress for his heroine, _La Bergère d’Ivry_, but M. Faille, an

old actor who had become the manager of the Ambigu Theater, was not the

only person to consult. A certain M. De Chilly had some interest in the

theater. He had made his name in the rôle of _Rodin_ in the “Juif

Errant,” and, after marrying a rather wealthy wife, had left the stage,

and was now interested in the business side of theatrical affairs. He

had, I think, just given the Ambigu up to Faille. De Chilly was then

helping on a charming girl named Laurence Gérard. She was gentle and

very _bourgeois_, rather pretty, but without any real beauty or grace.

Faille told Lambert Thiboust that he had spoken to Laurence Gérard, but

that he was ready to do as the author wished in the matter. The only

thing he stipulated was that he should hear me before deciding. I was

willing to humor the poor fellow, who must have been as poor a manager

as he had been an _artiste_. I acted for him at the Ambigu Theater. The

stage was only lighted by the wretched _servante_, a little

transportable lamp. About a yard in front of me I could see M. Faille

balancing himself on his chair, one hand on his waistcoat and the

fingers of the other hand in his enormous nostrils. This disgusted me

horribly. Lambert Thiboust was seated near him, his handsome face

smiling, as he looked at me encouragingly.

I was playing in “On ne Badine pas avec l’Amour,” because the play was

in prose, and I did not want to take poetry. I believe I was perfectly

charming in my rôle, and Lambert Thiboust thought so, too; but when I

had finished, poor Faille got up in a clumsy, pretentious way, said

something in a low voice to the author, and took me to his own room.

“My child,” remarked the worthy but stupid manager, “you are not at all

suitable for the stage!”

I resented this, but he continued:

“Oh, no, not at all.” And, as the door then opened, he added, pointing

to the newcomer, “Here is M. De Chilly, who was also listening to you,

and he will say just the same as I say.”

M. De Chilly nodded and shrugged his shoulders.

“Lambert Thiboust is mad,” he remarked, “no one ever saw such a thin

shepherdess!”

He then rang the bell and told the boy to fetch Mlle. Laurence Gérard. I

understood and, without taking leave of the two boors, I left the room.

My heart was heavy, though, as I went back to the _foyer_, where I had

left my hat. I found Laurence Gérard there, but she was fetched away the

next moment. I was standing near her and, as I looked in the glass, I

was struck by the contrast between us. She was plump, with a wide face,

magnificent black eyes, her nose was rather _canaille_, her mouth heavy,

and there was a very ordinary look about her generally. I was fair,

slight, and frail-looking, like a reed, with a long, pale face, blue

eyes, a rather sad mouth, and a general look of distinction. This hasty

vision consoled me for my failure, and then, too, I felt that this

Faille was a nonentity, and that De Chilly was common. Five days later

Mlle. Debay was well again and took her rôle as usual.

I was destined to meet with both of these men again later on in my life.

Chilly, soon after, as manager at the Odéon; and Faille, twenty years

later, in such a wretched situation that the tears came to my eyes when

he appeared before me and begged me to play for his benefit.

“I beseech you,” said the poor man. “You will be the only attraction at

this performance, and I have only you to count on for the receipts.”

I shook hands with him. I do not know whether he remembered our first

interview, but I remembered it well, and could only hope that he did

not.

Before I would accept the engagement at the Porte Saint Martin, I wrote

to Camille Doucet. The following day I received a letter asking me to go

to the offices of the Ministry. It was not without some emotion that I

went to see this kind man. He was standing up waiting for me when I was

ushered into the room. He held out his hands to me and drew me gently

toward him.

“Oh, what a terrible child!” he said, giving me a chair. “Come now, you

must be calmer. It will never do to waste all these admirable gifts in

voyages, escapades, and boxing people’s ears!”

I was deeply moved by his kindness, and my eyes were full of regret as I

looked at him.

“Now, don’t cry, my dear child, don’t cry. Let us try and find out how

we are to make up for all this folly.”

He was quiet for a moment, and then, opening a drawer, he took out a

letter.

“Here is something which will perhaps save us,” he said.

It was a letter from Duquesnel, who had just been appointed manager at

the Odéon Theater, together with Chilly.

“I am asked for some young _artistes_ to make up the Odéon company.

Well, we must attend to this.” He got up, and accompanying me to the

door, said, as I went away: “We shall succeed.”

I went back home, and began at once to rehearse all my rôles in Racine’s

plays. I waited very anxiously for several days, consoled by Mme.

Guérard, who succeeded in restoring my confidence. Finally, I received a

letter, and went at once to the Ministry. Camille Doucet received me

with a beaming expression on his face.

“It’s settled,” he said. “Oh, but it has not been easy, though,” he

added. “You are very young, but very celebrated already for your

headstrong character. The only thing is, I have pledged my word that you

will be as gentle as a young lamb.”

“Yes, I will be gentle, I promise,” I replied, “if only out of

gratitude. But what am I to do?”

“Here is a letter for Félix Duquesnel,” he replied; “he is expecting

you.”

I thanked Camille Doucet heartily, and he then said:

“I shall see you again less officially at your aunt’s on Thursday. I

have had an invitation this morning to dine there, so you can tell me

then what Duquesnel says.”

It was then half past ten in the morning. I went home to put some pretty

clothes on. I chose an underskirt of canary yellow, a dress of black

silk with the skirt scalloped round, and a straw hat trimmed with corn

and black ribbon. It must have been delightfully mad looking. Arrayed in

this style, feeling very joyful and full of confidence, I went to call

on Félix Duquesnel. I waited a few moments in a little room very

artistically furnished. A young man appeared, looking very elegant. He

was smiling and altogether charming. I could not grasp the fact that

this fair-haired, gay young man would be my manager.

After a short conversation we agreed on every point we touched.

“Come to the Odéon at two o’clock,” said Duquesnel, by way of

leavetaking, “and I will introduce you to my partner. I ought to say it

the other way round, according to society etiquette,” he added,

laughing, “but we are talking theater.”

He came a few steps down the staircase with me and stayed there leaning

over the balustrade to wish me good-by.

At two o’clock precisely I was at the Odéon, and had to wait an hour. I

began to grind my teeth, and only the remembrance of my promise to

Camille Doucet prevented me from departing.

Finally, Duquesnel appeared and took me across to the manager’s office.

“You will now see the other ogre,” he said, and I pictured to myself the

other ogre as charming as his partner. I was therefore greatly

disappointed on seeing a very ugly little man whom I recognized as

Chilly.

He eyed me up and down most impolitely, and pretended not to recognize

me. He signed to me to sit down and, without a word, handed me a pen and

showed me where to sign my name on the paper before me.

Mme. Guérard interposed, laying her hand on mine.

“Do not sign without reading it,” she said.

“Are you mademoiselle’s mother?” he asked, looking up.

“No,” she said, “but it is just the same as though I were.”

“Well, yes, you are right. Read it quickly,” he continued, “and then

sign or leave it alone, but be quick.”

I felt the color coming into my face, for this man was odious. Duquesnel

whispered to me:

“There’s no ceremony about him, but he’s all right, don’t take offense.”

I signed my engagement and handed it to his ugly partner.

“You know,” he remarked, “M. Duquesnel is responsible for you. I should

not upon any account have engaged you.”

“And if you had been alone, monsieur,” I answered, “I should not have

signed; so we are quits.”

I went away at once and hurried to my mother’s to tell her, for I knew

this would be a great joy for her. Then, that very day, I set off with

my _petite dame_ to buy everything necessary for furnishing my

dressing-room. The following day I went to the convent in the Rue Notre

Dame des Champs to see my dear governess, Mlle. De Brabender. She had

been ill, with acute rheumatism in all her limbs, for the last thirteen

months. She had suffered so much that she looked like a different

person. She was lying in her little white bed, a little white cap

covering her hair, her big nose was drawn with pain, her washed-out eyes

seemed to have no color in them. Her formidable mustache alone bristled

up with constant spasms of pain. Besides all this she was so strangely

altered that I wondered what had caused the change. I went nearer and,

bending down, kissed her gently. I then gazed at her so inquisitively

that she understood instinctively. With her eyes she signed to me to

look on the table near her, and there in a glass I saw all my dear old

friend’s teeth. I put the three roses I had brought her in the glass

and, kissing her again, I asked her forgiveness for my impertinent

curiosity. I left the convent with a very heavy heart, for the Mother

Superior took me in the garden and told me that my beloved Mlle. De

Brabender could not live much longer. I therefore went every day for a

time to see my gentle old governess, but as soon as the rehearsals

commenced at the Odéon my visits had to be less frequent.

One morning about seven o’clock, a message came from the convent to

fetch me in great haste, and I was present at the dear woman’s death

agony. Her face lighted up at the supreme moment with such a holy look

that I suddenly longed to die. I kissed her hands which were holding the

crucifix: they had already turned cold. I asked to be allowed to be

there when she was placed in her coffin.

On arriving at the convent the next day, at the hour fixed, I found

the Sisters in such a state of consternation that I was alarmed. What

could have happened, I wondered? They pointed to the door of the cell

without uttering a word. The nuns were standing round the bed, on

which was the most extraordinary-looking being imaginable. My poor

governess, lying rigid on her deathbed, had a man’s face. Her mustache

had grown longer, and she had a beard of half an inch all round her

chin. Her mustache and beard were sandy, while the long hair framing

her face was white. Her mouth, without the support of the teeth, had

sunk in so that her nose fell on the sandy mustache. It was like a

terrible and ridiculous-looking mask, instead of the sweet face of my

friend. It was the face of a man, while the little, delicate hands

were those of a woman.

There was an awestruck expression in the eyes of the nuns in spite of

the assurance of the nurse, who had declared to them that the body was

that of a woman. They had dressed the poor dead body, but the poor

little Sisters were trembling and crossing themselves all the time.

The day after this dismal ceremony I made my début at the Odéon in “Le

Jeu de l’Amour et du Hasard.” I was not suitable for Marivand’s pieces,

as they require a certain coquettishness and an affectation which were

not then among my qualities. Then, too, I was rather too slight, so that

I had no success at all. Chilly happened to be passing along the

corridor, just as Duquesnel was talking to me and encouraging me. Chilly

pointed to me and remarked:

“They are no good, these grand folks, there is not even any pluck about

them.”

I was furious at the man’s insolence, and the blood rushed to my face,

but I saw through my half-closed eyes Camille Doucet’s face, that face

always so clean shaven and young looking, under his crown of white hair.

I thought it was a vision of my mind, which was always on the alert, on

account of the promise I had made. But no, it was he himself, and he

came up to me.

“What a pretty voice you have,” he said. “Your second appearance will be

such a pleasure to us!”

This man was always courteous, but truthful. This début of mine had not

given him any pleasure, but he was counting on my next appearance, and

he had spoken the truth. I had a pretty voice, and that was all that

anyone could say.

I remained at the Odéon and worked very hard. I was always ready to take

anyone’s place at a moment’s notice, for I knew all the rôles. I had

some success, and the students approved of me. When I came on the stage

I was always greeted by applause from them. A few old sticklers looked

down at the pit to command silence, but no one cared a straw for them.

Finally, my day of triumph dawned. Duquesnel had the happy idea of

putting “Athalie” on again with Mendelssohn’s choruses. Beauvallet, who

had been odious as a professor, was charming as a comrade. By special

permission from the Ministry he was to play _Joad_. The rôle of

_Zacharie_ was assigned to me. Some of the _Conservatoire_ pupils were

to take the spoken choruses, and the pupils who studied singing

undertook the musical part. The rehearsals were so bad that Duquesnel

and Chilly were in despair. Beauvallet, who was more agreeable now, but

not choice as regarded his language, muttered some terrible words. We

began over and over again, but it was all to no purpose. The spoken

choruses were simply abominable. Chilly exclaimed at last:

“Well, let the young one say all the spoken choruses. That would be

right enough with her pretty voice!”

Duquesnel did not utter a word, but he pulled his mustache to hide a

smile. Chilly was coming round to his _protégée_ after all. He nodded

his head in an indifferent way in answer to his partner’s questioning

look, and we began again, I reading all the spoken choruses. Everyone

applauded, and the conductor of the orchestra was delighted, for the

poor man had suffered enough. The first performance was a veritable

small triumph for me! Oh! quite a small one, but still full of promise

for my future. The public, charmed with the sweetness of my voice and

its crystal purity, encored the part of the spoken choruses, and I was

rewarded by three bursts of applause.

At the end of the act Chilly came to me and said:

“You were adorable!” He addressed me familiarly, using the French

_thou_, and this rather annoyed me; but I answered mischievously, using

the same form of speech:

“You think I am not so thin now?”

He burst into a fit of laughter, and from that day forth we both used

the familiar _thou_ and became the best friends imaginable.

Oh, that Odéon Theater! It is the theater I have loved most. I was very

sorry to leave it, for everyone liked each other there, and everyone was

gay. The theater was a little like the continuation of school. The young

_artistes_ came there, and Duquesnel was an intelligent manager, and

very polite and young himself. During the rehearsal we often went off,

several of us together, to play at hide and seek in the Luxembourg,

during the scenes in which we were not acting. I used to think of my few

months at the Comédie Française. The little world I had known there had

been stiff, scandal-mongering, and jealous. I recalled my few months at

the Gymnase. Hats and dresses were always discussed there, and everyone

chattered about a hundred things that had nothing to do with art.

At the Odéon I was very happy. We thought of nothing but putting on

plays, and we rehearsed morning, afternoon, and at all hours, and I

liked that very much.

For the summer I had taken a little house in the Villa Montmorency at

Auteuil. I went to the theater in a “little duke,” which I drove myself.

I had two wonderful ponies that Aunt Rosine had given to me, because

they had very nearly broken her neck by taking fright at St. Cloud at a

whirligig of wooden horses. I used to drive at full speed along the

quays, and in spite of the atmosphere brilliant with the July sunshine

and the gayety of everything outside, I always ran up the cold, cracked

steps of the theater with veritable joy, and rushed up to my

dressing-room, wishing everyone I passed “Good morning” on my way. When

I had taken off my coat and gloves I went on the stage, delighted to be

once more in that infinite darkness with only a poor light, a

_servante_, hanging here and there on a tree, a turret, a wall, or

placed on a bench, thrown on the faces of the _artistes_ for a few

seconds.

There was nothing more vivifying for me than that atmosphere full of

microbes, nothing more gay than that obscurity, and nothing more

brilliant than that darkness.

One day my mother had the curiosity to come behind the scenes. I thought

she would have died with horror and disgust.

“Oh, you poor child!” she murmured, “How can you live in that?” When

once she was outside again she began to breathe freely, taking long

gasps several times. Oh! yes, I could live in it, and I could scarcely

live _except_ in it. Since then I have changed a little, but I still

have a great liking for that gloomy workshop in which we joyous

lapidaries of art cut the precious stones supplied to us by the poets.

The days passed by, carrying away with them all our little disappointed

hopes, and fresh days dawned bringing fresh dreams, so that life seemed

to me eternal happiness. I played in turn in “Le Marquis de Villemer”

and “François le Champi.” In the former I took the part of the foolish

_Baroness_, an expert woman of thirty-five years of age. I was scarcely

twenty-one myself, and I looked seventeen. In the second piece I played

_Mariette_, and had great success.

Those rehearsals of the “Marquis de Villemer” and “François le Champi”

have remained in my memory as so many exquisite hours.

Mme. George Sand was a sweet, charming creature, extremely timid. She

did not talk much, but smoked all the time. Her large eyes were always

dreamy, and her mouth, which was rather heavy and common, had the

kindest expression. She had, perhaps, a medium-sized figure, but she was

no longer upright. I used to watch her with the most romantic affection,

for had she not been the heroine of a fine love romance!

I used to sit down by her, and when I took her hand in mine I held it as

long as possible. Her voice, too, was gentle and fascinating.

Prince Napoleon, commonly known as “Plon-Plon,” often used to come to

George Sand’s rehearsals. He was extremely fond of her. The first time I

ever saw that man I turned pale, and felt as though my heart had stopped

beating. He looked so much like Napoleon I.

Mme. Sand introduced me to him in spite of my wishes. He looked at me in

an impertinent way, and I did not like him. I scarcely replied to his

compliments, and went closer to George Sand.

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT IN “FRANÇOIS LE CHAMPI.”]

“Why, she is in love with you!” he exclaimed, laughing.

George Sand stroked my cheek gently.

“She is my little Madonna,” she answered, “do not torment her.”

I stayed with her, casting displeased and furtive glances at the prince.

Gradually, though, I began to enjoy listening to him, for his

conversation was brilliant, serious, and at the same time witty. He

sprinkled his discourses and his replies with words that were a trifle

crude, but all that he said was interesting and instructive. He was not

very indulgent, though, and I have heard him say base, horrible things

about little Thiers which I believe had little truth in them. He drew

such an amusing portrait one day of that agreeable Louis Bouilhet, that

George Sand, who liked him, could not help laughing, although she called

the prince a bad man. He was very unceremonious, too, but at the same

time he did not like people to be wanting in respect to him. One day an

_artiste_ named Paul Deshayes, who was playing in “François le Champi,”

came into the _artistes’ foyer_. Prince Napoleon was there, Mme. George

Sand, the curator of the library, whose name I have forgotten, and I.

This _artiste_ was common and something of an anarchist. He bowed to

Mme. Sand and, addressing the prince, said:

“You are sitting on my gloves, sir.”

The prince scarcely moved, pulled the gloves out and, throwing them on

the floor, remarked:

“I thought this seat was clean.”

The actor colored, picked up the gloves, and went away murmuring some

revolutionary threat.

I played the part of _Hortense_ in “Le Testament de César Girôdot,” and

of _Anna Danby_ in Alexandre Dumas’ “Kean.”

On the evening of the first performance of the latter piece the public

was very disagreeable. Dumas’ _père_ was quite out of favor, on account

of a private matter that had nothing to do with art. Politics, for some

time past, had been exciting everyone, and the return of Victor Hugo

from exile was very much desired. When Dumas entered his box, he was

greeted by yells. The students were there in full force, and they began

shouting for _Ruy Blas_. Dumas rose and asked to be allowed to speak.

“My young friends ...” he began, as soon as there was silence. “We are

quite willing to listen,” called out some one, “but you must be alone in

your box.”

Dumas protested vehemently. Several members of the orchestra took his

side, for he had invited a woman into his box, and whoever that woman

might be, no one had any right to insult her in so outrageous a manner.

I had never yet witnessed a scene of this kind. I looked through the

hole in the curtain, and was very much interested and excited. I saw our

great Dumas, pale with anger, clenching his fists, shouting, swearing,

and storming. Then suddenly there was a burst of applause. The woman had

disappeared from the box. She had taken advantage of the moment when

Dumas, leaning well over the front of the box, was answering:

“No, no, this woman shall not leave the box!”

Just at this moment she slipped away, and the whole house, delighted,

shouted: “Bravo!” Dumas was then allowed to continue, but only for a few

seconds. Cries of “_Ruy Blas!_ _Ruy Blas!_ Victor Hugo! Hugo!” could

then be heard again in the midst of an uproar truly infernal. We had

been ready to commence the play for an hour, and I was greatly excited.

Chilly and Duquesnel then came to us on the stage.

“Courage, _mes enfants_, for the house has gone mad,” they said. “We

will commence, anyhow, let what will happen!”

“I’m afraid I shall faint,” I said to Duquesnel. My hands were as cold

as ice and my heart was beating wildly. “What am I to do,” I asked him,

“if I get too frightened?”

“There’s nothing to be done,” he replied. “Be frightened, but go on

playing, and don’t faint upon any account!”

The curtain was drawn up in the midst of a veritable tempest, bird

cries, mewing of cats, and a heavy rhythmical refrain of “_Ruy Blas!_

_Ruy Blas!_ Victor Hugo! Victor Hugo!”

My turn came. Berton _père_, who was playing _Kean_, had been received

badly. I was wearing the eccentric costume of an Englishwoman in the

year 1820. As soon as I appeared I heard a burst of laughter, and I

stood still, rooted to the spot in the doorway. But the very same

instant the cheers of my dear friends, the students, drowned the

laughter of the disagreeable people. I took courage, and even felt a

desire to fight. But it was not necessary, for after the second,

endlessly long, harangue, in which I give an idea of my love for _Kean_,

the house was delighted, and gave me an ovation. Ignotus wrote the

following paragraph in the _Figaro_:

“Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt appeared wearing an eccentric costume, which

increased the tumult, but her rich voice—that astonishing voice of

hers—appealed to the public, and she charmed them like a little

Orpheus.”

After “Kean” I played in “La Loterie du Mariage.” When we were

rehearsing the piece, Agar came up to me one day, in the corner where I

usually sat. I had a little armchair there from my dressing-room, and

put my feet up on a straw chair. I liked this place, because there was a

little gas burner there, and I could work while waiting for my turn to

go on the stage. I loved embroidering and tapestry work. I had a

quantity of different kinds of fancy work commenced, and could take up

one or the other as I felt inclined.

Mlle. Agar was an admirable creature. She had evidently been created for

the joy of the eyes. She was a brunette, tall, pale, with large, dark,

gentle eyes, a very small mouth with full rounded lips, which went up at

the corners in an almost imperceptible smile. She had exquisite teeth,

and her head was covered with thick, glossy hair. She was the living

incarnation of one of the most beautiful types of ancient Greece. Her

pretty hands were long and rather soft, while her slow and rather heavy

walk completed the evocation. She was the great tragedian of the Odéon

Theater. She approached me with her measured tread, followed by a young

man of from twenty-four to twenty-six years of age.

“Well, my dear,” she said, kissing me, “there is a chance for you to

make a poet happy.” She then introduced François Coppée. I invited the

young man to sit down, and then I looked at him more thoroughly. His

handsome face, emaciated and pale, was that of the immortal Bonaparte. A

thrill of emotion went through me, for I adored Napoleon I.

“Are you a poet, monsieur?” I asked.

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

His voice, too, trembled, for he was still more timid than I was.

“I have written a little piece,” he continued, “and Mlle. Agar is sure

that you will play it with her.”

“Yes, my dear,” put in Agar, “you are going to play it for him. It is a

little masterpiece, and I am sure you will have a gigantic success!”

“Oh, and you, too! You will be so beautiful in it!” said the poet,

gazing rapturously at Agar.

I was called on to the stage just at this moment, and on returning a few

minutes later I found the young poet talking in a low voice to the

beautiful tragedian. I coughed, and Agar, who had taken my armchair,

wanted to give it back. On my refusing it she pulled me down on her lap.

The young man drew up his chair and we chatted away together, our three

heads almost touching. It was decided that after reading the piece I

should show it to Duquesnel, who alone was capable of judging poetry,

and that we should then get permission from both managers to play it for

the benefit of M. X—— after the first performance. The young man was

delighted, and his pale face lighted up with a grateful smile as he

shook hands excitedly. Agar walked away with him as far as the little

landing which projected over the stage. I watched them as they went, the

magnificent, statuelike woman and the slender outline of the young

writer. Agar was perhaps thirty-five at that time. She was certainly

very beautiful, but to me there was no charm about her, and I could not

understand why this poetical Bonaparte was in love with this matronly

woman. It was as clear as daylight that he was, and she, too, appeared

to be, in love. This interested me infinitely. I watched them clasp each

other’s hands, and then, with an abrupt and almost awkward movement, the

young poet bent over the beautiful hand he was holding and kissed it

fervently. Agar came back to me with a faint color in her cheeks. This

was rare with her, for she had a marblelike complexion. “Here is the

manuscript,” she said, giving me a little roll of paper.

The rehearsal was over and I wished Agar good-by; and, on my way home,

read the piece while driving. I was so delighted with it that I drove

straight back to the theater to give it to Duquesnel at once. I met him

coming downstairs.

“Do come back again, please,” I exclaimed.

“Good heavens, my dear girl, what is the matter?” he asked. “You look as

though you have won a big lottery prize!”

“Well, it is something like that,” I said, and entering his office I

produced the manuscript.

“Read this, please,” I continued.

“I’ll take it with me,” he said.

“Oh, no, read it here at once!” I insisted. “Shall I read it to you?”

“No, no,” he replied, “your voice is treacherous. It makes charming

poetry of the worst lines possible. Well, let me have it,” he continued,

sitting down in his armchair. He began to read, while I looked at the

newspapers.

“It’s delicious,” he soon exclaimed. “It’s a perfect masterpiece!”

I sprang to my feet in my joy.

“And you will get Chilly to accept it?”

“Oh, yes, you can make your mind easy! But when do you want to play it?”

“Well, the author seems to be in a great hurry,” I said, “and Agar,

too——”

“And you as well,” he put in, laughing, “for this is a rôle that just

suits your fancy.”

“Yes, my dear Duq,” I acknowledged. “I, too, want it put on at once. Do

you want to be very nice?” I added. “If so, let us have it for the

benefit of M. X—— in a fortnight from now. That would not make any

difference to other arrangements, and our poet would be so happy.”

“Good!” said Duquesnel, “I will settle it like that. What about the

scenery, though?” he muttered, meditatively, biting his nails, which

were his favorite meal when disturbed in his mind.

I had already thought that out, so I offered to drive him home and on

the way I put my plan before him.

We might have the scenery of “Jeanne de Signoris,” a piece that had

recently been put on and taken off again immediately, after being jeered

at by the public. The scenery consisted of a superb Italian park, with

flowers, statues, and even a flight of steps. As to costumes, if we

spoke of them to Chilly, no matter how little they might cost, he would

shriek, as he had done in his rôle of _Rodin_. The only thing for it was

that Agar and I would have to supply our own costumes.

On arriving at Duquesnel’s house, he suddenly asked me to go in with him

and discuss the costumes with his wife. I accepted his invitation, and,

after kissing the prettiest face imaginable, I told the owner of the

face about our plot. She approved of everything, and promised to begin

at once to look out for pretty designs for our costumes. While she was

talking I compared her with Agar. Oh, how much I preferred that charming

head with its fair hair, those large, limpid eyes, and the whole face,

with its two little pink dimples! Her hair was soft and light, and

formed a halo round her forehead. I admired, too, her delicate wrists,

finishing with the prettiest hands imaginable, hands that were, later

on, quite famous.

On leaving the friendly couple I drove straight to Agar’s, to tell her

what had happened. She kissed me over and over again, and a cousin of

hers, a priest, who happened to be there, appeared to be very delighted

with my story. He seemed to know about everything. Presently there was a

timid ring at the bell, and François Coppée was announced.

“I am just going away,” I said to him, as I met him in the doorway and

shook hands. “Agar will tell you everything.”

The rehearsals of his piece, “Le Passant,” commenced very soon after

this, and were delightful, for the shy young poet was a most interesting

and intelligent talker.

The first performance took place as arranged, and “Le Passant” was a

veritable triumph. The whole house cheered over and over again, and the

curtain was raised eight times for Agar and me. We tried in vain to

bring the author forward, as the public wished to see him. François

Coppée was not to be found. The young poet, hitherto unknown, had become

famous within a few hours. His name was on all lips. As for Agar and

myself, we were simply overwhelmed with praise, and Chilly wanted to pay

for our costumes. We played this one-act piece more than a hundred times

consecutively, to a full house. We were asked to give it at the

Tuileries, and at the house of the Princess Mathilde. Oh, that first

performance at the Tuileries! It is stamped on my brain forever, and

with my eyes shut I can see every detail again, even now.

It had been managed, between Duquesnel and the official sent from the

court, that Agar and I should go to the Tuileries to see the room where

we were to play, in order to have it arranged according to the

requirements of the piece. The Comte de Laferrière was to introduce me

to the Emperor, who would then introduce me to the Empress Eugénie. Agar

was to be introduced by the Princess Mathilde, for whom she was then

sitting as Minerva.

M. De Laferrière came for me at nine o’clock in a state carriage, and

Mme. Guérard accompanied me.

M. De Laferrière was a very agreeable man with rather stiff manners. As

we were turning round the Rue Royale the carriage had to draw up an

instant, and General Fleury approached us. I knew him, as he had been

introduced to me by Morny. He spoke to us, and the Comte de Laferrière

explained where we were going. As he left us he said to me: “Good luck!”

Just at that moment a man who was passing by took up the words and

called out: “Good luck, perhaps, but not for long, you crowd of

good-for-nothings!”

On arriving at the Tuileries Palace we all three got out of the

carriage, and were shown into a small yellow drawing-room on the ground

floor.

“I will go and inform his majesty that you are here,” said M. De

Laferrière, leaving us.

When alone with Mme. Guérard, I thought I would rehearse my three

courtesies:

“Now, _ma petite dame_,” I said, “tell me whether they are right.”

I made the courtesies, murmuring, “Sire—Sire.” I began over again

several times, looking down at my dress, as I said “Sire,” when suddenly

I heard a stifled laugh.

I stood up quickly, furious with Mme. Guérard, but I saw that she, too,

was bent over in a half circle. I turned round quickly, and behind me

was—the Emperor. He was clapping his hands silently and laughing

quietly, but still he _was_ laughing. My face flushed, and I was

embarrassed, for I wondered how long he had been there. I had been

courtesying I do not know how many times, trying to get my reverence to

my mind, and saying: “There—that’s too low, though—There, is that right,

Guérard?” “Good heavens!” I now said to myself, “has he heard all that?”

In spite of my confusion, I now made my courtesy again, but the Emperor

said, smiling:

“It’s no use, it could not be better than it was just now. Save them for

the Empress, who is expecting you.”

Oh! that “just now,” I wondered when it had been.

I could not question Mme. Guérard, as she was following at some distance

with M. De Laferrière. The Emperor was at my side, talking to me of a

hundred things, but I could only answer in an absent-minded way on

account of that “just now.”

I liked him much better like this, quite near, than in his portraits. He

had such fine eyes, which he half closed while looking through his long

lashes. His smile was sad and rather mocking. His face was pale, and his

voice faint, but seductive.

We found the Empress seated in a large armchair. Her body was encased in

a gray dress, and seemed to have been molded into the material. I

thought her very beautiful. She, too, was more beautiful than her

portrait. I made my three courtesies under the laughing eyes of the

Emperor. The Empress spoke, and the spell was then broken. That rough,

hard voice coming from that brilliant woman gave me a shock.

From that moment I felt ill at ease with her, in spite of her

graciousness and her kindness. As soon as Agar arrived and had been

introduced, the Empress had us conducted to the large drawing-room,

where the performance was to take place. The measurements were taken for

the platform, and there was to be the flight of steps, where Agar had to

pose as the unhappy courtesan cursing mercenary love, and longing for

ideal love.

This flight of steps was quite a problem. They were supposed to

represent the first three steps of a huge flight, leading up to a

Florentine palace, and had to be half hidden in some way. I asked for

some shrubs and flowering plants, which I arranged along all three of

the steps.

The Prince Imperial, who had come in, was then about thirteen years of

age. He helped me to arrange the plants, and laughed wildly when Agar

mounted the steps to try the effect.

He was delicious, with his magnificent eyes with heavy lids like those

of his mother, and with his father’s long eyelashes. He was witty, like

the Emperor, whom people surnamed “Louis the Imbecile,” and who

certainly had the most refined, subtle, and at the same time the most

generous wit.

We arranged everything as well as we could, and it was decided that we

should return two days later for a rehearsal before their majesties.

How gracefully the Prince Imperial asked permission to be present at the

rehearsal! His request was granted, and the Empress then took leave of

us in the most charming manner; but her voice was very ugly. She told

the two ladies who were with her to give us wine and biscuits and to

show us over the palace if we wished to see it. I did not care much

about this, but _ma petite dame_ and Agar seemed so delighted at the

offer that I gave in to them.

I have regretted ever since that I did so, for nothing could have been

uglier than the private rooms, with the exception of the Emperor’s study

and the staircases. This inspection of the palace bored me terribly. A

few of the pictures consoled me, and I stayed some time gazing at

Winterhalter’s portrait representing the Empress Eugénie. She looked

beautiful, and I thanked Heaven that the portrait could not speak, for

it served to explain and justify the wonderful good luck of her majesty.

The rehearsal took place without any special incident. The young prince

did his utmost to prove to us his gratitude and delight, for it was a

dress rehearsal on his account, as he was not to be present at the

_soirée_. He sketched my costume, and intended to have it copied for a

costume ball which was to be given for the imperial child. Our

performance was in honor of the Queen of Holland, accompanied by the

Prince of Orange, commonly known in Paris as “Prince Citron.”

A rather amusing incident occurred during the evening. The Empress had

remarkably small feet, and, in order to make them look still smaller,

she forced them into shoes that were too narrow. She looked wonderfully

beautiful that night, with her pretty sloping shoulders emerging from a

dress of pale blue satin, embroidered with silver. On her lovely hair

she was wearing a little diadem of turquoises and diamonds, and her

small feet were on a cushion of silver brocade. All through Coppée’s

piece, my eyes wandered frequently to this cushion, and I saw the two

little feet moving restlessly about. Finally, I saw one of the shoes

pushing its little brother very, very gently, and then I saw the heel of

the empress come out of its prison. The foot was then only covered at

the toe, and I was very anxious to know how it would get back, for,

under such circumstances, the foot swells and cannot go into a shoe that

is too narrow. When the piece was over, we were recalled twice, and as

it was the Empress who gave the signal for the applause, I thought she

was putting off the moment for getting up, and I saw her pretty little

sore foot trying in vain to get back into its shoe. The light curtain

went down, and as I had told Agar about the cushion drama, we watched

the various phases through the divisions in the curtains.

The Emperor rose and everyone followed his example. He offered his arm

to the Queen of Holland, but she looked at the Empress, who had not yet

risen. The Emperor’s face lighted up with that smile which I had already

seen. He said a word to General Fleury, and immediately the generals and

other officers on duty, who were seated behind the sovereigns, formed a

rampart between the crowd and the Empress. The Emperor and the Queen of

Holland then passed on, without appearing to have noticed her majesty’s

distress, and the Prince of Orange, with one knee on the ground, helped

the beautiful sovereign to put on her Cinderella-like slipper. I saw

that the Empress leaned more heavily on the prince’s arm than she liked,

for her pretty foot was evidently rather painful.

We were then sent for to be complimented, and we were surrounded and

fêted so much that we were delighted with our evening.

CHAPTER X

IN FIRE AND WAR

After “Le Passant” and the famous success of that adorable piece, a

success in which Agar and I had our share, Chilly thought more of me and

began to like me. He insisted on paying for our costumes, which was

great extravagance for him. I had become the adored queen of the

students, and I used to receive little bouquets of violets, sonnets, and

long, long poems—too long to read. Sometimes, on arriving at the

theater, as I was getting out of my carriage, I received a shower of

flowers which simply covered me, and I was delighted and used to thank

my worshipers. The only thing was that their admiration blinded them, so

that when in some pieces I was not so good, and the house was rather

chary of applause, my little army of students would be indignant, and

would cheer wildly, without rhyme or reason. I can understand quite well

that this used to exasperate the regular subscribers of the Odéon, who

were very kindly disposed toward me, nevertheless. They, too, used to

spoil me, but they would have liked me to be more humble and meek, and

less headstrong. How many times one or another of those old subscribers

would come and give me a word of advice! “Mademoiselle, you were

charming in ‘Junie,’” one of them observed, “but you bite your lips, and

the Roman women never did that!” “My dear girl,” another one said, “you

were delicious in ‘François le Champi,’ but there is not a single Breton

woman in the whole of Brittany with her hair frizzed.”

A professor from the Sorbonne said to me one day, rather curtly: “It is

a want of respect, mademoiselle, to turn your back on the public!”

“But, monsieur,” I replied, “I was accompanying an old lady to a door at

the back of the stage. I could not walk along with her backward.”

“The _artistes_ we had before you, mademoiselle, who were quite as

talented, found a way of going across the stage without turning their

backs on the public.” With this he turned quickly on his heels and was

going away, but I stopped him.

“Monsieur, will you go to that door, through which you intended to pass,

without turning your back on me?”

He made an attempt, and then, furious, turned his back on me and

disappeared, slamming the door after him.

I lived for some time at 16 Rue Auber, in a flat on the first floor,

which was rather a nice one. I had furnished it with old Dutch furniture

which my grandmother had sent me. My godfather advised me to insure

against fire, as this furniture, he assured me, constituted a small

fortune. I decided to follow his advice, and asked my _petite dame_ to

take the necessary steps for me. A few days later, she told me that some

one would call about it on the 12th. On the day in question, toward two

o’clock, a gentleman called, but I was in an extremely nervous

condition, and could not see anyone. I had refused to be disturbed, and

had shut myself up in my bedroom in a frightfully depressed state. That

same evening, I received a letter from the fire insurance company,

asking me which day their agent might call to have the agreement signed.

I replied that he might come on Saturday. On Friday I was so utterly

wretched that I sent to ask my mother to come and lunch with me. I was

not playing that day, as I never used to play on Tuesdays and Fridays,

the days we went through our repertory, for, as I was playing every

other day in new pieces, it was feared that I should be overtired.

My mother, on arriving, thought I looked very pale.

“Yes,” I replied, “I do not know what is the matter with me, but I am in

a very nervous state and most depressed.”

The governess came to fetch my little boy to take him out for a walk,

but I would not let him go.

“Oh, no!” I exclaimed, “the child must not leave me to-day, I am afraid

of something happening.”

What happened was fortunately of a less serious nature than I, with my

love for my family, was dreading.

I had my grandmother living with me at that time, and she was blind. It

was the grandmother who had given me most of my furniture. She was a

spectral-looking woman, and her beauty was of a cold, hard type. She was

fearfully tall, and she looked like a giantess. She was thin, and very

upright, and her long arms were always stretched in front of her,

feeling for all the objects in her way, so that she might not knock

herself, although she was always accompanied by the attendant whom I had

engaged for her. Above this long lady was her little face, with two

immense, pale blue eyes, which were always open, even when asleep

through the night. She was generally dressed from head to foot in gray,

and this neutral color gave something unreal to her general appearance.

My mother, after trying to comfort me, went away about two o’clock. My

grandmother, seated opposite me in her large Voltaire armchair,

questioned me:

“What are you afraid of?” she asked. “Why are you so mournful? I have

not heard you laugh all day.”

I did not answer, but looked at my grandmother. It seemed to me that the

trouble I was dreading would come through her.

“Are you not there?” she persisted.

“Yes, I am here,” I answered, “but please do not talk to me.”

She did not utter another word, but, with her two hands on her lap, sat

there for hours. I sketched her strange, prophet-like face.

It began to grow dusk, and I thought I would go and dress, after being

present at the meal taken by my grandmother and the child. My friend,

Rose Baretta, was dining with me that evening, and I had also invited a

most charming man, who was very intelligent and distinguished. His name

was Charles Haas. Arthur Meyer came, too, a young journalist already

very much in vogue. I told them about my forebodings with regard to that

day, and begged them not to leave me before midnight.

“After that,” I said, “it will not be to-day, and the wicked sprites who

are watching me will have missed their chance.”

They agreed to humor my fancy, and Arthur Meyer, who ought to have gone

to some first night at one of the theaters, gave it up. Dinner was more

animated than luncheon had been, and it was nine o’clock when we left

the table. Rose Baretta sang us some delightful old songs. I went away

for a minute to see that all was right in my grandmother’s room. I found

my maid with her head wrapped up in cloths soaked in sedative water. I

asked what was the matter, and she said that she had a terrible

headache. I told her to prepare my bath and everything for me for the

night and then to go to bed. She thanked me and obeyed.

I went back to the drawing-room, and sitting down to the piano, played

“Il Bacio,” Mendelssohn’s “Bells,” and Weber’s “Last Thought.” I had not

come to the end of this last melody, when I stopped, suddenly hearing

cries in the street of “Fire! Fire!”

“They are shouting ‘Fire!’” exclaimed Arthur Meyer.

“That’s all the same to me,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “It is not

midnight yet and I am expecting my own misfortune.”

Charles Haas had opened the drawing-room window to see where the shouts

were coming from. He stepped out on the balcony, and then came quickly

in again.

“The fire is here!” he exclaimed. “Look!”

I rushed to the window and saw the flames coming from the two windows of

my bedroom. I ran back through the drawing-room to the corridor and then

to the room where my child was sleeping with his governess and his

nurse. They were all fast asleep. Arthur Meyer opened the hall door, the

bell of which was being rung violently. I roused the two women quickly,

wrapped the sleeping child in his blankets, and rushed to the door with

my precious burden. I then ran downstairs and, crossing the street, took

him to Guadacelli’s chocolate shop opposite, just at the corner of the

Rue de Caumartin. The kind man took my little slumberer in, let him lie

on a couch, where the child continued his sleep without any break. I

left him in charge of his governess and his nurse, and went quickly back

to the flaming house.

The firemen, who had been sent for, had not yet arrived, and at all

costs I was determined to rescue my poor grandmother. It was impossible

to go back up the principal staircase, as it was filled with smoke.

Charles Haas, bareheaded and in evening dress, a flower still in his

buttonhole, started with me up the narrow back staircase. We were soon

on the first floor, but when once there my knees shook, it seemed as

though my heart had stopped, and I was seized with despair. The kitchen

door, at the top of the first flight of stairs, was locked with a triple

turn of the key. My willing companion was tall, slight, and elegant, but

not strong. I besought him to go down and fetch a hammer, a hatchet, or

something, but just at that moment a newcomer wrenched the door open by

a violent plunge with his shoulder against it.

This new arrival was no other than M. Sohège, a friend of mine. He was a

most charming and excellent man, a broad-shouldered Alsatian, well known

in Paris, very lively and kind, and always ready to do anyone a service.

I took my friends to my grandmother’s room. She was sitting up in bed,

out of breath with calling Catherine, the servant who waited upon her.

This maid was about twenty-five years of age, a big, strapping girl from

Burgundy, and she was now sleeping peacefully, in spite of the uproar in

the street, the noise of the fire engines, which had arrived at last,

and the wild shrieks of the occupants of the house. Sohège shook the

maid, while I explained to my grandmother the reason of the tumult and

why we were in her room.

“Very good,” she said: and then she added, calmly, “will you give me the

box, Sarah, that you will find at the bottom of the wardrobe? The key of

it is here.”

“But, grandmother,” I exclaimed, “the smoke is beginning to come in

here. We have not any time to lose.”

“Well, do as you like, I shall not leave without my box!” With the help

of Charles Haas and of Arthur Meyer, we put my grandmother on Sohège’s

back, in spite of herself. He was of medium height, and she was

extremely tall, so that her long legs touched the ground, and I was

afraid she might get them injured. Sohège, therefore, took her in his

arms, and Charles Haas carried her legs. We then set off, but the smoke

stifled us, and after descending about ten stairs I fell down in a

faint.

When I came to myself, I was in my mother’s bed. My little boy was

asleep in my sister’s room, and my grandmother was installed in a large

armchair. She sat bolt upright, frowning, and with an angry expression

on her lips. She did not trouble about anything but her box, until at

last my mother was angry, and reproached her severely in Dutch with only

caring for herself. She answered excitedly, and her neck craned forward,

as though to help her head to peer through the perpetual darkness which

surrounded her. Her thin body wrapped in an Indian shawl of many colors,

the hissing of her strident words, which flowed freely, all contributed

to make her resemble a serpent in some terrible nightmare. My mother did

not like this woman, who had married my grandfather when he had six big

children, the eldest of whom was sixteen and the youngest, my uncle,

five years. This second wife had never had any children of her own, and

she had been indifferent and even hard toward those of her husband, and

consequently she was not liked in the family. I had taken her in because

smallpox had broken out in the family with whom she had been boarding.

She had then wished to stay with me, and I had not had courage enough to

oppose her. On the occasion of the fire, though, I considered she

behaved so badly that a strong dislike to her came over me, and I

resolved not to have her any longer in my house.

News of the fire was brought to us. It continued to rage, and burned

everything in my flat, absolutely everything, even to the very last book

in my library. My greatest trouble was that I lost a magnificent

portrait of my mother by Bassompierre Severin, a pastelist very much in

vogue under the Empire; an oil portrait of my father, and a very pretty

pastel of my sister Jeanne. I had not much jewelry, and all that was

found of the bracelet given to me by the Emperor was a huge shapeless

mass which I still have. I had a very pretty diadem, set with diamonds

and pearls, given to me by Kabil Bey, after a performance at his house.

The ashes of this had to be riddled in order to find the stones. The

diamonds were there, but the pearls had melted.

I was absolutely ruined, for the money that my father and his mother had

left me I had spent in furniture, curiosities, and a hundred other

useless things, which were the delight of my life. I had, too, and I own

it was absurd, a tortoise named Chrysagère. Its back was covered with a

shell of gold, set with very small blue, pink, and yellow topazes. Oh,

how beautiful it was and how droll! It used to wander round my flat,

accompanied by a small tortoise named Zerbinette, which was its servant,

and I amused myself for hours watching Chrysagère, flashing with a

hundred lights under the rays of the sun or the moon. Both my tortoises

died in this fire.

Duquesnel, who was very kind to me at that time, came to see me a few

weeks later, for he had just received a summons from the fire insurance

company, whose papers I had refused to sign the day before the

catastrophe. The company claimed a heavy sum from me for damages to the

other tenants of the house. The second story was almost entirely

destroyed, and for many months the whole building had to be propped up.

I did not possess the forty thousand francs claimed. Duquesnel offered

to give a benefit performance for me, which would, he said, free me from

my difficulty. De Chilly was very walling to agree to anything that

would be of service to me. This benefit was a wonderful success, thanks

to the presence of the adorable Adelina Patti. The young singer, who was

then the Marquise de Caux, had never before sung at a benefit

performance, and it was Arthur Meyer who brought me the news that “La

Patti” was going to sing for me. Her husband came during the afternoon,

to tell me how glad she was of this opportunity of proving to me her

sympathy. As soon as the “fairy bird” was announced, every seat in the

house was promptly taken, at prices which were higher than those

originally fixed. She had no reason to regret her friendly action, for

never was any triumph more complete. The students greeted her with three

cheers as she came on the stage. She was a little surprised at this

noise of bravos in rhythm. I can see her now coming forward, her two

little feet encased in pink satin. She was like a bird hesitating as to

whether it would fly or remain on the ground. She looked so pretty, so

smiling, and when she trilled out the gemlike notes of her wonderful

voice the whole house was delirious with excitement. Everyone sprang up

and the students stood on their seats, waved their hats and

handkerchiefs, nodded their young heads, in their feverish enthusiasm

for art, and encored with intonations of the most touching supplication.

The divine singer then began again, and three times over she had to sing

the _cavatina_ from the “Barber of Seville,” _Una voce poco fa_.

I thanked her affectionately afterwards, and she left the theater

escorted by the students, who followed her carriage for a long way,

shouting over and over again: “Long live Adelina Patti!” Thanks to that

evening’s performance I was able to pay the insurance company. I was

ruined all the same, or very nearly so.

I stayed a few days with my mother, but we were so cramped for room

there that I took a furnished flat in the Rue de l’Arcade. It was a

wretched house and the flat was dark. I was wondering how I should get

out of my difficulties, when one morning M. C——, my father’s notary, was

announced. This was the man I disliked so much, but I gave orders that

he should be shown in. I was surprised that I had not seen him for so

long a time. He told me that he had just returned from Hombourg, that he

had seen in the newspaper an account of my misfortune, and had now come

to put himself at my service. In spite of my distrust, I was touched by

this, and I related to him the whole drama of my fire. I did not know

how it had started, but I vaguely suspected my maid Josephine of having

placed my lighted candle on the little table to the left of the head of

my bed. I had frequently warned her not to do this, but it was on this

little piece of furniture that she always placed my water bottle and

glass, and a dessert dish with a couple of raw apples, for I like eating

apples when I wake in the night. On opening the door there was always a

terrible draught, as the windows were left open until I went to bed. On

closing the door after her the lace bed curtains had probably caught

fire. I could not explain the catastrophe in any other way. I had

several times seen the young servant do this stupid thing, and I

supposed that on the night in question she had been in a hurry to go to

bed on account of her bad headache. As a rule, when I was going to

undress myself, she prepared everything and then came in and told me,

but this time she had not done so. As a rule, too, I just went into the

room myself to see that everything was right, and several times I had

been obliged to move the candle. That day, however, was destined to

bring me misfortune of some kind, though it was not a very great one.

“But,” said the notary, “you were not insured, then?”

“No, I was to sign my policy the day after the event.”

“Ah,” exclaimed the man of law; “and to think that I have been told you

set the flat on fire yourself, for the sake of picking up a large sum

for damages!”

I shrugged my shoulders, for I had seen insinuations to this effect in a

newspaper. I was very young at this time, but I already had a certain

disdain for tittle-tattle.

“Oh, well, I must arrange matters for you, if things are like this,”

said Maître C——. “You are really better off than you imagine as regards

the money on your father’s side,” he continued. “As your grandmother

leaves you an annuity, you can get a good amount for this by agreeing to

insure your life for 250,000 francs for forty years, for the benefit of

the purchaser.” I agreed to everything, and was only too delighted at

such a windfall. This man promised to send me, two days after his

return, 120,000 francs, and he kept his word.

My reason for giving the details of this little episode, which after all

belongs to my life, is to show how differently things turn out from what

seems likely, according to logic or according to our own expectations.

It is quite certain that the accident, which just then happened to me,

scattered to the winds the hopes and plans of my life. I had arranged

for myself a luxurious home with the money that my father and his mother

had left me. I had reserved and placed out the amount necessary to

complete my monthly salary for the next two years, and I was reckoning

that at the end of the two years I should be in a position to demand a

very large salary. And all these arrangements had been upset by the

carelessness of a domestic. I had rich relatives and very rich friends,

but not one among them stretched out a hand to help me out of the ditch

into which I had fallen. My rich relatives had not forgiven me for going

on to the stage. And yet, Heaven knows what tears it had cost me to take

up this career that had been forced upon me! My Uncle Faure came to see

me at my mother’s house, but my aunt would not listen to a word about

me. I used to see my cousin secretly, and sometimes his pretty sister.

My rich friends considered that I was wildly extravagant, and could not

understand why I did not place the money I had inherited in good, sound

investments.

I received a great deal of poetry on the subject of my fire. Most of the

pieces were anonymous; I have kept them, however, and I quote the

following one, which is rather nice:

_Passant_, te voilà sans abri:

La flamme a ravagé ton gîte.

Hier plus léger qu’un colibri;

Ton esprit aujourd’hui s’agite,

S’exhalant en gémissements

Sur tout ce que le feu dévore.

Tu pleures tes beaux diamants?...

Non, tes grands yeux les ont encore!

Ne regrette pas ces colliers;

Qu’on a leur cou les riches dames!

Tu trouveras dans les halliers,

Des tissus verts, aux fines trames!

Ta perle?... Mais, c’est le jais noir

Qui sur l’envers du fossépousse!

Et le cadre de ton miroir

Est une bordure de mousse!

Tes bracelets?... Mais, tes bras nus:

Tu paraitras cent fois plus belle!

Sur les bras polis de Vénus,

Aucun cercle d’or n’étincelle!

Garde ton charme si puissant!

Ton parfum de plante sauvage!

Laisse les bijoux, _O Passant_,

A celles que le temps ravage!

Avec ta guitare à ton cou,

Va, par la France et par l’Espagne!

Suis ton chemin; je ne sais où....

Par la plaine et par la montagne!

Passe, comme la plume au vent!

Comme le son de ta mandore!

Comme un flot qui baise en rêvant

Les flancs d’une barque sonore!

The proprietor of one of the hotels now very much in vogue sent me the

following letter, which I quote word for word:

MADAME: If you would consent to dine every evening for a month in our

large dining-room, I would place at your service a suite of rooms on

the first floor, consisting of two bedrooms, a large drawing-room, a

small boudoir and a bath room. It is of course, understood that this

suite of rooms would be yours free of charge if you would consent to

do as I ask.

Yours truly, etc....

P. S.—You would only have to pay for the fresh supplies of plants for

your drawing-room.

This was the extent of the man’s coarseness. I asked one of my friends

to go and give the low fellow his answer.

I was in despair, though, for I felt that I could not live without

comfort and luxury.

I soon made up my mind as to what I must do, but not without great

sorrow. I had been offered a magnificent engagement in Russia, and I

should have to accept it. Mme. Guérard was my sole confidant, and I did

not mention my plan to anyone else. The idea of Russia terrified her,

for at that time my chest was very delicate and cold was my most cruel

enemy. It was just as I had made up my mind to this that the lawyer

arrived. His avaricious and crafty mind had schemed out the clever and,

for him, profitable combination, which was to change my whole life once

more.

I took a pretty flat on the first floor of a house in the Rue de Rome.

It was very sunny, and that delighted me more than anything else. There

were two drawing-rooms and a large dining-room. I arranged for my

grandmother to live at a home kept by lay Sisters and nuns. She was a

Jewess, and carried out very strictly all the laws laid down by her

religion. The house was very comfortable, and my grandmother took with

her her own maid, the young girl from Burgundy, to whom she was

accustomed. When I went to see her she told me that she was much better

off there than with me. “When I was with you,” she said, “I found your

boy too noisy.” I very rarely went to visit her there, for after seeing

my mother turn pale at her unkind words I never cared any more for her.

She was happy, and that was the essential thing.

I now played in “Le Bâtard,” in which I had great success; in

“L’Affranchi,” in “L’Autre,” by George Sand, and in “Jean-Marie,” a

little masterpiece by André Theuriet, which had the most brilliant

success. Porel played the part of _Jean-Marie_. He was at that time

slender, and full of hope as regarded his future. Since then his

slenderness has developed into plumpness and his hope into certitude.

Evil days then came upon us! Paris began to get feverish and excited.

The streets were black with groups of people, discussing and

gesticulating. And all this noise was only the echo of far-distant

groups gathered together in German streets. These other groups were

yelling, gesticulating, and discussing, but—they knew; while we—did not

know!

I could not keep calm, but was extremely excited, until finally I was

ill. War was declared, and I hate war! It exasperates me and makes me

shudder from head to foot. At times I used to spring up terrified, upset

by the distant cries of human voices.

Oh, war! What infamy, shame, and sorrow! War! What theft and crime,

abetted, forgiven, and glorified!

On the 19th of July, war was seriously declared and Paris then became

the theater 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 occasion 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 the 27th day of July I was

taken away in spite of myself. Mme. Guérard, my manservant, and my maid

accompanied me, and I also took my child with me.

At the stations there were posters everywhere, announcing that the

Emperor Napoleon had gone to Metz to take command of the army.

On arriving at Eaux-Bonnes, I was obliged to go to bed. My condition was

considered very serious by Dr. Langlet, 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.

The war news led us to hope for victory. There was great joy and a

certain emotion felt by everyone 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 glorious progress which my brain had been so

active in imagining was cut short by the atrocious news from St. 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 tranquillity, as I did, I used to send my manservant to copy

the telegrams. Oh, how grievous it was, that terrible telegram from St.

Privat, informing us laconically of the frightful butchery, of Marshal

Canrobert’s heroic defense, and of Bazaine’s first treachery in not

going to the rescue of his comrades.

I knew Canrobert and liked him immensely. Later on he was 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 St. Privat caused my feverishness to return.

My sleep was full of nightmares and I had a relapse. The news was worse

every day. After St. 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 repulsed as far as Sedan, and

finally Sedan!

Sedan! Ah, the horrible awakening! The month of August had finished the

night before amid a tumult of weapons and dying groans. But the groans

of the dying men were mingled still with hopeful cries. The month of

September, though, 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 had to capitulate,

and the Emperor of France had 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 the first of September toward ten o’clock Claude, my manservant,

knocked at my door. I was not asleep, and he gave me his copy of the

first telegrams: “Battle of Sedan commenced.... MacMahon wounded ...

etc., etc.” “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 Elicie, 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....”

The blood rushed to my head, and my lungs were too weak to control it. 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. Langlet sent for one of

my father’s friends, a shipowner named M. Mannoir. 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.

Langlet 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, everyone 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 take me to

the next train that came. 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 manservant was allowed to

travel with the engine driver. I do not know where Mme. 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

back when I had put him in, but I pushed him again energetically in my

turn.

“No human force will make us get out of this carriage again,” 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 travelers 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, then. 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 us

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 about eighteen to twenty

years of age to take the old man’s seat. The Englishman had the body 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

recognized me was Albert Delpit, the second was a Dutchman, Baron von

Zelern or Von Zelen, I do not remember exactly which, and the young man

with the white hair was Felix 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 died in a railway accident, and Felix Faure as 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 Mme. 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 with a telegram in his

hand. The unfortunate woman read it, and then, uttering a cry, burst

into sobs and fell into his arms. I gazed at her, wandering 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

sometime 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 manservant

to engage a compartment, and he came back three hours later with his

clothes torn, after receiving various kicks and blows.

“Madame cannot go into that crowd,” he assured me. “It is quite

impossible. I should not be able to protect her. And then, too, 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 butler to be ready, as well as my

other manservant, 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, and only nine who were really traveling. Our eight protectors were

not too many, for they were not human beings who were taking tickets,

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 insure 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 then 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 Mme. 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 sent him 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

everyone who was well ought to stay in Paris. In spite of my weakness I

felt that I was well, and with reason, as I proved later on. I therefore

stayed, not knowing at all what I was going to do.

CHAPTER XI

I ESTABLISH MY WAR HOSPITAL

For some days I was perfectly dazed, missing the usual life around me,

and missing the affection of those I loved. The defense, however, was

being organized, and I decided to use my strength and intelligence in

tending the wounded. The question was where could we install an

_ambulance_?

The Odéon Theater had closed its doors, but I moved heaven and earth to

get permission to organize an _ambulance_ at the Odéon, and, thanks to

Emile de Girardin and Duquesnel, my wish was granted. 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 after my letter,

bringing me 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. 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. He

was a young lieutenant, good-looking, witty, and lively. He had

introduced me to his mother, a very charming woman, and 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 Mme. Guérard whether she

thought that the prefect might be 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 Mme.

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, 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, the wooden jaws!” “Well, any news?”

“Yes, it’s the very deuce with us!” etc., etc.... 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 odor of tobacco, of greasy clothes, of hair plastered with pomatum

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 place 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. I

could see the Emperor Napoleon III himself, with his half-closed eyes,

clapping his hands at the rehearsal of the courtesies intended for him.

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

battlefield. Two horses had been killed under him, but 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. Yet what courage it must have required for this

brave 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 my _petite 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, what was my surprise to recognize in him the

lieutenant I knew. He had become captain and then prefect of the Seine.

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 Mme.

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 short 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 in one breath.

“Oh, let me get my breath!” exclaimed the count-prefect. “You speak so

quickly that I am gasping.”

I was quiet 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 some other things, which you will be able

to get from the Opera.”

“From the Opera!” 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 organize the defense in their own way.

You must try to get a petition for me, signed by the most influential

householders and tradespeople in the neighborhood. Now are you

satisfied?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied, shaking hands with him cordially with both hands. “You

have been most kind and charming. Thank you very much.”

I then moved toward the door, but I stood still again suddenly, as

though hypnotized by an overcoat hanging over a chair. Mme. 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, whose two 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?”