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Title: My Double Life
       The Memoirs of Sarah Bernhardt

Author: Sarah Bernhardt

Release Date: October, 2005 [EBook #9100]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on September 6, 2003]

Edition: 10

Language: English

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Produced by Suzanne Shell, Sandra Brown and Distributed Proofreaders




MY DOUBLE LIFE

_The Memoirs of
Sarah Bernhardt_

1907



CONTENTS


Chap.
I. CHILDHOOD

II. AT BOARDING SCHOOL

III. CONVENT LIFE

IV. MY DÉBUT

V. THE SOLDIER'S SHAKO

VI. THE FAMILY COUNCIL AND MY FIRST VISIT TO A THEATRE

VII. MY CAREER--FIRST LESSONS

VIII. THE CONSERVATOIRE

IX. A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL AND EXAMINATIONS--THE CONSERVATOIRE

X. MY FIRST ENGAGEMENT

XI. MY DÉBUT AT THE HOUSE OF MOLIÈRE, AND MY FIRST DEPARTURE THEREFROM

XII. AT THE GYMNASE THEATRE--A TRIP TO SPAIN

XIII. FROM THE PORTE ST. MARTIN THEATRE TO THE ODÉON

XIV. "LE PASSANT"--AT THE TUILERIES--FIRE IN MY FLAT

XV. THE FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR

XVI. SARAH BERNHARDT'S AMBULANCE AT THE ODÉON THEATRE

XVII. PARIS BOMBARDED

XVIII. A BOLD JOURNEY THROUGH THE GERMAN LINES

XIX. MY RETURN TO PARIS--THE COMMUNE--AT ST. GERMAIN-EN-LAYE

XX. VICTOR HUGO

XXI. A MEMORABLE SUPPER

XXII. AT THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE AGAIN--SCULPTURE

XXIII. A DESCENT INTO THE ENFER DU PLOGOFF--MY FIRST APPEARANCE AS
PHÈDRE--THE DECORATION OF MY NEW MANSION

XXIV. ALEXANDRE DUMAS--"L'ETRANGÈRE"--MY SCULPTURE AT THE SALON

XXV. "HERNANI"--A TRIP IN A BALLOON

XXVI. THE COMÉDIE GOES TO LONDON

XXVII. LONDON LIFE--MY FIRST PERFORMANCE AT THE GAIETY THEATRE

XXVIII. MY PERFORMANCE IN LONDON--MY EXHIBITION--MY WILD
ANIMALS--TROUBLE WITH THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE

XXIX. THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE RETURNS TO PARIS--SARAH BERNHARDT'S COMMENTS
ON ACTORS AND ACTRESSES OF THE DAY

XXX. MY DEPARTURE FROM THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE--PREPARATIONS FOR MY FIRST
AMERICAN TOUR--ANOTHER VISIT TO LONDON

XXXI. A TOUR IN DENMARK--ROYAL FAMILIES--THE "TWENTY-EIGHT DAYS" OF
SARAH BERNHARDT

XXXII. EXPERIENCES AND REFLECTIONS ON BOARD SHIP FROM HAVRE TO NEW YORK

XXXIII. ARRIVAL IN NEW YORK--AMERICAN REPORTERS--THE CUSTOM
HOUSE--PERFORMANCES IN NEW YORK--A VISIT TO EDISON AT MENLO PARK

XXXIV. AT BOSTON--STORY OF THE WHALE

XXXV. MONTREAL'S GRAND RECEPTION--THE POET FRÉCHETTE--AN ESCAPADE ON THE
ST. LAWRENCE RIVER

XXXVI. SPRINGFIELD--BALTIMORE--PHILADELPHIA--CHICAGO--ADVENTURES BETWEEN
ST. LOUIS AND CINCINNATI--CAPITAL PUNISHMENT

XXXVII. NEW ORLEANS AND OTHER AMERICAN CITIES--A VISIT TO THE FALLS OF
NIAGARA

XXXVIII. THE RETURN TO FRANCE--THE WELCOME AT HAVRE

    INDEX




I


CHILDHOOD


My mother was fond of travelling: she would go from Spain to England,
from London to Paris, from Paris to Berlin, and from there to
Christiania; then she would come back, embrace me, and set out again for
Holland, her native country. She used to send my nurse clothing for
herself and cakes for me. To one of my aunts she would write: "Look
after little Sarah; I shall return in a month's time." A month later she
would write to another of her sisters: "Go and see the child at her
nurse's; I shall be back in a couple of weeks."

My mother's age was nineteen; I was three years old, and my two aunts
were seventeen and twenty years of age; another aunt was fifteen, and
the eldest was twenty-eight; but the last one lived at Martinique, and
was the mother of six children. My grandmother was blind, my grandfather
dead, and my father had been in China for the last two years. I have no
idea why he had gone there.

My youthful aunts always promised to come to see me, but rarely kept
their word. My nurse hailed from Brittany, and lived near Quimperlé, in
a little white house with a low thatched roof, on which wild
gilly-flowers grew. That was the first flower which charmed my eyes as a
child, and I have loved it ever since. Its leaves are heavy and
sad-looking, and its petals are made of the setting sun.

Brittany is a long way off, even in our epoch of velocity! In those days
it was the end of the world. Fortunately my nurse was, it appears, a
good, kind woman, and, as her own child had died, she had only me to
love. But she loved after the manner of poor people, when she had time.

One day, as her husband was ill, she went into the field to help gather
in potatoes; the over-damp soil was rotting them, and there was no time
to be lost. She left me in charge of her husband, who was lying on his
Breton bedstead suffering from a bad attack of lumbago. The good woman
had placed me in my high chair, and had been careful to put in the
wooden peg which supported the narrow table for my toys. She threw a
faggot in the grate, and said to me in Breton language (until the age of
four I only understood Breton), "Be a good girl, Milk Blossom." That was
my only name at the time. When she had gone, I tried to withdraw the
wooden peg which she had taken so much trouble to put in place. Finally
I succeeded in pushing aside the little rampart. I wanted to reach the
ground, but--poor little me!--I fell into the fire, which was burning
joyfully.

The screams of my foster-father, who could not move, brought in some
neighbours. I was thrown, all smoking, into a large pail of fresh milk.
My aunts were informed of what had happened: they communicated the news
to my mother, and for the next four days that quiet part of the country
was ploughed by stage-coaches which arrived in rapid succession. My
aunts came from all parts of the world, and my mother, in the greatest
alarm, hastened from Brussels, with Baron Larrey, one of her friends,
who was a young doctor, just beginning to acquire celebrity, and a house
surgeon whom Baron Larrey had brought with him. I have been told since
that nothing was so painful to witness and yet so charming as my
mother's despair. The doctor approved of the "mask of butter," which was
changed every two hours.

Dear Baron Larrey! I often saw him afterwards, and now and again we
shall meet him in the pages of my Memoirs. He used to tell me in such
charming fashion how those kind folks loved Milk Blossom. And he could
never refrain from laughing at the thought of that butter. There was
butter everywhere, he used to say: on the bedsteads, on the cupboards,
on the chairs, on the tables, hanging up on nails in bladders. All the
neighbours used to bring butter to make masks for Milk Blossom.

Mother, adorably beautiful, looked like a Madonna, with her golden hair
and her eyes fringed with such long lashes that they made a shadow on
her cheeks when she looked down.

She distributed money on all sides. She would have given her golden
hair, her slender white fingers, her tiny feet, her life itself, in
order to save her child. And she was as sincere in her despair and her
love as in her unconscious forgetfulness. Baron Larrey returned to
Paris, leaving my mother, Aunt Rosine, and the surgeon with me.
Forty-two days later, mother took back in triumph to Paris the nurse,
the foster-father, and me, and installed us in a little house at
Neuilly, on the banks of the Seine. I had not even a scar, it appears.
My skin was rather too bright a pink, but that was all. My mother, happy
and trustful once more, began to travel again, leaving me in care of my
aunts.

Two years were spent in the little garden at Neuilly, which was full of
horrible dahlias growing close together and coloured like wooden balls.
My aunts never came there. My mother used to send money, bon-bons, and
toys. The foster-father died, and my nurse married a concierge, who used
to pull open the door at 65 Rue de Provence.

Not knowing where to find my mother, and not being able to write, my
nurse--without telling any of my friends--took me with her to her new
abode.

The change delighted me. I was five years old at the time, and I
remember the day as if it were yesterday. My nurse's abode was just over
the doorway of the house, and the window was framed in the heavy and
monumental door. From outside I thought it was beautiful, and I began to
clap my hands on reaching the house. It was towards five o'clock in the
evening, in the month of November, when everything looks grey. I was put
to bed, and no doubt I went to sleep at once, for there end my
recollections of that day.

The next morning there was terrible grief in store for me. There was no
window in the little room in which I slept, and I began to cry, and
escaped from the arms of my nurse, who was dressing me, so that I could
go into the adjoining room. I ran to the round window, which was an
immense "bull's-eye" above the doorway. I pressed my stubborn brow
against the glass, and began to scream with rage on seeing no trees, no
box-weed, no leaves falling, nothing, nothing but stone--cold, grey,
ugly stone--and panes of glass opposite me. "I want to go away! I don't
want to stay here! It is all black, black! It is ugly! I want to see the
ceiling of the street!" and I burst into tears. My poor nurse took me up
in her arms, and, folding me in a rug, took me down into the courtyard.
"Lift up your head, Milk Blossom, and look! See--there is the ceiling of
the street!"

It comforted me somewhat to see that there was some sky in this ugly
place, but my little soul was very sad. I could not eat, and I grew pale
and became anaemic, and should certainly have died of consumption if it
had not been for a mere chance, a most unexpected incident. One day I
was playing in the courtyard with a little girl, called Titine, who
lived on the second floor, and whose face or real name I cannot recall,
when I saw my nurse's husband walking across the courtyard with two
ladies, one of whom was most fashionably attired. I could only see their
backs, but the voice of the fashionably attired lady caused my heart to
stop beating. My poor little body trembled with nervous excitement.

"Do any of the windows look on to the courtyard?" she asked.

"Yes, Madame, those four," he replied, pointing to four open ones on the
first floor.

The lady turned to look at them, and I uttered a cry of joy.

"Aunt Rosine! Aunt Rosine!" I exclaimed, clinging to the skirts of the
pretty visitor. I buried my face in her furs, stamping, sobbing,
laughing, and tearing her wide lace sleeves in my frenzy of delight. She
took me in her arms and tried to calm me, and questioning the concierge,
she stammered out to her friend: "I can't understand what it all means!
This is little Sarah! My sister Youle's child!"

The noise I made had attracted attention, and people opened their
windows. My aunt decided to take refuge in the concierge's lodge, in
order to come to an explanation. My poor nurse told her about all that
had taken place, her husband's death, and her second marriage. I do not
remember what she said to excuse herself. I clung to my aunt, who was
deliciously perfumed, and I would not let go of her. She promised to
come the following day to fetch me, but I did not want to stay any
longer in that dark place. I asked to start at once with my nurse. My
aunt stroked my hair gently, and spoke to her friend in a language I did
not understand. She tried in vain to explain something to me; I do not
know what it was, but I insisted that I wanted to go away with her at
once. In a gentle, tender, caressing voice, but without any real
affection, she said all kinds of pretty things, stroked me with her
gloved hands, patted my frock, which was turned up, and made any amount
of charming, frivolous little gestures, but all without any real
feeling. She then went away, at her friend's entreaty, after emptying
her purse in my nurse's hands. I rushed towards the door, but the
husband of my nurse, who had opened it for her, now closed it again. My
nurse was crying, and, taking me in her arms, she opened the window,
saying to me, "Don't cry, Milk Blossom. Look at your pretty aunt; she
will come back again, and then you can go away with her." Great tears
rolled down her calm, round, handsome face. I could see nothing but the
dark, black hole which remained there immutable behind me, and in a fit
of despair I rushed out to my aunt, who was just getting into a
carriage. After that I knew nothing more; everything seemed dark, there
was a noise in the distance. I could hear voices far, far away. I had
managed to escape from my poor nurse, and had fallen down on the
pavement in front of my aunt. I had broken my arm in two places, and
injured my left knee-cap. I only came to myself again a few hours later,
to find that I was in a beautiful, wide bed which smelt very nice. It
stood in the middle of a large room, with two lovely windows, which made
me very joyful, for I could see the ceiling of the street through them.

My mother, who had been sent for immediately, came to take care of me,
and I saw the rest of my family, my aunts and my cousins. My poor little
brain could not understand why all these people should suddenly be so
fond of me, when I had passed so many days and nights only cared for by
one single person.

As I was weakly, and my bones small and friable, I was two years
recovering from this terrible fall, and during that time was nearly
always carried about. I will pass over these two years of my life, which
have left me only a vague memory of being petted and of a chronic state
of torpor.




II


AT BOARDING SCHOOL


One day my mother took me on her knees and said to me, "You are a big
girl now, and you must learn to read and write." I was then seven years
old, and could neither read, write, nor count, as I had been five years
with the old nurse and two years ill. "You must go to school," continued
my mother, playing with my curly hair, "like a big girl." I did not know
what all this meant, and I asked what a school was.

"It's a place where there are many little girls," replied my mother.

"Are they ill?" I asked.

"Oh no! They are quite well, as you are now, and they play together, and
are very gay and happy."

I jumped about in delight, and gave free vent to my joy, but on seeing
tears in my mother's eyes I flung myself in her arms.

"But what about you, Mamma?" I asked. "You will be all alone, and you
won't have any little girl."

She bent down to me and said: "God has told me that He will send me some
flowers and a little baby."

My delight was more and more boisterous. "Then I shall have a little
brother!" I exclaimed, "or else a little sister. Oh no, I don't want
that; I don't like little sisters."

Mamma kissed me very affectionately, and then I was dressed, I remember,
in a blue corded velvet frock, of which I was very proud. Arrayed thus
in all my splendour, I waited impatiently for Aunt Rosine's carriage,
which was to take us to Auteuil.

It was about three when she arrived. The housemaid had gone on about an
hour before, and I had watched with delight my little trunk and my toys
being packed into the carriage. The maid climbed up and took the seat by
the driver, in spite of my mother protesting at first against this. When
my aunt's magnificent equipage arrived, mamma was the first to get in,
slowly and calmly. I got in when my turn came, giving myself airs,
because the concierge and some of the shopkeepers were watching. My aunt
then sprang in lightly, but by no means calmly, after giving her orders
in English to the stiff, ridiculous-looking coachman, and handing him a
paper on which the address was written. Another carriage followed ours,
in which three men were seated: Régis L----, a friend of my father's,
General de P----, and an artist, named Fleury, I think, whose pictures
of horses and sporting subjects were very much in vogue just then.

I heard on the way that these gentlemen were to make arrangements for a
little dinner near Auteuil, to console mamma for her great trouble in
being separated from me. Some other guests were to be there to meet
them. I did not pay very much attention to what my mother and my aunt
said to each other. Sometimes when they spoke of me they talked either
English or German, and smiled at me affectionately. The long drive was
greatly appreciated by me, for with my face pressed against the window
and my eyes wide open I gazed out eagerly at the grey muddy road, with
its ugly houses on each side, and its bare trees. I thought it was all
very beautiful, because it kept changing.

The carriage stopped at 18 Rue Boileau, Auteuil. On the iron gate was a
long, dark signboard, with gold letters. I looked up at it, and mamma
said, "You will be able to read that soon, I hope." My aunt whispered to
me, "Boarding School, Madame Fressard," and very promptly I said to
mamma, "It says 'Boarding School, Madame Fressard.'"

Mamma, my aunt, and the three gentlemen laughed heartily at my
assurance, and we entered the house. Madame Fressard came forward to
meet us, and I liked her at once. She was of medium height, rather
stout, and her hair turning grey, _à la Sévigné_. She had beautiful
large eyes, rather like George Sand's, and very white teeth, which
showed up all the more as her complexion was rather tawny. She looked
healthy, spoke kindly; her hands were plump and her fingers long. She
took my hand gently in hers, and half kneeling, so that her face was
level with mine, she said in a musical voice, "You won't be afraid of
me, will you, little girl?" I did not answer, but my face flushed as red
as a cockscomb. She asked me several questions, but I refused to reply.
They all gathered round me.

"Speak, child----Come, Sarah, be a good girl----Oh, the naughty little
child!"

It was all in vain. I remained perfectly mute. The customary round was
then made, to the bed-rooms, the dining-hall, the class-rooms, and the
usual exaggerated compliments were paid. "How beautifully it is all
kept! How spotlessly clean everything is!" and a hundred stupidities of
this kind about the comfort of these prisons for children. My mother
went aside with Madame Fressard, and I clung to her knees so that she
could not walk. "This is the doctor's prescription," she said, and then
followed a long list of things that were to be done for me.

Madame Fressard smiled rather ironically. "You know, Madame," she said
to my mother, "we shall not be able to curl her hair like that."

"And you certainly will not be able to uncurl it," replied my mother,
stroking my head with her gloved hands. "It's a regular wig, and they
must never attempt to comb it until it has been well brushed. They could
not possibly get the knots out otherwise, and it would hurt her too
much. What do you give the children at four o'clock?" she asked,
changing the subject.

"Oh, a slice of bread and just what the parents leave for them."

"There are twelve pots of different kinds of jam," said my mother, "but
she must have jam one day, and chocolate another, as she has not a good
appetite, and requires change of food. I have brought six pounds of
chocolate." Madame Fressard smiled in a good-natured but rather ironical
way. She picked up a packet of the chocolate and looked at the name of
the maker.

"Ah! from Marquis's! What a spoiled little girl it is!" She patted my
cheek with her white fingers, and then as her eyes fell on a large jar
she looked surprised. "That's cold cream," said my mother. "I make it
myself, and I should like my little girl's face and hands to be rubbed
with it every night when she goes to bed."

"But----" began Madame Fressard.

"Oh, I'll pay double laundry expenses for the sheets," interrupted my
mother impatiently. (Ah, my poor mother! I remember quite well that my
sheets were changed once a month, like those of the other pupils.)

The farewell moment came at last, and every one gathered round mamma,
and finally carried her off, after a great deal of kissing and with all
kinds of consoling words. "It will be so good for her--it is just what
she needs--you'll find her quite changed when you see her again"--&c.
&c.

The General, who was very fond of me, picked me up in his arms and
tossed me in the air.

"You little chit," he said; "they are putting you into barracks, and
you'll have to mind your behaviour!"

I pulled his long moustache, and he said, winking, and looking in the
direction of Madame Fressard, who had a slight moustache, "You mustn't
do that to the lady, you know!"

My aunt laughed heartily, and my mother gave a little stifled laugh, and
the whole troop went off in a regular whirlwind of rustling skirts and
farewells, whilst I was taken away to the cage where I was to be
imprisoned.

I spent two years at this pension. I was taught reading, writing, and
reckoning. I also learnt a hundred new games. I learnt to sing
_rondeaux_ and to embroider handkerchiefs for my mother. I was
relatively happy there, as we always went out somewhere on Thursdays and
Sundays, and this gave me the sensation of liberty. The very ground in
the street seemed to me quite different from the ground of the large
garden belonging to the pension. Besides, there were little festivities
at Madame Fressard's which used to send me into raptures. Mlle. Stella
Colas, who had just made her _début_ at the Théâtre Français, came
sometimes on Thursdays and recited poetry to us. I could never sleep a
wink the night before, and in the morning I used to comb my hair
carefully and get ready, my heart beating fast with excitement, in order
to listen to something I did not understand at all, but which
nevertheless left me spell-bound. Then, too, there was quite a legend
attached to this pretty girl. She had flung herself almost under the
horses' feet as the Emperor was driving along, in order to attract his
attention and obtain the pardon of her brother, who had conspired
against his sovereign.

Mlle. Stella Colas had a sister at Madame Fressard's, and this sister,
Clothilde, is now the wife of M. Pierre Merlou, Under Secretary of State
in the Treasury Department. Stella was slight and fair, with blue eyes
that were rather hard but expressive. She had a deep voice, and when
this pale, fragile girl began to recite Athalie's Dream, it thrilled me
through and through. How many times, seated on my child's bed, did I
practise saying in a low voice, "_Tremble, fille digne de moi_"--I used
to twist my head on my shoulders, swell out my cheeks, and commence:

"_Tremble--trem-ble--trem-em-ble----_"

But it always ended badly, and I would begin again very quietly, in a
stifled voice, and then unconsciously speak louder; and my companions,
roused by the noise, were amused at my attempts, and roared with
laughter. I would then rush about to the right and left, giving them
kicks and blows, which they returned with interest.

Madame Fressard's adopted daughter, Mlle. Caroline (whom I chanced to
meet a long time after, married to the celebrated artist, Yvon), would
then appear on the scene. Angry and implacable, she would give us all
kinds of punishments for the following day. As for me, I used to get
locked up for three days: that was followed by my being detained on the
first day we were allowed out. And in addition I would receive five
strokes with a ruler on my fingers. Ah! those ruler strokes of Mlle.
Caroline's! I reproached her about them when I met her again twenty-five
years later. She used to make us put all our fingers round the thumb and
hold our hands straight out to her, and then bang came her wide ebony
ruler. She used to give us a cruelly hard, sharp blow which made the
tears spurt to our eyes. I took a dislike to Mlle. Caroline. She was
beautiful, but with the kind of beauty I did not care for. She had a
very white complexion, and very black hair, which she wore in waved
_bandeaux_. When I saw her a long time afterwards, one of my relatives
brought her to my house and said, "I am sure you will not recognise this
lady, and yet you know her very well." I was leaning against the large
mantelpiece in the hall, and I saw this tall woman, still beautiful, but
rather provincial-looking, coming through the first drawing-room. As she
descended the three steps into the hall the light fell on her protruding
forehead, framed on each side with the hard, waved _bandeaux_.

"Mademoiselle Caroline!" I exclaimed, and with a furtive, childish
movement I hid my two hands behind my back. I never saw her again, for
the grudge I had owed her from my childhood must have been apparent
under my politeness as hostess.

As I said before, I was not unhappy at Madame Fressard's, and it seemed
quite natural to me that I should stay there until I was quite a
grown-up girl. My uncle, Félix Faure, who has entered the Carthusian
monastery, had stipulated that his wife, my mother's sister, should
often take me out. He had a very fine country place at, Neuilly, with a
stream running through the grounds, and I used to fish there for hours,
together with my two cousins, a boy and girl.

These two years of my life passed peacefully, without any other events
than my terrible fits of temper, which upset the whole pension and
always left me in the infirmary for two or three days. These outbursts
of temper were like attacks of madness.

One day Aunt Rosine arrived suddenly to take me away altogether. My
father had written giving orders as to where I was to be placed, and
these orders were imperative. My mother was travelling, so she had sent
word to my aunt, who had hurried off at once, between two dances, to
carry out the instructions she had received.

The idea that I was to be ordered about, without any regard to my own
wishes or inclinations, put me into an indescribable rage. I rolled
about on the ground, uttering the most heartrending cries. I yelled out
all kinds of reproaches, blaming mamma, my aunts, and Madame Fressard
for not finding some way to keep me with her. The struggle lasted two
hours, and while I was being dressed I escaped twice into the garden and
attempted to climb the trees and to throw myself into the pond, in which
there was more mud than water.

Finally, when I was completely exhausted and subdued, I was taken off,
sobbing, in my aunt's carriage.

I stayed three days at her house, as I was so feverish that my life was
said to be in danger.

My father used to come to my aunt Rosine's, who was then living at 6 Rue
de la Chaussée d'Antin. He was on friendly terms with Rossini, who lived
at No. 4 in the same street. He often brought him in, and Rossini made
me laugh with his clever stories and comic grimaces.

My father was as "handsome as a god," and I used to look at him with
pride. I did not know him well, as I saw him so rarely, but I loved him
for his seductive voice and his slow, gentle gestures. He commanded a
certain respect, and I noticed that even my exuberant aunt calmed down
in his presence.

I had recovered, and Dr. Monod, who was attending me, said that I could
now be moved without any fear of ill effects.

We had been waiting for my mother, but she was ill at Haarlem. My aunt
offered to accompany us if my father would take me to the convent, but
he refused, and I can hear him now with his gentle voice saying:

"No; her mother will take her to the convent. I have written to the
Faures, and the child is to stay there a fortnight."

My aunt was about to protest, but my father replied:

"It's quieter there, my dear Rosine, and the child needs tranquillity
more than anything else."

I went that very evening to my aunt Faure's. I did not care much for
her, as she was cold and affected, but I adored my uncle. He was so
gentle and so calm, and there was an infinite charm in his smile. His
son was as turbulent as I was myself, adventurous and rather
hare-brained, so that we always liked being together. His sister, an
adorable, Greuze-like girl, was reserved, and always afraid of soiling
her frocks and even her pinafores. The poor child married Baron Cerise,
and died during her confinement, in the very flower of youth and beauty,
because her timidity, her reserve, and narrow education had made her
refuse to see a doctor when the intervention of a medical man was
absolutely necessary. I was very fond of her, and her death was a great
grief to me. At present I never see the faintest ray of moonlight
without its evoking a pale vision of her.

I stayed three weeks at my uncle's, roaming about with my cousin and
spending hours lying down flat, fishing for cray-fish in the little
stream that ran through the park. This park was immense, and surrounded
by a wide ditch. How many times I used to have bets with my cousins that
I would jump that ditch! The bet was sometimes three sheets of paper, or
five pins, or perhaps my two pancakes, for we used to have pancakes
every Tuesday. And after the bet I jumped, more often than not falling
into the ditch and splashing about in the green water, screaming because
I was afraid of the frogs, and yelling with terror when my cousins
pretended to rush away.

When I returned to the house my aunt was always watching anxiously at
the top of the stone steps for our arrival. What a lecture I had, and
what a cold look.

"Go upstairs and change your clothes, Mademoiselle," she would say, "and
then stay in your room. Your dinner will be sent to you there without
any dessert."

As I passed the big glass in the hall I caught sight of myself, looking
like a rotten tree stump, and I saw my cousin making signs, by putting
his hand to his mouth, that he would bring me some dessert.

His sister used to go to his mother, who fondled her and seemed to say,
"Thank Heaven you are not like that little Bohemian!" This was my aunt's
stinging epithet for me in moments of anger. I used to go up to my room
with a heavy heart, thoroughly ashamed and vexed, vowing to myself that
I would never again jump the ditch, but on reaching my room I used to
find the gardener's daughter there, a big, awkward, merry girl, who used
to wait on me.

"Oh, how comic Mademoiselle looks like that!" she would say, laughing so
heartily that I was proud of looking comic, and I decided that when I
jumped the ditch again I would get weeds and mud all over me. When I had
undressed and washed I used to put on a flannel gown and wait in my room
until my dinner came. Soup was sent up, and then meat, bread, and water.
I detested meat then, just as I do now, and threw it out of the window
after cutting off the fat, which I put on the rim of my plate, as my
aunt used to come up unexpectedly.

"Have you eaten your dinner, Mademoiselle?" she would ask.

"Yes, Aunt," I replied.

"Are you still hungry?"

"No, Aunt."

"Write out 'Our Father' and the 'Creed' three times, you little
heathen." This was because I had not been baptized. A quarter of an hour
later my uncle would come upstairs.

"Have you had enough dinner?" he would ask.

"Yes, Uncle," I replied.

"Did you eat your meat?"

"No; I threw it out of the window. I don't like meat."

"You told your aunt an untruth, then."

"No; she asked me if I had eaten my dinner, and I answered that I had,
but I did not say that I had eaten my meat."

"What punishment has she given you?"

"I am to write out 'Our Father' and the 'Creed' three times before going
to bed."

"Do you know them by heart?"

"No, not very well; I make mistakes always."

And the adorable man would then dictate to me "Our Father" and the
"Creed," and I copied it in the most devoted way, as he used to dictate
with deep feeling and emotion. He was religious, very religious indeed,
this uncle of mine, and after the death of my aunt he became a
Carthusian monk. As I write these lines, ill and aged as he is, and bent
with pain, I know he is digging his own grave, weak with the weight of
the spade, imploring God to take him, and thinking sometimes of me, of
his little Bohemian. Ah, the dear, good man, it is to him that I owe all
that is best in me. I love him devotedly and have the greatest respect
for him. How many times in the difficult phases of my life I have
thought of him and consulted his ideas, for I never saw him again, as my
aunt quarrelled purposely with my mother and me. He was always fond of
me, though, and has told his friends to assure me of this. Occasionally,
too, he has sent me his advice, which has always been very
straightforward and full of indulgence and common sense.

Recently I went to the country where the Carthusians have taken refuge.
A friend of mine went to see my uncle, and I wept on hearing the words
he had dictated to be repeated to me.

To return to my story. After my uncle's visit, Marie, the gardener's
daughter, came to my room, looking quite indifferent, but with her
pockets stuffed with apples, biscuits, raisins, and nuts. My cousin had
sent me some dessert, but she, the good-hearted girl, had cleared all
the dessert dishes. I told her to sit down and crack the nuts, and I
would eat them when I had finished my "Lord's Prayer" and "Creed." She
sat down on the floor, so that she could hide everything quickly under
the table in case my aunt returned. But my aunt did not come again, as
she and her daughter used to spend their evenings at the piano, whilst
my uncle taught his son mathematics.

Finally, my mother wrote to say that she was coming. There was great
excitement in my uncle's house, and my little trunk was packed in
readiness.

The Grand-Champs Convent, which I was about to enter, had a prescribed
uniform, and my cousin, who loved sewing, marked all my things with the
initials S.B. in red cotton. My uncle gave me a silver spoon, fork, and
goblet, and these were all marked 32, which was the number under which I
was registered there. Marie gave me a thick woollen muffler in shades of
violet, which she had been knitting for me in secret for several days.
My aunt put round my neck a little scapulary which had been blessed, and
when my mother and father arrived everything was ready.

A farewell dinner was given, to which two of my mother's friends, Aunt
Rosine, and four other members of the family were invited.

I felt very important. I was neither sad nor gay, but had just this
feeling of importance which was quite enough for me. Every one at table
talked about me; my uncle kept stroking my hair, and my cousin from her
end of the table threw me kisses. Suddenly my father's musical voice
made me turn towards him.

"Listen to me, Sarah," he said. "If you are very good at the convent, I
will come in four years and fetch you away, and you shall travel with me
and see some beautiful countries."

"Oh, I will be good!" I exclaimed; "I'll be as good as Aunt Henriette!"

This was my aunt Faure. Everybody smiled.

After dinner, the weather being very fine, we all went out to stroll in
the park. My father took me with him, and talked to me very seriously.
He told me things that were sad, which I had never heard before. I
understood, although I was so young, and my eyes filled with tears. He
was sitting on an old bench and I was on his knee, with my head resting
on his shoulder. I listened to all he said and cried silently, my
childish mind disturbed by his words. Poor father! I was never, never to
see him again.




III


CONVENT LIFE


I Did not sleep well that night, and the following morning at eight
o'clock we started by diligence for Versailles. I can see Marie now,
great big girl as she then was, in tears. All the members of the family
were assembled at the top of the stone steps. There was my little trunk,
and then a wooden case of games which my mother had brought, and a kite
that my cousin had made, which he gave me at the last moment, just as
the carriage was starting. I can still see the large white house, which
seemed to get smaller and smaller the farther we drove away from it. I
stood up, with my father holding me, and waved his blue silk muffler
which I had taken from his neck. After this I sat down in the carriage
and fell asleep, only rousing up again when we were at the heavy-looking
door of the Grand-Champs Convent. I rubbed my eyes and tried to collect
my thoughts. I then jumped down from the diligence and looked curiously
around me. The paving-stones of the street were round and small, with
grass growing everywhere. There was a wall, and then a great gateway
surmounted by a cross, and nothing behind it, nothing whatever to be
seen. To the left there was a house, and to the right the Satory
barracks. Not a sound to be heard--not a footfall, not even an echo.

"Oh, Mamma," I exclaimed, "is it inside there I am to go? Oh no! I would
rather go back to Madame Fressard's!"

My mother shrugged her shoulders and pointed to my father, thus
explaining that she was not responsible for this step. I rushed to him,
and he took me by the hand as he rang the bell. The door opened, and he
led me gently in, followed by my mother and Aunt Rosine.

The courtyard was large and dreary-looking, but there were buildings to
be seen, and windows from which children's faces were gazing curiously
at us. My father said something to the nun who came forward, and she
took us into the parlour. This was large, with a polished floor, and was
divided by an enormous black grating which ran the whole length of the
room. There were benches covered with red velvet by the wall, and a few
chairs and armchairs near the grating. On the walls were a portrait of
Pius IX., a full length one of St. Augustine, and one of Henri V. My
teeth chattered, for it seemed to me that I remembered reading in some
book the description of a prison, and that it was just like this. I
looked at my father and my mother, and began to distrust them. I had so
often heard that I was ungovernable, that I needed an iron hand to rule
me, and that I was the devil incarnate in a child. My aunt Faure had so
often repeated, "That child will come to a bad end, she has such mad
ideas," &c. &c. "Papa, papa!" I suddenly cried out, seized with terror;
"I won't go to prison. This is a prison, I am sure. I am frightened--oh,
I am so frightened!"

On the other side of the grating a door had just opened, and I stopped
to see who was coming. A little round, short woman made her appearance
and came up to the grating. Her black veil was lowered as far as her
mouth, so that I could scarcely see anything of her face. She recognised
my father, whom she had probably seen before, when matters were being
arranged. She opened a door in the grating, and we all went through to
the other side of the room. On seeing me pale and my terrified eyes full
of tears, she gently took my hand in hers and, turning her back to my
father, raised her veil. I then saw the sweetest and merriest face
imaginable, with large child-like blue eyes, a turn-up nose, a laughing
mouth with full lips and beautiful, strong, white teeth. She looked so
kind, so energetic, and so happy that I flung myself at once into her
arms. It was Mother St. Sophie, the Superior of the Grand-Champs
Convent.

"Ah, we are friends now, you see," she said to my father, lowering her
veil again. What secret instinct could have told this woman, who was not
coquettish, who had no looking-glass and never troubled about beauty,
that her face was fascinating and that her bright smile could enliven
the gloom of the convent?

"We will now go and see the house," she said.

We at once started, she and my father each holding one of my hands. Two
other nuns accompanied us, one of whom was the Mother Prefect, a tall,
cold woman with thin lips, and the other Sister Séraphine, who was as
white and supple as a spray of lily of the valley. We entered the
building, and came first to the large class-room in which all the pupils
met on Thursdays at the lectures, which were nearly always given by
Mother St. Sophie. Most of them did needlework all day long; some worked
at tapestry, others embroidery, and still others decalcography.

The room was very large, and on St. Catherine's Day and other holidays
we used to dance there. It was in this room, too, that once a year the
Mother Superior gave to each of the sisters the _sou_ which represented
her annual income. The walls were adorned with religious engravings and
with a few oil paintings done by the pupils. The place of honour,
though, belonged to St. Augustine. A magnificent large engraving
depicted the conversion of this saint, and oh, how often I have looked
at that engraving. St. Augustine has certainly caused me very much
emotion and greatly disturbed my childish heart. Mamma admired the
cleanliness of the refectory. She asked to see which would be my seat at
table, and when this was shown to her she objected strongly to my having
that place.

"No," she said; "the child has not a strong chest, and she would always
be in a draught. I will not let her sit there."

My father agreed with my mother, and insisted on a change being made. It
was therefore decided that I should sit at the end of the room, and the
promise given was faithfully kept.

When mamma saw the wide staircase leading to the dormitories she was
aghast. It was very, very wide, and the steps were low and easy to
mount, but there were so many of them before one reached the first
floor. For a few seconds mamma hesitated and stood there gazing at them,
her arms hanging down in despair.

"Stay down here, Youle," said my aunt, "and I will go up."

"No, no," replied my mother in a sorrowful voice. "I must see where the
child is to sleep--she is so delicate."

My father helped her, and indeed almost carried her up, and we then went
into one of the immense dormitories. It was very much like the dormitory
at Madame Fressard's, but a great deal larger, and there was a tiled
floor without any carpet.

"Oh, this is quite impossible!" exclaimed mamma. "The child cannot sleep
here; it is too cold; it would kill her."

The Mother Superior, St. Sophie, gave my mother a chair and tried to
soothe her. She was pale, for her heart was already very much affected.

"We will put your little girl in this dormitory, Madame," she said,
opening a door that led into a room with eight beds. The floor was of
polished wood, and this room, adjoining the infirmary, was the one in
which delicate or convalescent children slept. Mamma was reassured on
seeing this, and we then went down and inspected the grounds. There were
three woods, the "Little Wood," the "Middle Wood," and the "Big Wood,"
and then there was an orchard that stretched along as far as the eye
could see. In this orchard was the building where the poor children
lived. They were taught gratis, and every week they helped with the
laundry for the convent.

The sight of these immense woods, with swings, hammocks, and a
gymnasium, delighted me, for I thought I should be able to roam about at
pleasure there. Mother St. Sophie explained to us that the Little Wood
was reserved for the older pupils, and the Middle Wood for the little
ones, whilst the Big Wood was for the whole convent on holidays. Then
after telling us about the collecting of the chestnuts and the gathering
of the acacia, Mother St. Sophie informed us that every child could have
a small garden, and that sometimes two or three of them had a larger
one.

"Oh, can I have a garden of my own?" I exclaimed--"a garden all to
myself?"

"Yes, one of your own."

The Mother Superior called the gardener, Père Larcher, the only man,
with the exception of the chaplain, who was on the convent staff.

"Père Larcher," said the kind woman, "here is a little girl who wants a
beautiful garden. Find a nice place for it."

"Very good, Reverend Mother," answered the honest fellow, and I saw my
father slip a coin into his hand, for which the man thanked him in an
embarrassed way.

It was getting late, and we had to separate. I remember quite well that
I did not feel any grief, as I was thinking of nothing but my garden.
The convent no longer seemed to me like a prison, but like paradise. I
kissed my mother and my aunt. Papa drew me to him and held me a moment
in a close embrace. When I looked at him I saw that his eyes were full
of tears. I did not feel at all inclined to cry, and I gave him a hearty
kiss and whispered, "I am going to be very, very good and work well, so
that I can go with you at the end of four years." I then went towards my
mother, who was giving Mother St. Sophie the same instructions she had
given to Madame Fressard about cold cream, chocolate, jam, &c. &c.
Mother St. Sophie wrote down all these instructions, and it is only fair
to say that she carried them out afterwards most scrupulously.

When my parents had gone I felt inclined to cry, but the Mother Superior
took me by the hand and, leading me to the Middle Wood, showed me where
my garden would be. That was quite enough to distract my thoughts, for
we found Père Larcher there marking out my piece of ground in a corner
of the wood. There was a young birch tree against the wall. The corner
was formed by the joining of two walls, one of which bounded the railway
line on the left bank of the river which cuts the Satory woods in two.
The other wall was that of the cemetery. All the woods of the convent
were part of the beautiful Satory forest.

They had all given me money, my father, my mother, and my aunt. I had
altogether about forty or fifty francs, and I wanted to give all to Père
Larcher for buying seed. The Mother Superior smiled, and sent for the
Mother Treasurer and Mother St. Appoline. I had to hand all my money
over to the former, with the exception of twenty sous which she left me,
saying, "When that is all gone, little girl, come and get some more from
me."

Mother St. Appoline, who taught botany, then asked me what kind of
flowers I wanted. What kind of flowers! Why, I wanted every sort that
grew. She at once proceeded to give me a botany lesson by explaining
that all flowers did not grow at the same season. She then asked the
Mother Treasurer for some of my money, which she gave to Père Larcher,
telling him to buy me a spade, a rake, a hoe, and a watering-can, some
seeds and a few plants, the names of which she wrote down for him. I was
delighted, and I then went with Mother St. Sophie to the refectory to
have dinner. On entering the immense room I stood still for a second,
amazed and confused. More than a hundred girls were assembled there,
standing up for the benediction to be pronounced. When the Mother
Superior appeared, every one bowed respectfully, and then all eyes were
turned on me. Mother St. Sophie took me to the seat which had been
chosen for me at the end of the room, and then returned to the middle of
the refectory. She stood still, made the sign of the cross, and in an
audible voice pronounced the benediction. As she left the room every one
bowed again, and I then found myself alone, quite alone, in this cage of
little wild animals. I was seated between two little girls of from ten
to twelve years old, both as dusky as two young moles. They were twins
from Jamaica, and their names were Dolores and Pepa Cardaños. They had
only been in the convent two months, and appeared to be as timid as I
was. The dinner was composed of soup made of everything, and of veal
with haricot beans. I detested soup, and I have always had a horror of
veal. I turned my plate over when the soup was handed round, but the nun
who waited on us turned it round again and poured the hot soup in,
regardless of scalding me.

"You must eat your soup," whispered my right hand neighbour, whose name
was Pepa.

"I don't like that sort and I don't want any," I said aloud. The
inspectress was passing by just at that moment.

"You must eat your soup, Mademoiselle," she said.

"No, I don't like that sort of soup," I answered.

She smiled, and said in a gentle voice, "We must like everything. I
shall be coming round again just now. Be a good girl and take your
soup."

I was getting into a rage, but Dolores gave me her empty plate and ate
up the soup for me. When the inspectress came round again she expressed
her satisfaction. I was furious, and put my tongue out, and this made
all the table laugh. She turned round, and the pupil who sat at the end
of the table and was appointed to watch over us, because she was the
eldest, said to her in a low voice, "It's the new girl making grimaces."
The inspectress moved away again, and when the veal was served my
portion found its way to the plate of Dolores. I wanted to keep the
haricot beans, though, and we almost came to a quarrel over them. She
gave way finally, but with the veal she dragged away a few beans which I
tried to keep on my plate.

An hour later we had evening prayers, and afterwards all went up to bed.
My bed was placed against the wall, in which there was a niche for the
statue of the Virgin Mary. A lamp was always kept burning in the niche,
and the oil for it was provided by the children who had been ill and
were grateful for their recovery. Two tiny flower-pots were placed at
the foot of the little statue. The pots were of terra-cotta and the
flowers of paper. I made paper flowers very well, and I at once decided
that I would make all the flowers for the Virgin Mary. I fell asleep, to
dream of garlands of flowers, of haricot beans, and of distant
countries, for the twins from Jamaica had made an impression on my mind.

The awakening was cruel. I was not accustomed to get up so early.
Daylight was scarcely visible through the opaque window-panes. I
grumbled as I dressed, for we were allowed a quarter of an hour, and it
always took me a good half-hour to comb my hair. Sister Marie, seeing
that I was not ready, came towards me, and before I knew what she was
going to do snatched the comb violently out of my hand.

"Come, come," she said; "you must not dawdle like this." She then
planted the comb in my mop of hair and tore out a handful of it. Pain,
and anger at seeing myself treated in this way, threw me immediately
into one of my fits of rage which always terrified those who witnessed
them. I flung myself upon the unfortunate sister, and with feet, teeth,
hands, elbows, head, and indeed all my poor little body, I hit and
thumped, yelling at the same time. All the pupils, all the sisters, and
indeed every one, came running to see what was the matter. The sisters
made the sign of the cross, but did not venture to approach me. The
Mother Prefect threw some holy water over me to exorcise the evil
spirit. Finally the Mother Superior arrived on the scene. My father had
told her of my fits of wild fury, which were my only serious fault, and
my state of health was quite as much responsible for them as the
violence of my disposition. She approached me as I was still clutching
Sister Marie, though I was exhausted by this struggle with the poor
woman, who, although tall and strong, only tried to ward off my blows
without retaliating, endeavouring to hold first my feet and then my
hands.

I looked up on hearing Mother St. Sophie's voice. My eyes were bathed in
tears, but nevertheless I saw such an expression of pity on her sweet
face that, without altogether letting go, I ceased fighting for a
second, and all trembling and ashamed, said very quickly, "She commenced
it. She snatched the comb out of my hand like a wicked woman, and tore
out my hair. She was rough and hurt me. She is a wicked, wicked woman."
I then burst into sobs, and my hands loosed their hold. The next thing I
knew was that I found myself lying on my little bed, with Mother St.
Sophie's hand on my forehead and her kind, deep voice lecturing me
gently. All the others had gone, and I was quite alone with her and the
Holy Virgin in the niche. From that day forth Mother St. Sophie had an
immense influence over me. Every morning I went to her, and Sister
Marie, whose forgiveness I had been obliged to ask before the whole
convent, combed my hair out in her presence. Seated on a little stool, I
listened to the book that the Mother Superior read to me or to the
instructive story she told me. Ah, what an adorable woman she was, and
how I love to recall her to my memory!

I adored her as a child adores the being who has entirely won its heart,
without knowing, without reasoning, without even being aware that it was
so, but I was simply under the spell of an infinite fascination. Since
then, however, I have understood and admired her, realising how unique
and radiant a soul was imprisoned under the thick-set exterior and happy
face of that holy woman. I have loved her ever since for all that she
awakened within me of nobleness. I love her for the letters which she
wrote to me, letters that I often read over and over again. I love her
also because, imperfect as I am, it seems to me that I should have been
one hundred times more so had I not known and loved that pure creature.

Once only did I see her severe and felt that she was suddenly angry. In
the little room used as a parlour, leading into her cell, there was a
portrait of a young man, whose handsome face was stamped with a certain
nobility.

"Is that the Emperor?" I asked her.

"No," she answered, turning quickly towards me; "it is the King; it is
Henri V."

It was only later on that I understood the meaning of her emotion. All
the convent was royalist, and Henri V. was their recognised sovereign.
They all had the most utter contempt for Napoleon III., and on the day
when the Prince Imperial was baptized there was no distribution of
bon-bons for us, and we were not allowed the holiday that was accorded
to all the colleges, boarding-schools, and convents. Politics were a
dead letter to me, and I was happy at the convent, thanks to Mother St.
Sophie.

Then, too, I was a favourite with my schoolfellows, who frequently did
my compositions for me. I did not care for any studies, except geography
and drawing. Arithmetic drove me wild, spelling plagued my life out, and
I thoroughly despised the piano. I was very timid, and quite lost my
head when questioned unexpectedly.

I had a passion for animals of all kinds. I used to carry about with me,
in small cardboard boxes or cages that I manufactured myself, adders, of
which our woods were full, crickets that I found on the leaves of the
tiger lilies, and lizards. The latter nearly always had their tails
broken, as, in order to see if they were eating, I used to lift the lid
of the box a little, and on seeing this the lizards rushed to the
opening. I shut the box very quickly, red with surprise at such
assurance, and _crac!_ in a twinkling, either at right or left, there
was nearly always a tail caught. This used to grieve me for hours, and
whilst one of the sisters was explaining to us, by figures on the
blackboard, the metric system, I was wondering, with my lizard's tail in
my hand, how I could fasten it on again. I had some _toc-marteau_ (death
watches) in a little box, and five spiders in a cage that Père Larcher
had made for me with some wire netting. I used, very cruelly, to give
flies to my spiders, and they, fat and well fed, would spin their webs.
Very often during recreation a whole group of us, ten or twelve little
girls, would stand round, with a cage on a bench or tree stump, and
watch the wonderful work of these little creatures. If one of my
schoolfellows cut herself I used to go at once to her, feeling very
proud and important: "Come at once," I would say, "I have some fresh
spider-web, and I will wrap your finger in it." Provided with a little
thin stick, I would take the web and wrap it round the wounded finger.
"And now, my lady spiders, you must begin your work again," and, active
and minute, _mesdames_ the spiders began their spinning once more.

I was looked upon as a little authority, and was made umpire in
questions that had to be decided. I used to receive orders for
fashionable trousseaux, made of paper, for dolls. It was quite an easy
thing for me in those days to make long ermine cloaks with fur tippets
and muff, and this filled my little playfellows with admiration. I
charged for my _trousseaux_, according to their importance, two pencils,
five _tête-de-mort_ nibs, or a couple of sheets of white paper. In
short, I became a personality, and that sufficed for my childish pride.
I did not learn anything, and I received no distinctions. My name was
only once on the honour list, and that was not as a studious pupil, but
for a courageous deed. I had fished a little girl out of the big pool.
She had fallen in whilst trying to catch frogs. The pool was in the
large orchard, on the poor children's side of the grounds. As a
punishment for some misdeed, which I do not remember, I had been sent
away for two days among the poor children. This was supposed to be a
punishment, but I delighted in it. In the first place, I was looked upon
by them as a "young lady." Then I used to give the day pupils a few sous
to bring me, on the sly, a little moist sugar. During recreation I heard
some heartrending shrieks, and, rushing to the pool from whence they
came, I jumped into the water without reflecting. There was so much mud
that we both sank in it. The little girl was only four years old, and so
small that she kept disappearing. I was over ten at that time. I do not
know how I managed to rescue her, but I dragged her out of the water
with her mouth, nose, ears, and eyes all filled with mud. I was told
afterwards that it was a long time before she was restored to
consciousness. As for me, I was carried away with my teeth chattering,
nervous and half fainting. I was very feverish afterwards, and Mother
St. Sophie herself sat up with me. I overheard her words to the doctor:

"This child," she said, "is one of the best we have here. She will be
perfect when once she has received the holy chrism."

This speech made such an impression on me that from that day forth
mysticism had great hold on me. I had a very vivid imagination and was
extremely sensitive, and the Christian legend took possession of me,
heart and soul. The Son of God became the object of my worship and the
Mother of the Seven Sorrows my ideal.




IV


MY DÉBUT


An event, very simple in itself, was destined to disturb the silence of
our secluded life and to attach me more than ever to my convent, where I
wanted to remain for ever.

The Archbishop of Paris, Monseigneur Sibour, was paying a round of
visits to some of the communities, and ours was among the chosen ones.
The news was told us by Mother St. Alexis, the _doyenne_, the most aged
member of the community, who was so tall, so thin, and so old that I
never looked upon her as a human being or as a living being. It always
seemed to me as though she were stuffed, and as though she moved by
machinery. She frightened me, and I never consented to go near her until
after her death.

We were all assembled in the large room which we used on Thursdays.
Mother St. Alexis, supported by two lay sisters, stood on the little
platform, and in a voice that sounded far, far off announced to us the
approaching visit of Monseigneur. He was to come on St. Catherine's Day,
just a fortnight after the speech of the Reverend Mother.

Our peaceful convent was from thenceforth like a bee-hive into which a
hornet had entered. Our lesson hours were curtailed, so that we might
have time to make festoons of roses and lilies. The wide, tall arm-chair
of carved wood was uncushioned, so that it might be varnished and
polished. We made lamp-shades covered with crystalline. The grass was
pulled up in the courtyard--and I cannot tell what was not done in
honour of this visitor.

Two days after the announcement made by Mother St. Alexis, the programme
of the _fête_ was communicated to us by Mother St. Sophie. The youngest
of the nuns was to read a few words of welcome to Monseigneur. This was
the delightful Sister Séraphine. After that Marie Buguet was to play a
pianoforte solo by Henri Herz. Marie de Lacour was to sing a song by
Louise Puget, and then a little play in three scenes was to be given,
entitled _Tobit Recovering his Eyesight_. It had been written by Mother
St. Thérèse. I have now before me the little manuscript, all yellow with
age and torn, and I can only just make out the sense of it and a few of
the phrases. Scene I. Tobias's farewell to his blind father. He vows to
bring back to him the ten talents lent to Gabael, one of his relatives.
Scene II. Tobias, asleep on the banks of the Tigris, is being watched
over by the Angel Raphael. Struggle with a monster fish which had
attacked Tobias whilst he slept. When the fish is killed the angel
advises Tobias to take its heart, its liver, and its gall, and to
preserve these religiously. Scene III. Tobias's return to his blind
father. The angel tells him to rub the old man's eyes with the entrails
of the fish. The father's eyesight is restored, and when Tobit begs the
Angel Raphael to accept some reward, the latter makes himself known,
and, in a song to the glory of God, vanishes to heaven.

The little play was read to us by Mother St. Thérèse, one Thursday, in
the large assembly room. We were all in tears at the end, and Mother St.
Thérèse was obliged to make a great effort in order to avoid committing,
if only for a second, the sin of pride.

I wondered anxiously what part I should take in this religious comedy,
for, considering that I was now treated as a little personage, I had no
doubt that some _rôle_ would be given to me. The very thought of it made
me tremble beforehand. I began to get quite nervous; my hands became
quite cold, my heart beat furiously, and my temples throbbed. I did not
approach, but remained sulkily seated on my stool when Mother St.
Thérèse said in her calm voice:

"Young ladies, please pay attention, and listen to your names and the
different parts:

  _Tobit_               EUGÉNIE CHARMEL

  _Tobias_              AMÉLIE PLUCHE

  _Gabael_              RENÉE D'ARVILLE

  _The Angel Raphael_   LOUISE BUGUET

  _Tobias's mother_     EULALIE LACROIX

  _Tobias's sister_     VIRGINIE DEPAUL."

I had been listening, although pretending not to, and I was stupefied,
amazed, and furious. Mother St. Thérèse then added. "Here are your
manuscripts, young ladies," and a manuscript of the little play was
handed to each pupil chosen to take part in it.

Louise Buguet was my favourite playmate, and I went up to her and asked
her to let me see her manuscript, which I read over enthusiastically.

"You'll make me rehearse, when I know my part, won't you?" she asked,
and I answered, "Yes, certainly."

"Oh, how frightened I shall be!" she said.

She had been chosen for the angel, I suppose, because she was as pale
and sweet as a moonbeam. She had a soft, timid voice, and sometimes we
used to make her cry, as she was so pretty then. The tears used to flow
limpid and pearl-like from her grey, questioning eyes.

She began at once to learn her part, and I was like a shepherd's dog
going from one to another among the chosen ones. It had really nothing
to do with me, but I wanted to be "in it." The Mother Superior passed
by, and as we all curtseyed to her she patted my cheek.

"We thought of you, little girl," she said, "but you are so timid when
you are asked anything."

"Oh, that's when it is history or arithmetic," I said. "This is not the
same thing, and I should not have been afraid."

She smiled distrustfully and moved on. There were rehearsals during the
next week. I asked to be allowed to take the part of the monster, as I
wanted to have some _rôle_ in the play at any cost. It was decided,
though, that César, the convent dog, should be the fish monster.

A competition was opened for the fish costume. I went to an endless
amount of trouble cutting out scales from cardboard that I had painted,
and sewing them together afterwards. I made some enormous gills, which
were to be glued on to César. My costume was not chosen; it was passed
over for that of a stupid, big girl whose name I cannot remember. She
had made a huge tail of kid and a mask with big eyes and gills, but
there were no scales, and we should have to see César's shaggy coat. I
nevertheless turned my attention to Louise Buguet's costume and worked
at it with two of the lay sisters, Sister St. Cécile and Sister St.
Jeanne, who had charge of the linen room.

At the rehearsals not a word could be extorted from the Angel Raphael.
She stood there stupefied on the little platform, tears dimming her
beautiful eyes. She brought the whole play to a standstill, and kept
appealing to me in a weeping voice. I prompted her, and, getting up,
rushed to her, kissed her, and whispered her whole speech to her. I was
beginning to be "in it" myself at last.

Finally, two days before the great solemnity, there was a dress
rehearsal. The angel looked lovely, but, immediately on entering, she
sank down on a bench, sobbing out in an imploring voice:

"Oh no; I shall never be able to do it, never!"

"Quite true, she never will be able to," sighed Mother St. Sophie.

Forgetting for the moment my little friend's grief, and wild with joy,
pride, and assurance, I ran up to the platform and bounded on to the
form on which the Angel Raphael had sunk down weeping.

"Oh, Mother, I know her part. Shall I take her place for the rehearsal?"

"Yes, yes!" exclaimed voices from all sides.

"Oh yes, you know it so well," said Louise Buguet, and she wanted to put
her band on my head.

"No, let me rehearse as I am, first," I answered.

They began the second scene again, and I came in carrying a long branch
of willow.

"Fear nothing, Tobias," I commenced. "I will be your guide. I will
remove from your path all thorns and stones. You are overwhelmed with
fatigue. Lie down and rest, for I will watch over you."

Whereupon Tobias, worn out, lay down by the side of a strip of blue
muslin, about five yards of which, stretched out and winding about,
represented the Tigris.

I then continued with a prayer to God whilst Tobias fell asleep. César
next appeared as the Monster Fish, and the audience trembled with fear.
César had been well taught by the gardener, Père Larcher, and he
advanced slowly from under the blue muslin. He was wearing his mask,
representing the head of a fish. Two enormous nut-shells for his eyes
had been painted white, and a hole pierced through them, so that the dog
could see. The mask was fastened with wire to his collar, which also
supported two gills as large as palm leaves. César, sniffing the ground,
snorted and growled, and then leaped wildly on to Tobias, who with his
cudgel slew the monster at one blow. The dog fell on his back with his
four paws in the air, and then rolled over on to his side, pretending to
be dead.

There was wild delight in the house, and the audience clapped and
stamped. The younger pupils stood up on their stools and shouted, "Good
César! Clever César! Oh, good dog, good dog!" The sisters, touched by
the efforts of the guardian of the convent, shook their heads with
emotion. As for me, I quite forgot that I was the Angel Raphael, and I
stooped down and stroked César affectionately. "Ah, how well he has
acted his part!" I said, kissing him and taking one paw and then the
other in my hand, whilst the dog, motionless, continued to be dead.

The little bell was rung to call us to order. I stood up again, and,
accompanied by the piano, we burst into a hymn of praise a duet to the
glory of God, who had just saved Tobias from the fearful monster.

After this the little green serge curtain was drawn, and I was
surrounded, petted, and praised. Mother St. Sophie came up on to the
platform and kissed me affectionately. As to Louise Buguet, she was now
joyful again and her angelic face beamed.

"Oh, how well you knew the part!" she said. "And then, too, every one
can hear what you say. Oh, thank you so much!" She kissed me and I
hugged her with all my might. At last I was in it!

The third scene began. The action took place in Father Tobit's house.
Gabael, the Angel, and young Tobias were holding the entrails of the
fish in their hands and looking at them. The Angel explained how they
must be used for rubbing the blind father's eyes. I felt rather sick,
for I was holding in my hand a skate's liver and the heart and gizzard
of a fowl. I had never touched such things before, and every now and
then the nausea overcame me and the tears rose to my eyes.

Finally the blind father came in, led by Tobias's sister. Gabael knelt
down before the old man and gave him the ten silver talents, telling
him, in a long recital, of Tobias's exploits in Medea. After this Tobias
advanced, embraced his father, and then rubbed his eyes with the skate's
liver.

Eugénie Charmel made a grimace, but after wiping her eyes she exclaimed:

"I can see, I can see. Oh! God of goodness, God of mercy! I can see, I
can see!"

She came forward with outstretched arms, her eyes open, in an ecstatic
attitude, and the whole little assembly, so simple-minded and loving,
wept.

All the actors except old Tobit and the Angel sank on their knees and
gave praise to God, and at the close of this thanksgiving the public,
moved by religious sentiment and discipline repeated, Amen!

Tobias's mother then approached the Angel and said, "Oh, noble stranger,
take up your abode from henceforth with us. You shall be our guest, our
son, our brother!"

I advanced, and in a long speech of at least thirty lines made known
that I was the messenger of God, that I was the Angel Raphael. I then
gathered up quickly the pale blue tarlatan, which was being concealed
for a final effect, and veiled myself in cloudy tissue which was
intended to simulate my flight heavenwards. The little green serge
curtain was then closed on this apotheosis.

Finally the solemn day arrived.

I was so feverish with expectation that I could not sleep the last three
nights.

The dressing bell was rung for us earlier than usual, but I was already
up and trying to smooth my rebellious hair, which I brushed with a wet
brush by way of making it behave better.

Monseigneur was to arrive at eleven o'clock in the morning. We therefore
lunched at ten, and were then drawn up in the principal courtyard. Only
Mother St. Alexis, the eldest of the nuns, was in front, and Mother St.
Sophie just behind her. The chaplain was a little distance away from the
two Superiors. Then came the other nuns, and behind them the girls, and
then all the little children. The lay sisters and the servants were also
there. We were all dressed in white, with the respective colours of our
various classes.

The bell rang out a peal. The large carriage entered the first
courtyard. The gate of the principal courtyard was then opened, and
Monseigneur appeared on the carriage steps which the footman lowered for
him. Mother St. Alexis advanced and, bending down, kissed the episcopal
ring. Mother St. Sophie, the Superior, who was younger, knelt down to
kiss the ring. The signal was then given to us, and we all knelt to
receive the benediction of Monseigneur. When we looked up again the big
gate was closed, and Monseigneur had disappeared, conducted by the
Mother Superior. Mother St. Alexis was exhausted, and went back to her
cell.

In obedience to the signal given we all rose from our knees. We then
went to the chapel, where a short Mass was celebrated, after which we
had an hour's recreation. The concert was to commence at half-past one.
The recreation hour was devoted to preparing the large room and to
getting ready to appear before Monseigneur. I wore the angel's long
robe, with a blue sash round my waist and two paper wings fastened on
with narrow blue straps that crossed over each other in front. Round my
head was a band of gold braid fastening behind. I kept mumbling my
"part," for in those days we did not know the word _rôle_. People are
more familiar with the stage nowadays, but at the convent we always said
"part," and years afterwards I was surprised, the first time I played in
England, to hear a young English girl say, "Oh, what a fine part you had
in _Hernani_!"

The room looked beautiful, oh, so beautiful! There were festoons of
green leaves, with paper flowers at intervals, everywhere. Then there
were little lustres hung about with gold cord. A wide piece of red
velvet carpet was laid down from the door to Monseigneur's arm-chair,
upon which were two cushions of red velvet with gold fringe.

I thought all these horrors very fine, very beautiful!

The concert began, and it seemed to me that everything went very well.
Monseigneur, however, could not help smiling at the sight of César, and
it was he who led the applause when the dog died. It was César, in fact,
who made the greatest success, but we were nevertheless sent for to
appear before Monseigneur Sibour. He was certainly the kindest and most
charming of prelates, and on this occasion he gave to each of us a
consecrated medal.

When my turn came he took my hand in his and said, "It is you, my child,
who are not baptized, is it not?"

"Yes, Reverend Father, yes, Monseigneur," I replied in confusion.

"She is to be baptized this spring," said the Mother Superior. "Her
father is coming back specially from a very distant country."

She and Monseigneur then said a few words to each other in a very low
voice.

"Very well; if I can, I will come again for the ceremony," said the
Archbishop aloud. I was trembling with emotion and pride as I kissed the
old man's ring. I then ran away to the dormitory and cried for a long
time. I was found there later on, fast asleep from exhaustion.

From that day forth I was a better child, more studious and less
violent. In my fits of anger I was calmed by the mention of Monseigneur
Sibour's name, and reminded of his promise to come for my baptism.

Alas! I was not destined to have that great joy. One morning in January,
when we were all assembled in the chapel for Mass, I was surprised and
had a foreboding of coming evil as I saw the Abbé Lethurgi go up into
the pulpit before commencing the Mass. He was very pale, and I turned
instinctively to look at the Mother Superior. She was seated in her
regular place. The almoner then began, in a voice broken with emotion,
to tell us of the murder of Monseigneur Sibour.

Murdered! A thrill of horror went through us, and a hundred stifled
cries, forming one great sob, drowned for an instant the priest's voice.
Murdered! The word seemed to sting me personally even more than the
others. Had I not been, for one instant, the favourite of the kind old
man? It was as though the murderer, Verger, had struck at me too, in my
grateful love for the prelate, in my little fame, of which he had now
robbed me. I burst into sobs, and the organ, accompanying the prayer for
the dead, increased my grief, which became so intense that I fainted. It
was from this moment that I was taken with an ardent love for mysticism.
It was fortified by the religious exercises, the dramatic effect of our
worship, and the gentle encouragement, both fervent and sincere, of
those who were educating me. They were very fond of me, and I adored
them, so that even now the very memory of them, fascinating and restful
as it is, thrills me with affection.

The time appointed for my baptism drew near, and I grew more and more
excitable. My nervous attacks were more and more frequent--fits of tears
for no reason at all, and fits of terror without any cause. Everything
seemed to take strange proportions as far as I was concerned. One day
one of my little friends dropped a doll that I had lent her (for I
played with dolls until I was over thirteen). I began to tremble all
over, as I adored that doll, which had been given to me by my father.

"You have broken my doll's head, you naughty girl!" I exclaimed. "You
have hurt my father!"

I would not eat anything afterwards, and in the night I woke up in a
great perspiration, with haggard eyes, sobbing, "Papa is dead! Papa is
dead!"

Three days later my mother came. She asked to see me in the parlour,
and, making me stand in front of her, she said, "My poor little girl, I
have something to tell you that will cause you great sorrow. Papa is
dead."

"I know," I said, "I know"; and the expression in my eyes, my mother
frequently told me afterwards, was such that she trembled a long time
for my reason.

I was very sad and not at all well. I refused to learn anything, except
catechism and scripture, and I wanted to be a nun.

My mother had succeeded in arranging that my two sisters should be
baptized with me--Jeanne, who was then six years old, and Régina, who
was not three, but who had been taken as a boarder at the convent with
the idea that her presence might cheer me up a little.

I was isolated for a week before my baptism and for a week afterwards,
as I was to be confirmed one week after the event.

My mother, Aunt Rosine Berendt and Aunt Henriette Faure, my godfather
Régis, Monsieur Meydieu, Jeanne's godfather, and General Polhes,
Régina's godfather, the godmothers of my two sisters and my various
cousins, all came, and revolutionised the convent. My mother and my
aunts were in fashionable mourning attire. Aunt Rosine had put a spray
of lilac in her bonnet, "to enliven her mourning," as she said. It was a
strange expression, but I have certainly heard it since used by other
people besides her.

I had never before felt so far away from all these people who had come
there on my account. I adored my mother, but with a touching and fervent
desire to leave her, never to see her again, to sacrifice her to God. As
to the others, I did not see them. I was very grave and rather moody. A
short time previously a nun had taken the veil at the convent, and I
could think of nothing else.

This baptismal ceremony was the prelude to my dream. I could see myself
like the novice who had just been admitted as a nun. I pictured myself
lying down on the ground covered over with the heavy black cloth with
its white cross, and four massive candlesticks placed at the four
corners of the cloth, and I planned to die under this cloth. How I was
to do this I do not know. I did not think of killing myself, as I knew
that would be a crime. But I made up my mind to die like this, and my
ideas galloped along, so that I saw in my imagination the horror of the
sisters and heard the cries of the pupils, and was delighted at the
emotion which I had caused.

After the baptismal ceremony my mother wished to take me away with her.
She had rented a small house with a garden in the Boulevard de la Reine,
at Versailles, for my holidays, and she had decorated it with flowers
for this _fête_ day, as she wanted to celebrate the baptism of her three
children. She was very gently told that, as I was to be confirmed in a
week's time, I was now to be isolated until then. My mother cried, and I
can remember now, to my sorrow, that it did not make me sad to see her
tears, but quite the contrary.

When every one had gone and I went into the little cell in which I had
been living for the last week and wherein I was to live for another
week, I fell on my knees in a state of exaltation and offered up to God
my mother's sorrow. "You saw, O Lord God, that mamma cried, and that it
did not affect me!" Poor child that I was, I imagined in my wild
exaggeration of everything that what was expected from me was the
renunciation of all affection, devotion, and pity.

The following day Mother St. Sophie lectured me gently about my wrong
comprehension of religious duties, and she told me that when once I was
confirmed she should give me a fortnight's holiday, to go and make my
mother forget her sorrow and disappointment.

My confirmation took place with the same pompous ceremonial. All the
pupils, dressed in white, carried wax tapers. For the whole week I had
refused to eat. I was pale and had grown thinner, and my eyes looked
larger from my perpetual transports, for I went to extremes in
everything.

Baron Larrey, who came with my mother to my confirmation, asked for a
month's holiday for me to recruit, and this was granted.

Accordingly we started, my mother, Madame Guérard, her son Ernest, my
sister Jeanne, and I, for Cauterets in the Pyrénées.

The movement, the packing of the trunks, parcels, and packages, the
railway, the diligence, the scenery, the crowds and the general
disturbance cured me of my nerves and my mysticism. I clapped my hands,
laughed aloud, flung myself on mamma and nearly stifled her with kisses.
I sang hymns at the top of my voice; I was hungry and thirsty, so I ate,
drank, and in a word, lived.




V


THE SOLDIER'S SHAKO


Cauterets at that time was not what it is now. It was an abominable but
charming little hole of a place, with plenty of verdure, very few
houses, and a great many huts belonging to the mountain people. There
were plenty of donkeys to be hired, that took us up the mountains by
extraordinary paths.

I adore the sea and the plain, but I neither care for mountains nor for
forests. Mountains seem to crush me and forests to stifle me. I must, at
any cost, have the horizon stretching oat as far as the eye can see and
skies to dream about.

I wanted to go up the mountains, so that they should lose their crushing
effect. And consequently we went up always higher and higher.

Mamma used to stay at home with her sweet friend, Madame Guérard. She
used to read novels whilst Madame Guérard embroidered. They would sit
there together without speaking, each dreaming her own dream, seeing it
fade away, and beginning it over again. The old servant, Marguerite, was
the only domestic mamma had brought with her, and she used to accompany
us. Gay and daring, she always knew how to make the men laugh with her
prattle, the sense and crudeness of which I did not understand until
much later. She was the life of the party always. As she had been with
us from the time we were born, she was very familiar, and sometimes
objectionably so; but I would not let her have her own way with me,
though, and I used to answer her back in most cutting fashion. She took
her revenge in the evening by giving us a dish of sweets for dinner that
I did not like.

I began to look better for the change, and although still very
religious, my mysticism was growing calmer. As I could not exist,
however, without a passion of some kind, I began to get very fond of
goats, and I asked mamma quite seriously whether I might become a
goat-herd.

"I would rather you were that than a nun," she replied; and then she
added, "We will talk about it later on."

Every day I brought down with me from the mountain another little kid.
We had seven of them, when my mother interfered and put a stop to my
zeal.

Finally, it was time to return to the convent. My holiday was over, and
I was quite well again.

I was to go back to work once more. I accepted the situation willingly,
to the great surprise of mamma, who loved travelling, but detested the
actual moving from one place to another.

I was delighted at the idea of the re-packing of the parcels and trunks,
of being seated in things that moved along, of seeing again all the
villages, towns, people, and trees, which changed all the time. I wanted
to take my goats with me, but my mother nearly had a fit.

"You are mad!" she exclaimed. "Seven goats in a train and in a carriage!
Where could you put them? No, a hundred times no!"

She finally consented to my taking two of them and a blackbird that one
of the mountaineers had given me. And so we returned to the convent.

I was received there with such sincere joy that I felt very happy again
immediately. I was allowed to keep my two goats there, and to have them
out at playtime. We had great fun with them: they used to butt us and we
used to butt them, and we laughed, frolicked, and were very foolish. And
yet I was nearly fourteen at this time; but I was very puny and
childish.

I stayed at the convent another ten months without learning anything
more. The idea of becoming a nun always haunted me, but I was no longer
mystic.

My godfather looked upon me as the greatest dunce of a child, I worked,
though, during the holidays, and I used to have lessons with Sophie
Croizette, who lived near to our country house. This gave a slight
impetus to me in my studies, but it was only slight. Sophie was very
gay, and what we liked best was to go to the museum, where her sister
Pauline, who was later on to become Madame Carolus Duran, was copying
pictures by the great masters.

Pauline was as cold and calm as Sophie was charming talkative, and
noisy. Pauline Croizette was beautiful, but I liked Sophie better--she
was more gracious and pretty. Madame Croizette, their mother, always
seemed sad and resigned. She had given up her career very early. She had
been a dancer at the opera in St. Petersburg, and had been very much
adored and flattered and spoiled. I fancy it was the birth of Sophie
that had compelled her to leave the stage. Her money had then been
injudiciously invested, and she had been ruined. She was very
distinguished-looking; her face had a kind expression; there was an
infinite melancholy about her, and people were instinctively drawn
towards her. Mamma and she had made each other's acquaintance while
listening to the music in the park at Versailles, and for some time we
saw a great deal of one another.

Sophie and I had some fine games in that magnificent park. Our greatest
joy, though, was to go to Madame Masson's in the Rue de la Gare. Madame
Masson had a curiosity shop. Her daughter Cécile was a perfect little
beauty. We three used to delight in changing the tickets on the vases,
snuff-boxes, fans, and jewels, and then when poor M. Masson came back
with a rich customer--for Masson the antiquary enjoyed a world-wide
reputation--Sophie and I used to hide so that we should see his fury.
Cécile, with an innocent air, would be helping her mother, and glancing
slyly at us from time to time.

The whirl of life separated me brusquely from all these people whom I
loved, and an incident, trivial in itself, caused me to leave the
convent earlier than my mother wished.

It was a _fête_ day, and we had two hours for recreation. We were
marching in procession along the wall which skirts the railway on the
left bank of the Seine, and as we were burying my pet lizard we were
chanting the "De Profundis." About twenty of my little playfellows were
following me, when suddenly a soldier's shako fell at my feet.

"What's that?" called out one of the girls.

"A soldier's shako."

"Did it come from over the wall?"

"Yes, yes. Listen. There's a quarrel going on!"

We were suddenly silent, listening with all our ears.

"Don't be stupid! It's idiotic! It's the Grand-Champs Convent!"

"How am I to get my shako back?"

These were the words we overheard, and then, as a soldier suddenly
appeared astride on our wall, there were shrieks from the terrified
children and angry exclamations from the nuns. In a second we were all
about twenty yards away from the wall, like a group of frightened
sparrows flying off to land a little farther away, inquisitive, and very
much on the alert.

"Have you seen my shako, young ladies?" called out the unfortunate
soldier, in a beseeching tone.

"No, no!" I cried, hiding it behind my back.

"Oh no!" echoed the other girls, with peals of laughter, and in the most
tormenting, insolent, jeering way we continued shouting "No, no!"
running backwards all the time in obedience to the sisters, who, veiled
and hidden behind the trees, were in despair.

We were only a few yards from the huge gymnasium. I climbed up
breathless at full speed, and reached the wide plank at the top; when
there I unfastened the rope ladder, but, as I could not raise the wooden
ladder, by which I had ascended, up to me, I unfastened the rings. The
wooden ladder fell and broke, making a great noise. I then stood up
wickedly triumphant on the plank, calling out, "Here is your shako, but
you won't get it now!" I put it on my head and walked up and down, as no
one could get to me there, for I had pulled up the rope ladder. I
suppose my first idea had just been to have a little fun, but the girls
had laughed and clapped, and my strength had held out better than I had
hoped, so that my head was turned, and nothing could stop me then.

The young soldier was furious. He jumped down from the wall and rushed
in my direction, pushing the girls out of his way. The sisters, beside
themselves, ran to the house calling for help. The chaplain, the Mother
Superior, Father Larcher, and every one else came running out. I believe
the soldier swore like a trooper, and it was really quite excusable.
Mother St. Sophie from below besought me to come down and to give up the
shako.

The soldier tried to get up to me by means of the trapeze and the
gymnasium rope.

His useless efforts delighted all the pupils, whom the sisters had in
vain tried to send away. Finally the sister who was door-keeper sounded
the alarm bell, and five minutes later the soldiers from the Satory
barracks arrived, thinking that a fire had broken out. When the officer
in command was told what was the matter, he sent back his men and asked
to see the Mother Superior. He was brought to Mother St. Sophie, whom he
found under the gymnasium, crying with shame and impotence. He ordered
the soldier to return immediately to the barracks. He obeyed after
clenching his fist at me, but on looking up he could not help laughing.
His shako came down to my eyes, and was only prevented by my ears, which
were bent over, from covering my face.

I was furious and wildly excited with the turn my joke had taken.

"There it is, your shako!" I called out, and I flung it violently over
the wall which skirted the gymnasium and formed the boundary to the
cemetery.

"Oh, the young plague!" muttered the officer, and then, apologising to
the nuns, he saluted them and went away, accompanied by Father Larcher.

As for me, I felt like a fox with its tail cut.

I refused to come down immediately.

"I shall come down when every one has gone away," I exclaimed.

All the classes received punishments.

I was left alone. The sun had set. The silence in the cemetery terrified
me. The dark trees took mournful or threatening shapes. The moisture
from the wood fell like a mantle over my shoulders, and seemed to get
heavier every moment. I felt abandoned by every one, and I began to cry.

I was angry with myself, with the soldier, with Mother St. Sophie, with
the pupils who had excited me by their laughter, with the officer who
had humiliated me, and with the sister who had sounded the alarm bell.

Then I began to think about getting down the rope ladder which I had
pulled up on to the plank. Very clumsily, trembling with fear at the
least sound, listening eagerly all the time, and with eyes looking to
the right and left, I was an enormous time, and was very much afraid of
unhooking the rings. Finally I managed to unroll it, and I was just
about to put my foot on the first step when the barking of César alarmed
me. He was tearing along from the wood. The sight of the dark shadow on
the gymnasium appeared to the faithful dog to bode no good. He was
furious, and began to scratch the thick wooden posts.

"Why, César, don't you know your friend?" I said very gently. He growled
in reply, and in a louder voice I said, "Fie, César, bad César; you
ought to be ashamed! Fancy barking at your friend!"

He now began to howl, and I was seized with terror. I pulled the ladder
up again, and sat down at the top. César lay down under the gymnasium,
his tail straight out, his ears pricked up, his coat bristling, growling
in a sullen way. I appealed to the Holy Virgin to help me. I prayed
fervently, vowed to say three supplementary _Aves_, three _Credos_, and
three _Paters_ every day.

When I was a little calmer I called out in a subdued voice, "César! my
dear César, my beautiful César! You know I am the Angel Raphael!" Ah,
much César cared for him. He considered my presence, alone, at so late
an hour in the garden and on the gymnasium quite incomprehensible. Why
was I not in the refectory? Poor César, he went on growling, and I was
getting very hungry, and began to think things were most unjust. It was
true that I had been to blame for taking the soldier's shako, but after
all, he had commenced. Why had he thrown his shako over the wall? My
imagination now came to my aid, and in the end I began to look upon
myself as a martyr. I had been left to the dog, and he would eat me. I
was terrified at the dead people behind me, and every one knew I was
very nervous. My chest too was delicate, and there I was, exposed to the
biting cold with no protection whatever. I began to think about Mother
St. Sophie, who evidently no longer cared for me, as she was deserting
me so cruelly. I lay with my face downwards on the plank, and gave
myself up to the wildest despair, calling my mother, my father, and
Mother St. Sophie, sobbing, wishing I could die there and then--Between
my sobs I suddenly heard my name pronounced by a voice. I got up, and,
peering through the gloom, caught a glimpse of my beloved Mother St.
Sophie. She was there, the dear saint, and had never left her rebellious
child. Concealed behind the statue of St. Augustine, she had been
praying whilst awaiting the end of this crisis, which in her simplicity
she had believed might prove fatal to my reason and perhaps to my
salvation. She had sent every one away and remained there alone, and she
too had not dined. I came down and threw myself, repentant and wretched,
into her motherly arms. She did not say a word to me about the horrible
incident, but took me quickly back to the convent. I was all damp with
the icy evening dew, my cheeks were feverish, and my hands and feet
frozen.

I had an attack of pleurisy after this, and was twenty-three days
between life and death. Mother St. Sophie never left me an instant. The
sweet Mother blamed herself for my illness, declaring as she beat her
breast that she had left me outside too long.

"It's my fault! It's my fault!" she kept exclaiming.

My aunt Faure came to see me nearly every day. My mother was in
Scotland, and came back by short stages. My aunt Rosine was at
Baden-Baden, ruining the whole family with a new "system." "I am coming.
I am coming," she kept saying, when she wrote to ask how I was. Dr.
Despagne and Dr. Monod, who had been called in for a consultation, did
not think there was any hope. Baron Larrey, who was very fond of me,
came often. He had a certain influence over me, and I willingly obeyed
him. My mother arrived a short time before my convalescence, and did not
leave me again. As soon as I could be moved she took me to Paris,
promising to send me back to the convent when I was quite well.

It was for ever, though, that I had left my dear convent, but it was not
for ever that I left Mother St. Sophie. I seemed to take something of
her away with me. For a long time she was part of my life, and even
to-day, when she has been dead for years, she haunts my mind, bringing
back to me the simple thoughts of former days and making the simple
flowers of yore bloom again.

Life for me then commenced in earnest.

The cloister life is a life for every one. There may be a hundred or a
thousand individuals there, but every one lives a life which is the same
and the only life for all. The rumour of the outside world dies away at
the heavy cloister gate. The sole ambition is to sing more loudly than
the others at vespers, to take a little more of the form, to be at the
end of the table, to be on the list of honour. When I was told that I
was not to go back to the convent, it was to me as though I was to be
thrown into the sea when I could not swim.

I besought my godfather to let me go back to the convent. The dowry left
to me by my father was ample enough for the dowry of a nun. I wanted to
take the veil. "Very well," replied my godfather; "you can take the veil
in two years' time, but not before. In the meantime learn all that you
do not yet know (and that means everything) from the governess your
mother has chosen for you."

That very day an elderly unmarried lady, with soft, grey, gentle eyes,
came and took possession of my life, my mind, and my conscience for
eight hours every day. Her name was Mlle. de Brabender, and she had
educated a grand duchess in Russia. She had a sweet voice, an enormous
sandy moustache, a grotesque nose, but a way of walking, of expressing
herself, and of bowing which simply commanded deference. She lived at
the convent in the Rue Notre Dame des Champs, and this was why, in spite
of my mother's entreaties, she refused to come and remain with us.

She soon won my affection, and I learnt quite easily with her everything
that she wanted me to learn. I worked eagerly, for my dream was to
return to the convent, not as a pupil, but as a teaching sister.




VI


THE FAMILY COUNCIL AND MY FIRST VISIT TO A THEATRE


I arose one September morning, my heart leaping with some remote joy. It
was eight o'clock. I pressed my forehead against the window-panes and
gazed out, looking at I know not what. I had been roused with a start in
the midst of some fine dream, and I had rushed towards the light in the
hope of finding in the infinite space of the grey sky the luminous point
that would explain my anxious and blissful expectation. Expectation of
what? I could not have answered that question then, any more than I can
now after much reflection. I was on the eve of my fifteenth birthday,
and I was in a state of expectation as to the future of my life. That
particular morning seemed to me to be the precursor of a new era. I was
not mistaken, for on that September day my fate was settled for me.

Hypnotised by what was taking place in my mind, I remained with my
forehead pressed against the window-pane, gazing through the halo of
vapour formed by my breath at houses, palaces, carriages, jewels, and
pearls passing along in front of me--oh, what a number of pearls there
were! There were princes and kings, too; yes, I could even see kings!
Oh! how fast one's imagination travels, and its enemy, reason, always
allows it to roam on alone. In my fancy I proudly rejected the princes,
I rejected the kings, refused the pearls and the palaces, and declared
that I was going to be a nun, for in the infinite grey sky I had caught
a glimpse of the convent of Grand-Champs, of my white bed-room, and of
the small lamp that swung to and fro above the little Virgin all
decorated with flowers by us. The king offered me a throne, but I
preferred the throne of our Mother Superior, and I entertained a vague
ambition to occupy it some far-off day in the distant future; the king
was heart-broken and dying of despair. Yes, _mon Dieu_! I preferred to
the pearls that were offered me by princes the pearls of the rosary I
was telling with my fingers; and no costume could compete in my mind
with the black barège veil that fell like a soft shadow over the
snowy-white cambric that encircled the beloved faces of the nuns of
Grand-Champs. I do not know how long I had been dreaming thus when I
heard my mother's voice asking our old servant Marguerite if I were
awake. With one bound I was back in bed, and I buried my face under the
sheet. Mamma half opened the door very gently, and I pretended to wake
up.

"How lazy you are to-day!" she said. I kissed her, and answered in a
coaxing tone, "It is Thursday, and I have no music lesson.'"

"And are you glad?" she asked.

"Oh yes," I replied promptly.

My mother frowned; she adored music, and I hated the piano. She was so
fond of music that although she was then nearly thirty, she took lessons
herself in order to encourage me to practise. What horrible torture it
was! I used, very wickedly, to do my utmost to set my mother and my
music mistress at variance. They were both of them as short-sighted as
possible. When my mother had practised a new piece three or four days,
she knew it by heart and played it fairly well, to the astonishment of
Mlle. Clarisse, my insufferable old teacher, who held the music in her
hand and read every note with her nose nearly touching the page. One day
I heard, with joy, a quarrel beginning between mamma and this
disagreeable Mlle. Clarisse.

"There, that's a quaver!"

"No, there's no quaver!"

"This is a flat!"

"No, you forget the sharp! How absurd you are, Mademoiselle!" added my
mother, perfectly furious.

A few minutes later my mother went to her room, and Mlle. Clarisse
departed, muttering as she left.

As for me, I was choking with laughter in my bed-room, for one of my
cousins, who was a good musician, had helped me to add sharps, flats,
and quavers, and we had done it with such care that even a trained eye
would have had difficulty in discerning the fraud immediately. As Mlle.
Clarisse had been sent off, I had no lesson that day. Mamma gazed at me
a long time with her mysterious eyes, the most beautiful eyes I have
ever seen in my life, and then she said, speaking very slowly:

"After luncheon there is to be a family council."

I felt myself turning pale.

"All right," I answered. "What frock am I to put on, Mamma?" I said this
merely for the sake of saying something, and to keep myself from crying.

"Put your blue silk on; you look more staid in that."

Just at this moment my sister Jeanne opened the door boisterously, and
with a burst of laughter jumped on to my bed and, slipping under the
sheets, called out, "I'm there!"

Marguerite had followed her into the room, panting and scolding. The
child had escaped from her just as she was about to bathe her, and had
announced, "I'm going into my sister's bed."

Jeanne's mirth at this moment, which I felt was a very serious one for
me, made me burst out crying and sobbing. My mother, not understanding
the reason of this grief, shrugged her shoulders, told Marguerite to
fetch Jeanne's slippers, and taking the little bare feet in her hands,
kissed them tenderly.

I sobbed more bitterly than ever. It was very evident that mamma loved
my sister more than me, and this preference, which did not trouble me in
an ordinary way, hurt me sorely now.

Mamma went away quite out of patience with me. I fell asleep in order to
forget, and was roused by Marguerite, who helped me to dress, as
otherwise I should have been late for luncheon. The guests that day were
Aunt Rosine, Mlle. de Brabender, my governess (a charming creature, whom
I have always regretted), my godfather, and the Duc de Morny, a great
friend of my godfather and of my mother. The luncheon was a mournful
meal for me, as I was thinking all the time about the family council.
Mlle. de Brabender, in her gentle way and with her affectionate words,
insisted on my eating. My sister burst out laughing when she looked at
me.

"Your eyes are as little as that," she said, putting her small thumb on
the tip of her forefinger; "and it serves you right, because you've been
crying, and Mamma doesn't like any one to cry. Do you, Mamma?"

"What have you been crying about?" asked the Duc de Morny. I did not
answer, in spite of the friendly nudge Mlle. de Brabender gave me with
her sharp elbow. The Duc de Morny always awed me a little. He was gentle
and kind, but he was a great quiz. I knew, too, that he occupied a high
place at court, and that my family considered his friendship a great
honour.

"Because I told her that after luncheon there was to be a family council
on her behalf," said my mother, speaking slowly. "At times it seems to
me that she is quite idiotic. She quite disheartens me."

"Come, come," exclaimed my godfather, and Aunt Rosine said something in
English to the Duc de Morny which made him smile shrewdly under his thin
moustache. Mlle. de Brabender scolded me in a low voice, and her
scoldings were like words from heaven. When at last luncheon was over,
mamma told me, as she passed, to pour out the coffee. Marguerite helped
me to arrange the cups, and I went into the drawing-room. Maître C----,
the notary from Havre, whom I detested, was already there. He
represented the family of my father, who had died at Pisa in a way which
had never been explained, but which seemed mysterious. My childish
hatred was instinctive, and I learnt later on that this man had been my
father's bitter enemy. He was very, very ugly, this notary; his whole
face seemed to have moved up higher. It was as though he had been
hanging by his hair for a long time, and his eyes, his mouth, his
cheeks, and his nose had got into the habit of trying to reach the back
of his head. He ought to have had a joyful expression, as so many of his
features turned up, but instead of this his face was smooth and
sinister-looking. He had red hair planted in his head like couch grass,
and on his nose he wore a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. Oh, the
horrible man! What a torturing nightmare the very memory of him is, for
he was the evil genius of my father, and his hatred now pursued me. My
poor grandmother, since the death of my father, never went out, but
spent her time mourning the loss of her beloved son who had died so
young. She had absolute faith in this man, who besides was the executor
of my father's will. He had the control of the money that my dear father
had left me. I was not to receive it until the day of my marriage, but
my mother was to use the interest for my education. My uncle, Felix
Faure, was also there. Seated near the fireplace, buried in an
arm-chair, M. Meydieu pulled out his watch in a querulous way. He was an
old friend of the family, and he always called me _ma fil_, which
annoyed me greatly, as did his familiarity. He considered me stupid, and
when I handed him his coffee he said in a jeering tone: "And it is for
you, _ma fil_, that so many honest people have been hindered in their
work. We have plenty of other things to attend to, I can assure you,
than to discuss the fate of a little brat like you. Ah, if it had been
her sister there would have been no difficulty," and with his benumbed
fingers he patted Jeanne's head as she remained on the floor plaiting
the fringe of the sofa upon which he was seated.

When the coffee had been drunk, the cups carried away and my sister
also, there was a short silence.

The Duc de Morny rose to take his leave, but my mother begged him to
stay. "You will be able to advise us," she urged, and the Duc took his
seat again near my aunt, with whom it seemed to me he was carrying on a
slight flirtation.

Mamma had moved nearer to the window, her embroidery frame in front of
her, and her beautiful clear-cut profile showing to advantage against
the light. She looked as though she had nothing to do with what was
about to be discussed.

The hideous notary had risen.

My uncle had drawn me near to him. My godfather Régis seemed to be the
exact counterpart of M. Meydieu. They both of them had the same
_bourgeois_ mind, and were equally stubborn and obstinate. They were
both devoted to whist and good wine, and they both agreed that I was
thin enough for a scarecrow. The door opened, and a pale, dark-haired
woman entered, a most poetical-looking and charming creature. It was
Madame Guérard, "the lady of the upstairs flat," as Marguerite always
called her. My mother had made friends with her in rather a patronising
way certainly, but Madame Guérard was devoted to me, and endured the
little slights to which she was treated very patiently for my sake. She
was tall and slender as a lath, very compliant and demure. She lived in
the flat above, and had come down without a hat; she was wearing an
indoor gown of indienne with a design of little brown leaves.

M. Meydieu muttered something, I did not catch what. The abominable
notary made a very curt bow to Madame Guérard. The Duc de Morny was very
gracious, for the new-comer was so pretty. My godfather merely bent his
head, as Madame Guérard was nothing to him. Aunt Rosine glanced at her
from head to foot. Mlle. de Brabender shook hands cordially with her,
for Madame Guérard was fond of me.

My uncle, Félix Faure, gave her a chair, and asked her to sit down, and
then inquired in a kindly nay about her husband, a _savant_, with whom
my uncle collaborated sometimes for his book, "The Life of St. Louis."

Mamma had merely glanced across the room without raising her head, for
Madame Guérard did not prefer my sister to me.

"Well, as we have come here on account of this child," said my
godfather, looking at his watch, "we must begin and discuss what is to
be done with her."

I began to tremble, and drew closer to mon petit Dame (as I had always
called Madame Guérard from my infancy) and to Mlle. de Brabender. They
each took my hand by way of encouraging me.

"Yes," continued M. Meydieu, with a laugh; "it appears you want to be a
nun."

"Ah, indeed," said the Duc de Morny to Aunt Rosine.

"Sh!" she retorted, with a laugh. Mamma sighed, and held her wools up
close to her eyes to match them.

"You have to be rich, though, to enter a convent," grunted the Havre
notary, "and you have not a sou." I leaned towards Mlle. de Brabender
and whispered, "I have the money that papa left."

The horrid man overheard.

"Your father left some money to get you married," he said.

"Well, then, I'll marry the _bon Dieu_" I answered, and my voice was
quite resolute now. I turned very red, and for the second time in my
life I felt a desire and a strong inclination to fight for myself. I had
no more fear, as every one had gone too far and provoked me too much. I
slipped away from my two kind friends, and advanced towards the other
group.

"I will be a nun, I will!" I exclaimed. "I know that papa left me some
money so that I should be married, and I know that the nuns marry the
Saviour. Mamma says she does not care, it is all the same to her, so
that it won't be vexing her at all, and they love me better at the
convent than you do here!"

"My dear child," said my uncle, drawing me towards him, "your religious
vocation appears to me to be more a wish to love--"

"And to be loved," murmured Madame Guérard in a very low voice.

Every one glanced at mamma, who shrugged her shoulders lightly. It
seemed to me as though the glance they all gave her was a reproachful
one, and I felt a pang of remorse at once. I went across to her, and,
throwing my arms round her neck, said:

"You don't mind my being a nun, do you? It won't make you unhappy, will
it?"

Mamma stroked my hair, of which she was very proud.

"Yes, it would make me unhappy. You know very well that, after your
sister, I love you better than any one else in the world."

She said this very slowly in a gentle voice. It was like the sound of a
little waterfall as it flows down, babbling and clear, from the
mountain, dragging with it the gravel, and gradually increasing in
volume with the thawed snow until it sweeps along rocks and trees in its
course. This was the effect my mother's clear drawling voice had upon me
at that moment. I rushed back impulsively to the others, who were all
speechless at this unexpected and spontaneous burst of eloquence. I went
from one to the other, explaining my decision, and giving reasons which
were certainly no reasons at all. I did my utmost to get someone to
support me in the matter. Finally the Duc de Morny was bored, and rose
to go.

"Do you know what you ought to do with this child?" he said. "You ought
to send her to the Conservatoire."

He then patted my cheek, kissed my aunt's hand, and bowed to all the
others. As he bent over my mother's hand I heard him say to her,

"You would have made a bad diplomatist; but follow my advice, and send
her to the Conservatoire."

He then took his departure, and I gazed at every one in perfect anguish.

The Conservatoire! What was it? What did it mean? I went up to my
governess, Mlle. de Brabender. Her lips were firmly pressed together,
and she looked shocked, just as she did sometimes when my godfather told
some story that she did not approve at table. My uncle, Felix Faure, was
gazing at the floor in an absent-minded way; the notary had a spiteful
look in his eyes, my aunt was holding forth in a very excited manner,
and M. Meydieu kept shaking his head and muttering,

"Perhaps--yes--who knows?--hum--hum!" Madame Guérard was very pale and
sad, and she looked at me with infinite tenderness.

What could this Conservatoire be? The word uttered so carelessly seemed
to have entirely disturbed the equanimity of all present. Each one of
them seemed to me to have a different impression about it, but none
looked pleased. Suddenly in the midst of the general embarrassment my
godfather exclaimed brutally:

"She is too thin to make an actress."

"I won't be an actress!" I exclaimed.

"You don't know what an actress is," said my aunt.

"Oh yes, I do. Rachel is an actress."

"You know Rachel?" asked mamma, getting up.

"Oh yes; she came to the convent once to see little Adèle Sarony. She
went all over the convent and into the garden, and she had to sit down
because she could not get her breath. They fetched her something to
bring her round, and she was so pale, oh, so pale. I was very sorry for
her, and Sister St. Appoline told me what she did was killing her, for
she was an actress; and so I won't be an actress--I won't!"

I had said all this in a breath, with my cheeks on fire and my voice
hard.

I remembered all that Sister St. Appoline had told me, and Mother St.
Sophie, too. I remembered also that when Rachel had gone out of the
garden, looking very pale, and holding a lady's arm for support, a
little girl had put her tongue out at her. I did not want people to put
out their tongues at me when I was grown up.

Conservatoire! That word alarmed me. He wanted me to be an actress, and
he had now gone away, so that I could not talk things over with him. He
went away smiling and tranquil, after caressing me in the usual friendly
way. He had gone, caring little about the scraggy child whose future had
been discussed.

"Send her to the Conservatoire!"

And that sentence, uttered carelessly, had come like a bomb into my
life.

I, the dreamy child, who that morning was ready to repulse princes and
kings; I, whose trembling fingers had that morning told over chaplets of
dreams, who only a few hours ago had felt my heart beating with emotion
hitherto unknown to me; I, who had got up expecting some great event to
take place--was to see everything disappear, thanks to that phrase as
heavy as lead and as deadly as a bullet.

"Send her to the Conservatoire!"

And I divined that this phrase was to be the sign-post of my life. All
those people had gathered together at the turning of the cross roads.
"Send her to the Conservatoire!" I wanted to be a nun, and this was
considered absurd, idiotic, unreasonable. "Send her to the
Conservatoire!" had opened out a field for discussion, the horizon of a
future. My uncle Félix Faure and Mlle. Brabender were the only ones
against this idea. They tried in vain to make my mother understand that
with the 100,000 francs that my father had left me I might marry. But
mother replied that I had declared I had a horror of marriage, and that
I should wait until I was of age to go into a convent.

"Under these conditions," she said, "Sarah will never have her father's
money."

"No, certainly not," put in the notary.

"Then," continued my mother, "she would enter the convent as a servant,
and I will not have that! My money is an annuity, so that I cannot leave
anything to my children. I therefore want them to have a career of their
own."

My mother was now exhausted with so much talking, and lay back in an
arm-chair. I got very much excited, and my mother asked me to go away.

Mlle. de Brabender and Madame Guérard were arguing in a low voice, and I
thought of the aristocratic man who had just left us. I was very angry
with him, for this idea of the Conservatoire was his.

Mlle. de Brabender tried to console me. Madame Guérard said that this
career had its advantages. Mlle. de Brabender considered that the
convent would have a great fascination for so dreamy a nature as mine.
The latter was very religious and a great church-goer, _mon petit Dame_
was a pagan in the purest acceptation of that word, and yet the two
women got on very well together, thanks to their affectionate devotion
to me.

Madame Guérard adored the proud rebelliousness of my nature, my pretty
face, and the slenderness of my figure; Mlle. de Brabender was touched
by my delicate health. She endeavoured to comfort me when I was jealous
at not being loved as much as my sister, but what she liked best about
me was my voice. She always declared that my voice was modulated for
prayers, and my delight in the convent appeared to her quite natural.
She loved me with a gentle pious affection, and Madame Guérard loved me
with bursts of paganism. These two women, whose memory is still dear to
me, shared me between them, and made the best of my good qualities and
my faults. I certainly owe to both of them this study of myself and the
vision I have of myself.

The day was destined to end in the strangest of fashions. Madame Guérard
had gone back to her apartment upstairs, and I was lying back on a
little cane arm-chair which was the most ornamental piece of furniture
in my room. I felt very drowsy, and was holding Mlle. de Brabender's
hand in mine, when the door opened and my aunt entered, followed by my
mother. I can see them now, my aunt in her dress of puce silk trimmed
with fur, her brown velvet hat tied under her chin with long, wide
strings, and mamma, who had taken off her dress and put on a white
woollen dressing-gown. She always detested keeping on her dress in the
house, and I understood by her change of costume that every one had gone
and that my aunt was ready to leave. I got up from my arm-chair, but
mamma made me sit down again.

"Rest yourself thoroughly," she said, "for we are going to take you to
the theatre this evening, to the Français." I felt sure that this was
just a bait, and I would not show any sign of pleasure, although in my
heart I was delighted at the idea of going to the Français. The only
theatre I knew anything of was the Robert Houdin, to which I was taken
sometimes with my sister, and I fancy that it was for her benefit we
went, as I was really too old to care for that kind of performance.
"Will you come with us?" mamma said, turning to Mlle. de Brabender.

"Willingly, Madame," replied this dear creature. "I will go home and
change my dress."

My aunt laughed at my sullen looks.

"Little fraud," she said, as she went away; "you are hiding your
delight. Ah well, you will see some actresses to-night."

"Is Rachel going to act?" I asked.

"Oh no; she is ill."

My aunt kissed me and went away, saying she should see me again later
on, and my mother followed her out of the room. Mlle. de Brabender then
hurriedly prepared to leave me. She had to go home to dress and to say
that she would not be in until quite late, for in her convent special
permission had to be obtained when one wished to be out later than ten
at night. When I was alone I swung myself backwards and forwards in my
arm-chair, which, by the way, was anything but a rocking-chair. I began
to think, and for the first time in my life my critical comprehension
came to my aid. And so all these serious people had been inconvenienced,
the notary fetched from Hâvre, my uncle dragged away from working at his
book, the old bachelor M. Meydieu disturbed in his habits and customs,
my godfather kept away from the Stock Exchange, and that aristocratic
and sceptical Duc de Morny cramped up for two hours in the midst of our
_bourgeois_ surroundings, and all to end in this decision, _She shall be
taken to the theatre._ I do not know what part my uncle had played in
this burlesque plan, but I doubt whether it was to his taste. All the
same, I was glad to go to the theatre; it made me feel more important.
That morning on waking up I was quite a child, and now events had taken
place which had transformed me into a young girl. I had been discussed
by every one, and I had expressed my wishes, without any result,
certainly, but all the same I had expressed them, and now it was deemed
necessary to humour and indulge me in order to win me over. They could
not force me into agreeing to what they wanted me to do. My consent was
necessary, and I felt so joyful and so proud about it that I was quite
touched and almost ready to yield. I said to myself that it would be
better to hold my own and let them ask me again.

After dinner we all squeezed into a cab, mamma, my godfather, Mlle. de
Brabender, and I. My godfather made me a present of some white gloves.

On mounting the steps at the Théâtre Français I trod on a lady's dress.
She turned round and called me a "stupid child." I moved back hastily,
and came into collision with a very stout old gentleman, who gave me a
rough push forward.

When once we were all installed in a box facing the stage, mamma and I
in the first row, with Mlle. de Brabender behind me, I felt more
reassured. I was close against the partition of the box, and I could
feel Mlle. de Brabender's sharp knees through the velvet of my chair.
This gave me confidence, and I leaned against the back of the chair
purposely to feel the support of those two knees.

When the curtain slowly rose I thought I should have fainted. It was as
though the curtain of my future life were being raised. These columns
(_Britannicus_ was being played) were to be my palaces, the borders
above were to be my skies, and those boards were to bend under my frail
weight. I heard nothing of _Britannicus_, for I was far, far away, at
Grand-Champs, in my dormitory there.

"Well, what do you think of it?" asked my godfather when the curtain
fell. I did not answer, and he laid his hand on my head and turned my
face round towards him. I was crying, and big tears were rolling slowly
down my cheeks, those tears that come without any sobs and without any
hope of ever ceasing.

My godfather shrugged his shoulders, and getting up, left the box,
banging the door after him. Mamma, losing all patience with me,
proceeded to review the house through her opera-glasses.

Mlle. de Brabender passed me her handkerchief, for I had dropped mine
and dared not pick it up.

       *       *       *       *       *

The curtain had been raised for the second piece, _Amphytrion_, and I
made an effort to listen, for the sake of pleasing my governess, who was
so gentle and conciliating. I can only remember one thing, and that is
that Alcmène seemed to be so unhappy that I burst into loud sobs, and
that the whole house, very much amused, looked at our box. My mother,
greatly annoyed, took me out, and Mlle. de Brabender went with us. My
godfather was furious, and muttered, "She ought to be shut up in a
convent and left there. Good heavens, what a little idiot the child is!"
This was the _début_ of my artistic career.




VII


MY CAREER--FIRST LESSONS


I was beginning to think, though, of my new career. Books were sent to
me from all quarters: Racine, Corneille, Molière, Casimir Delavigne, &c.
I opened them, but, as I did not understand them at all, I quickly
closed them again, and read my little Lafontaine, which I loved
passionately. I knew all his fables, and one of my delights was to make
a bet with my godfather or with M. Meydieu, our learned and tiresome
friend. I used to bet that they would not recognise all the fables if I
began with the last verse and went backwards to the first one, and I
often won the bet.

A line from my aunt arrived one day, telling my mother that M. Auber,
who was then director of the Conservatoire, was expecting us the next
day at nine in the morning. I was about to put my foot in the stirrup.
My mother sent me with Madame Guérard. M. Auber received us very
affably, as the Duc de Morny had spoken to him of me. I was very much
impressed by him, with his refined face and white hair, his ivory
complexion and magnificent black eyes, his fragile and distinguished
look, his melodious voice and the celebrity of his name. I scarcely
dared answer his questions. He spoke to me very gently, and told me to
sit down.

"You are very fond of the stage?" he began.

"Oh, no, Monsieur," I answered.

This unexpected reply amazed him. He looked at Madame Guérard from under
his heavy eyelids, and she at once said: "No, she does not care for the
stage; but she does not want to marry, and consequently she will have no
money, as her father left her a hundred thousand francs which she can
only get on her wedding-day. Her mother, therefore, wants her to have
some profession, for Madame Bernhardt has only an annuity, a fairly good
one, but it is only an annuity, and so she will not be able to leave her
daughters anything. On that account she wants Sarah to become
independent. She would like to enter a convent."

"But that is not an independent career, my child," said Auber slowly.
"How old is she?" he asked.

"Fourteen and a half," replied Madame Guérard.

"No," I exclaimed, "I am nearly fifteen."

The kind old man smiled.

"In twenty years from now," he said, "you will insist less upon the
exact figures," and, evidently thinking the visit had lasted long
enough, he rose.

"It appears," he said to Madame Guérard, "that this little girl's mother
is very beautiful?"

"Oh, very beautiful," she replied.

"You will please express my regret to her that I have not seen her, and
my thanks for her having been so charmingly replaced." He thereupon
kissed Madame Guérard's hand, and she coloured slightly. This
conversation remained engraved on my mind. I remember every word of it,
every movement and every gesture of M. Auber's, for this little man, so
charming and so gentle, held my future in his transparent-looking hand.
He opened the door for us and, touching me on my shoulder, said: "Come,
courage, little girl. Believe me, you will thank your mother some day
for driving you to it. Don't look so sad. Life is well worth beginning
seriously, but gaily."

I stammered out a few words of thanks, and just as I was making my exit
a fine-looking woman knocked against me. She was heavy and extremely
bustling, though, and M. Auber bent his head towards me and said
quietly:

"Above all things, don't let yourself get stout like this singer.
Stoutness is the enemy of a woman and of an artist."

The man-servant was now holding the door open for us, and as M. Auber
returned to his visitor I heard him say:

"Well, most ideal of women?"

I went away rather astounded, and did not say a word in the carriage.
Madame Guérard told my mother about our interview, but she did not even
let her finish, and only said, "Good, good; thank you."

As the examination was to take place a month after this visit, it became
necessary to prepare for it. My mother did not know any theatrical
people. My godfather advised me to learn _Phèdre_, but Mlle. de
Brabender objected, as she thought it a little offensive, and refused to
help me if I chose that. M. Meydieu, our old friend, wanted me to work
at Chimène in _Le Cid_, but first he declared that I clenched my teeth
too much for it. It was quite true that I did not make the _o_ open
enough and did not roll the _r_ sufficiently either. He wrote a little
note-book for me, which I am copying textually, as my poor dear Guérard
religiously kept everything concerning me, and she gave me, later on, a
quantity of papers which are useful now.

The following is our odious friend's work:

"Every morning instead of _do .. re .. mi_ ... practise _te .. de ..
de_.., in order to learn to vibrate....

"Before breakfast repeat forty times over,
_Un-très-gros-rat-dans-un-très-gros-trou_, in order to vibrate the _r_.

"Before dinner repeat forty times: _Combien ces six saucisses-ci? C'est
six sous, ces six saucisses-ci. Six sous ces six saucisses-ci? Six sous
ceux-ci! Six sous ceux-là; six sous ces six saucissons-ci!_ in order to
learn not to whizz the _s_.

"At night, when going to bed, repeat twenty times: _Didon dina, dit-on,
du dos d'un dodu dindon._

"And twenty times: _Le plus petit papa, petit pipi, petit popo, petit
pupu._ Open the mouth square for the _d_ and pout for the _p_."

He gave this piece of work quite seriously to Mlle. de Brabender, who
quite seriously wanted me to practise it. My governess was charming, and
I was very fond of her, but I could not help yelling with laughter when,
after making me go through the _te de de_ exercise, which went fairly
well, and then the _très gros rat_, &c., she started on the _saucisson_
(sausages)! Ah, no. There was a cacophony of hisses in her toothless
mouth, enough to make all the dogs in Paris howl. And when she began
with the _Didon_, accompanied by the _plus petit papa_, I thought my
dear governess was losing her reason. She half closed her eyes, her face
was red, her moustache bristled up, she put on a sententious, hurried
manner; her mouth widened out and looked like the slit in a money-box,
or else it was creased up into a little ring, and she purred and hissed
and chirped and fooled without ceasing. I flung myself exhausted into my
wicker chair, choking with laughter, and great tears poured from my
eyes. I stamped on the floor, flung my arms out right and left until
they were tired, and rocked myself backwards and forwards, pealing with
laughter.

My mother, attracted by the noise I was making, half opened the door.
Mlle. de Brabender explained to her very gravely that she was showing me
M. Meydieu's method. My mother expostulated with me, but I would not
listen to anything, as I was nearly beside myself with laughter. She
then took Mlle. de Brabender away and left me alone, for she feared that
I should finish with hysterics. When once I was by myself I began to
calm down. I closed my eyes and thought of my convent again. The _te de
de_ got mixed up in my enervated brain with the "Our Father," which I
used to have to repeat some days fifteen or twenty times as a
punishment. Finally I came to myself again, got up, and after bathing my
face in cold water went to my mother, whom I found playing whist with my
governess and godfather. I kissed Mlle. de Brabender, and she returned
my kiss with such indulgent kindness that I felt quite embarrassed by
it.

Ten days passed by, and I did none of M. Meydieu's exercises, except the
_te de de_ at the piano. My mother came and woke me every morning for
this, and it drove me wild. My godfather made me learn _Aricie_, but I
understood nothing of what he told me about the verses. He considered,
and explained to me, that poetry must be said with an intonation, and
that all the value of it resided in the rhyme. His theories were boring
to listen to and impossible to execute. Then I could not understand
Aricie's character, for it did not seem to me that she loved Hippolyte
at all, and she appeared to me to be a scheming flirt. My godfather
explained to me that in olden times this was the way people loved each
other, and when I remarked that Phèdre appeared to love in a better way
than that, he took me by the chin and said: "Just look at this naughty
child. She is pretending not to understand, and would like us explain to
her...."

This was simply idiotic. I did not understand, and had not asked
anything, but this man had a _bourgeois_ mind, and was sly and lewd. He
did not like me because I was thin, but he was interested in me because
I was going to be an actress. That word evoked for him the weak side of
our art. He did not see the beauty, the nobleness of it, nor yet its
beneficial power.

I could not fathom all this at that time, but I did not feel at ease
with this man, whom I had seen from my childhood and who was almost like
a father to me. I did not want to continue learning _Aricie_. In the
first place, I could not talk about it with my governess, as she would
not discuss the piece at all.

I then learnt _L'Ecole des Femmes_, and Mlle. de Brabender explained
Agnès to me. The dear, good lady did not see much in it, for the whole
story appeared to her of childlike simplicity, and when I said the
lines, "He has taken from me, he has taken from me the ribbon you gave
me," she smiled in all confidence when Meydieu and my godfather laughed
heartily.




VIII


THE CONSERVATOIRE


Finally the examination day arrived. Every one had given me advice, but
no one any real helpful counsel. It had not occurred to any one that I
ought to have had a professional to prepare me for my examination. I got
up in the morning with a heavy heart and an anxious mind. My mother had
had a black silk dress made for me. It was slightly low-necked, and was
finished with a gathered berthe. The frock was rather short, and showed
my drawers. These were trimmed with embroidery, and came down to my
brown kid boots. A white guimpe emerged from my black bodice and was
fastened round my throat, which was too slender. My hair was parted on
my forehead and then fell as it liked, for it was not held by pins or
ribbons. I wore a large straw hat, although the season was rather
advanced. Every one came to inspect my dress, and I was turned round and
round twenty times at least. I had to make my curtsey for every one to
see. Finally I seemed to give general satisfaction. _Mon petit Dame_
came downstairs, with her grave husband, and kissed me. She was deeply
affected. Our old Marguerite made me sit down, and put before me a cup
of cold beef tea, which she had simmered so carefully for a long time
that it was then a delicious jelly; I swallowed it in a second. I was in
a great hurry to start. On rising from my chair, I moved so brusquely
that my dress caught on to an invisible splinter of wood, and was torn.
My mother turned to a visitor, who had arrived about five minutes before
and had remained in contemplative admiration ever since.

"There," she said to him in a vexed tone, "that is a proof of what I
told you. All your silks tear with the slightest movement."

"Oh no," replied our visitor quickly; "I told you that this one was not
well dressed, and let you have it at a low price on that account."

He who spoke was a young Jew, not ugly. He was a Dutchman--shy,
tenacious, but never violent. I had known him from my childhood. His
father, who was a friend of my grandfather's on my mother's side, was a
rich tradesman and the father of a tribe of children. He gave each of
his sons a small sum of money, and sent them out to make their fortune
where they liked. Jacques, the one of whom I am speaking, came to Paris.
He had commenced by selling Passover cakes, and as a boy had often
brought me some of them to the convent, together with the dainties that
my mother sent me. Later on, my surprise was great on seeing him offer
my mother rolls of oil-cloth such as is used for tablecloths for early
breakfast. I remember one of those cloths the border of which was formed
of medallions representing the French kings. It was from that oil-cloth
that I learned my history best. For the last month he had owned quite an
elegant vehicle, and he sold "silks that were not well dressed." At
present he is one of the leading jewellers of Paris.

The slit in my dress was soon mended, and, knowing now that the silk was
not well dressed, I treated it with respect. Well, finally we started,
Mlle. de Brabender, Madame Guérard, and I, in a carriage that was only
intended for two persons; and I was glad that it was so small, for I was
close to two people who were fond of me, and my silk frock was spread
carefully over their knees.

When I entered the waiting-room that leads into the recital hall of the
Conservatoire, there were about fifteen young men and twenty girls
there. All these girls were accompanied by their mother, father, aunt,
brother, or sister. There was an odour of pomade and vanilla that made
me feel sick.

When we were shown into this room I felt that every one was looking at
me, and I blushed to the back of my head. Madame Guérard drew me gently
along, and I turned to take Mlle. de Brabender's hand. She came shyly
forward, blushing more and still more confused than I was. Every one
looked at her, and I saw the girls nudge each other and nod in her
direction.

One of them got suddenly up and moved across to her mother. "Oh, mercy,
look at that old sight!" she said. My poor governess felt most
uncomfortable, and I was furious, I thought she was a thousand times
nicer than all those fat, dressed-up, common-looking mothers. Certainly
she was different from other people in her appearance, for Mlle. de
Brabender was wearing a salmon-coloured dress and an Indian shawl, drawn
tightly across her shoulders and fastened with a very large cameo
brooch. Her bonnet was trimmed with ruches, so close together that it
looked like a nun's head-gear. She certainly was not at all like these
dreadful people in whose society we found ourselves, and among whom
there were not more than ten exceptions. The young men were standing in
compact groups near the windows. They were laughing and, I expect,
making remarks in doubtful taste.

The door opened and a girl with a red face, and a young man perfectly
scarlet, came back after acting their scene. They each went to their
respective friends and then chattered away, finding fault with each
other. A name was called out: Mlle. Dica Petit, and I saw a tall, fair,
distinguished-looking girl move forward without any embarrassment. She
stopped on her way to kiss a pretty woman, stout, with a pink and white
complexion, and very much dressed up.

"Don't be afraid, mother dear," she said, and then she added a few words
in Dutch before disappearing, followed by a young man and a very thin
girl who were to perform with her.

This was explained to me by Léautaud, who called over the names of the
pupils and took down the names of those who were up to pass their
examination and those who were to act with them and give them the cues.
I knew nothing of all this, and wondered who was to give me the cues for
Agnès. He mentioned several young men, but I interrupted him.

"Oh no," I said; "I will not ask any one. I do not know any of them, and
I will not ask."

"Well, then, what will you recite, Mademoiselle?" asked Léautaud, with
the most _fouchtre_ accent possible.

"I will recite a fable," I replied.

He burst out laughing as he wrote down my name and the title, _Deux
Pigeons_, which I gave him. I heard him still laughing under his heavy
moustache as he continued his round. He then went back into the
Conservatoire, and I began to get feverish with excitement, so much so
that Madame Guérard was anxious about me, as my health unfortunately was
very delicate. She made me sit down, and then she put a few drops of
eau-de-Cologne behind my ears.

"There, that will teach you to wink like that!" were the words I
suddenly heard, and a girl with the prettiest face imaginable had her
ears boxed soundly. Nathalie Mauvoy's mother was correcting her
daughter. I sprang up, trembling with fright and indignation; I was as
angry as a young turkey-cock. I wanted to go and box the horrible
woman's ears in return, and then to kiss the pretty girl who had been
insulted in this way, but I was held back firmly by my two guardians.

Dica Petit now returned, and this caused a diversion in the
waiting-room. She was radiant and quite satisfied with herself. Oh, very
well satisfied indeed! Her father held out a little flask to her in
which was some kind of cordial, and I should have liked some of it too,
for my mouth was dry and burning. Her mother then put a little woollen
square over her chest before fastening her coat for her, and then all
three of them went away. Several other girls and young men were called
before my turn came.

Finally the call of my name made me jump as a sardine does when pursued
by a big fish. I tossed my head to shake my hair back, and _mon petit
Dame_ stroked my badly dressed silk. Mlle. de Brabender reminded me
about the _o_ and the _a_, the _r_, the _p_, and the _t_, and I then
went alone into the hall.

I had never been alone an hour in my life. As a little child I was
always clinging to the skirts of my nurse; at the convent I was always
with one of my friends or one of the sisters; at home either with Mlle.
de Brabender or Madame Guérard, or if they were not there in the kitchen
with Marguerite. And now there I was alone in that strange-looking room,
with a platform at the end, a large table in the middle, and, seated
round this table, men who either grumbled, growled, or jeered. There was
only one woman present, and she had a loud voice. She was holding an
eyeglass, and as I entered she dropped it and looked at me through her
opera-glass. I felt every one's gaze on my back as I climbed up the few
steps on to the platform. Léautaud bent forward and whispered, "Make
your bow and commence, and then stop when the chairman rings." I looked
at the chairman, and saw that it was M. Auber. I had forgotten that he
was director of the Conservatoire, just as I had forgotten everything
else. I at once made my bow and began:

  _Deux pigeons s'aimaient d'amour tendre,
  L'un d'eux s'ennuyant...._

A low, grumbling sound was heard, and then a "ventriloquist" muttered,
"It isn't an elocution class here. What an idea to come here reciting
fables!"

It was Beauvallet, the deafening tragedian of the Comédie Française. I
stopped short, my heart beating wildly.

"Go on, my child," said a man with silvery hair. This was Provost.

"Yes, it won't be as long as a scene from a play," exclaimed Augustine
Brohan, the one woman present.

I began again:

  _Deux pigeons s'aimaient d'amour tendre,
  L'un d'eux s'ennuyant au logis
  Fut assez...._

"Louder, my child, louder," said a little man with curly white hair, in
a kindly tone. This was Samson.

I stopped again, confused and frightened, seized suddenly with such a
foolish fit of nervousness that I could have shouted or howled. Samson
saw this, and said to me, "Come, come; we are not ogres!" He had just
been talking in a low voice with Auber.

"Come now, begin again," he said, "and speak up."

"Ah no," put in Augustine Brohan, "if she is to begin again it will be
longer than a scene!" This speech made all the table laugh, and that
gave me time to recover myself. I thought all these people unkind to
laugh like this at the expense of a poor little trembling creature who
had been delivered over to them, bound hand and foot.

I felt, without exactly defining it, a slight contempt for these
pitiless judges. Since then I have very often thought of that trial of
mine, and I have come to the conclusion that individuals who are kind,
intelligent, and compassionate become less estimable when they are
together. The feeling of personal irresponsibility arouses their evil
instincts, and the fear of ridicule chases away their good ones.

When I had recovered my will power I began my fable again, determined
not to mind what happened. My voice was more liquid on account of the
emotion, and the desire to make myself heard caused it to be more
resonant.

There was silence, and before I had finished my fable the little bell
rang. I bowed and came down the few steps from the platform, thoroughly
exhausted. M. Auber stopped me as I was passing by the table.

"Well, little girl," he said, "that was very good indeed. M. Provost and
M. Beauvallet both want you in their class."

I recoiled slightly when he told me which was M. Beauvallet, for he was
the "ventriloquist" who had given me such a fright.

"Well, which of these two gentlemen should you prefer?" he asked.

I did not utter a word, but pointed to M. Provost.

"That's all right. Get your handkerchief out, my poor Beauvallet, and I
shall entrust this child to you, my dear Provost."

I understood, and, wild with joy, I exclaimed, "Then I have passed?"

"Yes, you have passed; and there is only one thing I regret, and that is
that such a pretty voice should not be for music."

I did not hear anything else, for I was beside myself with joy. I did
not stay to thank any one, but bounded to the door.

"_Mon petit Dame_! Mademoiselle, I have passed!" I exclaimed, and when
they shook hands and asked me no end of questions I could only reply,
"Oh, it's quite true. I have passed, I have passed!"

I was surrounded and questioned.

"How do you know that you have passed? No one knows beforehand."

"Yes, yes; I know, though. Monsieur Auber told me. I am to go into
Monsieur Provost's class. Monsieur Beauvallet wanted me, but his voice
is too loud for me!"

A disagreeable girl exclaimed, "Can't you stop that? And so they all
want you!" A pretty girl, who was too dark, though, for my taste, came
nearer and asked me gently what I had recited.

"The fable of the 'Two Pigeons," I replied.

She was surprised, and so was every one; while, as for me, I was wildly
delighted to surprise them all. I tossed my hat on my head, shook my
frock out, and, dragging my two friends along, ran away dancing. They
wanted to take me to the confectioner's to have something, but I
refused. We got into a cab, and I should have liked to push that cab
along myself. I fancied I saw the words, "I have passed," written up
over all the shops.

When, on account of the crowded streets, the cab had to stop, it seemed
to me that the people stared at me, and I caught myself tossing my head,
as though telling them all that it was quite true I had passed my
examination. I never thought any more about the convent, and only
experienced a feeling of pride at having succeeded in my first
venturesome enterprise. Venturesome, but the success had only depended
on me. It seemed to me as though the cabman would never arrive at 265
Rue St. Honoré. I kept putting my head out of the window, and saying,
"Faster, cabby, faster, please!"

At last we reached the house, and I sprang out of the cab and hurried
along to tell the good news to my mother. On the way I was stopped by
the daughter of the hall-porter. She was a corset-maker, and worked in a
little room on the top floor of the house which was opposite our
dining-room, where I used to do my lessons with my governess, so that I
could not help seeing her ruddy, wide-awake face constantly. I had never
spoken to her, but I knew who she was.

"Well, Mademoiselle Sarah, are you satisfied?" she called out.

"Oh yes, I have passed," I answered, and I could not resist stopping a
minute in order to enjoy the astonishment of the hall-porter family. I
then hurried on, but on reaching the courtyard came to a dead stand,
anger and grief taking possession of me, for there I beheld my _petit
dame_, her two hands forming a trumpet, her head thrown back, shouting
to my mother, who was leaning out of the window, "Yes, yes; she has
passed!"

I gave her a thump with my clenched hand and began to cry with rage, for
I had prepared a little story for my mother, ending up with the joyful
surprise. I had intended putting on a very sad look on arriving at the
door, and pretending to be broken-hearted and ashamed. I felt sure she
would say, "Oh, I am not surprised, my poor child, you are so foolish!"
and then I should have thrown my arms round her neck and said, "It isn't
true, it isn't true; I have passed!" I had pictured to myself her face
brightening up, and then old Marguerite and my godfather laughing
heartily and my sisters dancing with joy, and here was Madame Guérard
sounding her trumpet and spoiling all the effects that I had prepared so
well.

I must say that the kind woman continued as long as she lived, that is
the greater part of my life, to spoil all my effects. It was all in vain
that I made scenes; she could not help herself. Whenever I related an
adventure and wanted it to be very effective, she would invariably burst
into fits of laughter before the end of it. If I told a story with a
very lamentable ending, which was to be a surprise, she would sigh, roll
her eyes, and murmur, "Oh dear, oh dear!" so that I always missed the
effect I was counting on. All this used to exasperate me to such a
degree that before beginning a story or a game I used to ask her to go
out of the room, and she would get up and go, laughing at the idea of
the blunder she would make if there.

Abusing Guérard, I went upstairs to my mother, whom I found at the open
door. She kissed me affectionately, and on seeing my sulky face asked if
I was not satisfied.

"Yes," I replied; "but I am furious with Guérard. Be nice, mamma, and
pretend you don't know. Shut the door, and I will ring."

She did this, and I rang the bell. Marguerite opened the door, and my
mother came and pretended to be astonished. My sisters, too, arrived,
and my godfather and my aunt. When I kissed my mother, exclaiming, "I
have passed!" every one shouted with joy, and I was gay again. I had
made my effect, anyhow. It was "the career" taking possession of me
unawares. My sister Régina, whom the sisters would not have in the
convent, and so had sent home, began to dance a jig. She had learnt this
in the country when she had been put out to nurse, and upon every
occasion she danced it, finishing always with this couplet:

  _Mon p'tit ventr' éjouis toi
  Tout ce ze gagn' est pou' toi...._

Nothing could be more comic than this chubby child, with her serious
air. Régina never laughed, and only a suspicion of a smile ever played
over her thin lips and her mouth, which was too small. Nothing could be
more comic than to see her, looking grave and rough, dancing the jig.

She was funnier than ever that day, as she was excited by the general
joy. She was four years old, and nothing ever embarrassed her. She was
both timid and bold. She detested society and people generally, and when
she was made to go into the dining-room she embarrassed people by her
crude remarks, which were most odd, by her rough answers, and her kicks
and blows. She was a terrible child, with silvery hair, dark complexion,
blue eyes, too large for her face, and thick lashes which made a shadow
on her cheeks when she lowered the lids and joined her eyebrows when her
eyes were open. She would be four or five hours sometimes without
uttering a word, without answering any question she was asked, and then
she would jump up from her little chair, begin to sing as loud as she
could, and dance the jig. On this day she was in a good temper, for she
kissed me affectionately and opened her thin lips to smile. My sister
Jeanne kissed me and made me tell her about my examination. My godfather
gave me a hundred francs, and Meydieu, who had just arrived to find out
the result, promised to take me the next day to Barbédienne's to choose
a clock for my room, as that was one of my dreams.




IX


A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL AND EXAMINATIONS--THE CONSERVATOIRE


An evolution took place in me from that day. For rather a long time my
soul remained child-like, but my mind discerned life more distinctly. I
felt the need of creating a personality for myself. That was the first
awakening of my will. I wanted to be some one. Mlle. de Brabender
declared to me that this was pride. It seemed to me that it was not
quite that, but I could not then define what the sentiment was which
imposed this wish on me. I did not understand until a few months later
why I wished to be some one.

A friend of my godfather's made me an offer of marriage. This man was a
rich tanner and very kind, but so dark and with such long hair and such
a beard that he disgusted me. I refused him, and my godfather then asked
to speak to me alone. He made me sit down in my mother's boudoir, and
said to me: "My poor child, it is pure folly to refuse Monsieur Bed----.
He has sixty thousand francs a year and expectations." It was the first
time I had heard this use of the word, and when the meaning was
explained to me I wondered if that was the right thing to say on such an
occasion.

"Why, yes," replied my godfather; "you are idiotic with your romantic
ideas. Marriage is a business affair, and must be considered as such.
Your future father- and mother-in-law will have to die, just as we
shall, and it is by no means disagreeable to know that they will leave
two million francs to their son, and consequently to you, if you marry
him."

"I shall not marry him, though."

"Why?"

"Because I do not love him."

"But you never love your husband before----" replied my practical
adviser. "You can love him after."

"After what?"

"Ask your mother. But listen to me now, for it is not a question of
that. You must marry. Your mother has a small income which your father
left her, but this income comes from the profits of the manufactory,
which belongs to your grandmother, and she cannot bear your mother, who
will therefore lose that income, and then she will have nothing, and
three children on her hands. It is that accursed lawyer who is arranging
all this. The whys and wherefores would take too long to explain. Your
father managed his business affairs very badly. You must marry,
therefore, if not for your own sake, for the sake of your mother and
sisters. You can then give your mother the hundred thousand francs your
father left you, which no one else can touch. Monsieur Bed---- will
settle three hundred thousand francs on you. I have arranged everything,
so that you can give this to your mother if you like, and with four
hundred thousand francs she will be able to live very well."

I cried and sobbed, and asked to have time to think it over. I found my
mother in the dining-room.

"Has your godfather told you?" she asked gently, in rather a timid way.

"Yes, mother, yes; he has told me. Let me think it over, will you?" I
said, sobbing; as I kissed her neck lingeringly. I then locked myself in
my bedroom, and for the first time for many days I regretted my convent.
All my childhood rose up before me, and I cried more and more, and felt
so unhappy that I wished I could die. Gradually, however, I began to get
calm again, and realised what had happened and what my godfather's words
meant. Most decidedly I did not want to marry this man. Since I had been
at the Conservatoire I had learnt a few things vaguely, very vaguely,
for I was never alone, but I understood enough to make me not want to
marry without being in love. I was, however, destined to be attacked in
a quarter from which I should not have expected it. Madame Guérard asked
me to go up to her room to see the embroidery she was doing on a frame
for my mother's birthday.

My astonishment was great to find M. Bed---- there. He begged me to
change my mind. He made me very wretched, for he pleaded with tears in
his eyes.

"Do you want a larger marriage settlement?" he asked. "I would make it
five hundred thousand francs."

But it was not that at all, and I said in a very low voice, "I do not
love you, Monsieur."

"If you do not marry me, Mademoiselle," he said, "I shall die of grief."

I looked at him, and repeated to myself the words "die of grief." I was
embarrassed and desperate, but at the same time delighted, for he loved
me just as a man does in a play. Phrases that I had read or heard came
to my mind vaguely, and I repeated them without any real conviction, and
then left him without the slightest coquetry.

M. Bed---- did not die. He is still living, and has a very important
financial position. He is much nicer now than when he was so black, for
at present he is quite white.

Well, I had just passed my first examination with remarkable success,
particularly in tragedy.

M. Provost, my professor, had not wanted me to compete in _Zaïre_, but I
had insisted. I thought that scene with Zaïre and her brother Néréstan
very fine, and it suited me. But when Zaïre, overwhelmed with her
brother's reproaches, falls on her knees at his feet, Provost wanted me
to say the words, "Strike, I tell you! I love him!" with violence, and I
wanted to say them gently, perfectly resigned to a death that was almost
certain. I argued about it for a long time with my professor, and
finally I appeared to give in to him during the lesson. But on the day
of the competition I fell on my knees before Néréstan with a sob so
real, my arms outstretched, offering my heart, so full of love, to the
deadly blow that I expected, and I murmured with such tenderness,
"Strike, I tell you! I love him!" that the whole house burst into
applause and repeated the outburst twice over.

The second prize for tragedy was awarded me, to the great
dissatisfaction of the public, as it was thought that I ought to have
had the first prize. And yet it was only just that I should have the
second, on account of my age and the short time I had been studying. I
had a first accessit or comedy in _La fausse Agnès_.

I felt, therefore, that I had the right to refuse. My future lay open
before me, and consequently my mother would not be in want if she should
lose her present income. A few days later M. Régnier, professor at the
Conservatoire and secretary of the Comédie Française, came to ask my
mother whether she would allow me to play in a piece of his at the
Vaudeville. The piece was _Germaine_, and the managers would give me
twenty-five francs for each performance. I was amazed at the sum. Seven
hundred and fifty francs a month for my first appearance! I was wild
with joy. I besought my mother to accept the offer made by the
Vaudeville, and she told me to do as I liked in the matter.

I asked M. Camille Doucet, director of the Fine Arts Department, to be
so good as to receive me, and, as my mother always refused to accompany
me, Madame Guérard went with me. My little sister Régina begged me to
take her, and very unwisely I consented. We had not been in the
director's office more than five minutes before my sister, who was only
six years old, began to climb on to the furniture. She jumped on to a
stool, and finally sat down on the floor, pulling towards her the paper
basket, which was under the desk, and proceeded to spread about all the
torn papers which it contained. On seeing this Camille Doucet mildly
observed that she was not a very good little girl. My sister, with her
head in the basket, answered in her husky voice, "If you bother me,
Monsieur, I shall tell every one that you are there to give out holy
water that is poison. My aunt says so." My face turned purple with
shame, and I stammered out, "Please do not believe that, Monsieur
Doucet. My little sister is telling an untruth."

Régina sprang to her feet, and clenching her little fists, rushed at me
like a little fury. "Aunt Rosine never said that?" she exclaimed. "You
are telling an untruth. Why, she said it to Monsieur de Morny, and he
answered--"

I had forgotten this, and I have forgotten what the Duc de Morny
answered, but, beside myself with anger, I put my hand over my sister's
mouth and took her quickly away. She howled like a polecat, and we
rushed like a hurricane through the waiting-room, which was full of
people.

I then gave way to one of those violent fits of temper to which I had
been subject in my childhood. I sprang into the first cab that passed
the door, and, when once in the cab, struck my sister with such fury
that Madame Guérard was alarmed, and protected her with her own body,
receiving all the blows I gave with my head, arms, and feet, for in my
anger, grief, and shame I flung myself about to right and left. My grief
was all the more profound from the fact that I was very fond of Camille
Doucet. He was gentle and charming, affable and kind-hearted. He had
refused my aunt something she had asked for, and, unaccustomed to being
refused anything, she had a spite against him. This had nothing to do
with me, though, and I wondered what Camille Doucet would think. And
then, too, I had not asked him about the Vaudeville.

All my fine dreams had come to nothing. And it was this little monster,
who looked as fair and as white as a seraph, who had just shattered my
first hopes. Huddled up in the cab, an expression of fear on her
self-willed looking face and her thin lips compressed, she was gazing at
me under her long lashes with half-closed eyes.

On reaching home I told my mother all that had happened, and she
declared that my little sister should have no dessert for two days.
Régina was greedy, but her pride was greater than her greediness. She
turned round on her little heels and, dancing her jig, began to sing,
"My little stomach isn't at all pleased," until I wanted to rush at her
and shake her.

A few days later, during my lessons, I was told that the Ministry
refused to allow me to perform at the Vaudeville.

M. Régnier told me how sorry he was, but he added in a kindly tone:

"Oh, but, my dear child, the Conservatoire thinks a lot of you.
Therefore you need not worry too much."

"I am sure that Camille Doucet is at the bottom of it," I said.

"No, he certainly is not," answered M. Régnier. "Camille Doucet was your
warmest advocate; but the Minister will not upon any account hear of
anything that might be detrimental to your _début_ next year."

I at once felt most grateful to Camille Doucet for his kindness in
bearing no ill-will after my little sister's stupid behaviour. I began
to work again with the greatest zeal, and did not miss a single lesson.
Every morning I went to the Conservatoire with my governess. We started
early, as I preferred walking to taking the omnibus, and I kept the
franc which my mother gave me every morning, sixty centimes of which was
for the omnibus, and forty for cakes. We were to walk home always, but
every other day we took a cab with the two francs I had saved for this
purpose. My mother never knew about this little scheme, but it was not
without remorse that my kind Brabender consented to be my accomplice.

As I said before, I did not miss a lesson, and I even went to the
deportment class, at which poor old M. Elie, duly curled, powdered, and
adorned with lace frills, presided. This was the most amusing lesson
imaginable. Very few of us attended this class, and M. Elie avenged
himself on us for the abstention of the others. At every lesson each one
of us was called forward. He addressed us by the familiar term of
_thou_, and considered us as his property. There were only five or six
of us, but we all had to go on the stage. He always stood up with his
little black stick in his hand. No one knew why he had this stick.

"Now, young ladies," he would say, "the body thrown back, the head up,
on tip-toes. That's it. Perfect! One, two, three, march!"

And we marched along on tip-toes with heads up and eyelids drawn over
our eyes as we tried to look down in order to see where we were walking.
We marched along like this with all the stateliness and solemnity of
camels! He then taught us to make our exit with indifference, dignity,
or fury, and it was amusing to see us going towards the doors either
with a lagging step, or in an animated or hurried way, according to the
mood in which we were supposed to be. Then we heard "Enough! Go! Not a
word!" For M. Elie would not allow us to murmur a single word.
"Everything," he used to say, "is in the look, the gesture, the
attitude!" Then there was what he called "l'assiette," which meant the
way to sit down in a dignified manner, to let one's self fall into a
seat wearily, or the "assiette," which meant "I am listening, Monsieur;
say what you wish." Ah, that was distractingly complicated, that way of
sitting down. We had to put everything into it: the desire to know what
was going to be said to us, the fear of hearing it, the determination to
go away, the will to stay. Oh, the tears that this "assiette" cost me.
Poor old M. Elie! I do not bear him any ill-will, but I did my utmost
later on to forget everything he had taught me, for nothing could have
been more useless than those deportment lessons. Every human being moves
about according to his or her proportions. Women who are too tall take
long strides, those who stoop walk like the Eastern women; stout women
walk like ducks, short-legged ones trot; very small women skip along,
and the gawky ones walk like cranes. Nothing can be changed, and the
deportment class has very wisely been abolished. The gesture must depict
the thought, and it is harmonious or stupid according to whether the
artist is intelligent or dull. On the stage one needs long arms; it is
better to have them too long than too short. An artiste with short arms
can never, never make a fine gesture. It was all in vain that poor Elie
told us this or that. We were always stupid and awkward, whilst he was
always comic, oh, so comic, poor old man!

I also took fencing-lessons. Aunt Rosine put this idea into my mother's
head. I had a lesson once a week from the famous Pons. Oh, what a
terrible man he was! Brutal, rude, and always teasing; he was an
incomparable fencing-master, but he disliked giving lessons to "brats"
like us, as he called us. He was not rich, though, and I believe, but am
not sure of it, that this class had been organised for him by a
distinguished patron of his. He always kept his hat on, and this
horrified Mlle. de Brabender. He smoked his cigar, too, all the time,
and this made his pupils cough, as they were already out of breath from
the fencing exercise. What torture those lessons were! He sometimes
brought with him friends of his, who delighted in our awkwardness. This
gave rise to a scandal, as one day one of these gay spectators made a
most violent remark about one of the male pupils named Châtelain, and
the latter turned round quickly and gave him a blow in the face. A
skirmish immediately occurred, and Pons, on endeavouring to intervene,
received a blow or two himself. This made a great stir, and from that
day forth visitors were not allowed to be present at the lesson. I
obtained my mother's authorisation to discontinue attending the class,
and this was a great relief to me.

I very much preferred Régnier's lessons to any others. He was gentle,
had nice manners, and taught us to be natural in what we recited, but I
certainly owe all that I know to the variety of instruction which I had,
and which I followed up in the most devoted way.

Provost taught a broad style, with diction somewhat pompous but
sustained. He specially emphasised freedom of gesture and inflexion.
Beauvallet, in my opinion, did not teach anything that was any good. He
had a deep, effective voice, but that he could not give to any one. It
was an admirable instrument, but it did not give him any talent. He was
awkward in his gestures; his arms were too short and his face common. I
detested him as a professor.

Samson was just the opposite. His voice was not strong, but piercing. He
had a certain acquired distinction, but was very correct. His method was
simplicity. Provost emphasised breadth, Samson exactitude, and he was
very particular about the finals. He would not allow us to drop the
voice at the end of the phrase. Coquelin, who is one of Régnier's
pupils, I believe, has a great deal of Samson's style, although he has
retained the essentials of his first master's teaching. As for me, I
remember my three professors, Régnier, Provost, and Samson, as though I
had heard them only yesterday.

The year passed by without any great change in my life, but two months
before my second examination I had the misfortune to have to change my
professor. Provost was taken ill, and I went into Samson's class. He
counted very much on me, but he was authoritative and persistent. He
gave me two very bad parts in two very bad pieces: Hortense in _L'Ecole
des Viellards_, by Casimir Delavigne, for comedy, and _La Fille du Cid_
for tragedy. This piece was also by Casimir Delavigne. I did not feel at
all in my element in these two _rôles_, both of which were written in
hard, emphatic language. The examination day arrived, and I did not look
at all nice. My mother had insisted on my having my hair done by her
hairdresser, and I had cried and sobbed on seeing this "Figaro" make
partings all over my head in order to separate my rebellious mane. Idiot
that he was, he had suggested this style to my mother, and my head was
in his stupid hands for more than hour and a half, for he never before
had to deal with a mane like mine. He kept mopping his forehead every
five minutes and muttering, "What hair! Good Heavens, it is horrible;
just like tow! It might be the hair of a white negress!" Turning to my
mother, he suggested that my head should be entirely shaved and the hair
then trained as it grew again. "I will think about it," replied my
mother in an absent-minded way. I turned my head so abruptly to look at
her when she said this that the curling irons burnt my forehead. The man
was using the irons to _uncurl_ my hair. He considered that it curled
naturally in such a disordered style that he must get the natural curl
out of it and then wave it, as this would be more becoming to the face.

"Mademoiselle's hair is stopped in its growth by this extreme curliness.
All the Tangier girls and negresses have hair like this. As Mademoiselle
is going on to the stage, she would look better if she had hair like
Madame," he said, bowing with respectful admiration to my mother, who
certainly had the most beautiful hair imaginable. It was fair, and so
long that when standing up she could tread on it and bend her head
forward. It is only fair to say, though, that my mother was very short.

Finally I was out of the hands of this wretched man, and was nearly dead
with fatigue after an hour and a half's brushing, combing, curling,
hair-pinning, with my head turned from left to right and from right to
left, &c. &c. I was completely disfigured at the end of it all, and did
not recognise myself. My hair was drawn tightly back from my temples, my
ears were very visible and stood out, looking positively bold in their
bareness, whilst on the top of my head was a parcel of little sausages
arranged near each other to imitate the ancient diadem.

I looked perfectly hideous. My forehead, which I always saw more or less
covered with a golden fluff of hair, seemed to me immense, implacable.

I did not recognise my eyes, accustomed as I was to see them shadowed by
my hair. My head weighed two or three pounds. I was accustomed to fasten
my hair as I still do, with two hairpins, and this man had put five or
six packets in it, and all this was heavy for my poor head.

I was late, and so I had to dress very quickly. I cried with anger, and
my eyes looked smaller, my nose larger, and my veins swelled. The climax
was when I had to put my hat on. It would not go on the packet of
sausages, and my mother wrapped my head up in a lace scarf and hurried
me to the door.

On arriving at the Conservatoire, I hurried with _mon petit Dame_ to the
waiting-room, whilst my mother went direct to the theatre. I tore off
the lace which covered my hair, and, seated on a bench, after relating
the Odyssey of my hair-dressing, I gave my head up to my companions. All
of them adored and envied my hair, because it was so soft and light and
golden. They were all sorry for me in my misery, and were touched by my
ugliness. Their mothers, however, were brimming over with joy in their
own fat.

The girls began to take out my hair-pins, and one of them, Marie Lloyd,
whom I liked best, took my head in her hands and kissed it
affectionately.

"Oh, your beautiful hair, what have they done to it?" she exclaimed,
pulling out the last of the hair-pins. This sympathy made me once more
burst into tears.

Finally I stood up, triumphant, without any hair-pins and without any
sausages. But my poor hair was very heavy with the pomade the wretched
man had put on it, and it was full of the partings he had made for the
creation of the sausages. It fell now in mournful-looking, greasy flakes
round my face.

I shook my head for five minutes in mad rage. I then succeeded in making
the hair more loose, and I put it up as well as I could with a couple of
hair-pins.

The competition had commenced, and I was the tenth on the list. I could
not remember what I had to say. Madame Guérard moistened my temples with
cold water, and Mlle. de Brabender, who had only just arrived, did not
recognise me, and looked about for me everywhere. She had broken her leg
nearly three months before, and had to hobble about on a crutch-stick,
but she had resolved to come.

Madame Guérard was just beginning to tell her about the drama of the
hair when my name echoed through the room: "Mademoiselle Chara
Bernhardt!" It was Léautaud, who later on was prompter at the Comédie
Française, and who had a strong accent peculiar to the natives of
Auvergne. "Mademoiselle Chara Bernhardt!" I heard again, and then I
sprang up without an idea in my mind and without uttering a word. I
looked round for my partner who was to give me my cues, and together we
made our entry.

I was surprised at the sound of my voice, which I did not recognise. I
had cried so much that it had affected my voice, and I spoke through my
nose.

I heard a woman's voice say, "Poor child; she ought not to have been
allowed to compete. She has an atrocious cold, her nose is running and
her face is swollen."

I finished my scene, made my bow, and went away in the midst of very
feeble and spiritless applause. I walked like a somnambulist, and on
reaching Madame Guérard and Mlle. de Brabender fainted away in their
arms. Some one went to the hall in search of a doctor, and the rumour
that "the little Bernhardt had fainted" reached my mother. She was
sitting far back in a box, feeling bored to death. When I came to myself
again I opened my eyes and saw my mother's pretty face, with tears
hanging on her long lashes. I laid my head against hers and cried
quietly, but this time the tears were refreshing, not salt ones that
burnt my eyelids.

I stood up, shook out my dress, and looked at myself in the greenish
mirror. I was certainly less ugly now, for my face was rested, my hair
was once more soft and fluffy, and altogether there was a general
improvement in my appearance.

The tragedy competition was over, and the prizes had been awarded. I had
nothing at all, but mention was made of my last year's second prize. I
felt confused, but it did not cause me any disappointment, as I quite
expected things to be like this. Several persons had protested in my
favour. Camille Doucet, who was a member of the jury, had pleaded a long
time. He wanted me to have a first prize in spite of my bad recitation.
He said that my examination results ought to be taken into account, and
they were excellent; and then, too, I had the best class reports.
Nothing, however, could overcome the bad effect produced that day by my
nasal voice, my swollen face, and my heavy flakes of hair. After half an
hour's interval, during which I drank a glass of port wine and ate
cakes, the signal was given for the comedy competition. I was fourteenth
on the list for this, so that I had ample time to recover. My fighting
instinct now began to take possession of me, and a sense of injustice
made me feel rebellious. I had not deserved my prize that day, but it
seemed to me that I ought to have received it nevertheless.

I made up my mind that I would have the first prize for comedy, and with
the exaggeration that I have always put into everything I began to get
excited, and I said to myself that if I did not get the first prize I
must give up the idea of the stage as a career. My mystic love and
weakness for the convent came back to me more strongly than ever. I
decided that I would enter the convent if I did not get the first prize.
And the most foolish illogical strife imaginable was waged in my weak
girl's brain. I felt a genuine vocation for the convent when distressed
about losing the prize, and a genuine vocation for the theatre when I
was hopeful about winning the prize.

With a very natural partiality, I discovered in myself the gift of
absolute self-sacrifice, renunciation, and devotion of every
kind--qualities which would win for me easily the post of Mother
Superior in the Grand-Champs Convent. Then with the most indulgent
generosity I attributed to myself all the necessary gifts for the
fulfilment of my other dream, namely, to become the first, the most
celebrated, and the most envied of actresses. I told off on my fingers
all my qualities: grace, charm, distinction, beauty, mystery, piquancy.

Oh yes, I found I had all these, and when my reason and my honesty
raised any doubt or suggested a "but" to this fabulous inventory of my
qualities, my combative and paradoxical ego at once found a plain,
decisive answer which admitted of no further argument.

It was under these special conditions and in this frame of mind that I
went on to the stage when my turn came. The choice of my _rôle_ for this
competition was a very stupid one. I had to represent a married woman
who was "reasonable" and very much inclined to argue, and I was a mere
child, and looked much younger than my years. In spite of this I was
very brilliant; I argued well, was very gay, and made an immense
success. I was transfigured with joy and wildly excited, so sure I felt
of a first prize.

I never doubted for a moment but that it would be awarded to me
unanimously. When the competition was over, the committee met to discuss
the awards, and in the meantime I asked for something to eat. A cutlet
was brought from the pastry-cook's patronised by the Conservatoire, and
I devoured it, to the great joy of Madame Guérard and Mlle. de
Brabender, for I detested meat, and always refused to eat it.

The members of the committee at last went to their places in the large
box, and there was silence in the theatre. The young men were called
first on the stage. There was no first prize awarded to them. Parfouru's
name was called for the second prize for comedy. Parfouru is known
to-day as M. Paul Porel, director of the Vaudeville Theatre and Réjane's
husband. After this came the turn of the girls.

I was in the doorway, ready to rush up to the stage. The words "First
prize for comedy" were uttered, and I made a step forward, pushing aside
a girl who was a head taller than I was. "First prize for comedy awarded
unanimously to Mademoiselle Marie Lloyd." The tall girl I had pushed
aside now went forward, slender and radiant, towards the stage.

There were a few protestations, but her beauty, her distinction, and her
modest charm won the day with every one, and Marie Lloyd was cheered.
She passed me on her return, and kissed me affectionately. We were great
friends, and I liked her very much, but I considered her a nullity as a
pupil. I do not remember whether she had received any prize the previous
year, but certainly no one expected her to have one now. I was simply
petrified with amazement.

"Second prize for comedy: Mademoiselle Bernhardt." I had not heard, and
was pushed forward by my companions. On reaching the stage I bowed, and
all the time I could see hundreds of Marie Lloyds dancing before me.
Some of them were making grimaces at me, others were throwing me kisses;
some were fanning themselves, and others bowing. They were very tall,
all these Marie Lloyds, too tall for the ceiling, and they walked over
the heads of all the people and came towards me, stifling me, crushing
me, so that I could not breathe. My face, it seems, was whiter than my
dress.

On leaving the stage I went and sat down on the bench without uttering a
word, and looked at Marie Lloyd, who was being made much of, and who was
greatly complimented by every one. She was wearing a pale blue tarlatan
dress, with a bunch of forget-me-nots in the bodice and another in her
black hair. She was very tall, and her delicate white shoulders emerged
modestly from her dress, which was cut very low ... but in her case this
was without danger. Her refined face, with its somewhat proud
expression, was charming and very beautiful.

Although very young, she had more of a woman's fascination than any of
us. Her large brown eyes shone with dilating pupils; her small round
mouth gave a sly little smile at the corners, and her wonderfully shaped
nose had quivering nostrils. The oval of her beautiful face was
intercepted by two little pearly, transparent ears of the most exquisite
shape. She had a long, flexible white neck, and the pose of her head was
charming. It was a beauty prize that the jury had conscientiously
awarded to Marie Lloyd.

She had come on to the stage gay and fascinating in her _rôle_ of
Célimène, and in spite of the monotony of her delivery, the carelessness
of her elocution, the impersonality of her acting, she had carried off
all the votes because she was the very personification of Célimène, that
coquette of twenty years of age who was so unconsciously cruel.

She had realised for every one the ideal dreamed of by Molière. All
these thoughts shaped themselves later on in my brain, and this first
lesson, which was so painful at the time, was of great service to me in
my career. I never forgot Marie Lloyd's prize, and every time that I
have had a _rôle_ to create, the personage always appears before me
dressed from head to foot, walking, bowing, sitting down, getting up.

But that is but the vision of a second; my mind has been thinking of the
soul that is to govern this personage. When listening to an author
reading his work, I try to define the intention of his idea, in my
desire to identify myself with that intention. I have never played an
author false with regard to his idea. And I have always tried to
represent the personage according to history, whenever it is a
historical personage, and as the novelist describes it if an invented
personage.

I have sometimes tried to compel the public to return to the truth and
to destroy the legendary side of certain personages whom history, with
all its documents, now represents to us as they were in reality, but the
public never followed me. I soon realised that legend remains victorious
in spite of history. And this is perhaps an advantage for the mind of
the people. Jesus, Joan of Arc, Shakespeare, the Virgin Mary, Mahomet,
and Napoleon I. have all entered into legend.

It is impossible now for our brain to picture Jesus and the Virgin Mary
accomplishing humiliating human functions. They lived the life that we
are living. Death chilled their sacred limbs, and it is not without
rebellion and grief that we accept this fact. We start off in pursuit of
them in an ethereal heaven, in the infinite of our dreams. We cast aside
all the failings of humanity in order to leave them, clothed in the
ideal, seated on a throne of love. We do not like Joan of Arc to be the
rustic, bold peasant girl, repulsing violently the hardy soldier who
wants to joke with her, the girl sitting astride her big Percheron horse
like a man, laughing readily at the coarse jokes of the soldiers,
submitting to the lewd promiscuities of the barbarous epoch in which she
lived, and having on that account all the more merit in remaining the
heroic virgin.

We do not care for such useless truths. In the legend she is a fragile
woman guided by a divine soul. Her girlish arm which holds the heavy
banner is supported by an invisible angel. In her childish eyes there is
something from another world, and it is from this that all the warriors
drew strength and courage. It is thus that we wish it to be, and so the
legend remains triumphant.




X


MY FIRST ENGAGEMENT AT THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE


But to return to the Conservatoire. Nearly all the pupils had gone away,
and I remained quiet and embarrassed on my bench. Marie Lloyd came and
sat down by me.

"Are you unhappy?" she asked.

"Yes," I answered. "I wanted the first prize, and you have it. It is not
fair."

"I do not know whether it is fair or not," answered Marie Lloyd, "but I
assure you that it is not my fault."

I could not help laughing at this.

"Shall I come home with you to luncheon?" she asked, and her beautiful
eyes grew moist and beseeching. She was an orphan and unhappy, and on
this day of triumph she felt the need of a family. My heart began to
melt with pity and affection. I threw my arms round her neck, and we all
four went away together--Marie Lloyd, Madame Guérard, Mlle. de
Brabender, and I. My mother had sent me word that she had gone on home.

In the cab my "don't care" character won the day once more, and we
chattered about every one. "Oh, how ridiculous such and such a person
was!" "Did you see her mother's bonnet?" "And old Estebenet; did you see
his white gloves? He must have stolen them from some policeman!" And
hereupon we laughed like idiots, and then began again. "And that poor
Châtelain had had his hair curled!" said Marie Lloyd. "Did you see his
head?"

I did not laugh any more, though, for this reminded me of how my own
hair had been uncurled, and it was thanks to that I had not won the
first prize for tragedy.

On reaching home we found my mother, my aunt, my godfather, our old
friend Meydieu, Madame Guérard's husband, and my sister Jeanne with her
hair all curled. This gave me a pang, for she had straight hair and it
had been curled to make her prettier, although she was charming without
that, and the curl had been taken out of my hair, so that I had looked
uglier.

My mother spoke to Marie Lloyd with that charming and distinguished
indifference peculiar to her. My godfather made a great fuss of her, for
success was everything to this _bourgeois_. He had seen my young friend
a hundred times before, and had not been struck by her beauty nor yet
touched by her poverty, but on this particular day he assured us that he
had for a long time predicted Marie Lloyd's triumph. He then came to me,
put his two hands on my shoulders, and held me facing him. "Well, you
were a failure," he said. "Why persist now in going on the stage? You
are thin and small, your face is pretty enough when near, but ugly in
the distance, and your voice does not carry!"

"Yes, my dear girl," put in M. Meydieu, "your godfather is right. You
had better marry the miller who proposed, or that imbecile of a Spanish
tanner who lost his brainless head for the sake of your pretty eyes. You
will never do anything on the stage! You'd better marry."

M. Guérard came and shook hands with me. He was a man of nearly sixty
years of age, and Madame Guérard was under thirty. He was melancholy,
gentle, and timid: he had been awarded the red ribbon of the Legion of
Honour, and he wore a long, shabby frock coat, used aristocratic
gestures, and was private secretary to M. de la Tour Desmoulins, a
prominent deputy at the time. M. Guérard was a well of science, and I
owe much to his kindness. My sister Jeanne whispered to me, "Sister's
godfather said when he came in that you looked as ugly as possible."
Jeanne always spoke of my godfather in this way. I pushed her away, and
we sat down to table. All through the meal my one wish was to go back to
the convent. I did not eat much, and directly after luncheon was so
tired that I had to go to bed.

When once I was alone in my room between the sheets, with tired limbs,
my head heavy, and my heart oppressed with keeping back my sighs, I
tried to consider my wretched situation; but sleep, the great restorer,
came to the rescue, and I was very soon slumbering peacefully. When I
woke I could not collect my thoughts at first. I wondered what time it
was, and looked at my watch. It was just ten, and I had been asleep
since three o'clock in the afternoon. I listened for a few minutes, but
everything was silent in the house. On a table near my bed was a small
tray on which were a cup of chocolate and a cake. A sheet of writing
paper was placed upright against the cup. I trembled as I took it up,
for I never received any letters. With great difficulty, by my
night-light, I managed to read the following words, written by Madame
Guérard: "When you had gone to sleep the Duc de Morny sent word to your
mother that Camille Doucet had just assured him that you were to be
engaged at the Comédie Française. Do not worry any more, therefore, my
dear child, but have faith in the future.--Your _petit Dame_."

I pinched myself to make sure that I was really awake. I got up and
rushed to the window. I looked out, and the sky was black. Yes, it was
black to every one else, but starry to me. The stars were shining, and I
looked for my own special one, and chose the largest and brightest.

I went back towards my bed and amused myself with jumping on to it,
holding my feet together. Each time I missed I laughed like a lunatic. I
then drank my chocolate, and nearly choked myself devouring my cake.

Standing up on my bolster, I then made a long speech to the Virgin Mary
at the head of my bed. I adored the Virgin Mary, and I explained to her
my reasons for not being able to take the veil, in spite of my vocation.
I tried to charm and persuade her, and I kissed her very gently on her
foot, which was crushing the serpent. Then in the darkness I tried to
find my mother's portrait. I could scarcely see this, but I threw kisses
to it. I then took up again the letter from _mon petit Dame_, and went
to sleep with it clasped in my hand. I do not remember what my dreams
were.

The next day every one was very kind to me. My godfather, who arrived
early, nodded his head in a contented way.

"She must have some fresh air," he said. "I will treat you to a landau."

The drive seemed to me delicious, for I could dream to my heart's
content, as my mother disliked talking when in a carriage.

Two days later our old servant Marguerite, breathless with excitement,
brought me a letter. On the corner of the envelope there was a large
stamp, around which stood the magic words "Comédie Française." I glanced
at my mother, and she nodded as a sign that I might open the letter,
after blaming Marguerite for handing it to me before obtaining her
permission to do so.

"It is for to-morrow, to-morrow!" I exclaimed. "I am to go there
to-morrow! Look--read it!"

My sisters came rushing to me and seized my hands. I danced round with
them, singing, "It's for to-morrow! It's for to-morrow!" My younger
sister was eight years old, but I was only six that day. I went upstairs
to the flat above to tell Madame Guérard. She was just soaping her
children's white frocks and pinafores. She took my face in her hands and
kissed me affectionately. Her two hands were covered with a soapy
lather, and left a snowy patch on each side of my head. I rushed
down-stairs again like this, and went noisily into the drawing-room. My
godfather, M. Meydieu, my aunt, and my mother were just beginning a game
of whist. I kissed each of them, leaving a patch of soap-suds on their
faces, at which I laughed heartily. But I was allowed to do anything
that day, for I had become a personage.

The next day, Tuesday, I was to go to the Théâtre Français at one
o'clock to see M. Thierry, who was then director.

What was I to wear? That was the great question. My mother had sent for
the milliner, who arrived with various hats. I chose a white one trimmed
with pale blue, a white _bavolet_ and blue strings. Aunt Rosine had sent
one of her dresses for me, for my mother thought all my frocks were too
childish. Oh, that dress! I shall see it all my life. It was hideous,
cabbage-green, with black velvet put on in a Grecian pattern. I looked
like a monkey in that dress. But I was obliged to wear it. Fortunately,
it was covered by a mantle of black _gros-grain_ stitched all round with
white. It was thought better for me to be dressed like a grown-up
person, and all my clothes were only suitable for a school-girl. Mlle.
de Brabender gave me a handkerchief that she had embroidered, and Madame
Guérard a sunshade. My mother gave me a very pretty turquoise ring.

Dressed up in this way, looking pretty in my white hat, uncomfortable in
my green dress, but comforted by my mantle, I went, the following day,
with Madame Guérard to M. Thierry's. My aunt lent me her carriage for
the occasion, as she thought it would look better to arrive in a private
carriage. Later on I heard that this arrival in my own carriage, with a
footman, made a very bad impression. What all the theatre people thought
I never cared to consider, and it seems to me that my extreme youth must
really have protected me from all suspicion.

M. Thierry received me very kindly, and made a little nonsensical
speech. He then unfolded a paper which he handed to Madame Guérard,
asking her to read it and then to sign it. This paper was my contract,
and _mon petit Dame_ explained that she was not my mother.

"Ah," said M. Thierry, getting up, "then will you take it with you and
have it signed by Mademoiselle's mother?"

He then took my hand. I felt an instinctive horror at his, for it was
flabby, and there was no life or sincerity in its grasp. I quickly took
mine away and looked at him. He was plain, with a red face and eyes that
avoided one's gaze. As I was going away I met Coquelin, who, hearing I
was there, had waited to see me. He had made his _début_ a year before
with great success.

"Well, it's settled then!" he said gaily.

I showed him the contract and shook hands with him. I went quickly down
the stairs, and just as I was leaving the theatre found myself in the
midst of a group in the doorway.

"Are you satisfied?" asked a gentle voice which I recognised as M.
Doucet's.

"Oh yes, Monsieur; thank you so much," I answered.

"But my dear child, I have nothing to do with it," he said.

"Your competition was not at all good, but nevertheless we feel sure of
you," put in M. Régnier, and then turning to Camille Doucet he asked,
"What do you say, Excellency?"

"I think that this child will be a very great artist," he replied.

There was a silence for a moment.

"Well, you have got a fine carriage!" exclaimed Beauvallet rudely. He
was the first tragedian of the Comédie, and the most uncouth man in
France or anywhere else.

"This carriage belongs to Mademoiselle's aunt," remarked Camille Doucet,
shaking hands with me gently.

"Oh--well, I am glad to hear that," answered the tragedian.

I then stepped into the carriage which had caused such a sensation at
the theatre, and drove away. On reaching home I took the contract to my
mother. She signed it without reading it.

I made my mind resolutely to be some one _quand-même_.

A few days after my engagement at the Comédie Française my aunt gave a
dinner-party. Among her guests were the Duc de Morny, Camille Doucet and
the Minister of Fine Arts, M. de Walewski, Rossini, my mother, Mlle. de
Brabender, and I. During the evening a great many other people came. My
mother had dressed me very elegantly, and it was the first time I had
worn a really low dress. Oh, how uncomfortable I was! Every one paid me
great attention. Rossini asked me to recite some poetry, and I consented
willingly, glad and proud to be of some little importance. I chose
Casimir Delavigne's poem, "_L'Ame du Purgatoire_." "That should be
spoken with music as an accompaniment," exclaimed Rossini when I came to
an end. Every one approved this idea, and Walewski said; "Mademoiselle
will begin again, and you could improvise, _cher maître_."

There was great excitement, and I at once began again. Rossini
improvised the most delightful harmony, which filled me with emotion. My
tears flowed freely without my being conscious of them, and at the end
my mother kissed me, saying: "This is the first time that you have
really moved me."

As a matter of fact, she adored music, and it was Rossini's
improvisation that had moved her.

The Comte de Kératry, an elegant young hussar, was also present. He paid
me great compliments, and invited me to go and recite some poetry at his
mother's house.

My aunt then sang a song which was very much in vogue, and made a great
success. She was coquettish and charming, and just a trifle jealous of
this insignificant niece who had taken up the attention of her adorers
for a few minutes.

When I returned home I was quite another being. I sat down, dressed as I
was, on my bed, and remained for a long time deep in thought. Hitherto
all I had known of life had been through my family and my work. I had
now just had a glimpse of it through society, and I was struck by the
hypocrisy of some of the people and the conceit of others. I began to
wonder uneasily what I should do, shy and frank as I was. I thought of
my mother. She did not do anything, though she was indifferent to
everything. I thought of my aunt Rosine, who, on the contrary, liked to
mix in everything.

I remained there looking down on the ground, my head in a whirl, and
feeling very anxious, and I did not go to bed until I was thoroughly
chilled.

The next few days passed by without any particular events. I was working
hard at Iphigénie, as M. Thierry had told me that I was to make my
_début_ in that _rôle_.

At the end of August I received a notice requesting me to attend the
rehearsal of _Iphigénie_. Oh, that first notice, how it made my heart
beat. I could not sleep at night, and daylight did not come quickly
enough for me. I kept getting up to look at the time. It seemed to me
that the clock had stopped. I had dozed, and I fancied it was the same
time as before. Finally a streak of light coming through my window-panes
was, I thought, the triumphant sun illuminating my room. I got up at
once, pulled back the curtains, and mumbled my _rôle_ while dressing.

I thought of my rehearsing with Madame Devoyod, the leading
_tragédienne_ of the Comédie Française, with Maubant, with--I trembled
as I thought of all this, for Madame Devoyod was said to be anything but
indulgent. I arrived for the rehearsal an hour before the time. The
stage manager, Davenne, smiled and asked me whether I knew my _rôle_.
"Oh yes," I exclaimed with conviction. "Come and rehearse it. Would you
like to?" and he took me to the stage.

I went with him through the long corridor of busts which leads from the
green-room to the stage. He told me the names of the celebrities
represented by these busts. I stood still a moment before that of
Adrienne Lecouvreur.

"I love that artiste," I said.

"Do you know her story?" he asked.

"Yes; I have read all that has been written about her." "That's right,
my child," said the worthy man. "You ought to read all that concerns
your art. I will lend you some interesting books."

He took me towards the stage. The mysterious gloom, the scenery reared
up like fortifications, the bareness of the floor, the endless number of
weights, ropes, trees, borders, battens overhead, the yawning house
completely dark, the silence, broken by the creaking of the floor, and
the vault-like chill that one felt--all this together awed me. It did
not seem to me as if I were entering the brilliant ranks of living
artistes who every night won the applause of the house by their
merriment or their sobs. No, I felt as though I were in the tomb of dead
glories, and the stage seemed to me to be getting crowded with the
illustrious shadows of those whom the stage manager had just mentioned.
With my highly strung nerves, my imagination, which was always evoking
something, now saw them advance towards me stretching out their hands.
These spectres wanted to take me away with them. I put my hands over my
eyes and stood still. "Are you not well?" asked M. Davenne.

"Oh yes, thank you; it was just a little giddiness."

His voice had chased away the spectres, and I opened my eyes and paid
attention to the worthy man's advice. Book in hand, he explained to me
where I was to stand, and my changes of place, &c. He was rather pleased
with my way of reciting, and he taught me a few of the traditions. At
the line,

  _Eurybate à l'autel, conduisez la victime,_

he said, "Mademoiselle Favart was very effective there."

The artistes gradually began to arrive, grumbling more or less. They
glanced at me, and then rehearsed their scenes without taking any notice
of me at all.

I felt inclined to cry, but I was more vexed than anything else. I heard
three coarse words used by one or another of the artistes. I was not
accustomed to this somewhat brutal language. At home every one was
rather timorous. At my aunt's people were a trifle affected, whilst at
the convent, it is unnecessary to say, I had never heard a word that was
out of place. It is true that I had been through the Conservatoire, but
I had not cultivated any of the pupils with the exception of Marie Lloyd
and Rose Baretta, the elder sister of Blanche Baretta, who is now a
Sociétaire of the Comédie Française.

When the rehearsal was over it was decided that there should be another
one at the same hour the following day in the public foyer.

The costume-maker came in search of me, as she wanted to try on my
costume. Mlle. de Brabender, who had arrived during the rehearsal, went
up with me to the costume-room. She wanted my arms to be covered, but
the costume-maker told her gently that this was impossible in tragedy.

A dress of white woollen material was tried on me. It was very ugly, and
the veil was so stiff that I refused it. A wreath of roses was tried on,
but this too was so unsightly that I refused to wear it.

"Well, then, Mademoiselle," said the costume-maker dryly, "you will have
to get these things and pay for them yourself, as this is the costume
supplied by the Comédie."

"Very well," I answered, blushing; "I will get them myself."

On returning home I told my mother my troubles, and, as she was always
very generous, she promptly bought me a veil of white barège that fell
in beautiful, large, soft folds, and a wreath of hedge roses which at
night looked very soft and white. She also ordered me buskins from the
shoemaker employed by the Comédie.

The next thing to think about was the make-up box. For this my mother
had recourse to the mother of Dica Petit, my fellow student at the
Conservatoire. I went with Madame Dica Petit to M. Massin, a
manufacturer of these make-up boxes. He was the father of Léontine
Massin, another Conservatoire pupil.

We went up to the sixth floor of a house in the Rue Réaumur, and on a
plain-looking door read the words _Massin, manufacturer of make-up
boxes_, I knocked, and a little hunchback girl opened the door. I
recognised Léontine's sister, as she had come several times to the
Conservatoire.

"Oh," she exclaimed, "what a surprise for us! Titine," she then called
out, "here is Mademoiselle Sarah!"

Léontine Massin came running out of the next room. She was a pretty
girl, very gentle and calm in demeanour. She threw her arms round me,
exclaiming, "How glad I am to see you! And so you are going to make your
début at the Comédie. I saw it in the papers."

I blushed up to my ears at the idea of being mentioned in the papers.

"I am engaged at the Variétés," she said, and then she talked away at
such a rate that I was bewildered. Madame Petit did not enter into all
this, and tried in vain to separate us. She had replied by a nod and an
indifferent "Thanks" to Léontine's inquiries about her daughter's
health. Finally, when the young girl had finished saying all she had to
say, Madame Petit remarked:

"You must order your box. We have come here for that, you know."

"Oh you will find my father in his workshop at the end of the passage,
and if you are not very long I shall still be here. I am going to
rehearsal at the Variétés later on."

Madame Petit was furious, for she did not like Léontine Massin.

"Don't wait, Mademoiselle," she said; "it will be impossible for us to
stay afterwards."

Léontine was annoyed, and, shrugging her shoulders, turned her back on
my companion. She then put her hat on, kissed me, and bowing gravely to
Madame Petit, said: "I hope, Madame 'Gros-tas,' I shall never see you
again." She then ran off, laughing merrily. I heard Madame Petit mutter
a few disagreeable words in Dutch, but the meaning of them was only
explained to me later on. We then went to the workshop, and found old
Massin at his bench, planing some small planks of white wood. His
hunch-back daughter kept coming in and out, humming gaily all the time.
The father was glum and harsh, and had an anxious look. As soon as we
had ordered the box we took our leave. Madame Petit went out first;
Léontine's sister held me back by the hand and said quietly, "Father is
not very polite, but it is because he is jealous. He wanted my sister to
be at the Théâtre Français."

I was rather disturbed by this confidence, and I had a vague idea of the
painful drama which was acting so differently on the various members of
this humble home.




XI


MY DÉBUT AT THE HOUSE OF MOLIÈRE, AND MY FIRST DEPARTURE THEREFROM


On September 1, 1862, the day I was to make my _début_, I was in the Rue
Duphot looking at the theatrical posters. They used to be put up then at
the corner of the Rue Duphot and the Rue St. Honoré. On the poster of
the Comédie Française I read the words "_Début of Mlle. Sarah
Bernhardt._" I have no idea how long I stood there, fascinated by the
letters of my name, but I remember that it seemed to me as though every
person who stopped to read the poster looked at me afterwards, and I
blushed to the very roots of my hair.

At five o'clock I went to the theatre. I had a dressing-room on the top
floor which I shared with Mlle. Coblentz. This room was on the other
side of the Rue de Richelieu, in a house rented by the Comédie
Française. A small covered bridge over the street served as a passage
and means of communication for us to reach the Comédie.

I was a tremendously long time dressing, and did not know whether I
looked nice or not. _Mon petit Dame_ thought I was too pale, and Mlle.
de Brabender considered that I had too much colour. My mother was to go
direct to her seat in the theatre, and Aunt Rosine was away in the
country.

When the call-boy announced that the play was about to begin, I broke
into a cold perspiration from head to foot, and felt ready to faint. I
went downstairs trembling, tottering, and my teeth chattering. When I
arrived on the stage the curtain was rising. That curtain which was
being raised so slowly and solemnly was to me like the veil being torn
which was to let me have a glimpse of my future. A deep gentle voice
made me turn round. It was Provost, my first professor, who had come to
encourage me. I greeted him warmly, so glad was I to see him again.
Samson was there, too; I believe that he was playing that night in one
of Molière's comedies. The two men were very different. Provost was
tall, his silvery hair was blown about, and he had a droll face. Samson
was small, precise, dainty; his shiny white hair curled firmly and
closely round his head. Both men had been moved by the same sentiment of
protection for the poor, fragile, nervous girl, who was nevertheless so
full of hope. Both of them knew my zeal for work, my obstinate will,
which was always struggling for victory over my physical weakness. They
knew that my motto _"Quand-même"_ had not been adopted by me merely by
chance, but that it was the outcome of a deliberate exercise of will
power on my part. My mother had told them how I had chosen this motto at
the age of nine, after a formidable leap over a ditch which no one could
jump and which my young cousin had dared me to attempt. I had hurt my
face, broken my wrist, and was in pain all over. Whilst I was being
carried home I exclaimed furiously, "Yes, I would do it again,
_quand-même_, if any one dared me again. And I will always do what I
want to do all my life." In the evening of that day my aunt, who was
grieved to see me in such pain, asked me what would give me any
pleasure. My poor little body was all bandaged, but I jumped with joy at
this, and quite consoled, I whispered in a coaxing way, "I should like
to have some writing-paper with a motto of my own."

My mother asked me rather slyly what my motto was. I did not answer for
a minute, and then, as they were all waiting quietly, I uttered such a
furious _"Quand-même"_ that my Aunt Faure started back exclaiming, "What
a terrible child!"

Samson and Provost reminded me of this story in order to give me
courage, but my ears were buzzing so that I could not listen to them.
Provost heard my "cue" on the stage, and pushed me gently forward. I
made my entry and hurried towards Agamemnon, my father. I did not want
to leave him again, as I felt I must have some one to hold on to. I then
rushed to my mother, Clytemnestra ... I stammered ... and on leaving the
stage I rushed up to my room and began to undress.

Madame Guérard was terrified, and asked me if I was mad. I had only
played one act, and there were four more. I realised then that it would
really be dangerous to give way to my nerves. I had recourse to my own
motto, and, standing in front of the glass gazing into my own eyes, I
ordered myself to be calm and to conquer myself, and my nerves, in a
state of confusion, yielded to my brain. I got through the play, but was
very insignificant in my part.

The next morning my mother sent for me early. She had been looking at
Sarcey's article in _L'Opinion Nationale,_ and she now read me the
following lines: "Mlle. Bernhardt who made her _début_ yesterday in the
_rôle_ of Iphigénie, is a tall, pretty girl with a slender figure and a
very pleasing expression; the upper part of her face is remarkably
beautiful. Her carriage is excellent, and her enunciation is perfectly
clear. This is all that can be said for her at present."

"The man is an idiot," said my mother, drawing me to her. "You were
charming."

She then prepared a little cup of coffee for me, and made it with cream.
I was happy, but not completely so.

When my godfather arrived in the afternoon he exclaimed, "Good heavens!
My poor child, what thin arms you have!"

As a matter of fact, people had laughed, and I had heard them, when
stretching out my arms towards Eurybate. I had said the famous line in
which Favart had made her "effect" that was now a tradition. I certainly
had made no "effect," unless the smiles caused by my long, thin arms can
be reckoned as such. My second appearance was in _Valérie_, when I did
make some slight success.

My third appearance at the Comédie resulted in the following _boutade_
from the pen of the same Sarcey:

_L'Opinion Nationale_, September 12: "The same evening _Les Femmes
Savantes_ was given. This was Mlle. Bernhardt's third _début_, and she
assumed the _rôle_ of Henriette. She was just as pretty and
insignificant in this as in that of Junie [he had made a mistake, as it
was Iphigénie I had played] and of Valérie. both of which _rôles_ had
been entrusted to her previously. This performance was a very poor
affair, and gives rise to reflections by no means gay. That Mlle.
Bernhardt should be insignificant does not much matter. She is a
_débutante,_ and among the number presented to us it is only natural
that some should be failures. The pitiful part is, though, that the
comedians playing with her were not much better than she was, and they
are Sociétaires of the Théâtre Français. All that they had more than
their young comrade was a greater familiarity with the boards. They are
just as Mlle. Bernhardt may be in twenty years' time, if she stays at
the Comédie Française."

I did not stay there, though, for one of those nothings which change a
whole life changed mine. I had entered the Comédie expecting to remain
there always. I had heard my godfather explain to my mother all about
the various stages of my career.

"The child will have so much during the first five years," he said, "and
so much afterwards, and then at the end of thirty years she will have
the pension given to Sociétaires--that is, if she ever becomes a
Sociétaire." He appeared to have his doubts about that.

My sister Régina was the cause (though quite involuntarily this time) of
the drama which made me leave the Comédie. It was Molière's anniversary,
and all the artistes of the Français salute the bust of the great
writer, according to the tradition of the theatre. It was to be my first
appearance at a "ceremony," and my little sister, on hearing me tell
about it at home, besought me to take her to it.

My mother gave me permission to do so, and our old Marguerite was to
accompany us. All the members of the Comédie were assembled in the
_foyer_. The men and women, dressed in different costumes, all wore the
famous doctor's cloak. The signal was given that the ceremony was about
to commence, and every one hurried along the corridor of the busts. I
was holding my little sister's hand, and just in front of us was the
very fat and very solemn Madame Nathalie. She was a Sociétaire of the
Comédie, old, spiteful, and surly.

Régina, in trying to avoid the train of Marie Roger's cloak, stepped on
to Nathalie's, and the latter turned round and gave the child such a
violent push that she was knocked against a column on which was a bust.
Régina screamed out, and as she turned back to me I saw that her pretty
face was bleeding.

"You miserable creature!" I called out to the fat woman, and as she
turned round to reply I slapped her in the face. She proceeded to faint;
there was a great tumult, and an uproar of indignation, approval,
stifled laughter, satisfied revenge, pity for the poor child from those
artistes who were mothers, &c. &c. Two groups were formed, one around
the wretched Nathalie, who was still in her swoon, and the other around
little Régina. And the different aspect of these two groups was rather
strange. Around Nathalie were cold, solemn-looking men and women,
fanning the fat, helpless lump with their handkerchief's or fans. A
young but severe-looking Sociétaire was sprinkling her with drops of
water. Nathalie, on feeling this, roused up suddenly, put her hands over
her face, and muttered in a far-away voice, "How stupid! You'll spoil my
make-up!"

The younger men were stooping over Régina, washing her pretty face, and
the child was saying in her broken voice, "I did not do it on purpose,
sister, I am certain I didn't. She's an old cow, and she just kicked for
nothing at all!" Régina was a fair-haired seraph, who might have made
the angels envious, for she had the most ideal and poetical beauty--but
her language was by no means choice, and nothing in the world could
change it. Her coarse speech made the friendly group burst out laughing,
while all the members of the enemy's camp shrugged their shoulders.
Bressant, who was the most charming of the comedians and a general
favourite, came up to me and said:

"We must arrange this little matter, dear Mademoiselle, for Nathalie's
short arms are really very long. Between ourselves, you were a trifle
hasty, but I like that, and then that child is so droll and so pretty,"
he added, pointing to my little sister.

The house was stamping with impatience, for this little scene had caused
twenty minutes' delay, and we were obliged to go on to the stage at
once. Marie Roger kissed me, saying, "You are a plucky little comrade!"
Rose Baretta drew me to her, murmuring, "How dared you do it! She is a
Sociétaire!"

As for me, I was not very conscious as to what I had done, but my
instinct warned me that I should pay dearly for it.

The following day I received a letter from the manager asking me to call
at the Comédie at one o'clock, about a matter concerning me privately. I
had been crying all night long, more through nervous excitement than
from remorse, and I was particularly annoyed at the idea of the attacks
I should have to endure from my own family. I did not let my mother see
the letter, for from the day that I had entered the Comédie I had been
emancipated. I received my letters now direct, without her supervision,
and I went about alone.

At one o'clock precisely I was shown into the manager's office. M.
Thierry, his nose more congested than ever, and his eyes more crafty,
preached me a deadly sermon, blamed my want of discipline, absence of
respect, and scandalous conduct, and finished his pitiful harangue by
advising me to beg Madame Nathalie's pardon.

"I have asked her to come," he added, "and you must apologise to her
before three Sociétaires, members of the committee. If she consents to
forgive you, the committee will then consider whether to fine you or to
cancel your engagement."

I did not reply for a few minutes. I thought of my mother in distress,
my godfather laughing in his bourgeois way, and my Aunt Faure
triumphant, with her usual phrase, "That child is terrible!" I thought
too of my beloved Brabender, with her hands clasped, her moustache
drooping sadly, her small eyes full of tears, so touching in their mute
supplication. I could hear my gentle, timid Madame Guérard arguing with
every one, so courageous was she always in her confidence in my future.

"Well, Mademoiselle?" said M. Thierry curtly.

I looked at him without speaking, and he began to get impatient.

"I will go and ask Madame Nathalie to come here," he said, "and I beg
you will do your part as quickly as possible, for I have other things to
attend to than to put your blunders right."

"Oh no, do not fetch Madame Nathalie," I said at last. "I shall not
apologise to her. I will leave; I will cancel my engagement at once."

He was stupefied, and his arrogance melted away in pity for the
ungovernable, wilful child, who was about to ruin her whole future for
the sake of a question of self-esteem. He was at once gentler and more
polite. He asked me to sit down, which he had not hitherto done, and he
sat down himself opposite to me, and spoke to me gently about the
advantages of the Comédie, and of the danger that there would be for me
in leaving that illustrious theatre, which had done me the honour of
admitting me. He gave me a hundred other very good, wise reasons which
softened me. When he saw the effect he had made he wanted to send for
Madame Nathalie, but I roused up then like a little wild animal.

"Oh, don't let her come here; I should box her ears again!" I exclaimed.

"Well then, I must ask your mother to come," he said.

"My mother would never come," I said.

"Then I will go and call on her," he remarked.

"It will be quite useless," I persisted. "My mother has emancipated me,
and I am quite free to lead my own life. I alone am responsible for all
that I do."

"Well then, Mademoiselle, I will think it over," he said, rising, to
show me that the interview was at an end. I went back home, determined
to say nothing to my mother; but my little sister when questioned about
her wound had told everything in her own way, exaggerating, if possible,
the brutality of Madame Nathalie and the audacity of what I had done.
Rose Baretta, too, had been to see me, and had burst into tears,
assuring my mother that my engagement would be cancelled. The whole
family was very much excited and distressed when I arrived, and when
they began to argue with me it made me still more nervous. I did not
take calmly the reproaches which one and another of them addressed to
me, and I was not at all willing to follow their advice. I went to my
room and locked myself in.

The following day no one spoke to me, and I went up to Madame Guérarde
comforted and consoled.

Several days passed by, and I had nothing to do at the theatre. Finally
one morning I received a notice requesting me to be present at the
reading of a play,--Dolores, by M. Bouilhet. This was the first time I
had been asked to attend the reading of a new piece. I was evidently to
have a rôle to "create." All my sorrows were at once dispersed like a
cloud of butterflies. I told my mother of my joy, and she naturally
concluded that as I was asked to attend a reading my engagement was not
to be cancelled, and I was not to be asked again to apologise to Madame
Nathalie.

I went to the theatre, and to my utter surprise I received from M.
Davennes the rôle of Dolores, the chief part in Bouilhet's play. I knew
that Favart, who should have had this rôle, was not well; but there were
other artistes, and I could not get over my joy and surprise.
Nevertheless, I felt somewhat uneasy. A terrible presentiment has always
warned me of any troubles about to come upon me.

I had been rehearsing for five days, when one morning on going upstairs
I suddenly found myself face to face with Nathalie, seated under
Gérôme's portrait of Rachel, known as "the red pimento." I did not know
whether to go downstairs again or to pass by. My hesitation was noticed
by the spiteful woman.

"Oh, you can pass, Mademoiselle," she said. "I have forgiven you, as I
have avenged myself. The _rôle_ that you like so much is not going to be
for you after all."

I went by without uttering a word. I was thunderstruck by her speech,
which I guessed would prove true.

I did not mention this incident to any one, but continued rehearsing. It
was on Tuesday that Nathalie had spoken to me, and on Friday I was
disappointed to hear that Davennes was not there, and that there was to
be no rehearsal. Just as I was getting into my cab the hall-porter ran
out to give me a letter from Davennes. The poor man had not ventured to
come himself and give me the news, which he was sure would be so painful
to me.

He explained to me in his letter that on account of my extreme
youth--the importance of the _rôle_--such responsibility for my young
shoulders--and finally that as Madame Favart had recovered from her
illness, it was more prudent that, &c. &c. I finished reading the
letter through blinding tears, but very soon anger took the place of
grief. I rushed back again and sent my name in to the manager's office.
He could not see me just then, but I said I would wait. After one hour,
thoroughly impatient, taking no notice of the office-boy and the
secretary, who wanted to prevent my entering, I opened the door of M.
Thierry's office and walked in. All that despair, anger against
injustice, and fury against falseness could inspire me with I let him
have, in a stream of eloquence only interrupted by my sobs. The manager
gazed at me in bewilderment. He could not conceive of such daring and
such violence in a girl so young.

When at last, thoroughly exhausted, I sank down in an arm-chair, he tried
to calm me, but all in vain.

"I will leave at once," I said. "Give me back my contract and I will
send you back mine."

Finally, tired of argument and persuasion, he called his secretary and
gave him the necessary orders, and the latter soon brought in my
contract.

"Here is your mother's signature, Mademoiselle. I leave you free to
bring it me back within forty-eight hours. After that time if I do not
receive it I shall consider that you are no longer a member of the
theatre. But believe me, you are acting unwisely. Think it over during
the next forty-eight hours."

I did not answer, but went out of his office. That very evening I sent
back to M. Thierry the contract bearing his signature, and tore up the
one with that of my mother.

I had left Molière's Theatre, and was not to re-enter it until twelve
years later.




XII


AT THE GYMNASE THEATRE--A TRIP TO SPAIN


This proceeding of mine was certainly violently decisive, and it
completely upset my home life. I was not happy from this time forth
amongst my own people, as I was continually being blamed for my
violence. Irritating remarks with a double meaning were constantly being
made by my aunt and my little sister. My godfather, whom I had once for
all requested to mind his own business, no longer dared to attack me
openly; but he influenced my mother against me. There was no longer any
peace for me except at Madame Guérard's so I was constantly with her. I
enjoyed helping her in her domestic affairs. She taught me to make
cakes, chocolate, and scrambled eggs. All this gave me something else to
think about, and I soon recovered my gaiety.

One morning there was something very mysterious about my mother. She
kept looking at the clock, and seemed uneasy because my godfather, who
lunched and dined with us every day, had not arrived.

"It's very strange," my mother said, "for last night after whist he said
he should be with us this morning before luncheon. It's very strange
indeed!"

She was usually calm, but she kept coming in and out of the room, and
when Marguerite put her head in at the door to ask whether she should
serve the luncheon, my mother told her to wait.

Finally the bell rang, startling my mother and Jeanne. My little sister
was evidently in the secret.

"Well, it's settled!" exclaimed my godfather, shaking the snow from his
hat. "Here, read that, you self-willed girl."

He handed me a letter stamped with the words "Théâtre du Gymnase." It
was from Montigny, the manager of the theatre, to M. de Gerbois, a
friend of my godfather's whom I knew very well. The letter was very
friendly, as far as M. de Gerbois was concerned, but it finished with
the following words, "I will engage your _protégée_ in order to be
agreeable to you.... but she appears to me to have a vile temper."

I blushed as I read these lines, and I thought my godfather was wanting
in tact, as he might have given me real delight and avoided hurting my
feelings in this way, but he was the clumsiest-minded man that ever
lived. My mother seemed very much pleased, so I kissed her pretty face
and thanked my godfather. Oh, how I loved kissing that pearly face,
which was always so cool and always slightly dewy. When I was a little
child I used to ask her to play at butterfly on my cheeks with her long
lashes, and she would put her face close to mine and open and shut her
eyes, tickling my cheeks whilst I lay back breathless with delight.

The following day I went to the Gymnase. I was kept waiting for some
little time, together with about fifty other girls. M. Monval, a cynical
old man who was stage manager and almost general manager, then
interviewed us. I liked him at first, because he was like M. Guérard I
very soon disliked him. His way of looking at me, of speaking to me, and
of taking stock of me generally roused my ire at once. I answered his
questions curtly, and our conversation, which seemed likely to take an
aggressive turn, was cut short by the arrival of M. Montigny, the
manager.

"Which of you is Mademoiselle Sarah Bernhardt?" he asked. I at once
rose, and he continued, "Will you come into my office, Mademoiselle?"

Montigny had been an actor, and was plump and good-humoured. 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 made me a great many promises about the _rôles_
I should have to play. He prepared my contract, and gave it me to take
home for my mother's signature and that of my family council.

"I am emancipated," I said to him, "so that my own signature is all that
is required."

"Oh, very good," he said; "but what nonsense to have emancipated a
self-willed girl. 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 contract, and hurried
home feeling very joyful.

Montigny kept his word at first. He let me understudy Victoria
Lafontaine, a young artist 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 made
a great success. I was fairly good in both plays, but Montigny, in spite
of my entreaties, never came to see me in them, and the spiteful stage
manager played me no end of tricks. I used to feel a sullen anger
stirring within me, and I struggled with myself as much possible to keep
my nerves calm.

One evening, on leaving the theatre, 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 part, and I fell asleep that night
lulled by fairies, who carried me off into the land of glory and
success. On arriving at the theatre 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 the part at all. I was very
inexperienced on the stage, and my timidity made me rather awkward.
Besides, I had not worked for three years with such persistency and
conviction in order to create 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 various
sorts of sweets 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 rolled into grilled
licorice root. It was like black _praliné_, 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 for ever 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 towards six in the morning I
rushed up to Madame Guérard. 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 design. "Well, then," I said, "swear by your children that
you will not tell any one what I am going to do, and then I will not
kill myself." A sudden idea had just come into my mind, and, without
going further into it, I wanted to carry it out at once. She promised,
and I then told her that I was going at once to Spain, as I had longed
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. Every
one is asleep at home. I shall go and pack my trunk, and start at once
with you!"

"No, no, I cannot go," exclaimed Madame Guérard, nearly beside herself.
"There is my husband to think of, and my children."

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

"Well, then, _mon petit Dame_, find me some one to go with me."

"I do not know any one," 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
Madame Guérard. 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 for Spain?" The bewildered
expression on the woman's face showed that she had not comprehended, but
she replied at once, "I am coming, Mademoiselle." She then closed her
window, and ten minutes later Caroline was tapping at the door. Madame
Guérard had sunk down aghast in an arm-chair.

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 Madame 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 to be lent by _mon petit Dame_.

Poor dear Madame Guérard had given in. She was quite conquered, and soon
began to help in my preparations, which certainly did not take me long.

But I did not know how to get to Spain.

"You go through Bordeaux," said Madame 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 Madame Guérard lent me six hundred.
It was perfectly mad, but I felt ready to conquer the universe, and
nothing would have induced me to abandon 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 Madame 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. Every one was asleep
in my mother's flat, and the rooms were so disposed that not a sound of
our going in and out could reach her.

My trunk was at last closed, 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 coming 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 Madame 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. _Mon petit Dame_ had asked the man who polished the floors
to take the trunk and the valise down, and Caroline had fetched a cab. I
went like a whirlwind past the concierge's door. She had her back turned
towards 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 Theatre. 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.

"The conversation was very animated, and when the door 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 something urgent was the matter. 'Oh, what's
happened now?' he asked, taking the letter that the old stage manager
held out to him. On recognising my paper, with its grey 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 Madame
Dieudonnée to take her part. She has a good memory, and half the _rôle_
must be cut. That will settle it.'

"'Any trouble for to-night?' I asked Montigny.

"'Oh, nothing,' he answered; 'it's 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 boats were like this
one, 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 gangways, 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. 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. Certainly
the owners of these hotel people 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 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. In reality, however,
it was merely composed of fish-bones.

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 an
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 colour
of the brigand's beard, silk handkerchief, and _poncho_. It had been too
dark for me to distinguish the colours exactly. The worthy man was very
much annoyed at my answer. After taking down a few notes he remained
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 get a
room ready 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 worthy 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 out 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. 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 for Madrid.

I slept for ten hours without waking, and 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, etc. etc.

The following day I started for Madrid with a letter for the landlord of
the Hôtel de la Puerta del Sol. Nice rooms were given to us, and I sent
messengers with the letters from Madame Rudcowitz. I spent a fortnight
in Madrid, and was made a great deal of and generally feted. I went to
all the bull-fights, and was infatuated with them. I had the honour of
being invited to a great _corrida_ given in honour 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 Madame 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 _sou_ to pay for the railway journey. The landlord of the
hotel took two tickets for me, prepared a basket of provisions, and gave
me two hundred francs at the station, telling me that he had received
orders from Madame Rudcowitz 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. _Mon petit
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. Madame Guérard went upstairs before me to inform my mother
of my arrival, 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 Madame 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 white, loving 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 bed-room. Madame
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 this latter half would always be at my
disposal if I changed my mind and consented to marry.

I was therefore determined to live my life as I wished, to go away from
home and be quite independent. I adored my mother, but our ideas were
altogether different. Besides, 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 a very rich old
bachelor, 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's. After my father's death she had
continued to put up with him, because she was then accustomed to him,
until finally she quite missed him when he was ill or travelling. But,
placid as she was, my mother was authoritative, 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
would swell, and her hands and feet turned 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 in 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 to suffer.

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 row with Nathalie,
and my escapade 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 remained
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 because of this separation.




XIII


FROM THE PORTE ST. MARTIN THEATRE TO THE ODÉON


I took a flat in the Rue Duphot, quite near to my mother, and Madame
Guérard undertook to have it furnished for me. As soon as my mother was
well again, I talked to her about it, and I was not long in making her
agree with me 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 Regina, who had refused to speak
to me or look at me ever since my return three weeks ago, suddenly
jumped on to 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 arm-chair, 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 coloured 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 unconsciously, 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 emphasising 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 the Rue Duphot. I kept
Caroline with me, and engaged a cook. _Mon petit Dame_ was with me
nearly all day, and I dined every evening with my mother.

I was still on good terms with an actor of the Porte Saint Martin
Theatre, who had been appointed stage manager there, Marc Fournier being
at that time manager of the theatre. A piece entitled _La biche au bois_
was then being given. It was a spectacular play, and was having a great
success. A delightful actress from the Odéon Theatre, 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_. Madame Ulgade sang admirably in
her _rôle_ of the young prince, and amazed me. Mariquita charmed me with
her dancing. She was delightful and so animated in her dances, so
characteristic, and always so full of distinction. Thanks to old Josse,
I knew every one.

But to my surprise and terror, one evening towards five o'clock, on
arriving at the theatre to get the tickets for 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 theatres 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 rendering him a great service and would "save" the receipts.
Josse, who guessed what my scruples were, exclaimed:

"But, my dear child, it will still be your high art, for Mademoiselle
Debay from the Odéon Theatre plays this _rôle_ of Princess, and
Mademoiselle Debay is the first artiste at the Odéon and the Odéon is an
imperial theatre, so that it cannot be any disgrace after your studies."

Mariquita, who had just arrived, also persuaded me, and Madame Ulgade
was sent for to rehearse the duos, for 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.

There was but little time to spare. Josse made me rehearse my _rôle_,
which I almost knew, as I had seen the piece often and I had an
extraordinary memory. The minutes flew, soon running into quarters of an
hour, and these quarters of an hour made half-hours, and then entire
hours. I kept looking at the clock, the large clock in the manager's
room, where Madame Ulgade was making me rehearse. She thought my voice
was pretty, but I kept singing out of tune, and she helped me along and
encouraged me all the time.

I was dressed up in Mlle. Debay's clothes, 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 not without talent. He thought I was just
the ideal actress for his heroine in _La bergère d'Ivry_, but M. Faille,
an old actor, who had just become manager of the Ambigu Theatre, was not
the only person to consult, for a certain M. de Chilly had some interest
in the theatre. De Chilly had made his name in the _róle_ of Rodin in
_Le 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 _bourgeoise_, rather pretty, but without any real
beauty or grace.

Faille told Lambert Thiboust that he was negotiating with 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 humour the poor fellow, who must have been as poor a
manager as he had been an artiste. I gave a short performance for him at
the Ambigu Theatre. 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 had selected _On ne badine pas avec l'amour_; I did not want to recite
verse, because I was to perform in a play in prose. I believe I was
perfectly charming, 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 office.

"My child." remarked the worthy but stupid manager, "you are no good on
the stage!"

I resented this, but he continued:

"Oh no, no good," and as the door then opened he added, pointing to the
new-comer, "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 show in 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. There I found Laurence Gérard, 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 and
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.

I was destined to meet with them both again later in my life: Chilly
soon after, as manager at the Odéon, and Faille twenty years later, in
such a wretched condition that the tears came to my eyes when he
appeared before me and begged me to play for his benefit.

"Oh, 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 and my "_audition_," but I who remembered it well only hope
that he did not.

Five days later Mile. Debay was well again, and took her _rôle_ as
usual.

Before accepting an engagement at the Porte Saint Martin, I wrote to
Camille Doucet. The following day I received a letter asking me to call
at the Ministry. It was not without some emotion that I went to see this
kind man again. 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 towards
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 silent 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 of
the Odéon Theatre in conjunction with Chilly.

"They ask me 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
Madame 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. But 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 received an
invitation this morning to dine there, so you will be able to tell me
what Duquesnel says."

It was then half-past ten in the morning. I went home to put some pretty
clothes on. I chose a dress the underskirt of which was of canary
yellow, the dress being of black silk with the skirt scalloped round,
and a straw conical-shaped hat trimmed with corn, and black ribbon
velvet under the chin. 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
leave-taking, "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 _théâtre_" (shop).

He came a few steps down the staircase with me, and stayed there leaning
over the balustrade to wish me good-bye.

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 going away.

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 recognised as
Chilly.

He eyed me up and down most impolitely, and pretended not to recognise
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. Madame 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 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 colour coming into my face, for this man was odious.
Duquesnel whispered to me, "There's no ceremony about him, but he's a
good fellow; don't take offence."

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

"You know," he remarked, "He 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
_mon petit 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 colour
in them. Her formidable moustache 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 told me in the garden
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, and 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 moustache had grown longer, and she had a beard nearly
half an inch long. Her moustache and beard were sandy, whilst 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 moustache. It was
like a terrible and ridiculous-looking mask, instead of the sweet face
of my friend. It was the mask of a man, whilst the little delicate hands
were those of a woman.

There was an awe-struck expression in the eyes of the nuns, in spite of
the assurance of the nurse who had dressed the poor dead body, and had
declared to them that the body was that of a woman. 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 suited for Marivaux's plays, as
they require a certain coquettishness and an affectation which were not
then and still are not among my qualities. Then, too, I was rather too
slight, so that I made 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:

_"Une flûte pour les gens du monde, il n'y a même pas de mie."_

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 for 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
any one could say from my first trial.

I remained at the Odéon, and worked very hard. I was ready to take any
one's place at a moment's notice, for I knew all the _rôles_. I made
some success, and the students had a predilection for me. When I came on
to the stage I was always greeted by applause from these young men. A
few old sticklers used to turn towards the pit and try and 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 female 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 in 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. When
suddenly Chilly exclaimed:

"Well, let the young one say all the spoken choruses. They will be right
enough with her pretty voice!"

Duquesnel did not utter a word, but he pulled his moustache to hide a
smile. Chilly was coming round to his _protegée_ 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. Every one
applauded, and the conductor of the orchestra was delighted, for the
poor man had suffered enough. The first performance was a veritable
little triumph for me! Oh, quite a little one, but still full of promise
for my future. The audience, charmed with the sweetness of my voice and
its crystal purity, encored the part of the spoken choruses, and I was
rewarded by three rounds of applause.

At the end of the act Chilly came to me and said, "_Thou_ art adorable!"
His _thou_ rather annoyed me, but I answered mischievously, using the
same form of speech:

"_Thou_ findest me fatter?"

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 Theatre! It is the theatre I loved most. I was very sorry
to leave it, for every one liked each other there, and every one was
gay. The theatre is 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 rehearsal we often went off, several of
us together, to play ball in the Luxembourg, during the acts in which we
were not "on." 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 every one chattered
about a hundred things that had nothing to do with art.

At the Odéon I was happy. We thought of nothing but putting plays on,
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 theatre in a _petit duc_, 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 gaiety of everything outside, I always ran up the cold cracked
steps of the theatre with veritable joy, and rushed up to my
dressing-room, wishing every one I passed good morning on my way. When I
had taken off my coat and gloves I went on to 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 really only lived well 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 made a great success.

Those rehearsals of the _Marquis de Villemer_ and _François le Champi_
have remained in my memory as so many exquisite hours. Madame 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 had 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. that I disliked him for it.
By resembling him it seemed to me that he made him seem less far away,
and brought him nearer to every one.

Madame Sand introduced me to him, in spite of my wishes. He looked at me
in an impertinent way: he displeased me. I scarcely replied to his
compliments, and went closer to George Sand.

"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 green-room. Prince Napoleon, Madame George Sand, the
curator of the library, whose name I have forgotten, and myself were
there. This artiste was common, and something of an anarchist. He bowed
to Madame 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 coloured, picked up the gloves, and went away, murmuring some
revolutionary threat.

I played the part of Hortense in _Le testament de César_, by Girodot,
and of Anna Danby in Alexandre Dumas's _Kean_.

On the evening of the first performance of the latter piece [Footnote:
February 18, 1868.] the audience was most aggravating. Dumas _père_ was
quite out of favour on account of a private matter that had nothing to
do with art. Politics for some time past had been exciting every one,
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 persons in the orchestra took his
side, for he had invited a lady into his box, and whoever that lady
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 lady 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 à few
seconds. Cries of "_Ruy Blas! Ruy Blas_! Victor Hugo! Hugo!" could then
be heard again in the midst of an infernal uproar. 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, cat-calls, 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. At the very same instant
the cheers of my dear friends the students drowned the laughter of the
aggravators. This gave me courage, and I 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 arm-chair 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 whilst waiting for my turn to
go on the stage. I loved embroidery 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.

Madame 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 with an 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, whilst her slow and rather heavy
walk completed the illusion. She was the great _tragédienne_ of the
Odéon Theatre. 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 adore 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 make 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 _tragédienne_. I coughed, and Agar, who had taken my
arm-chair, wanted to give it me back. On my refusing it she pulled me
down on to 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 at a benefit that was to take place after our next
production.

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 statue-like 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 colour in her cheeks. This was rare
with her, for she had a marble-like complexion. "Here is the
manuscript!" she said, giving me a little roll of paper.

The rehearsal was over, and I wished Agar good-bye, and on my way home
read the piece. I was so delighted with it that I drove straight back to
the theatre 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 arm-chair. He began to read whilst I looked at the
newspapers.

"It's delicious!" he soon exclaimed. "It's a perfect masterpiece."

I sprang to my feet in 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 Madame ---- 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
then his favourite 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 Ligneris_, a piece that had 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. Agar and I would supply our own
costumes.

When I arrived at Duquesnel's house, he asked me to go in and discuss
the costumes with his wife. I accepted his invitation, and, after
kissing the prettiest face one could possibly dream of, I told its owner
about our plot. She approved of everything, and promised to begin at
once to look out for pretty designs for our costumes. Whilst 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 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 loveliest hands imaginable, hands that were later on quite
famous.

On leaving my two friends 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."




XIV


LE PASSANT--AT THE TUILERIES--FIRE IN MY FLAT


The rehearsals of _Le Passant_ commenced very soon after this, and were
delightful, for the timid 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 Agar
and myself had eight curtain calls. We tried in vain to bring the author
forward, as the audience 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 full houses.

We were asked to give it at the Tuileries, and at the house of Princess
Mathilde.

Oh, that first performance at the Tuileries! It is stamped on my brain
for ever, and with my eyes shut I can see every detail again even now.
It had been arranged 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. Count de Laferrière was to introduce me to
the Emperor, who would then introduce me to the Empress Eugénie. Agar
was to be introduced by Princess Mathilde, to whom she was then sitting
as Minerva.

M. de Laferrière came for me at nine o'clock in a state carriage, and
Madame 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 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 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 Madame Guérard I thought I would rehearse my three
curtseys.

"_Mon petit Dame_," I said, "tell me whether they are right."

I made the curtseys, 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 Madame 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
curtseying I do not know how many times, trying to get my reverence
right, and saying, "There... that's too low... There; is that right,
Guérard?"

"Good Heavens!" I now said to myself. "Has he heard it all?"

In spite of my confusion, I now made my curtsey again, but the Emperor
said, smiling:

"Oh! no; 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 Madame 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 thus, quite near, than in his portraits. He had
such fine eyes, which he half closed whilst 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 arm-chair. Her body was sheathed
in a grey dress, and seemed to have been moulded into the material. I
thought her very beautiful. She too was more beautiful than her
portraits. I made my three curtseys 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, flowers and plants, which I arranged along the three 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 _mon petit 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 we had made
it 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
_bal déguisé_ which was to be given for the Imperial child. Our
performance was in honour 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
encased them in 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 started 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 curtains were drawn, and as I had
told Agar about the cushion drama, we watched through them its various
phases.

The Emperor rose, and every one 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 would
have 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.

After _Le Passant_ and the prodigious 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 theatre
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
worshippers. 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 towards me nevertheless, as 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 these 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 said, "you were delicious in _François le
Champi_, but there is not a single Breton woman in the whole of Brittany
with her hair curled."

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 backwards."

"The artistes we had before you, Mademoiselle, who were quite as
talented as you, if not more so, had a way of going across the stage
without turning their back on the public."

And he turned quickly on his heel and was going away, when 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 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 told me, constituted a small fortune. I
decided to follow his advice, and asked _mon petit 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, towards two o'clock, a gentleman called, but I
was in an extremely nervous condition, and said: "No, I must be left
alone to-day. I do not wish to see any one."

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,
La Foncière, asking 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
perform on Tuesdays and Fridays, days on which répertoire plays only
were given. As I was playing every other day in new pieces, it was
feared that I should be over-tired.

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, with my
love for my family, I 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
very tall indeed, six feet, but 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 nurse whom I had
engaged for her. Above this long body was her little face, with two
immense pale blue eyes, which were always open, even when asleep at
night. She was generally dressed from head to foot in grey, and this
neutral colour 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 insisted.

"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, fatidical 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 and witty man, Charles Haas. Arthur Meyer came too. He was
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 spirits who
are watching me will have missed their chance."

They agreed to humour my fancy, and Arthur Meyer, who was to have gone
to some first night at one of the theatres, remained with us. 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 in
the street cries 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 to 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 in 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 Caumartin.

The kind man took my little slumberer in and 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 in his
button-hole, 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
thought 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 amiable 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 any one 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, whilst 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 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
colours, 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 had been indifferent, even harsh, towards those
of her husband; and consequently she was not liked in the family. I had
taken charge of her because small-pox 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 keep
her with me. News of the fire was brought to us. It continued to rage,
and burnt everything in my flat, absolutely everything, even to the very
last book in my library. My greatest sorrow was that I had lost a
magnificent portrait of my mother by Bassompierre Severin, a pastelist
very much _à la mode_ under the Empire; an oil portrait of my father,
and a very pretty pastel of my sister Jeanne. I had not much jewellery,
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 Kalil Bey after a performance
at his house. The ashes of this had to be sifted 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 smaller tortoise named Zerbinette, which was its
servant, and I used to amuse 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 La Foncière, the
fire insurance company, whose papers I had refused to sign the day
before the catastrophe. The company claimed a heavy sum of money from me
for damages done to the house itself. The second storey was almost
entirely destroyed, and for many months the whole building had to be
propped up. I did not possess the 40,000 francs claimed. Duquesnel
offered to give a benefit performance for me, which would, he said, free
me from all difficulties. De Chilly was very willing to agree to
anything that would be of service to me. The 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 gem-like notes of her wonderful
voice the whole house was delirious with excitement.

Every one 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 _Il Barbière de Seville, "Una voce poco fa._"

I thanked her affectionately afterwards, and she left the theatre
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
dismal 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 Hamburg, 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 adore 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. Usually, 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 in
order to receive a large sum of money!"

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 had
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 mother had left me. I had kept by me and invested a
sufficient amount of money so as to be sure to complete my monthly
salary for the next two years: I reckoned that at the end of the two
years I should be in a position to demand a very high 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 amongst 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 verse on the subject of my fire. Most of it
was anonymous. I have kept it all, however, and I quote the following
poem, 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'ont à 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 fossé pousse!
  Et le cadre de ton miroir
  Est une bordure de mousse!

  Tes bracelets?.. Mais, tes bras nus,
  Tu paraîtras cent fois plus belle!
  Sur les bras jolis 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, 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 sorrow. I
had been offered a magnificent engagement in Russia, and I should have
to accept it. Madame Guérard was my sole confidant, and I did not
mention my plan to any one 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 her
own maid with her, 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 successfully 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. Since then his slenderness has developed into
plumpness and his hope into certitude.




XV


THE FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR


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, whilst 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!

Recently, I visited a huge steel works. I will not say in what country,
for all countries have been hospitable to me, and I am neither a spy nor
a traitress. I only set forth things as I see them. Well, I visited one
of these frightful manufactories, in which the most deadly weapons are
made. The owner of it all, a multi-millionaire, was introduced to me. He
was pleasant, but no good at conversation, and he had a dreamy,
dissatisfied look. My cicerone informed me that this man had just lost a
huge sum of money, nearly sixty million francs.

"Good Heavens!" I exclaimed; "how has he lost it?"

"Oh well, he has not exactly lost the money, but has just missed making
the sum, so it amounts to the same thing."

I looked perplexed, and he added, "Yes; you remember that there was a
great deal of talk about war between France and Germany with regard to
the Morocco affair?"

"Yes."

"Well, this prince of the steel trade expected to sell cannons for it,
and for a month his men were very busy in the factory, working day and
night. He gave enormous bribes to influential members of the Government,
and paid some of the papers in France and Germany to stir up the people.
Everything has fallen through, thanks to the intervention of men who are
wise and humanitarian. The consequence is that this millionaire is in
despair. He has lost sixty or perhaps a hundred million francs."

I looked at the wretched man with contempt, and I wished heartily that
he could be suffocated with his millions, as remorse was no doubt
utterly unknown to him.

And how many others merit our contempt just as this man does! Nearly all
those who are known as "suppliers to the army," in every country in the
world, are the most desperate propagators of war.

Let every man be a soldier in the time of peril. Yes, a thousand times
over, yes! Let every man be armed for the defence of his country, and
let him kill in order to defend his family and himself. That is only
reasonable. But that there should be, in our times, young men whose sole
dream is to kill in order to make a position for themselves, that is
inconceivable!

It is indisputable that we must guard our frontiers and our colonies,
but since all men are soldiers, why not take these guards and defenders
from among "all men"? We should only have schools for officers then, and
we should have no more of those horrible barracks which offend the eye.
And when sovereigns visit each other and are invited to a review, would
they not be much more edified as to the value of a nation if it could
show a thousandth part of its effective force chosen hap-hazard among
its soldiers, rather than the elegant evolutions of an army prepared for
parade? What magnificent reviews I have seen in all the different
countries I have visited! But I know from history that such and such an
army as was prancing about there so finely before us had taken flight,
without any great reason, before the enemy.

On July 19 war was seriously declared, and Paris then became the theatre
of the most touching and burlesque scenes. Excitable and delicate as I
was, I could not bear the sight of all these young men gone wild, who
were yelling the "Marseillaise" and rushing along the streets in close
file, shouting over and over again, "To Berlin! To Berlin!"

My heart used to beat wildly, for I too thought that they were going to
Berlin. I understood the fury they felt, for these people had provoked
us without plausible reasons, but at the same time it seemed to me that
they were getting ready for this great deed without sufficient respect
and dignity. My own impotence made me feel rebellious, and when I saw
all the mothers, with pale faces and eyes swollen with crying, holding
their boys in their arms and kissing them in despair, the most frightful
anguish seemed to choke me. I cried, too, almost unceasingly, and I was
wearing myself away with anxiety, but I did not foresee the horrible
catastrophe that was to take place.

The doctors decided that I must go to Eaux-Bonnes. I did not want to
leave Paris, for I had caught the general fever of excitement. My
weakness increased, though, day by day, and on July 27 I was taken away
in spite of myself. Madame Guérard, my man-servant, and my maid
accompanied me, and I also took my child with me.

In all the railway stations there were posters everywhere, announcing
that the Emperor Napoleon had gone to Metz to take command of the army.

At Eaux-Bonnes I was compelled to remain in bed. My condition was
considered very serious by Dr. Leudet, who told me afterwards that he
certainly thought I was going to die. I vomited blood, and had to have a
piece of ice in my mouth all the time. At the end of about twelve days,
however, I began to get up, and after this I soon recovered my strength
and my calmness, and went for long rides on horseback.

The war news led us to hope for victory. There was great joy and a
certain emotion felt by every one on hearing that the young Prince
Imperial had received his baptism of fire at Saarbruck, in the
engagement commanded by General Frossard.

Life seemed to me beautiful again, for I had great confidence in the
issue of the war. I pitied the Germans for having embarked on such an
adventure. But, alas! the fine, glorious progress which my brain had
been so active in imagining was cut short by the atrocious news from
Saint-Privat. The political news was posted up every day in the little
garden of the Casino at Eaux-Bonnes. The public went there to get
information. Detesting, as I did, tranquillity, I used to send my
man-servant to copy the telegrams. Oh, how grievous was that terrible
telegram from Saint-Privat, informing us laconically of the frightful
butchery; of the heroic defence of Marshal Canrobert; and of Bazaine's
first treachery in not going to the rescue of his comrade.

I knew Canrobert, and was very fond of him. Later on he became one of my
faithful friends, and I shall always remember the exquisite hours spent
in listening to his accounts of the bravery of others--never of his own.
And what an abundance of anecdotes, what wit, what charm!

This news of the battle of Saint-Privat caused my feverishness to
return. My sleep was full of nightmares, and I had a relapse. The news
was worse every day. After Saint-Privat came Gravelotte, where 36,000
men, French and German, were cut down in a few hours. Then came the
sublime but powerless efforts of MacMahon, who was driven back as far as
Sedan; and finally Sedan.

Sedan! Ah, the horrible awakening! The month of August had finished the
night before, amidst a tumult of weapons and dying groans. But the
groans of the dying men were mingled still with hopeful cries. But the
month of September was cursed from its very birth. Its first war-cry was
stifled back by the brutal and cowardly hand of Destiny.

A hundred thousand men! A hundred thousand Frenchmen compelled to
capitulate, and the Emperor of France forced to hand his sword over to
the King of Prussia!

Ah! that cry of grief, that cry of rage, uttered by the whole nation. It
can never be forgotten!

On September 1, towards ten o'clock, Claude, my man-servant, knocked at
my door. I was not asleep, and he gave me a copy of the first telegrams:

"Battle of Sedan commenced. MacMahon wounded," &c. &c.

"Ah! go back again," I said, "and as soon as a fresh telegram comes,
bring me the news. I feel that something unheard of, something great and
quite different, is going to happen. We have suffered so terribly this
last month, that there can only be something good now, something fine,
for God's scales mete out joy and suffering equally. Go at once,
Claude," I added, and then, full of confidence, I soon fell asleep
again, and was so tired that I slept until one o'clock. When I awoke, my
maid Félicie, the most delightful girl imaginable, was seated near my
bed. Her pretty face and her large dark eyes were so mournful that my
heart stopped beating. I gazed at her anxiously, and she put into my
hands the copy of the last telegram:

"The Emperor Napoleon has just handed over his sword...."

Blood rushed to my head, and my lungs were too weak to control its flow.
I lay back on my pillow, and the blood escaped through my lips with the
groans of my whole being.

For three days I was between life and death. Dr. Leudet sent for one of
my father's friends, a shipowner named M. Maunoir. He came at once,
bringing with him his young wife. She too was very ill, worse in reality
than I was, in spite of her fresh look, for she died six months later.
Thanks to their care and to the energetic treatment of Dr. Leudet, I
came through alive from this attack.

I decided to return at once to Paris, as the siege was about to be
proclaimed, and I did not want my mother and my sisters to remain in the
capital. Independently of this, every one at Eaux-Bonnes was seized with
a desire to get away, invalids and tourists alike. A post-chaise was
found, the owner of which agreed, for an exorbitant price, to drive me
to the nearest station without delay. When once in it, we were more or
less comfortably seated as far as Bordeaux, but it was impossible to
find five seats in the express from there. My man-servant was allowed to
travel with the engine-driver. I do not know where Madame Guérard and my
maid found room, but in the compartment I entered, with my little boy,
there were already nine persons. An ugly old man tried to push my child
out when I had put him in, but I pushed him back again energetically in
my turn.

"No human force will make us get out of this carriage," I said. "Do you
hear that, you ugly old man? We are here, and we shall stay."

A stout lady, who took up more room herself than three ordinary persons,
exclaimed:

"Well! that is lively, for we are suffocated already. It's shameful to
let eleven persons get into a compartment where there are only seats for
eight!"

"Will you get out, then?" I retorted, turning to her quickly, "for
without you there would only be seven of us."

The stifled laughter of the other travellers showed me that I had won
over my audience. Three young men offered me their places, but I
refused, declaring that I was going to stand. The three young men had
risen, and they declared that they would also stand. The stout lady
called a railway official. "Come here, please!" she began.

The official stopped an instant at the door.

"It is perfectly shameful," she went on. "There are eleven in this
compartment, and it is impossible to move."

"Don't you believe it," exclaimed one of the young men. "Just look for
yourself. We are standing up, and there are three seats empty. Send some
more people in here."

The official went away laughing and muttering something about the woman
who had complained. She turned to the young man and began to talk
abusively to him. He bowed very respectfully in reply, and said:

"Madame, if you will calm down you shall be satisfied. We will seat
seven on the other side, including the child, and then you will only be
four on your side."

The ugly old man was short and slight. He looked sideways at the stout
lady and murmured, "Four! Four!" His look and tone showed that he
considered the stout lady took up more than one seat. This look and tone
were not lost on the young man, and before the ugly old man had
comprehended he said to him, "Will you come over here and have this
corner? All the thin people will be together then," he added, inviting a
placid, calm-looking young Englishman of eighteen to twenty years of age
to take the old man's seat. The Englishman had the torso of a
prize-fighter, with a face like that of a fair-haired baby. A very young
woman, opposite the stout one, laughed till the tears came. All six of
us then found room on the thin people's side of the carriage. We were a
little crushed, but had been considerably enlivened by this little
entertainment, and we certainly needed something to enliven us. The
young man who had taken the matter in hand in such a witty way was tall
and nice-looking. He had blue eyes, and his hair was almost white, and
this gave to his face a most attractive freshness and youthfulness. My
boy was on his knee during the night. With the exception of the child,
the stout lady, and the young Englishman, no one went to sleep. The heat
was overpowering, and the war was of course discussed. After some
hesitation, one of the young men told me that I resembled Mlle. Sarah
Bernhardt. I answered that there was every reason why I should resemble
her. The young men then introduced themselves. The one who had
recognised me was Albert Delpit, the second was a Dutchman, Baron van
Zelern or von Zerlen, I do not remember exactly which, and the young man
with white hair was Félix Faure. He told me that he was from Hâvre, and
that he knew my grandmother very well. I kept up a certain friendship
with these three men afterwards, but later on Albert Delpit became my
enemy. All three are now dead--Albert Delpit died a disappointed man,
for he had tried everything and succeeded in nothing, the Dutch baron
was killed in a railway accident, and Félix Faure was President of the
French Republic.

The young woman, on hearing my name, introduced herself in her turn.

"I think we are slightly related," she said. "I am Madame Laroque."

"Of Bordeaux?" I asked.

"Yes."

My mother's brother had married a Mlle. Laroque of Bordeaux, so that we
were able to talk of our family. Altogether the journey did not seem
very long, in spite of the heat, the over-crowding, and our thirst.

The arrival in Paris was more gloomy. We shook hands warmly with each
other. The stout lady's husband was awaiting her; he handed her, in
silence, a telegram. The unfortunate woman read it, and then, uttering a
cry, burst into sobs and fell into his arms. I gazed at her, wondering
what sorrow had come upon her. Poor woman, I could no longer see
anything ridiculous about her! I felt a pang of remorse at the thought
that we had been laughing at her so much, when misfortune had already
singled her out.

On reaching home I sent word to my mother that I should be with her some
time during the day. She came at once, as she wanted to know how my
health was. We then arranged about the departure of the whole family,
with the exception of myself, as I wanted to stay in Paris during the
siege. My mother, my little boy and his nurse, my sisters, my Aunt
Annette, who kept house for me, and my mother's maid were all ready to
start two days later. I had taken rooms at Frascati's, at Hâvre, for the
whole tribe. But the desire to leave Paris was one thing, and the
possibility of doing so another. The stations were invaded by families
like mine, who thought it more prudent to emigrate. I sent my
man-servant to engage a compartment, and he came back three hours later
with his clothes torn, after receiving no end of kicks and blows.

"Madame cannot go into that crowd," he assured me; "it is quite
impossible. I should not be able to protect her. Besides, Madame will
not be alone; there is Madame's mother, the other ladies, and the
children. It is really quite impossible."

I sent at once for three of my friends, explained my difficulty, and
asked them to accompany me. I told my steward to be ready, as well as my
other man-servant and my mother's footman. He in his turn invited his
younger brother, who was a priest, and who was very willing to go with
us. We all set off in a railway omnibus. There were seventeen of us in
all, but only nine who were really travelling. Our eight protectors were
none too many, for those who were taking tickets were not human beings,
but wild beasts haunted by fear and spurred on by a desire to escape.
These brutes saw nothing but the little ticket office, the door leading
to the train, and then the train which would ensure their escape. The
presence of the young priest was a great help to us, for his religious
character made people refrain sometimes from blows.

When once all my people were installed in the compartment which had been
reserved for them, they waved their farewells, threw kisses, and the
train started. A shudder of terror ran through me, for I suddenly felt
so absolutely alone. It was the first time I had been separated from the
little child who was dearer to me than the whole world.

Two arms were then thrown affectionately round me, and a voice murmured,
"My dear Sarah, why did you not go, too? You are so delicate. Will you
be able to bear the solitude without the dear child?"

It was Madame Guérard, who had arrived too late to kiss the boy, but was
there now to comfort the mother. I gave way to my despair, regretting
that I had let him go away. And yet, as I said to myself, there might be
fighting in Paris! The idea never for an instant occurred to me that I
might have gone away with him. I thought that I might be of some use in
Paris. Of some use, but in what way? This I did not know. The idea
seemed stupid, but nevertheless that was my idea. It seemed to me that
every one who was fit ought to remain in Paris. In spite of my weakness,
I felt that I was fit, and with reason, as I proved later on. I
therefore remained, not knowing at all what I was going to do.

For some days I was perfectly dazed, missing the life around me, and
missing the affection.




XVI


SARAH BERNHARDT'S AMBULANCE AT THE ODÉON THEATRE


The defence, however, was being organised, and I decided to use my
strength and intelligence in tending the wounded. The question was,
where could we instal an ambulance?

The Odéon Theatre had closed its doors, but I moved heaven and earth to
get permission to organise an ambulance in that theatre, and, thanks to
Emile de Girardin and Duquesnel, my wish was gratified. I went to the
War Office and made my declaration and my request, and my offers were
accepted for a military ambulance. The next difficulty was that I wanted
food. I wrote a line to the Prefect of Police. A military courier
arrived very soon, with a note from the Prefect containing the following
lines:

"Madame,--If you could possibly come at once, I would wait for you until
six o'clock. If not I will receive you to-morrow morning at eight.
Excuse the earliness of the hour, but I have to be at the Chamber at
nine in the morning, and, as your note seems to be urgent, I am anxious
to do all I can to be of service to you.

"COMTE DE KÉRATRY."


I remembered a Comte de Kératry who had been introduced to me at my
aunt's house, the evening I had recited poetry accompanied by Rossini,
but he was a young lieutenant, good-looking, witty, and lively. He had
introduced me to his mother. I had recited poetry at her _soirées_. The
young lieutenant had gone to Mexico, and for some time we had kept up a
correspondence, but this had gradually ceased, and we had not met again.
I asked Madame Guérard whether she thought that the Prefect were a near
relative of my young friend's. "It may be so," she replied, and we
discussed this in the carriage which was taking us at once to the
Tuileries Palace, where the Prefect had his offices. My heart was very
heavy when we came to the stone steps. Only a few months previously, one
April morning, I had been there with Madame Guérard. Then, as now, a
footman had come forward to open the door of my carriage, but the April
sunshine had then lighted up the steps, caught the shining lamps of the
State carriages, and sent its rays in all directions. There had been a
busy, joyful coming and going of the officers then, and elegant salutes
had been exchanged. On this occasion the misty, crafty-looking November
sun fell heavily on all it touched. Black, dirty-looking cabs drove up
one after the other, knocking against the iron gate, grazing the steps,
advancing or moving back, according to the coarse shouts of their
drivers. Instead of the elegant salutations I heard now such phrases as:
"Well, how are you, old chap?" "Oh, _la gueule de bois_!" "Well, any
news?" "Yes, it's the very deuce with us!" &c. &c.

The Palace was no longer the same.

The very atmosphere had changed. The faint perfume which elegant women
leave in the air as they pass was no longer there. A vague odour of
tobacco, of greasy clothes, of dirty hair, made the atmosphere seem
heavy. Ah, the beautiful French Empress! I could see her again in her
blue dress embroidered with silver, calling to her aid Cinderella's good
fairy to help her on again with her little slipper. The delightful young
Prince Imperial, too! I could see him helping me to arrange the pots of
verbena and marguerites, and holding in his arms, which were not strong
enough for it, a huge pot of rhododendrons, behind which his handsome
face completely disappeared. Then, too, I could see the Emperor Napoleon
III. with his half-closed eyes, clapping his hands at the rehearsal of
the curtseys intended for him.

And the fair Empress, dressed in strange clothes, had rushed away in the
carriage of her American dentist, for it was not even a Frenchman, but a
foreigner, who had had the courage to protect the unfortunate woman. And
the gentle Utopian Emperor had tried in vain to be killed on the
battle-field. Two horses had been killed under him, and he had not
received so much as a scratch. And after this he had given up his sword.
And we at home had all wept with anger, shame, and grief at this giving
up of the sword. And yet what courage it must have required for so brave
a man to carry out such an act. He had wanted to save a hundred thousand
men, to spare a hundred thousand lives, and to reassure a hundred
thousand mothers. Our poor, beloved Emperor! History will some day do
him justice, for he was good, humane, and confiding. Alas, alas! he was
too confiding!

I stopped a minute before entering the Prefect's suite of rooms. I was
obliged to wipe my eyes, and in order to change the current of my
thoughts I said to _mon petit Dame._

"Tell me, should you think me pretty if you saw me now for the first
time?"

"Oh yes!" she replied warmly.

"So much the better," I said, "for I want this old Prefect to think me
pretty. There are so many things I must ask him for!"

On entering his room, my surprise was great when I recognised in him the
lieutenant I knew. He had become captain, and then Prefect of Police.
When my name was announced by the usher, he sprang up from his chair and
came forward with his face beaming and both hands stretched out.

"Ah, you had forgotten me!" he said, and then he turned to greet Madame
Guérard in a friendly way.

"But I never thought I was coming to see you!" I replied: "and I am
delighted," I continued, "for you will let me have everything I ask
for."

"Only that!" he remarked with a burst of laughter. "Well, will you give
your orders, Madame?" he continued.

"Yes. I want bread, milk, meat, vegetables, sugar, wine, brandy,
potatoes, eggs, coffee," I said straight away.

"Oh, let me get my breath!" exclaimed the Count-Prefect. "You speak so
quickly that I am gasping."

I was quiet for a moment, and then I continued:

"I have started an ambulance at the Odéon, but as it is a military
ambulance, the municipal authorities refuse me food. I have five wounded
men already, and I can manage for them, but other wounded men are being
sent to me, and I shall have to give them food."

"You shall be supplied above and beyond all your wishes," said the
Prefect. "There is food in the Palace which was being stored by the
unfortunate Empress. She had prepared enough for months and months. I
will have all you want sent to you, except meat, bread, and milk, and as
regards these I will give orders that your ambulance shall be included
in the municipal service, although it is a military one. Then I will
give you an order for salt and other things, which you will be able to
get from the Opéra."

"From the Opéra?" I repeated, looking at him incredulously. "But it is
only being built, and there is nothing but scaffolding there yet."

"Yes; but you must go through the little doorway under the scaffolding
opposite the Rue Scribe; you then go up the little spiral staircase
leading to the provision office, and there you will be supplied with
what you want."

"There is still something else I want to ask," I said.

"Go on; I am quite resigned, and ready for your orders," he replied.

"Well, I am very uneasy," I said, "for they have put a stock of powder
in the cellars under the Odéon. If Paris were to be bombarded and a
shell should fall on the building, we should all be blown up, and that
is not the aim and object of an ambulance."

"You are quite right," said the kind man, "and nothing could be more
stupid than to store powder there. I shall have more difficulty about
that, though," he continued, "for I shall have to deal with a crowd of
stubborn _bourgeois_ who want to organise the defence in their own way.
You must try to get a petition for me, signed by the most influential
householders and tradespeople in the neighbourhood. Now are you
satisfied?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied, shaking both his hands cordially. "You have been most
kind and charming. Thank you very much."

I then moved towards the door, but I stood still again suddenly, as
though hypnotised by an overcoat hanging over a chair. Madame Guérard
saw what had attracted my attention, and she pulled my sleeve gently.

"My dear Sarah," she whispered, "do not do that."

I looked beseechingly at the young Prefect, but he did not understand.

"What can I do now to oblige you, beautiful Madonna?" he asked.

I pointed to the coat and tried to look as charming as possible.

"I am very sorry," he said, bewildered, "but I do not understand at
all."

I was still pointing to the coat.

"Give it me, will you?" I said.

"My overcoat?"

"Yes."

"What do you want it for?"

"For my wounded men when they are convalescent."

He sank down on a chair in a fit of laughter. I was rather vexed at this
uncontrollable outburst, and I continued my explanation.

"There is nothing so funny about it," I said. "I have a poor fellow, for
instance, two of whose fingers have been taken off. He does not need to
stay in bed for that, naturally, and his soldier's cape is not warm
enough. It is very difficult to warm the big _foyer_ of the Odéon
sufficiently, and those who are well enough have to be there. The man I
tell you about is warm enough at present, because I took Henri Fould's
overcoat when he came to see me the other day. My poor soldier is huge,
and as Henri Fould is a giant I might never have had such an opportunity
again. I shall want a great many overcoats, though, and this looks like
a very warm one."

I stroked the furry lining of the coveted garment, and the young
Prefect, still choking with laughter, began to empty the pockets of his
overcoat. He pulled out a magnificent white silk muffler from the
largest pocket.

"Will you allow me to keep my muffler?" he asked.

I put on a resigned expression and nodded my consent.

Our host then rang, and when the usher appeared he handed him the
overcoat, and said in a solemn voice, in spite of the laughter in his
eyes:

"Will you carry this to the carriage for these ladies?"

I thanked him again, and went away feeling very happy.

Twelve days later I returned, taking with me a letter covered with the
signatures of the householders and tradesmen residing near the Odéon.

On entering the Prefect's room I was petrified to see him, instead of
advancing to meet me, rush towards a cupboard, open the door, and fling
something hastily into it. After this he leaned against the door as
though to prevent my opening it.

"Excuse me," he said, in a witty, mocking tone, "but I caught a violent
cold after your first visit. I have just put my overcoat--oh, only an
ugly old overcoat, not a warm one," he added quickly, "but still an
overcoat--inside there, and there it now is, and I will take the key out
of the lock."

He put the key carefully into his pocket, and then came forward and
offered me a chair. But our conversation soon took a more serious turn,
for the news was very bad. For the last twelve days the ambulances had
been crowded with wounded men. Everything was in a bad way, home
politics as well as foreign politics. The Germans were advancing on
Paris. The army of the Loire was being formed. Gambetta, Chanzy,
Bourbaki, and Trochu were organising a desperate defence. We talked for
some time about all these sad things, and I told him about the painful
impression I had had on my last visit to the Tuileries, of my
remembrance of every one, so brilliant, so considerate, and so happy
formerly, and so deeply to be pitied at present. We were silent for a
moment, and then I shook hands with him, told him I had received all he
had sent, and returned to my ambulance.

The Prefect had sent me ten barrels of wine and two of brandy; 30,000
eggs, all packed in boxes with lime and bran; a hundred bags of coffee
and boxes of tea, forty boxes of Albert biscuits, a thousand tins of
preserves, and a quantity of other things.

M. Menier, the great chocolate manufacturer, had sent me five hundred
pounds of chocolate. One of my friends, a flour dealer, had made me a
present of twenty sacks of flour, ten of which were maize flour. This
flour-dealer was the one who had asked me to be his wife when I was at
the Conservatoire. Félix Potin, my neighbour when I was living at 11
Boulevard Malesherbes, had responded to my appeal by sending two barrels
of raisins, a hundred boxes of sardines, three sacks of rice, two sacks
of lentils, and twenty sugar-loaves. From M. de Rothschild I had
received two barrels of brandy and a hundred bottles of his own wine for
the convalescents. I also received a very unexpected present. Léonie
Dubourg, an old school-fellow of mine at the Grand-Champs convent, sent
me fifty tin boxes each containing four pounds of salt butter. She had
married a very wealthy gentleman farmer, who cultivated his own farms,
which it seems were very numerous. I was very much touched at her
remembering me, for I had never seen her since the old days at the
convent. I had also asked for all the overcoats and slippers of my
various friends, and I had bought up a job lot of two hundred flannel
vests. My Aunt Betsy, my blind grandmother's sister, who is still living
in Holland, and is now ninety-three years of age, managed to get for me,
through the charming Ambassador for the Netherlands, three hundred
night-shirts of magnificent Dutch linen, and a hundred pairs of sheets.
I received lint and bandages from every corner of Paris, but it was more
particularly from the Palais de l'Industrie that I used to get my
provisions of lint and of linen for binding wounds. There was an
adorable woman there, named Mlle. Hocquigny, who was at the head of all
the ambulances. All that she did was done with a cheerful gracefulness,
and all that she was obliged to refuse she refused sorrowfully, but
still in a gracious manner. She was at that time over thirty years of
age, and although unmarried she looked more like a very young married
woman. She had large, blue, dreamy eyes, and a laughing mouth, a
deliciously oval face, little dimples, and, crowning all this grace,
this dreamy expression, and this coquettish, inviting mouth, a wide
forehead like that of the Virgins painted by the early painters, rather
prominent, encircled by hair worn in smooth, wide, flat bandeaux,
separated by a faultless parting. The forehead seemed like the
protecting rampart of this delicious face. Mlle. Hocquigny was adored
and made much of by every one, but she remained invulnerable to all
homage. She was happy in being beloved, but she would not allow any one
to express affection for her.

At the Palais de l'Industrie a remarkable number of celebrated doctors
and surgeons were on duty, and they, as well as the convalescents, were
all more or less in love with Mlle. Hocquigny. As she and I were great
friends, she confided to me her observations and her sorrowful disdain.
Thanks to her, I was never short of linen nor of lint. I had organised
my ambulance with a very small staff. My cook was installed in the
public _foyer_. I had bought her an immense cooking range, so that she
could make soups and herb-tea for fifty men. Her husband was chief
attendant. I had given him two assistants, and Madame Guérard, Madame
Lambquin, and I were the nurses. Two of us sat up at night, so that we
each went to bed one night in three. I preferred this to taking on some
woman whom I did not know. Madame Lambquin belonged to the Odéon, where
she used to take the part of the duennas. She was plain and had a common
face, but she was very talented. She talked loud and was very
plain-spoken. She called a spade a spade, and liked frankness and no
under meaning to things. At times she was a trifle embarrassing with the
crudeness of her words and her remarks, but she was kind, active, alert,
and devoted. My various friends who were on service at the
fortifications came to me in their free time to do my secretarial work.
I had to keep a book, which was shown every day to a sergeant who came
from the Val-de-Grâce military hospital, giving all details as to how
many men came into our ambulance, how many died, and how many recovered
and left. Paris was in a state of siege; no one could go far outside the
walls, and no news from outside could be received. The Germans were not,
however, round the gates of the city. Baron Larrey came now and then to
see me, and I had as head surgeon Dr. Duchesne, who gave up his whole
time, night and day, to the care of my poor men during the five months
that this truly frightful nightmare lasted.

I cannot recall those terrible days without the deepest emotion. It was
no longer the country in danger that kept my nerves strung up, but the
sufferings of all her children. There were all those who were away
fighting, those who were brought in to us wounded or dying; the noble
women of the people, who stood for hours and hours in the _queue_ to get
the necessary dole of bread, meat, and milk for their poor little ones
at home. Ah, those poor women! I could see them from the theatre
windows, pressing up close to each other, blue with cold, and stamping
their feet on the ground to keep them from freezing--for that winter was
the most cruel one we had had for twenty years. Frequently one of these
poor, silent heroines was brought in to me, either in a swoon from
fatigue or struck down suddenly with congestion caused by cold. On
December 20 three of these unfortunate women were brought into the
ambulance. One of them had her feet frozen, and she lost the big toe of
her right foot. The second was an enormously stout woman, who was
suckling her child, and her poor breasts were harder than wood. She
simply howled with pain. The youngest of the three was a girl of sixteen
to eighteen years of age. She died of cold, on the trestle on which I
had had her placed to send her home. On December 24, there were fifteen
degrees of cold. I often sent Guillaume, our attendant, out with a
little brandy to warm the poor women. Oh! the suffering they must have
endured--those heart-broken mothers, those sisters and _fiancées_--in
their terrible dread. How excusable their rebellion seems during the
Commune, and even their bloodthirsty madness!

My ambulance was full. I had sixty beds, and was obliged to improvise
ten more. The soldiers were installed in the green-room and in the
general _foyer_, and the officers in a room which had been formerly the
refreshment-room of the theatre.

One day a young Breton, named Marie Le Gallec, was brought in. He had
been struck by a bullet in the chest and another in the wrist. Dr.
Duchesne bound up his chest firmly, and attended to his wrist. He then
said to me very simply:

"Let him have anything he likes--he is dying."

I bent over his bed, and said to him:

"Tell me what would give you pleasure, Marie Le Gallec."

"Soup," he answered promptly, in the most comic way.

Madame Guérard hurried away to the kitchen, and soon returned with a
bowl of broth and pieces of toast. I placed the bowl on the little
four-legged wooden shelf, which was so convenient for the meals of our
poor sufferers. The wounded man looked up at me and said, "Barra." I did
not understand, and he repeated, "Barra." His poor chest caused him to
hiss out the word, and he made the greatest efforts to repeat his
emphatic request.

I sent immediately to the Marine Office, thinking that there would
surely be some Breton seamen there, and I explained my difficulty and my
ignorance of the Breton dialect.

I was informed that the word "barra" meant bread. I hurried at once to
Le Gallec with a large piece of bread. His face lighted up, and taking
it from me with his sound hand, he broke it up with his teeth and let
the pieces fall in the bowl. He then plunged his spoon into the middle
of the broth, and filled it up with bread until the spoon could stand
upright in it. When it stood up without shaking about, the young soldier
smiled. He was just preparing to eat this horrible concoction when the
young priest from St. Sulpice who had my ambulance in charge arrived. I
had sent for him on hearing the doctor's sad verdict. He laid his hand
gently on the young man's shoulder, thus stopping the movement of his
arm. The poor fellow looked up at the priest, who showed him the holy
cup.

"Oh," he said simply, and then, placing his coarse handkerchief over the
steaming soup, he put his hands together.

We had arranged the two screens which we used for isolating the dead or
dying around his bed. He was left alone with the priest whilst I went on
my rounds to calm those who were chaffing, or help the believers raise
themselves for prayer. The young priest soon pushed aside the partition,
and I then saw Marie Le Gallec, with a beaming face, eating his
abominable bread sop. He soon fell asleep but awoke before long and
asked for something to drink, and then died in a slight fit of choking.
Fortunately I did not lose many men out of the three hundred who came
into my ambulance, for the death of the unfortunate ones completely
upset me.

I was very young at that time, only twenty-four years of age, but I
could nevertheless see the cowardice of some of the men and the heroism
of many of the others. A young Savoyard, eighteen years old, had had his
forefinger shot off. Baron Larrey was quite sure that he had done it
himself with his own gun, but I could not believe that. I noticed,
though, that, in spite of our nursing and care, the wound did not heal.
I bound it up in a different way, and the following day I saw that the
bandage had been altered. I mentioned this to Madame Lambquin, who was
sitting up that night with Madame Guérard.

"Good; I will keep my eye on him. You go to sleep, my child, and rely on
me."

The next day when I arrived she told me that she had caught the young
man scraping the wound on his finger with his knife. I called him, and
told him that I should have to report this to the Val-de-Grâce Hospital.

He began to weep, and vowed to me that he would never do it again, and
five days later he was well. I signed the paper authorising him to leave
the ambulance, and he was sent to the army of the defence. I often
wondered what became of him. Another of our patients bewildered us too.
Each time that his wound seemed to be just on the point of healing up,
he had a violent attack of dysentery, which prevented him getting well.
This seemed suspicious to Dr. Duchesne, and he asked me to watch the
man. At the end of a considerable time we were convinced that our
wounded man had thought out the most comical scheme.

He slept next the wall, and therefore had no neighbour on the one side.
During the night he managed to file the brass of his bedstead. He put
the filings in a little pot which had been used for ointment of some
kind. A few drops of water and some salt mixed with this powdered brass
formed a poison which might have cost its inventor his life. I was
furious at this stratagem. I wrote to the Val-de-Grâce, and an ambulance
conveyance was sent to take this unpatriotic Frenchman away.

But side by side with these despicable men what heroism we saw! A young
captain was brought in one day. He was a tall fellow, a regular
Hercules, with a superb head and a frank expression. On my book he was
inscribed as Captain Menesson. He had been struck by a bullet at the top
of the arm, just at the shoulder. With a nurse's assistance I was trying
as gently as possible to take off his cloak, when three bullets fell
from the hood which he had pulled over his head, and I counted sixteen
bullet holes in the cloak. The young officer had stood upright for three
hours, serving as a target himself, whilst covering the retreat of his
men as they fired all the time on the enemy. This had taken place among
the Champigny vines. He had been brought in unconscious, in an ambulance
conveyance. He had lost a great deal of blood, and was half dead with
fatigue and weakness. He was very gentle and charming, and thought
himself sufficiently well two days later to return to the fight. The
doctor, however, would not allow this, and his sister, who was a nun,
besought him to wait until he was something like well again.

"Oh, not quite well," she said, smiling, "but just well enough to have
strength to fight."

Soon after he came into the ambulance the Cross of the Legion of Honour
was brought to him, and this was a moment of intense emotion for every
one. The unfortunate wounded men who could not move turned their
suffering faces towards him, and, with their eyes shining through a mist
of tears, gave him a fraternal look. The stronger amongst them held out
their hands to the young giant.

It was Christmas-eve, and I had decorated the ambulance with festoons of
green leaves. I had made pretty little chapels in front of the Virgin
Mary, and the young priest from St. Sulpice came to take part in our
poor but poetical Christmas service. He repeated some beautiful prayers,
and the wounded men, many of whom were from Brittany, sang some sad
solemn songs full of charm.

Porel, the present manager of the Vaudeville Theatre, had been wounded
on the Avron Plateau. He was then convalescent and was one of my
patients, together with two officers now ready to leave the ambulance.
That Christmas supper is one of my most charming and at the same time
most melancholy memories. It was served in the small room which we had
made into a bedroom. Our three beds were covered with draperies and
skins which I had had brought from home, and we used them as seats.
Mlle. Hocquigny had sent me five metres of _boudin blanc_
("white-pudding"), the famous Christmas dish, and all my poor soldiers
who were well enough were delighted with this delicacy. One of my
friends had had twenty large _brioche_ cakes made for me, and I had
ordered some large bowls of punch, the coloured flames from which amused
the grown-up sick children immensely. The young priest from St. Sulpice
accepted a piece of _brioche_, and after taking a little white wine left
us. Ah, how charming and good he was, that poor young priest! And how
well he managed to make Fortin, the insupportable wounded fellow, cease
talking. Gradually the latter began to get humanised, until finally he
began to think the priest was a good sort of fellow. Poor young priest!
He was shot by the Communists. I cried for days and days over the murder
of this young St. Sulpice priest.




XVII


PARIS BOMBARDED


The month of January arrived. The army of the enemy held Paris day by
day in a still closer grip. Food was getting scarce. Bitter cold
enveloped the city, and poor soldiers who fell, sometimes only slightly
wounded, passed away gently in a sleep that was eternal, their brain
numbed and their body half frozen.

No more news could be received from outside, but thanks to the United
States Minister, who had resolved to remain in Paris, a letter arrived
from time to time. It was in this way that I received a thin slip of
paper, as soft as a primrose petal, bringing me the following message:
"Every one well. Courage. A thousand kisses.--Your mother." This
impalpable missive dated from seventeen days previously.

And so my mother, my sisters, and my little boy were at The Hague all
this time, and my mind, which had been continually travelling in their
direction, had been wandering along the wrong route, towards Hâvre,
where I thought they were settled down quietly at the house of a cousin
of my father's mother.

Where were they, and with whom?

I had two aunts at The Hague, but the question was, were they there? I
no longer knew what to think, and from that moment I never ceased
suffering the most anxious and torturing mental distress.

I was doing all in my power just then to procure some wood for fires.
Comte de Kératry had sent me a large provision before his departure to
the provinces in a balloon on October 9. My stock was growing very
short, and I would not allow what we had in the cellars to be touched,
so that in case of an emergency we should not be absolutely without any.
I had all the little footstools belonging to the theatre used for
firewood, all the wooden cases in which the properties were kept, a good
number of old Roman benches, arm-chairs and curule chairs, that were
stowed away under the theatre, and indeed everything which came to hand.
Finally, taking pity on my despair, pretty Mlle. Hocquigny sent me ten
thousand kilograms of wood, and then I took courage again.

I had been told about some new system of keeping meat, by which the meat
lost neither its juice nor its nutritive quality. I sent Madame Guérard
to the _Mairie_ in the neighbourhood of the Odéon, where such provisions
were distributed, but some brute answered her that when I had removed
all the religious images from my ambulance I should receive the
necessary food. M. Herisson, the mayor, with some functionary holding an
influential post, had been to inspect my ambulance. The important
personage had requested me to have the beautiful white Virgins which
were on the mantel-pieces and tables taken away, as well as the Divine
Crucified--one hanging on the wall of each room in which there were any
of the wounded. I refused in a somewhat insolent and very decided way to
act in accordance with the wish of my visitor, whereupon the famous
Republican turned his back on me and gave orders that I should be
refused everything at the _Mairie_. I was very determined, however, and
I moved heaven and earth until I succeeded in getting inscribed on the
lists for distribution of food, in spite of the orders of the chief. It
is only fair to say that the mayor was a charming man. Madame Guérard
returned, after her third visit, with a child pushing a hand-barrow
containing ten enormous bottles of the miraculous meat. I received the
precious consignment with infinite joy, for my men had been almost
without meat for the last three days, and the beloved _pot-au-feu_ was
an almost necessary resource for the poor wounded fellows. On all the
bottles were directions as to opening them: "Let the meat soak so many
hours," &c. &c.

Madame Lambquin, Madame Guérard, and I, together with all the staff of
the infirmary, were soon grouped anxiously and inquisitively around
these glass receptacles.

I told the head attendant to open the largest of the bottles, in which
through the thick glass we could see an enormous piece of beef
surrounded by thick, muddled-looking water. The string fastened round
the rough paper which hid the cork was cut, and then, just as the man
was about to put the corkscrew in, a deafening explosion was heard and a
rank odour filled the room. Every one rushed away terrified. I called
them all back, scared and disgusted as they were, and showed them the
following words on the directions: "Do not be alarmed at the bad odour
on opening the bottle." Courageously and with resignation we resumed our
work, though we felt sick all the time from the abominable exhalation. I
took the beef out and placed it on a dish that had been brought for the
purpose. Five minutes later this meat turned blue and then black, and
the stench from it was so unbearable that I decided to throw it away.
Madame Lambquin was wiser, though, and more reasonable.

"No, oh no, my dear girl," she said; "in these times it will not do to
throw meat away, even though it may be rotten. Let us put it in the
glass bottle again and send it back to the _Mairie_."

I followed her wise advice, and it was a very good thing I did, for
another ambulance, installed at Boulevard Medicis, on opening these
bottles of meat had been as horrified as we were, and had thrown the
contents into the street. A few minutes after the crowd had gathered
round in a mob, and, refusing to listen to anything, had yelled out
insults addressed to "the aristocrats," "the clericals," and "the
traitors," who were throwing good meat, intended for the sick, into the
street, so that the dogs were enjoying it, while the people were
starving with hunger, &c. &c.

It was with the greatest difficulty that the wretched, mad people had
been prevented from invading the ambulance, and when one of the
unfortunate nurses had gone out, later on, she had been mobbed and
beaten until she was left half dead from fright and blows. She did not
want to be carried back to her own ambulance, and the druggist begged me
to take her in. I kept her for a few days, in one of the upper tier
boxes of the theatre, and when she was better she asked if she might
stay with me as a nurse. I granted her wish, and kept her with me
afterwards as a maid.

She was a fair-haired girl, gentle and timid, and was pre-destined for
misfortune. She was found dead in the Père Lachaise cemetery after the
skirmish between the Communists and the Versailles troop. A stray bullet
struck her in the back of the neck as she was praying at the grave of
her little sister, who had died two days before from small-pox. I had
taken her with me to St. Germain, where I had gone to stay during the
horrors of the Commune. Poor girl! I had allowed her to go to Paris very
much against my own will.

As we could not count on this preserved meat for our food, I made a
contract with a knacker, who agreed to supply me, at rather a high
price, with horse flesh, and until the end this was the only meat we had
to eat. Well prepared and well seasoned, it was very good.

Hope had now fled from all hearts, and we were living in the expectation
of we knew not what. An atmosphere of misfortune seemed to hang like
lead over us, and it was a sort of relief when the bombardment commenced
on December 27. At last we felt that something new was happening! It was
an era of fresh suffering. There was some stir, at any rate. For the
last fortnight the fact of not knowing anything had been killing us.

On January 1, 1871, we lifted our glasses to the health of the absent
ones, to the repose of the dead, and the toast choked us with such a
lump in our throats.

Every night we used to hear the dismal cry of "Ambulance! Ambulance!"
underneath the windows of the Odéon. We went down to meet the pitiful
procession, and one, two, or sometimes three conveyances would be there,
full of our poor, wounded soldiers. There would be ten or twelve rows of
them, lying or sitting up on the straw. I said that I had room for one
or two, and, lifting the lantern, I looked into the conveyance, and the
faces would then turn slowly towards the lamp. Some of the men would
close their eyes, as they were too weak to bear even that feeble light.
With the help of the sergeant who accompanied the conveyance and our
attendant, one of the unfortunates would with difficulty be lifted into
the narrow litter on which he was to be carried up to the ambulance.

Oh, what sorrowful anguish it was for me when, on lifting the patient's
head, I discovered that it was getting heavy, oh, so heavy! And when
bending over that inert face I felt that there was no longer any breath!
The sergeant would then give the order to take him back, and the poor
dead man was put in his place and another wounded man was lifted out.

The other dying men would then move back a little, in order not to
profane the dead.

Ah, what grief it was when the sergeant said: "Do try to take one or two
more in! It is a pity to drag these poor chaps about from one ambulance
to another. The Val-de-Grâce is full."

"Very well, I will take two more," I would say, and then I wondered
where we should put them. We had to give up our own beds, and in this
way the poor fellows were saved. Ever since January 1 we had all three
been sleeping every night at the ambulance. We had some loose
dressing-gowns of thick grey flannel, not unlike the soldiers' cloaks.
The first of us who heard a cry or a groan sprang out of bed, and if
necessary called the other two.

On January 10, Madame Guérard and I were sitting up at night, on one of
the lounges in the green-room, awaiting the dismal cry of "Ambulance!"
There had been a fierce affray at Clamart, and we knew there would be
many wounded. I was telling her of my fear that the bombs which had
already reached the Museum, the Sorbonne, the Salpétrière, the
Val-de-Grâce, &c., would fall on the Odéon.

"Oh, but, my dear Sarah," said the sweet woman, "the ambulance flag is
waving so high above it that there could be no mistake. If it were
struck it would be purposely, and that would be abominable."

"But, Guérard," I replied, "why should you expect these execrable
enemies of ours to be better than we are ourselves? Did we not behave
like savages at Berlin in 1806?"

"But at Paris there are such admirable public monuments," she urged.

"Well, and was not Moscow full of masterpieces? The Kremlin is one of
the finest buildings in the world. That did not prevent us giving that
admirable city up to pillage. Oh no, my poor _petit Dame_, do not
deceive yourself. Armies may be Russian, German, French, or Spanish, but
they _are_ armies--that is, they are beings which form an impersonal
'whole,' a 'whole' that is ferocious and irresponsible. The Germans will
bombard the whole of Paris if the possibility of doing so should be
offered them. You must make up your mind to that, my dear Guérard----"

I had not finished my sentence when a terrible detonation roused the
whole neighbourhood from its slumbers. Madame Guérard and I had been
seated opposite each other. We found ourselves standing up close
together in the middle of the room, terrified. My poor cook, her face
quite white, came to me for safety. The detonations continued rather
frequently. The bombarding had commenced from our side that night. I
went round to the wounded men, but they did not seem to be much
disturbed. Only one, a boy of fifteen, whom we had surnamed "pink baby,"
was sitting up in bed. When I went to him to soothe him he showed me his
little medal of the Holy Virgin.

"It is thanks to her that I was not killed," he said. "If they would put
the Holy Virgin on the ramparts of Paris the bombs would not come."

He lay down again then, holding his little medal in his hand, and the
bombarding continued until six in the morning. "Ambulance! Ambulance!"
we then heard, and Madame Guérard and I went down. "Here," said the
sergeant, "take this man. He is losing all his blood, and if I take him
any farther he will not arrive living." The wounded man was put on the
litter, but as he was German, I asked the sub-officer to take all his
papers and hand them in at the Ministry. We gave the man the place of
one of the convalescents, whom I installed elsewhere. I asked him his
name, and he told me that it was Frantz Mayer, and that he was a soldier
of the Silesian Landwehr. He then fainted from weakness caused by loss
of blood. But he soon came to himself again with our care, and I then
asked him whether he wanted anything, but he did not answer a word. I
supposed that he did not speak French, and, as there was no one at the
ambulance who spoke German, I waited until the next day to send for some
one who knew his language. I must own that the poor man was not welcomed
by his dormitory companions. A soldier named Fortin, who was
twenty-three years of age and a veritable child of Paris, a comical
fellow, mischievous, droll, and good-natured, never ceased railing
against the young German, who on his side never flinched. I went several
times to Fortin and begged him to be quiet, but it was all in vain.
Every fresh outbreak of his was greeted with wild laughter, and his
success put him into the gayest of humours, so that he continued,
getting more and more excited. The others were prevented from sleeping,
and he moved about wildly in his bed, bursting out into abusive language
when too abrupt a movement intensified his suffering. The unfortunate
fellow had had his sciatic nerve torn by a bullet, and he had to endure
the most atrocious pain.

After my third fruitless appeal for silence I ordered the two men
attendants to carry him into a room where he would be alone. He sent for
me, and when I went to him promised to behave well all night long. I
therefore countermanded the order I had given, and he kept his word. The
following day I had Frantz Mayer carried into a room where there was a
young Breton who had had his skull fractured by the bursting of a shell,
and therefore needed the utmost tranquillity.

One of my friends, who spoke German very well, came to see whether the
Silesian wanted anything. The wounded man's face lighted up on hearing
his own language, and then, turning to me, he said:

"I understand French quite well, Madame, and if I listened calmly to the
horrors poured forth by your French soldier it was because I know that
you cannot hold out two days longer, and I can understand his
exasperation."

"And why do you think that we cannot hold out?"

"Because I know that you are reduced to eating rats."

Dr. Duchesne had just arrived, and he was dressing the horrible wound
which the patient had in his thigh.

"Well," he said, "my friend, as soon as your fever has decreased you
shall eat an excellent wing of chicken." The German shrugged his
shoulders, and the doctor continued, "Meanwhile drink this, and tell me
what you think of it."

Dr. Duchesne gave him a glass of water, with a little of the excellent
cognac which the Prefect had sent me. That was the only _tisane_ that my
soldiers took. The Silesian said no more, but he put on the reserved,
circumspect manner of people who know and will not speak.

The bombardment continued, and the ambulance flag certainly served as a
target for our enemies, for they fired with surprising exactitude, and
altered their firing directly a bomb fell any distance from the
neighbourhood of the Luxembourg. Thanks to this, we had more than twelve
bombs one night. These dismal shells, when they burst in the air, were
like the fireworks at a _fête_. The shining splinters then fell down,
black and deadly. Georges Boyer, who at that time was a young
journalist, came to call on me at the ambulance, and I told him about
the terrifying splendours of the night.

"Oh, how much I should like to see all that!" he said.

"Come this evening, towards nine or ten o'clock, and you will see," I
replied.

We spent several hours at the little round window of my dressing--room,
which looked out towards Chatillon. It was from there that the Germans
fired the most.

We listened, in the silence of the night, to the muffled sounds coming
from yonder; there would be a light, a formidable noise in the distance,
and the bomb arrived, falling in front of us or behind, bursting either
in the air or on reaching its goal. Once we had only just time to draw
back quickly, and even then the disturbance in the atmosphere affected
us so violently that for a second we were under the impression that we
had been struck.

The shell had fallen just underneath my dressing-room, grazing the
cornice, which it dragged down in its fall to the ground, where it burst
feebly. But what was our amazement to see a little crowd of children
swoop down on the burning pieces, just like a lot of sparrows on fresh
manure when the carriage has passed! The little vagabonds were
quarrelling over the _débris_ of these engines of warfare. I wondered
what they could possibly do with them.

"Oh, there is not much mystery about it," said Boyer; "these little
starving urchins will sell them."

This proved to be true. One of the men attendants, whom I sent to find
out, brought back with him a child of about ten years old.

"What are you going to do with that, my little man?" I asked him,
picking up the piece of shell, which was warm and still dangerous, on
the edge where it had burst.

"I am going to sell it," he replied.

"What for?"

"To buy my turn in the _queue when the meat is being distributed."

"But you risk your life, my poor child. Sometimes the shells come
quickly, one after the other. Where were you when this one fell?"

"Lying down on the stone of the wall that supports the iron railings."
He pointed across to the Luxembourg Gardens, opposite the stage entrance
to the Odéon.

We bought up all the _débris_ that the child had, without attempting to
give him advice which might have sounded wise. What was the use of
preaching wisdom to this poor little creature, who heard of nothing but
massacres, fire, revenge, retaliation, and all the rest of it, for the
sake of honour, for the sake of religion, for the sake of right?
Besides, how was it possible to keep out of the way? All the people
living in the Faubourg St. Germain were liable to be blown to pieces, as
the enemy very luckily could only bombard Paris on that side, and not at
every point. No; we were certainly in the most dangerous neighbourhood.

One day Baron Larrey came to see Frantz Mayer, who was very ill. He
wrote a prescription which a young errand boy was told to wait for and
bring back very, very quickly. As the boy was rather given to loitering,
I went to the window. His name was Victor, but we called him "Toto." The
druggist lived at the corner of the Place Medicis. It was then six
o'clock in the evening. Toto looked up, and on seeing me he began to
laugh and jump as he hurried to the druggist's. He had only five or six
more yards to go, and as he turned round to look up at my window I
clapped my hands and called out, "Good! Be quick back!" Alas! Before the
poor boy could open his mouth to reply he was cut in two by a shell
which had just fallen. It did not burst, but bounced a yard high, and
then struck poor Toto right in the middle of the chest. I uttered such a
shriek that every one came rushing to me. I could not speak, but pushed
every one aside and rushed downstairs, beckoning for some one to come
with me. "A litter"--"the boy"--"the druggist"--I managed to articulate.
Ah, what a horror, what an awful horror! When we reached the poor child
his intestines were all over the ground, his chest and his poor little
red chubby face had the flesh entirely taken off. He had neither eyes,
nose, nor mouth; nothing, nothing but some hair at the end of a
shapeless, bleeding mass, a yard away from his head. It was as though a
tiger had torn open the body with its claws and emptied it with fury and
a refinement of cruelty, leaving nothing but the poor little skeleton.

Baron Larrey, who was the best of men, turned slightly pale at this
sight. He saw plenty such, certainly, but this poor little fellow was a
quite useless holocaust. Ah, the injustice, the infamy of war! Will the
much dreamed of time never come when wars are no longer possible; when
the monarch who wants war will be dethroned and imprisoned as a
malefactor? Will the time never come when there will be a cosmopolitan
council, where a wise man of every country will represent his nation,
and where the rights of humanity will be discussed and respected? So
many men think as I do, so many women talk as I do, and yet nothing is
done. The pusillanimity of an Oriental, the ill-humour of a sovereign,
may still bring thousands of men face to face. And there will still be
men who are so learned, chemists who spend their time in dreaming about,
and inventing a powder to blow everything up, bombs that will wound
twenty or thirty men, guns repeating their deadly task until the bullets
fall, spent themselves, after having torn open ten or twelve human
breasts.

A man whom I liked very much was busy experimenting how to steer
balloons. To achieve that means a realisation of my dream, namely, to
fly in the air, to approach the sky, and have under one's feet the
moist, down-like clouds. Ah, how interested I was in my friend's
researches! One day, though, he came to me very much excited with a new
discovery.

"I have discovered something about which I am wild with delight!" he
said. He then began to explain to me that his balloon would be able to
carry inflammable matter without the least danger, thanks to this and
thanks to that.

"But what for?" I asked, bewildered by his explanations and half crazy
with so many technical words.

"What for?" he repeated; "why, for war!" he replied. "We shall be able
to fire and to throw terrible bombs to a distance of a thousand, twelve
hundred, and even fifteen hundred yards, and it would be impossible for
us to be harmed at such a distance. My balloons, thanks to a substance
which is my invention, with which the covering would be coated, would
have nothing to fear from fire nor yet from gas."

"I do not want to know anything more about you or your invention," I
said, interrupting him brusquely. "I thought you were a humane savant,
and you are a wild beast. Your researches were in connection with the
most beautiful manifestation of human genius, with those evolutions in
the sky which I loved so dearly. You want now to transform these into
cowardly attacks turned against the earth. You horrify me! Do go!"

With this I left my friend to himself and his cruel invention, ashamed
for a moment. His efforts have not succeeded, though, according to his
wishes.

The remains of the poor lad were put into a small coffin, and Madame
Guérard and I followed the pauper's hearse to the grave. The morning was
so cold that the driver had to stop and take a glass of hot wine, as
otherwise he might have died of congestion. We were alone in the
carriage, for the boy had been brought up by his grandmother, who could
not walk at all, and who knitted vests and stockings. It was through
going to order some vests and socks for my men that I had made the
acquaintance of Mère Tricottin, as she was called. At her request I had
engaged her grandson, Victor Durieux, as an errand boy, and the poor old
woman had been so grateful that I dared not go now to tell her of his
death.

Madame Guérard went for me to the Rue de Vaugirard, where the old woman
lived. As soon as she arrived the poor grandmother could see by her sad
face that something had happened.

"_Bon Dieu_, my dear Madame, is the poor little thin lady dead?" This
referred to me. Madame Guérard then told her, as gently as possible, the
sad news. The old woman took off her spectacles, looked at her visitor,
wiped them, and put them on her nose again. She then began to grumble
violently about her son, the father of the dead boy. He had taken up
with some low girl, by whom he had had this child, and she had always
foreseen that misfortune would come upon them through it.

She continued in this strain, not sorrowing for the poor boy, but
abusing her son, who was a soldier in the Army of the Loire.

Although the grandmother seemed to feel so little grief, I went to see
her after the funeral.

"It is all over, Madame Durieux," I said. "But I have secured the grave
for a period of five years for the poor boy."

She turned towards me, quite comic in her vexation.

"What madness!" she exclaimed. "Now that he's with the _bon Dieu_ he
won't want for anything. It would have been better to have taken a bit
of land that would have brought something in. Dead folks don't make
vegetables grow."

This outburst was so terribly logical that, in spite of the odious
brutality of it, I yielded to Mère Tricottin's desire, and gave her the
same present I had given to the boy. They should each have their bit of
land. The child, who had had a right to a longer life, should sleep his
eternal sleep in his, whilst the old woman could wrest from hers the
remainder of her life, for which death was lying in wait.

I returned to the ambulance, sad and unnerved. A joyful surprise was
awaiting me. A friend of mine was there, holding in his hand a very
small piece of tissue paper, on which were the following two lines in my
mother's handwriting: "We are all very well, and at Homburg." I was
furious on reading this. At Homburg? All my family at Homburg, settling
down tranquilly in the enemy's country. I racked my brains to think by
what extraordinary combination my mother had gone to Homburg. I knew
that my pretty Aunt Rosine had a lady friend there, with whom she stayed
every year, for she always spent two months at Homburg, two at
Baden-Baden, and one month at Spa, as she was the greatest gambler that
the _bon Dieu_ ever created. Anyhow, those who were so dear to me were
all well, and that was the important point. But I was nevertheless
annoyed with my mother for going to Homburg.

I heartily thanked the friend who had brought me the little slip of
paper. It was sent to me by the American Minister, who had put himself
to no end of trouble in order to give help and consolation to the
Parisians. I then gave him a few lines for my mother, in case he might
be able to send them to her.

The bombardment of Paris continued. One night the brothers from the
Ecole Chrétienne came to ask us for conveyances and help, in order to
collect the dead on the Châtillon Plateau. I let them have my two
conveyances, and I went with them to the battle-field. Ah, what a
terrible memory! It was like a scene from Dante! It was an icy-cold
night, and we could scarcely move along. Finally, by the light of
torches and lanterns, we saw that we had arrived. I got out of the
vehicle with the infirmary attendant and his assistant. We had to move
slowly, as at every step we trod upon the dying or the dead. We passed
along murmuring, "Ambulance! Ambulance!" When we heard a groan we turned
our steps in the direction whence it came. Ah, the first man that I
found in this way! He was half lying down, his body supported by a heap
of dead. I raised my lantern to look at his face, and found that his ear
and part of his jaw had been blown off. Great clots of blood, coagulated
by the cold, hung from his lower jaw. There was a wild look in his eyes.
I took a wisp of straw, dipped it in my flask, drew up a few drops of
brandy, and blew them into the poor fellow's mouth between his teeth. I
repeated this three or four times. A little life then came back to him,
and we took him away in one of the vehicles. The same thing was done for
the others. Some of them could drink from the flask, which made our work
shorter. One of these unfortunate men was frightful to look at. A shell
had taken all the clothes from the upper part of his body, with the
exception of two ragged sleeves, which hung from the arms at the
shoulders. There was no trace of a wound, but his poor body was marked
all over with great black patches, and the blood was oozing slowly from
the corners of his mouth. I went nearer to him, for it seemed to me that
he was breathing. I had a few drops of the vivifying cordial given to
him, and he then half opened his eyes and said, "Thank you." He was
lifted into the conveyance, but the poor fellow died from an attack of
haemorrhage, covering all the other wounded men with a stream of dark
blood.

Daylight gradually began to appear, a misty, dull dawn. The lanterns had
burnt out, but we could now distinguish each other. There were about a
hundred persons there: sisters of charity, military and civil male
hospital attendants, the brothers from the Ecole Chrétienne, other
priests, and a few ladies who, like myself, had given themselves up
heart and soul to the service of the wounded.

The sight was still more dismal by daylight, for all that the night had
hidden in the shadows appeared then in the tardy, wan light of that
January morning.

There were so many wounded that it was impossible to transport them all,
and I sobbed at the thought of my helplessness. Other vehicles kept
arriving, but there were so many wounded, so very many. A number of
those who had only slight wounds had died of cold.

On returning to the ambulance I met one of my friends at the door. He
was a naval officer, and he had brought me a sailor who had been wounded
at the fort of Ivry. He had been shot below the right eye. He was
entered as Désiré Bloas, boatswain's mate, age 27. He was a magnificent
fellow, very frank looking, and a man of few words. As soon as he was in
bed, Dr. Duchesne sent for a barber to shave him, as his bushy whiskers
had been ravaged by a bullet that had lodged itself in the salivary
gland, carrying with it hair and flesh into the wound. The surgeon took
up his pincers to extract the pieces of flesh which had stopped up the
opening of the wound. He then had to take some very fine pincers to
extract the hairs which had been forced in. When the barber laid his
razor very gently near the wound, the unfortunate man turned livid and
an oath escaped his lips. He immediately glanced at me and muttered,
"Pardon, Mademoiselle." I was very young, but I appeared much younger
than my age; I looked like a very young girl, in fact. I was holding the
poor fellow's hand in mine and trying to comfort him with the hundreds
of consoling words that spring from a woman's heart to her lips when she
has to soothe moral or physical suffering.

"Ah, Mademoiselle," said poor Bloas, when the wound was finally dressed,
"you gave me courage."

When he was more at his ease I asked him if he would like something to
eat.

"Yes," he replied.

"Well, my boy, would you like cheese, soup, or sweets?" asked Madame
Lambquin.

"Sweets," replied the powerful-looking fellow, smiling.

Désiré Bloas often talked to me about his mother, who lived near Brest.
He had a veritable adoration for this mother, but he seemed to have a
terrible grudge against his father, for one day, when I asked him
whether his father was still living, he looked up with his fearless eyes
and appeared to fix them on a being only visible to himself, as though
challenging him, with an expression of the most pitiful contempt. Alas!
the brave fellow was destined to a cruel end, but I will return to that
later.

The sufferings endured through the siege began to have their effect on
the _morale_ of the Parisians. Bread had just been rationed out: there
were to be 300 grammes for adults and 150 grammes for children. A silent
fury took possession of the people at this news. Women were the most
courageous, the men were excited. Quarrels grew bitter, for some wanted
war to the very death, and others wanted peace.

One day when I entered Frantz Mayer's room to take him his meal, he went
into the most ridiculous rage. He threw his piece of chicken down on the
ground, and declared that he would not eat anything, nothing more at
all, for they had deceived him by telling him that the Parisians had not
enough food to last two days before surrendering, and he had been in the
ambulance seventeen days now, and was having chicken. What the poor
fellow did not know was that I had bought about forty chickens and six
geese at the beginning of the siege, and I was feeding them up in my
dressing-room in the Rue de Rome. Oh, my dressing-room was very pretty
just then; but I let Frantz believe that all Paris was full of chickens,
ducks, geese, and other domestic bipeds.

The bombardment continued, and one night I had to have all my patients
transported to the Odéon cellars, for when Madame Guérard was helping
one of the sick men to get back into bed, a shell fell on the bed
itself, between her and the officer. It makes me shudder even now to
think that three minutes sooner the unfortunate man would have been
killed as he lay in bed, although the shell did not burst.

We could not stay long in the cellars. The water was getting deeper in
them, and rats tormented us. I therefore decided that the ambulance must
be moved, and I had the worst of the patients conveyed to the
Val-de-Grâce Hospital. I kept about twenty men who were on the road to
convalescence. I rented an immense empty flat for them at 58 Rue
Taitbout, and it was there that we awaited the armistice.

I was half dead with anxiety, as I had had no news from my own family
for a long time. I could not sleep, and had become the very shadow of my
former self.

Jules Favre was entrusted with the negotiations with Bismarck. Oh, those
two days of preliminaries! They were the most unnerving days of any for
the besieged. False reports were spread. We were told of the maddest and
most exorbitant demands on the part of the Germans, who certainly were
not tender to the vanquished.

There was a moment of stupor when we heard that we had to pay two
hundred million francs in cash immediately, for our finances were in
such a pitiful state that we shuddered at the idea that we might not be
able to make up the sum of two hundred millions.

Baron Alphonse de Rothschild, who was shut up in Paris with his wife and
brothers, gave his signature for the two hundred millions. This fine
deed was soon forgotten, and there are even people who gainsay it.

Ah, the ingratitude of the masses is a disgrace to civilised humanity!
"Ingratitude is the evil peculiar to the white races," said a Red-skin,
and he was right.

When we heard in Paris that the armistice was signed for twenty days, a
frightful sadness took possession of us all, even of those who most
ardently wished for peace.

Every Parisian felt on his cheek the hand of the conqueror. It was the
brand of shame, the blow given by the abominable treaty of peace.

Oh, that 31st of January 1871! I remember so well that I was anaemic
from privation, undermined by grief, tortured with anxiety about my
family, and I went out with Madame Guérard and two friends towards the
Parc Monceau. Suddenly one of my friends, M. de Plancy, turned as pale
as death. I looked to see what was the matter, and noticed a soldier
passing by. He had no weapons. Two others passed, and they also had no
weapons. And they were so pale too, these poor disarmed soldiers, these
humble heroes; there was such evident grief and hopelessness in their
very gait; and their eyes, as they looked at us women, seemed to say,
"It is not our fault!" It was all so pitiful, so touching. I burst out
sobbing, and went back home at once, for I did not want to meet any more
disarmed French soldiers.

I decided to set off now as quickly as possible in search of my family.
I asked Paul de Rémusat to get me an audience with M. Thiers, in order
to obtain from him a passport for leaving Paris. But I could not go
alone. I felt that the journey I was about to undertake was a very
dangerous one. M. Thiers and Paul de Rémusat had warned me of this. I
could see, therefore, that I should be constantly in the society of my
travelling companion, and on this account I decided not to take a
servant with me, but a friend. I very naturally went at once to Madame
Guérard. Her husband, gentle though he was, refused absolutely to let
her go with me, as he considered this expedition mad and dangerous. Mad
it certainly was, and dangerous too.

I did not insist, but I sent for my son's governess, Mlle. Soubise. I
asked her whether she would go with me, and did not attempt to conceal
from her any of the dangers of the journey. She jumped with joy, and
said she would be ready within twelve hours. This girl is at present the
wife of Commandant Monfils Chesneau. And how strange life is, for she is
now teaching the two daughters of my son, her former pupil.

Mlle. Soubise was then very young, and in appearance like a Creole. She
had very beautiful dark eyes, with a gentle, timid expression, and the
voice of a child. Her head, however, was full of adventure, romance, and
day-dreams. In appearance we might both have been taken for quite young
girls, for, although I was older than she was, my slenderness and my
face made me look younger. It would have been absurd to try to take a
trunk with us, so I took a bag for us both. We only had a change of
linen and some stockings. I had my revolver, and I offered one to Mlle.
Soubise, but she refused it with horror, and showed me an enormous pair
of scissors in an enormous case.

"But what are you going to do with them?" I asked.

"I shall kill myself if we are attacked," she replied.

I was surprised at the difference in our characters. I was taking a
revolver, determined to protect myself by killing others; she was
determined to protect herself by killing herself.




XVIII


A BOLD JOURNEY THROUGH THE GERMAN LINES


On February 4 we started on this journey, which was to have lasted three
days, and lasted eleven. At the first gate at which I presented myself
for leaving Paris I was sent back in the most brutal fashion.
Permissions to go outside the city had to be submitted for signature at
the German outposts. I went to another gate, but it was only at the
postern gate of Poissonniers that I could get my passport signed.

We were taken into a little shed which had been transformed into an
office. A Prussian general was seated there. He looked me up and down,
and then said:

"Are you Sarah Bernhardt?"

"Yes," I answered.

"And this young lady is with you?"

"Yes."

"And you think you are going to cross easily?"

"I hope so."

"Well then, you are mistaken, and you would do better to stay inside
Paris."

"No; I want to leave. I'll see myself what will happen, but I want to
leave."

He shrugged his shoulders, called an officer, said something I did not
understand in German, and then went out, leaving us alone without our
passports.

We had been there about a quarter of an hour when I suddenly heard a
voice I knew. It was that of one of my friends, René Griffon, who had
heard of my departure, and had come after me to try to dissuade me. The
trouble he had taken was all in vain, though, as I was determined to
leave. The general returned soon after, and Griffon was anxious to know
what might happen to us.

"Everything!" returned the officer. "And worse than everything!"

Griffon spoke German, and had a short colloquy with the officer about
us. This rather annoyed me, for, as I did not understand, I imagined
that he was urging the general to prevent us from starting. I
nevertheless resisted all persuasions, supplications, and even threats.
A few minutes later a well-appointed vehicle drew up at the door of the
shed.

"There you are!" said the German officer roughly. "I am sending you to
Gonesse, where you will find the provision train which starts in an
hour. I am recommending you to the care of the station-master, the
Commandant X. After that may God take care of you!"

I stepped into the general's carriage, and said farewell to my friend,
who was in despair. We arrived at Gonesse, and got out at the station,
where we saw a little group of people talking in low voices. The
coachman made me a military salute, refused what I wished to give him,
and drove away at full speed. I advanced towards the group, wondering to
whom I ought to speak, when a friendly voice exclaimed, "What, you here!
Where have you come from? Where are you going?" It was Villaret, the
tenor in vogue at the Opéra. He was going to his young wife, I believe,
of whom he had had no news for five months. He introduced one of his
friends, who was travelling with him, and whose name I do not remember;
General Pelissier's son, and a very old man, so pale, and so sad-looking
and woebegone, that I felt quite sorry for him. He was a M. Gerson, and
was going to Belgium to take his grandson to his godmother's. His two
sons had been killed during this pitiful war. One of the sons was
married, and his wife had died of sorrow and despair. He was taking the
orphan boy to his godmother, and he hoped to die himself as soon as
possible afterwards.

Ah, the poor fellow, he was only fifty-nine then, and he was so cruelly
ravaged by his grief that I took him for seventy.

Besides these five persons, there was an unbearable chatterer named
Théodore Joussian, a wine dealer. Oh, he did not require any
introduction.

"How do you do, Madame?" he began. "How fortunate that you are going to
travel with us. Ah, the journey will be a difficult one. Where are you
going? Two women alone! It is not at all prudent, especially as all the
routes are crowded with German and French sharpshooters, marauders, and
thieves. Oh, haven't I demolished some of those German sharpshooters!
Sh----We must speak quietly, though; these sly fellows are very quick of
hearing!" He then pointed to the German officers who were walking up and
down. "Ah, the rascals!" he went on. "If I had my uniform and my gun
they would not walk so boldly in front of Théodore Joussian. I have no
fewer than six helmets at home...."

The man got on my nerves, and I turned my back on him and looked to see
which of the men before me could be the station-master.

A tall young German, with his arm in a sling, came towards me with an
open letter. It was the one which the general's coachman had handed to
him, recommending me to his care. He held out his sound arm to me, but I
refused it. He bowed and led the way, and I followed him, accompanied by
Mlle. Soubise.

On arriving in his office he gave us seats at a little table, upon which
knives and forks were placed for two persons. It was then three o'clock
in the afternoon, and we had had nothing, not even a drop of water,
since the evening before. I was very much touched by this
thoughtfulness, and we did honour to the very simple but refreshing meal
offered us by the young officer.

Whilst we lunched I looked at him when he was not noticing me. He was
very young, and his face bore traces of recent suffering. I felt a
compassionate tenderness for this unfortunate man, who was crippled for
life, and my hatred for war increased still more.

He suddenly said to me, in rather bad French, "I think I can give you
news of one of your friends."

"What is his name?" I asked.

"Emmanuel Bocher."

"Oh yes, he is certainly a great friend of mine. How is he?"

"He is still a prisoner, but he is very well."

"But I thought he had been released," I said.

"Some of those who were taken with him were released, on giving their
word never to take up arms against us again, but he refused to give his
word."

"Oh, the brave soldier!" I exclaimed, in spite of myself.

The young German looked at me with his clear sad eyes.

"Yes," he said simply, "the brave soldier!"

When we had finished our luncheon I rose to return to the other
travellers.

"The compartment reserved for you will not be here for two hours," said
the young officer. "If you would like to rest, ladies, I will come for
you at the right time." He went away, and before long I was sound
asleep. I was nearly dead with fatigue.

Mlle. Soubise touched me on the shoulder to rouse me. The train was
ready to start, and the young officer walked with me to it. I was a
little amazed when I saw the carriage in which I was to travel. It had
no roof, and was filled with coal. The officer had several empty sacks
put in, one on the top of the other, to make our seats less hard. He
sent for his officer's cloak, begging me to take it with us and send it
him back, but I refused this odious disguise most energetically. It was
a deadly cold day, but I preferred dying of cold to muffling up in a
cloak belonging to the enemy.

The whistle was blown, the wounded officer saluted, and the train
started. There were Prussian soldiers in the carriages. The
subordinates, the employés, and the soldiers were just as brutish and
rude as the German officers were polite and courteous.

The train stopped without any plausible reason, it started again to stop
again, and it then stood still for an hour on this icy-cold night. On
arriving at Creil, the stoker, the engine-driver, the soldiers, and
every one else got out. I watched all these men, whistling, bawling to
each other, spitting, and bursting into laughter as they pointed to us.
Were they not the conquerors and we the conquered?

At Creil we stayed more than two hours. We could hear the distant sound
of foreign music and the hurrahs of Germans who were making merry. All
this hubbub came from a white house about five hundred yards away. We
could distinguish the outlines of human beings locked in each other's
arms, waltzing and turning round and round in a giddy revel.

It began to get on my nerves, for it seemed likely to continue until
daylight.

I got out with Villaret, intending at any rate to stretch my limbs. We
went towards the white house, and then, as I did not want to tell him my
plan, I asked him to wait there for me.

Very fortunately, though, for me, I had not time to cross the threshold
of this vile lodging-house, for an officer, smoking a cigarette, was
just coming out of a small door. He spoke to me in German.

"I am French," I replied, and he then came up to me, speaking my
language, for they could all talk French.

He asked me what I was doing there. My nerves were overstrung. I told
him feverishly of our lamentable Odyssey since our departure from
Gonesse, and finally of our waiting two hours in an icy-cold carriage
while the stokers, engine-drivers, and conductors were all dancing in
this house.

"But I had no idea that there were passengers in those carriages, and it
was I who gave permission to these men to dance and drink. The guard of
the train told me that he was taking cattle and goods, and that he did
not need to arrive before eight in the morning, and I believed him----"

"Well, Monsieur," I said, "the only cattle in the train are the eight
French passengers, and I should be very much obliged if you would give
orders that the journey should be continued."

"Make your mind easy about that, Madame," he replied. "Will you come in
and rest? I am here just now on a round of inspection, and am staying
for a few days in this inn. You shall have a cup of tea, and that will
refresh you."

I told him that I had a friend waiting for me in the road and a lady in
the railway carriage.

"But that makes no difference," he said. "Let us go and fetch them."

A few minutes later we found poor Villaret seated on a milestone. His
head was on his knees, and he was asleep. I asked him to fetch Mlle.
Soubise.

"And if your other travelling companions will come and take a cup of tea
they will be welcome," said the officer. I went back with him, and we
entered by the little door through which I had seen him come out. It was
a fairly large room which we entered, on a level with the meadow; there
were some mats on the floor, a very low bed, and an enormous table, on
which were two large maps of France. One of these was studded over with
pins and small flags. There was also a portrait of the Emperor William,
mounted and fastened up with four pins. All this belonged to the
officer.

On the chimney-piece, under an enormous glass shade, were a bride's
wreath, a military medal, and a plait of white hair. On each side of the
glass shade was a china vase containing a branch of box. All this,
together with the table and the bed, belonged to the landlady, who had
given up her room to the officer.

There were five cane chairs round the table, a velvet arm-chair, and a
wooden bench covered with books against the wall. A sword and belt were
lying on the table, and two horse-pistols.

I was philosophising to myself on all these heterogeneous objects, when
the others arrived: Mlle. Soubise, Villaret, young Gerson, and that
unbearable Théodore Joussian. (I hope he will forgive me if he is living
now, poor man, but the thought of him still irritates me.)

The officer had some boiling hot tea made for us, and it was a veritable
treat, as we were exhausted with hunger and cold.

When the door was opened for the tea to be brought in Théodore Joussian
caught a glimpse of the throng of girls, soldiers, and other people.

"Ah, my friends," he exclaimed, with a burst of laughter, "we are at His
Majesty William's; there is a reception on, and it's _chic_--I can tell
you that!" With this he smacked his tongue twice. Villaret reminded him
that we were the guests of a German, and that it was preferable to be
quiet.

"That's enough, that's enough!" he replied, lighting a cigarette.

A frightful uproar of oaths and shouts now took the place of the
deafening sound of the orchestra, and the incorrigible Southerner half
opened the door.

I could see the officer giving orders to two sub-officers, who in their
turn separated the groups, seizing the stoker, the engine-driver, and
the other men belonging to the train, so roughly that I was sorry for
them. They were kicked in the back, they received blows with the flat of
the sword on the shoulder; a blow with the butt end of a gun knocked the
guard of the train down. He was the ugliest brute, though, that I have
ever seen. All these people were sobered in a few seconds, and went back
towards our carriage with a hang-dog look and a threatening mien.

We followed them, but I did not feel any too satisfied as to what might
happen to us on the way with this queer lot. The officer evidently had a
similar idea, for he ordered one of the sub-officers to accompany us as
far as Amiens. This sub-officer got into our carriage, and we set off
again. We arrived at Amiens at six in the morning. Daylight had not yet
succeeded in piercing through the night clouds. Light rain was falling,
which was hardened by the cold. There was not a carriage to be had, not
even a porter. I wanted to go to the Hôtel du Cheval-Blanc, but a man
who happened to be there said to me: "It's no use, my little lady;
there's no room there, even for a lath like you. Go to the house over
there with a balcony; they can put some people up."

With these words he turned his back on me. Villaret had gone off without
saying a word. M. Gerson and his grandson had disappeared silently in a
covered country cart hermetically closed. A stout, ruddy, thick-set
matronly woman was waiting for them, but the coachman looked as though
he were in the service of well-to-do people. General Pelissier's son,
who had not uttered a word since we had left Gonesse, had disappeared
like a ball from the hands of a conjurer.

Théodore Joussian politely offered to accompany us, and I was so weary
that I accepted his offer. He picked up our bag and began to walk at
full speed, so that we had difficulty in keeping up with him. He was so
breathless with the walk that he could not talk, which was a great
relief to me.

Finally we arrived at the house and entered, but my horror was great on
seeing that the hall of the hotel had been transformed into a dormitory.
We could scarcely walk between the mattresses laid down on the ground,
and the grumbling of the people was by no means promising.

When once we were in the office a young girl in mourning told us that
there was not a room vacant. I sank down on a chair, and Mlle. Soubise
leaned against the wall with her arms hanging down, looking most
dejected.

The odious Joussian then yelled out that they could not let two women as
young as we were be out in the street all night. He went to the
proprietress of the hotel and said something quietly about me. I do not
know what it was, but I heard my name distinctly. The young woman in
mourning then looked up with moist eyes.

"My brother was a poet," she said. "He wrote a very pretty sonnet about
you after seeing you play in _Le Passant_ more than ten times. He took
me, too, to see you, and I enjoyed myself so much that night. It is all
over, though." She lifted her hands towards her head and sobbed, trying
to stifle back her cries. "It's all over!" she repeated. "He is dead!
They have killed him! It is all over! All over!"

I got up, moved to the depth of my being by this terrible grief. I put
my arms round her and kissed her, crying myself, and whispering to her
words of comfort and hope.

Calmed by my words and touched by my sisterliness, she wiped her eyes,
and taking my hand, led me gently away. Soubise followed. I signed to
Joussian in an authoritative way to stay where he was, and we went up
the two flights of stairs of the hotel in silence. At the end of a
narrow corridor she opened a door. We found ourselves in rather a big
room, reeking with the smell of tobacco. A small night-lamp, placed on a
little table by the bed, was the only light in this large room. The
wheezing respiration of a human breast disturbed the silence. I looked
towards the bed, and by the faint light from the little lamp I saw a man
half seated, propped up by a heap of pillows. The man was aged-looking
rather than really old. His beard and hair were white, and his face bore
traces of suffering. Two large furrows were formed from the eyes to the
corners of the mouth. What tears must have rolled down that poor
emaciated face!

The girl went quietly towards the bed, signed to us to come inside the
room, and then shut the door. We walked across on tiptoes to the far end
of the room, our arms stretched out to maintain our equilibrium. I sat
down with precaution on a large Empire couch, and Soubise took a seat
beside me. The man in bed half opened his eyes.

"What is it, my child?" he asked.

"Nothing, father; nothing serious," she replied. "I wanted to tell you,
so that you should not be surprised when you woke up. I have just given
hospitality in our room to two ladies who are here."

He turned his head in an annoyed way, and tried to look at us at the end
of the room.

"The lady with fair hair," continued the girl, "is Sarah Bernhardt, whom
Lucien liked so much, you remember?"

The man sat up, and shading his eyes with his hand peered at us. I went
near to him. He gazed at me silently, and then made a gesture with his
hand. His daughter understood the gesture, and brought him an envelope
from a small bureau. The unhappy father's hands trembled as he took it.
He drew out slowly three sheets of paper and a photograph. He fixed his
gaze on me and then on the portrait.

"Yes, yes; it certainly is you, it certainly is you," he murmured.

I recognised my photograph, taken in _Le Passant_, smelling a rose.

"You see," said the poor man, his eyes veiled by tears, "you were this
child's idol. These are the lines he wrote about you."

He then read me, in his quavering voice, with a slight Picardian accent,
a very pretty sonnet, which he refused to give me. He then unfolded a
second paper, on which some verses to Sarah Bernhardt were scrawled. The
third paper was a sort of triumphant chant, celebrating all our
victories over the enemy.

"The poor fellow still hoped, until he was killed," said the father. "He
has only been dead five weeks. He had three shots in his head. The first
shattered his jaw, but he did not fall. He continued firing on the
scoundrels like a man possessed. The second took his ear off, and the
third struck him in his right eye. He fell then, never to rise again.
His comrade told us all this. He was twenty-two years old. And now--it's
all over!"

The unhappy man's head fell back on the heap of pillows. His two inert
hands had let the papers fall, and great tears rolled down his pale
cheeks, in the furrows formed by grief. A stifled groan burst from his
lips. The girl had fallen on her knees, and buried her head in the
bed-clothes, to deaden the sound of her sobs. Soubise and I were
completely upset. Ah! those stifled sobs, those deadened groans seemed
to buzz in my ears, and I felt everything giving way under me. I
stretched my hands out into space and closed my eyes.

Soon there was a distant rumbling noise, which increased and came
nearer; then yells of pain, bones knocking against each other, the dull
sound of horses' feet dashing out human brains; armed men passed by like
a destructive whirlwind, shouting, "_Vive la guerre!_" And women on
their knees, with outstretched arms, crying out, "War is infamous! In
the name of our wombs which bore you, of our breasts which suckled you,
in the name of our pain in childbirth, in the name of our anguish over
your cradles, let this cease!"

But the savage whirlwind passed by, riding over the women. I stretched
my arms out in a supreme effort which woke me suddenly. I was lying in
the girl's bed. Mlle. Soubise, who was near me, was holding my hand. A
man whom I did not know, but whom some one called doctor, laid me gently
down again on the bed. I had some difficulty in collecting my thoughts.

"How long have I been here?" I asked.

"Since last night," replied the gentle voice of Soubise. "You fainted,
and the doctor told us that you had an attack of fever. Oh, I have been
very frightened!"

I turned my face to the doctor.

"Yes, dear lady," he said. "You must be very prudent now for the next
forty-eight hours, and then you may set out again. But you have had a
great many shocks for one with such delicate health. You must take
care."

I took the draught that he was holding out to me, apologised to the
owner of the house, who had just come in, and then turned round with my
face to the wall. I needed rest so very, very much.

Two days later I left our sad but kindly hosts. My travelling companions
had all disappeared. When I went downstairs I kept meeting Prussians,
for the unfortunate proprietor had been invaded compulsorily by the
German army. He looked at each soldier and at every officer, trying to
find out whether he were not in presence of the one who had killed his
poor boy. He did not tell me this, but it was my idea. It seemed to me
that such was his thought and such the meaning of his gaze.

In the vehicle in which I drove to the station the kind man had put a
basket of food. He also gave me a copy of the sonnet and a tracing of
his son's photograph.

I left the desolate couple with the deepest emotion, and I kissed the
girl on taking our departure. Soubise and I did not exchange a word on
our journey to the railway station, but we were both preoccupied with
the same distressing thoughts.

At the station we found that the Germans were masters there too. I asked
for a first-class compartment to ourselves, or for a _coupé_, whatever
they liked, provided we were alone.

I could not make myself understood.

I saw a man, oiling the wheels of the carriages, who looked to me like a
Frenchman. I was not mistaken. He was an old man who had been kept on,
partly out of charity and partly because he knew every nook and corner,
and, being Alsatian, spoke German. This good man took me to the booking
office, and explained my wish to have a first-class compartment to
myself. The man who had charge of the ticket office burst out laughing.
There was neither first nor second class, he said. It was a German
train, and I should have to travel like every one else. The wheel-oiler
turned purple with rage, which he quickly suppressed. (He had to keep
his place. His consumptive wife was nursing their son, who had just been
sent home from the hospital with his leg cut off and the wound not yet
healed up. There were so many in the hospital.) All this he told me as
he took me to the station-master. The latter spoke French very well, but
he was not at all like the other German officers I had met.

He scarcely saluted me, and when I expressed my desire he replied
curtly:

"It is impossible. Two places shall be reserved for you in the officers'
carriage."

"But that is what I want to avoid," I exclaimed. "I do not want to
travel with German officers."

"Well then, you shall be put with German soldiers," he growled angrily,
and, putting on his hat, he went out slamming the door. I remained
there, amazed and confused by the insolence of this ignoble brute. I
turned so pale, it appears, and the blue of my eyes became so clear,
that Soubise, who was acquainted with my fits of anger, was very much
alarmed.

"Do be calm, Madame, I implore!" she said. "We are two women alone in
the midst of hostile people. If they liked to harm us they could, and we
must accomplish the aim and object of our journey; we must see little
Maurice again."

She was very clever, this charming Mlle. Soubise, and her little speech
had the desired effect. To see the child again was my aim and object. I
calmed down, and vowed that I would not allow myself to get angry during
this journey, which promised to be fertile in incidents, and I almost
kept my word. I left the station-master's office, and found the poor
Alsatian waiting at the door. I gave him a couple of louis, which he hid
away quickly, and then shook my hand as though he would shake it off.
"You ought not to have that so visible, Madame," he said, pointing to
the little bag I had hanging at my side, "it is very dangerous."

I thanked him, but did not pay any attention to his advice. As the train
was about to start we entered the only first-class compartment there
was; in it were two young German officers. They saluted, and I took this
as a good omen. The train whistled, and I thought what good luck we had,
as no one else would get in! Well, the wheels had not turned round ten
times when the door opened violently and five German officers leaped
into our carriage.

We were nine then, and what torture it was! The station-master waved a
farewell to one of the officers, and both of them burst out laughing as
they looked at us. I glanced at the station-master's friend. He was a
surgeon-major, and was wearing the ambulance badge on his sleeve. His
wide face was congested, and a ring of sandy bushy beard surrounded the
lower part of it. Two little bright, light-coloured eyes in perpetual
movement lit up this ruddy face and gave him a sly look. He was
broad-shouldered and thick-set, and gave one the idea of having strength
without nerves. The horrid man was still laughing when the station and
its master were far away from us, but what the other one had said was
evidently very droll.

I was in a corner seat, with Soubise opposite me. A young German officer
sat beside me, and the other young officer was next to my friend. They
were both very gentle and polite, and one of them was quite delightful
in his youthful charm.

The surgeon-major took off his helmet. He was very bald, and had a very
small, stubborn-looking forehead. He began to talk in a loud voice to
the other officers.

Our two young bodyguards took very little part in the conversation.
Among the others was a tall, affected young man, whom they addressed as
baron. He was slender, very elegant, and very strong. When he saw that
we did not understand German he spoke to us in English. But Soubise was
too timid to answer, and I speak English very badly. He therefore
resigned himself regretfully to talking French.

He was agreeable, too agreeable; he certainly had not bad manners, but
he was deficient in tact. I made him understand this by turning my face
towards the scenery we were passing.

We were very much absorbed in our thoughts, and had been travelling for
a long time, when I suddenly felt suffocated by smoke which was filling
the carriage. I looked round, and saw that the surgeon-major had lighted
his pipe, and, with his eyes half closed, was sending up puffs of smoke
to the ceiling.

My eyes were smarting, and I was choking with indignation, so much so
that I was seized with a fit of coughing, which I exaggerated in order
to attract the attention of the impolite man. The baron, however,
slapped him on the knee and endeavoured to make him comprehend that the
smoke inconvenienced me. He answered by an insult which I did not
understand, shrugged his shoulders, and continued to smoke. Exasperated
by this, I lowered the window on my side. The intense cold made itself
felt in the carriage, but I preferred that to the nauseous smoke of the
pipe. Suddenly the surgeon-major got up, putting his hand to his ear,
which I then saw was filled with cotton-wool. He swore like an
ox-driver, and, pushing past every one and stepping on my feet and on
Soubise's, he shut the window violently, cursing and swearing all the
time quite uselessly, for I did not understand him. He went back to his
seat, continued his pipe, and sent out enormous clouds of smoke in the
most insolent way. The baron and the two young Germans who had been the
first in the carriage appeared to ask him something and then to
remonstrate with him, but he evidently told them to mind their own
business and began to abuse them. Very much calmer myself on seeing the
increasing anger of the disagreeable man, and very much amused by his
earache, I again opened the window. He got up again, furious, showed me
his ear and his swollen cheek, and I caught the word "periostitis" in
the explanation he gave me on shutting the window again and threatening
me. I then made him understand that I had a weak chest, and that the
smoke made me cough.

The baron acted as my interpreter, and explained this to him; but it was
easy to see that he did not care a bit about that, and he once more took
up his favourite attitude and his pipe. I left him in peace for five
minutes, during which time he was able to imagine himself triumphant,
and then with a sudden jerk of my elbow I broke the pane of glass.
Stupefaction was depicted on the major's face, and he became livid. He
got straight up, but the two young men rose at the same time, whilst the
baron burst out laughing in the most brutal manner.

The surgeon moved a step in our direction, but he found a rampart before
him; another officer had joined the two young men, and he was a strong,
hardy-looking fellow, just cut out for an obstacle. I do not know what
he said to the surgeon-major, but it was something clear and decisive.
The latter, not knowing how to expend his anger, turned on the baron,
who was still laughing, and abused him so violently that the latter
calmed down suddenly and answered in such a way that I quite understood
the two men were calling each other out. That affected me but little,
anyhow. They might very well kill each other, these two men, for they
were equally ill-mannered.

The carriage was now quiet and icy-cold, for the wind blew in wildly
through the broken pane. The sun had set. The sky was getting cloudy. It
was about half-past five, and we were approaching Tergnier. The major
had changed seats with his friend, in order to shelter his ear as much
as possible. He kept moaning like a half-dead cow.

Suddenly the repeated whistling of a distant locomotive made us listen
attentively. We then heard two, three, and four crackers bursting under
our wheels. We could perfectly well feel the efforts the engine-driver
was making to slacken speed, but before he could succeed we were thrown
against each other by a frightful shock. There were cracks and creaks,
the hiccoughs of the locomotive spitting out its smoke in irregular
fits, desperate cries, shouts, oaths, sudden downfalls, a lull, then a
thick smoke, broken by the flames of a fire. Our carriage was standing
up, like a horse kicking up its hind legs. It was impossible to get our
balance again.

Who was wounded and who was not wounded? We were nine in the
compartment. For my part, I fancied that all my bones were broken. I
moved one leg and then I tried the other. Then, delighted at finding
them unbroken, I tried my arms in the same way. I had nothing broken,
and neither had Soubise. She had bitten her tongue, and it was bleeding,
and this had frightened me. She did not seem to understand anything. The
tremendous shaking had made her dizzy, and she lost her memory for some
days. I had a rather deep scratch between my eyes. I had not had time to
stretch out my arms, and my forehead had knocked against the hilt of the
sword which the officer seated by Soubise had been holding upright.

Assistance arrived from all sides.

For some time the door of our compartment could not be opened.

Darkness had come on when it finally yielded, and a lantern shone feebly
on our poor broken-up carriage.

I looked round for our one bag, but on finding it I let it go
immediately, for my hand was red with blood. Whose blood was it?

Three men did not move, and one of them was the major. His face looked
to me livid. I closed my eyes, in order not to know, and I let the man
who had come to our aid pull me out of the compartment. One of the young
officers got out after me. He took Soubise, who was almost in a fainting
condition, from his friend. The imbecile baron then got out; his
shoulder was out of joint. A doctor came forward among the rescuers. The
baron held his arm out to him, telling him at the same time to pull it,
which he did at once. The French doctor took off the officer's cloak,
told two of the railway-men to hold him, and then, pushing against him
himself, pulled at the poor arm. The baron was very pale, and gave a low
whistle. When the arm was back in its place, the doctor shook the
baron's other hand. "Cristi!" he said, "I must have hurt you very much.
You are most courageous." The German saluted, and I helped him on again
with his cloak.

The doctor was then fetched away, and I saw that he was taken back to
our compartment. I shuddered in spite of myself. We were now able to
find out what had been the cause of our accident. A locomotive attached
to two vans of coal had been shunting on to a side line in order to let
us pass, when one of the vans got off the rails, and the locomotive
tired its lungs with whistling the alarm, whilst men ran to meet us,
scattering crackers. Everything had been in vain, and we had run against
the overturned van.

What were we to do? The roads, softened by the recent wet weather, were
all broken up by the cannons. We were about four miles from Tergnier,
and a thin penetrating rain was making our clothes stick to our bodies.

There were four carriages, but they were for the wounded. Other
carriages would come, but there were the dead to be carried away. An
improvised litter was just being borne along by two workmen. The major
was lying on it, so livid that I clenched my hands until my nails
entered the flesh. One of the officers wanted to question the doctor who
was following.

"Oh no!" I exclaimed. "Please, please do not. I do not want to know. The
poor fellow!"

I stopped my ears, as though some one was about to shout out something
horrible to me, and I never knew his fate.

We were obliged to resign ourselves to setting out on foot. We went
about two kilometres as bravely as possible, and then I stopped, quite
exhausted. The mud which clung to our shoes made these very heavy. The
effort we had to make at every step to get our feet out of the mire
tired us out. I sat down on a milestone, and declared that I would not
go any farther.

My sweet companion wept: the two young German officers who had acted as
bodyguards made a seat for me by crossing their hands, and so we went
nearly another mile. My companion could not walk any farther. I offered
her my place, but she refused it.

"Well then, let us wait here!" I said, and, quite at the end of our
strength, we rested against a little broken tree.

It was now night, and such a cold night!

Soubise and I huddled close together, trying to keep each other warm. I
began to fall asleep, seeing before my eyes the wounded men of
Châtillon, who had died seated against the little shrubs. I did not want
to move again, and the torpor seemed to me thoroughly delicious.

A cart passed by, however, on its way to Tergnier. One of the young men
hailed it, and when a price was agreed upon I felt myself picked up from
the ground, lifted into the vehicle, and carried along by the jerky,
rolling movement of two loose wheels, which climbed the hills, sank into
the mire, and jumped over the heaps of stones, whilst the driver whipped
up his beasts and urged them on with his voice. He had a "don't care,
let what will happen" way of driving, which was characteristic of those
days.

I was aware of all this in my semi-sleep, for I was not really asleep,
but I did not want to answer any questions. I gave myself up to this
prostration of my whole being with a certain amount of enjoyment.

A rough jerk, however, indicated that we had arrived at Tergnier. The
cart had drawn up at the hotel, and we had to get out. I pretended to be
still sleeping heavily. But it was no use, for I had to wake up. The two
young men helped me up to my room.

I asked Soubise to arrange about the payment of the cart before the
departure of our excellent young companions, who were sorry to leave us.
I signed for each of them a voucher, on a sheet of the hotel paper, for
a photograph. Only one of them ever claimed it. This was six years
later, and I sent it to him.

The Tergnier hotel could only give us one room. I let Soubise go to bed,
and I slept in an arm-chair, dressed as I was.

The following morning I asked about a train for Cateau, but was told
that there was no train.

We had to work marvels to procure a vehicle, but finally Dr. Meunier, or
Mesnier, agreed to lend us a two-wheeled conveyance. That was something,
but there was no horse. The poor doctor's horse had been requisitioned
by the enemy. A wheelwright for an exorbitant price let me have a colt
that had never been in the shafts, and which went wild when the harness
was put on. The poor little beast calmed down after being well lashed,
but his wildness then changed into stubbornness. He stood still on his
four legs, which were trembling furiously, and refused to move. With his
neck stretched towards the ground, his eye fixed, and his nostrils
dilating, he would not budge any more than a stake in the earth. Two men
then held the light carriage back; the halter was taken off the colt's
neck; he shook his head for an instant, and, thinking himself free and
without any impediments, began to advance. The men were scarcely holding
the vehicle. He gave two little kicks, and then began to trot. Oh, it
was only a very short trot. A boy then stopped him, some carrots were
given to him, his mane was stroked, and the halter was put on again. He
stopped suddenly, but the boy, jumping into the gig and holding the
reins lightly, spoke to him and encouraged him to move on. The colt, not
feeling any resistance, began to trot along for about a quarter of an
hour, and then came back to us at the door of the hotel. I had to leave
a deposit of four hundred francs with the notary of the place, in case
the colt should die.

Ah, what a journey that was with the boy, Soubise, and me sitting close
together in that little gig, the wheels of which creaked at every jolt!
The unhappy colt was steaming like a _pot-au-feu_ when the lid is
raised. We started at eleven in the morning, and when we had to stop,
because the poor beast could not go any farther, it was five in the
afternoon, and we had not gone five miles. Oh, that poor colt, he was
certainly to be pitied! We were not very heavy, all three of us
together, but we were too much for him. We were just a few yards away
from a sordid-looking house. I knocked, and an old woman, enormous in
size, opened the door.

"What do you want?" She asked.

"Hospitality for an hour and shelter for our horse."

She looked out on to the road and saw our turn-out.

"Hey, father!" She called out in a husky voice, "come and look here!"

A stout man, quite as stout as she was, but older, came hobbling heavily
along. She pointed to the gig, so oddly equipped, and he burst out
laughing and said to me in an insolent way:

"Well, what do you want?"

I repeated my phrase: "Hospitality for an hour," &c. &c.

"Perhaps we can do it, but it'll want paying for."

I showed him twenty francs. The old woman gave him a nudge.

"Oh, but in these times, you know, it's well worth forty francs."

"Very good," I said, "agreed; forty francs."

He then let me go inside the house with Mlle. Soubise, and sent his son
towards the boy, who was coming along holding the colt by his mane. He
had taken off the halter very considerately and thrown my rug over its
steaming sides. On reaching the house the poor beast was quickly
unharnessed and taken into a little enclosure, at the far end of which a
few badly-joined planks served as a stable for an old mule, which was
aroused by the fat woman with kicks and turned out into the enclosure.
The colt took its place, and when I asked for some oats for it she
replied:

"Perhaps we could get it some, but that isn't included in the forty
francs."

"Very well," I said, and I gave our boy five francs to fetch the oats,
but the old shrew took the money from him and handed it to her lad,
saying:

"You go; you know where to find them, and come back quick."

Our boy remained with the colt, drying it and rubbing it down as well as
he could. I went back to the house, where I found my charming Soubise
with her sleeves turned up and her delicate hands washing two glasses
and two plates for us. I asked if it would be possible to have some
eggs.

"Yes, but--"

I interrupted our monstrous hostess.

"Don't tire yourself, Madame, I beg," I said. "It is understood that the
forty francs are your tip, and that I am to pay for everything else."

She was confused for a moment, shaking her head and trying to find
words, but I asked her to give me the eggs. She brought me five eggs,
and I began to make an omelette, as my culinary glory is an omelette.

The water was nauseous, so we drank cider. I sent for the boy and made
them serve him something to eat in our presence, for I was afraid that
the ogress would give him too economical a meal.

When I paid the fabulous bill of seventy-five francs, inclusive of
course of the forty francs, the matron put on her spectacles, and taking
one of the gold pieces, looked at it on one side, then on the other,
made it ring on a plate and then on the ground. She did this with each
of the three gold pieces. I could not help laughing.

"Oh, there's nothing to laugh at," she grunted. "For the last six months
we've had nothing but thieves here."

"And you know something about theft!" I said.

She looked at me, trying to make out what I meant, but the laughing
expression in my eyes took away her suspicions. This was very fortunate,
as they were people capable of doing us harm. I had taken the
precaution, when sitting down to table, of putting my revolver near me.

"You know how to fire that?" asked the lame man.

"Oh yes, I shoot very well," I answered, though it was not true.

Our steed was then put in again in a few seconds, and we proceeded on
our way. The colt appeared to be quite joyful. He stamped, kicked a
little, and began to go at a pretty steady pace.

Our disagreeable hosts had indicated the way to St. Quentin, and we set
off, after our poor colt had made various attempts at standing still. I
was dead tired and fell asleep, but after about an hour the vehicle
stopped abruptly and the wretched beast began to snort and put his back
up, supporting himself on his four stiff, trembling legs.

It had been a gloomy day, and a lowering sky full of tears seemed to be
falling slowly over the earth. We had stopped in the middle of a field
which had been ploughed up all over by the heavy wheels of cannons. The
rest of the ground had been trampled by horses' feet and the cold had
hardened the little ridges of earth, leaving icicles here and there,
which glittered dismally in the thick atmosphere.

We got down from the vehicle, to try to discover what was making our
little animal tremble in this way. I gave a cry of horror, for, only
about five yards away, some dogs were pulling wildly at a dead body,
half of which was still underground. It was a soldier, and fortunately
one of the enemy. I took the whip from our young driver and lashed the
horrid animals as hard as I could. They moved away for a second, showing
their teeth, and then returned to their voracious and abominable work,
growling sullenly at us.

Our boy got down and led the snorting pony by the bridle. We went on
with some difficulty, trying to find the road in these devastated
plains.

Darkness came over us, and it was icy cold.

The moon feebly pushed aside her veils and shone over the landscape with
a wan, sad light. I was half dead with fright. It seemed to me that the
silence was broken by cries from underground, and every little mound of
earth appeared to me to be a head.

Mlle. Soubise was crying, with her face hidden in her hands. After going
along for half an hour, we saw in the distance a little group of people
coming along carrying lanterns. I went towards them, as I wanted to find
out which way to go. I was embarrassed on getting nearer to them, for I
could hear sobs. I saw a poor woman, who was very corpulent, being
helped along by a young priest. The whole of her body was shaken by her
fits of grief. She was followed by two sub-officers and by three other
persons. I let her pass by, and then questioned those who were following
her. I was told that she was looking for the bodies of her husband and
son, who had both been killed a few days before on the St. Quentin
plains. She came each day at dusk, in order to avoid general curiosity,
but she had not yet met with any success. It was hoped that she would
find them this time, as one of these sub-officers, who had just left the
hospital, was taking her to the spot where he had seen the poor woman's
husband fall, mortally wounded. He had fallen there himself, and had
been picked up by the ambulance people.

I thanked these persons, who showed me the sad road we must take, the
best one there was, through the cemetery, which was still warm under the
ice.

We could now distinguish groups of people searching about, and it was
all so horrible that it made me want to scream out.

Suddenly the boy who was driving us pulled my coat-sleeve.

"Oh, Madame," he said, "look at that scoundrel stealing."

I looked, and saw a man lying down full length, with a large bag near
him. He had a dark lantern, which he held towards the ground. He then
got up, looked round him, for his outline could be seen distinctly on
the horizon, and began his work again.

When he caught sight of us he put out his lamp and crouched down on the
ground. We walked on in silence straight towards him. I took the colt by
the bridle, on the other side, and the boy no doubt understood what I
intended to do, for he let me lead the way. I walked straight towards
the man, pretending not to know he was there. The colt backed, but we
pulled hard and made it advance. We were so near to the man that I
shuddered at the thought that the wretch would perhaps allow himself to
be trampled over by the animal and the light vehicle rather than reveal
his presence. Fortunately, I was mistaken. A stifled voice murmured,
"Take care there! I am wounded. You will run over me." I took the gig
lantern down. We had covered it with a jacket, as the moon lighted us
better, and I now turned it on the face of this wretch. I was stupefied
to see a man of from sixty-five to seventy years of age, with a
hollow-looking face, framed with long, dirty white whiskers. He had a
muffler round his neck, and was wearing a peasant's cloak of a dark
colour. Around him, shown up by the moon, were sword belts, brass
buttons, sword hilts, and other objects that the infamous old fellow had
torn from the poor dead.

"You are not wounded. You are a thief and a violator of tombs! I shall
call out and you will be killed. Do you hear that, you miserable
wretch?" I exclaimed, and I went so near to him that I could feel his
breath sully mine. He crouched down on his knees and, clasping his
criminal hands, implored me in a trembling, tearful voice.

"Leave your bag there, then," I said, "and all those things. Empty your
pockets; leave everything and go. Run, for as soon as you are out of
sight I shall call one of those soldiers who are making searches, and
give them your plunder. I know I am doing wrong, though, in letting you
go free."

He emptied his pockets, groaning all the time, and was just going away
when the lad whispered, "He's hiding some boots under his cloak." I was
furious with rage with this vile thief, and I pulled his big cloak off.

"Leave everything, you wretched man," I exclaimed, "or I will call the
soldiers."

Six pairs of boots, taken from the corpses, fell noisily on to the hard
ground. The man stooped down for his revolver, which he had taken out of
his pocket at the same time as the stolen objects.

"Will you leave that, and get away quickly?" I said. "My patience is at
an end."

"But if I am caught I shan't be able to defend myself," he exclaimed, in
a fit of desperate rage.

"It will be because God willed it so," I answered. "Go at once, or I
will call." The man then made off, abusing me as he went.

Our little driver then fetched a soldier, to whom I related the
adventure, showing him the objects.

"Which way did the rascal go?" asked a sergeant who had come with the
soldier.

"I can't say," I replied.

"Oh well, I don't care to run after him," he said; "there are enough
dead men here."

We continued our way until we came to a place where several roads met,
and it was then possible for us to take a route a little more suitable
for vehicles.

After going through Busigny and a wood, where there were bogs in which
we only just escaped being swallowed up, our painful journey came to an
end, and we arrived at Cateau in the night, half dead with fatigue,
fright, and despair.

I was obliged to take a day's rest there, for I was prostrate with
feverishness. We had two little rooms, roughly white-washed but quite
clean. The floor was of red, shiny bricks, and there was a polished wood
bed and white curtains.

I sent for a doctor for my charming little Soubise, who, it seemed to
me, was worse than I was. He thought we were both in a very bad state,
though. A nervous feverishness had taken all the use out of my limbs and
made my head burn. She could not keep still, but kept seeing spectres
and fires, hearing shouts and turning round quickly, imagining that some
one had touched her on the shoulder. The good man gave us a soothing
draught to overcome our fatigue, and the next day a very hot bath
brought back the suppleness to our limbs. It was then six days since we
had left Paris, and it would take about twenty more hours to reach
Homburg, for in those days trains went much less quickly than at
present. I took a train for Brussels, where I was counting on buying a
trunk and a few necessary things.

From Cateau to Brussels there was no hindrance to our journey, and we
were able to take the train again the same evening.

I had replenished our wardrobe, which certainly needed it, and we
continued our journey without much difficulty as far as Cologne. But on
arriving in that city we had a cruel disappointment. The train had only
just entered the station, when a railway official, passing quickly in
front of the carriages, shouted something in German which I did not
catch. Every one seemed to be in a hurry, and men and women pushed each
other without any courtesy.

I addressed another official and showed him our tickets. He took up my
bag, very obligingly, and hurried after the crowd. We followed, but I
did not understand the excitement until the man flung my bag into a
compartment and signed to me to get in as quickly as possible.

Soubise was already on the step when she was pushed aside violently by a
railway porter, who slammed the door, and before I was fully aware of
what had happened the train had disappeared. My bag had gone, and our
trunk also. The trunk had been placed in a luggage van that had been
unhooked from the train which had just arrived, and immediately fastened
on to the express now departing. I began to cry with rage. An official
took pity on us and led us to the station-master. He was a very superior
sort of man, who spoke French fairly well. I sank down in his great
leather arm-chair and told him my misadventure, sobbing nervously. He
looked kind and sympathetic. He immediately telegraphed for my bag and
trunk to be given into the care of the station-master at the first
station.

"You will have them again to-morrow, towards mid-day," he said.

"Then I cannot start this evening?" I asked.

"Oh no, that is impossible," he replied. "There is no train, for the
express that will take you to Homburg does not start before to-morrow
morning."

"Oh God, God!" I exclaimed, and I was seized with veritable despair,
which soon affected Mlle. Soubise too.

The poor station-master was rather embarrassed, and tried to soothe me.

"Do you know any one here?" he asked.

"No, no one. I do not know any one in Cologne."

"Well then, I will have you driven to the Hôtel du Nord. My
sister-in-law has been there for two days, and she will look after you."

Half an hour later his carriage arrived, and he took us to the Hôtel du
Nord, after driving a long way round to show us the city. But at that
epoch I did not admire anything belonging to the Germans.

On arriving at the Hôtel du Nord, he introduced us to his sister-in-law,
a fair-haired young woman, pretty, but too tall and too big for my
taste. I must say, though, that she was very sweet and affable. She
engaged two bedrooms for us near her own rooms. She had a flat on the
ground floor, and she invited us to dinner, which was served in her
drawing-room. Her brother-in-law joined us in the evening. The charming
woman was very musical. She played to us from Berlioz, Gounod, and even
Auber. I thoroughly appreciated the delicacy of this woman in only
letting us hear French composers. I asked her to play us something from
Mozart and Wagner. At that name she turned to me and exclaimed, "Do you
like Wagner?"

"I like his music," I replied, "but I detest the man."

Mlle. Soubise whispered to me, "Ask her to play Liszt."

She overheard, and complied with infinite graciousness. I must admit
that I spent a delightful evening there.

At ten o'clock the station-master (whose name I have very stupidly
forgotten, and I cannot find it in any of my notes) told me that he
would call for us at eight the following morning, and he then took leave
of us. I fell asleep, lulled by Mozart, Gounod, &c.

At eight o'clock the next morning a servant came to tell me that the
carriage was waiting for us. There was a gentle knock at my door, and
our beautiful hostess of the previous evening said sweetly, "Come, you
must start!" I was really very much touched by the delicacy of the
pretty German woman.

It was such a fine day that I asked her if we should have time to walk
there, and on her reply in the affirmative we all three started for the
station, which is not far from the hotel. A special compartment had been
reserved for us, and we installed ourselves in it as comfortably as
possible. The brother and sister shook hands with us, and wished us a
pleasant journey.

When the train had started I discovered in one of the corners a bouquet
of forget-me-nots with the sister's card and a box of chocolates from
the station-master.

I was at last about to arrive at my goal, and was in a state of wild
excitement at the idea of seeing once more all my beloved ones. I should
have liked to have gone to sleep. My eyes, which had grown larger with
anxiety, travelled through space more rapidly than the train went. I
fumed each time it stopped, and envied the birds I saw flying along. I
laughed with delight as I thought of the surprised faces of those I was
going to see again, and then I began to tremble with anxiety. What had
happened to them, and should I find them all? I should if--ah, those
"ifs," those "becauses," and those "buts"! My mind became full of them,
they bristled with illnesses and accidents, and I began to weep. My poor
little travelling companion began to weep too.

Finally we came within sight of Homburg. Twenty more minutes of this
turning of wheels and we should enter the station. But just as though
all the sprites and devils from the infernal regions had concerted to
torture my patience, we stopped short. All heads were out of the
windows. "What is it?" "What's the matter?" "Why are we not going on?"
There was a train in front of us at a standstill, with a broken brake,
and the line had to be cleared. I fell back on my seat, clenching my
teeth and hands, and looking up in the air to distinguish the evil
spirits which were so bent on tormenting me, and then I resolutely
closed my eyes. I muttered some invectives against the invisible
sprites, and declared that, as I would not suffer any more, I was now
going to sleep. I then fell fast asleep, for the power of sleeping when
I wish is a precious gift which God has bestowed on me. In the most
frightful circumstances and the most cruel moments of life, when I have
felt that my reason was giving way under shocks that have been too great
or too painful, my will has laid hold of my reason, just as one holds a
bad-tempered little dog that wants to bite, and, subjugating it, my will
has said to my reason: "Enough. You can take up again to-morrow your
suffering and your plans, your anxiety, your sorrow and your anguish.
You have had enough for to-day. You would give way altogether under the
weight of so many troubles, and you would drag me along with you. I will
not have it! We will forget everything for so many hours and go to sleep
together!" And I have gone to sleep. This, I swear to.

Mlle. Soubise roused me as soon as the train entered the station. I was
refreshed and calmer. A minute later we were in a carriage and had given
the address, 7 Ober Strasse.

We were soon there, and I found all my adored ones, big and little, and
they were all very well. Oh, what happiness it was! The blood pulsed in
all my arteries. I had suffered so much that I burst out into delicious
laughter and sobs.

Who can ever describe the infinite pleasure of tears of joy! During the
next two days the maddest things occurred, which I will not relate, so
incredible would they sound. Among others, fire broke out in the house;
we had to escape in our night clothes and camp out for six hours in five
feet of snow, &c. &c.




XIX


MY RETURN TO PARIS--THE COMMUNE--AT ST. GERMAIN-EN-LAYE


Everybody being safe and sound, we set out for Paris, but on arriving at
St. Denis we found there were no more trains. It was four o'clock in the
morning. The Germans were masters of all the suburbs of Paris, and
trains only ran for their service. After an hour spent in running about,
in discussions and rebuffs, I met with an officer of higher rank, who
was better educated and more agreeable. He had a locomotive prepared to
take me to the Gare du Hâvre (Gare St. Lazare).

The journey was very amusing. My mother, my aunt, my sister Régina,
Mlle. Soubise, the two maids, the children, and I all squeezed into a
little square space, in which there was a very small, narrow bench,
which I think was the place for the signalman in those days. The engine
went very slowly, as the rails were frequently obstructed by carts or
railway carriages.

We left at five in the morning and arrived at seven. At a place which I
cannot locate our German conductors were exchanged for French
conductors. I questioned them, and learnt that revolutionary troubles
were beginning in Paris.

The stoker with whom I was talking was a very intelligent and very
advanced individual.

"You would do better to go somewhere else, and not to Paris," he said,
"for before long they will come to blows there."

We had arrived. But as no train was expected in at that hour, it was
impossible to find a carriage. I got down with my tribe from the
locomotive, to the great amazement of the station officials.

I was no longer very rich, but I offered twenty francs to one of the men
if he would see to our six bags. We were to send for my trunk and those
belonging to my family later on.

There was not a single carriage outside the station. The children were
very tired, but what was to be done? I was then living at No. 4 Rue de
Rome, and this was not far away, but my mother scarcely ever walked, for
she was delicate and had a weak heart. The children, too, were very,
very tired. Their eyes were puffed up and scarcely open, and their
little limbs were benumbed by the cold and immobility. I began to get
desperate, but a milk cart was just passing by, and I sent a porter to
hail it. I offered twenty francs if the man would drive my mother and
the two children to 4 Rue de Rome.

"And you too, if you like, young lady," said the milkman. "You are
thinner than a grasshopper, and you won't make it any heavier."

I did not want inviting twice, although rather annoyed by the man's
speech.

When once my mother was installed, in spite of her hesitation, by the
side of the milkman, and the children and I were in amongst the full and
empty milk-pails, I said to our driver, "Would you mind coming back to
fetch the others?" I pointed to the remaining group, and added, "You
shall have twenty francs more."

"Right you are!" said the worthy fellow. "A good day's work! Don't you
tire your legs, you others. I'll be back for you directly!"

He then whipped up his horse and we started at a wild rate. The children
rolled about and I held on. My mother set her teeth and did not utter a
word, but from under her long lashes she glanced at me with a displeased
look.

On arriving at my door the milkman drew up his horse so sharply that I
thought my mother would have fallen out on to the animal's back. We had
arrived, though, and we got out. The cart started off again at full
speed. My mother would not speak to me for about an hour. Poor, pretty
mother, it was not my fault.

I had gone away from Paris eleven days before, and had then left a sad
city. The sadness had been painful, the result of a great and unexpected
misfortune. No one had dared to look up, fearing to be blown upon by the
same wind which was blowing the German flag floating yonder towards the
Arc de Triomphe.

I now found Paris effervescent and grumbling. The walls were placarded
with multi-coloured posters; and all these posters contained the wildest
harangues. Fine noble ideas were side by side with absurd threats.
Workmen on their way to their daily toil stopped in front of these
bills. One would read aloud, and the gathering crowd would begin to read
over again.

And all these human beings, who had just been suffering so much through
this abominable war, now echoed these appeals for vengeance. They were
very much to be excused.

This war, alas! had hollowed out under their very feet a gulf of ruin
and of mourning. Poverty had brought the women to rags, the privations
of the siege had lowered the vitality of the children, and the shame of
the defeat had discouraged the men.

Well, these appeals to rebellion, these anarchist shouts, these yells
from the crowd, shrieking: "Down with thrones! Down with the Republic!
Down with the rich! Down with the priests! Down with the Jews! Down with
the army! Down with the masters! Down with those who work! Down with
everything!"--all these cries roused the benumbed hearers. The Germans,
who fomented all these riots, rendered us a real service without
intending it. Those who had given themselves up to resignation were
stirred out of their torpor. Others, who demanded revenge, found an
aliment for their inactive forces. None of them agreed. There were ten
or twenty different parties, devouring each other and threatening each
other. It was terrible.

But it was the awakening. It was life after death. I had among my
friends about ten of the leaders of different opinions, and all of them
interested me, the maddest and the wisest of them.

I often saw Gambetta at Girardin's, and it was a joy to me to listen to
this admirable man. What he said was so wise, so well-balanced, and so
captivating.

This man, with his heavy stomach, his short arms, and huge head, had a
halo of beauty round him when he spoke.

Gambetta was never common, never ordinary. He took snuff, and the
gesture of his hand when he brushed away the stray grains was full of
grace. He smoked huge cigars, but could smoke them without
inconveniencing any one. When he was tired of politics and talked
literature it was a real charm, for he knew everything and quoted poetry
admirably. One evening, after a dinner at Girardin's, we played together
the whole scene of the first act of _Hernani_ with Dona Sol. And if he
was not as handsome as Mounet-Sully, he was just as admirable in it.

On another occasion he recited the whole of "Ruth and Boaz," commencing
with the last verse.

But I preferred his political discussions, especially when he criticised
the speech of some one who was of the opposite opinion to himself. The
eminent qualities of this politician's talent were logic and weight, and
his seductive force was his chauvinism. The early death of so great a
thinker is a disconcerting challenge flung at human pride.

I sometimes saw Rochefort, whose wit delighted me. I was not at ease
with him, though, for he was the cause of the fall of the Empire, and,
although I am very republican, I liked the Emperor Napoleon III. He had
been too trustful, but very unfortunate, and it seemed to me that
Rochefort insulted him too much after his misfortune.

I also frequently saw Paul de Rémusat, the favourite of Thiers. He had
great refinement of mind, broad ideas, and fascinating manners. Some
people accused him of Orleanism. He was a Republican, and a much more
advanced Republican than Thiers. One must have known him very little to
believe him to be anything else but what he said he was. Paul de Rémusat
had a horror of untruth. He was sensitive, and had a very
straightforward, strong character. He took no active part in politics,
except in private circles, and his advice always prevailed, even in the
Chamber and in the Senate. He would never speak except when in
committee. The Ministry of Fine Arts was offered to him a hundred times,
but he refused it a hundred times. Finally, after my repeated
entreaties, he almost allowed himself to be appointed Minister of Fine
Arts, but at the last moment he declined, and wrote me a delightful
letter, from which I quote a few passages. As the letter was not written
for publication, I do not consider that I have a right to give the whole
of it, but there seems to be no harm in publishing these few lines:

"Allow me, my charming friend, to remain in the shade. I can see better
there than in the dazzling brilliancy of honours. You are grateful to me
sometimes for being attentive to the miseries you point out to me. Let
me keep my independence. It is more agreeable to me to have the right to
relieve every one than to be obliged to relieve no matter whom.... In
matters of art I have made for myself an ideal of beauty, which would
naturally seem too partial...."

It is a great pity that the scruples of this delicate-minded man did not
allow him to accept this office. The reforms that he pointed out to me
were, and still are, very necessary ones. However, that cannot be
helped.

I also knew and frequently saw a mad sort of fellow, full of dreams and
Utopian follies. His name was Flourens, and he was tall and
nice-looking. He wanted every one to be happy and every one to have
money, and he shot down the soldiers without reflecting that he was
commencing by making one or more of them unhappy. Reasoning with him was
impossible, but he was charming and brave. I saw him two days before his
death. He came to see me with a very young girl who wanted to devote
herself to dramatic art. I promised him to help her. Two days later the
poor child came to tell me of the heroic death of Flourens. He had
refused to surrender, and, stretching out his arms, had shouted to the
hesitating soldiers, "Shoot, shoot! I should not have spared you!" And
their bullets had killed him.

Another man, not so interesting, whom I looked upon as a dangerous
madman, was a certain Raoul Rigault. For a short time he was Prefect of
Police. He was very young and very daring, wildly ambitious, determined
to do anything to succeed, and it seemed to him more easy to do harm
than good. That man was a real danger. He belonged to a group of
students who used to send me verses every day. I came across them
everywhere, enthusiastic and mad. They had been nicknamed in Paris the
_Saradoteurs_ (Sara-dotards). One day he brought me a little one-act
play. The piece was so stupid and the verses were so insipid that I sent
it him back with a few words, which he no doubt considered unkind, for
he bore me malice for them, and attempted to avenge himself in the
following way. He called on me one day, and Madame Guérard was there
when he was shown in.

"Do you know that I am all-powerful at present?" he said.

"In these days there is nothing surprising in that," I replied.

"I have come to see you, either to make peace or declare war," he
continued.

This way of talking did not suit me, and I sprang up. "As I can foresee
that your conditions of peace would not suit me, _cher Monsieur_, I will
not give you time to declare war. You are one of the men one would
prefer, no matter how spiteful they might be, as enemies rather than
friends." With these words I rang for my footman to show the Prefect of
Police to the door. Madame Guérard was in despair. "That man will do us
some harm, my dear Sarah, I assure you," she said.

She was not mistaken in her presentiment, except that she was thinking
of me and not of herself, for his first vengeance was taken on her, by
sending away one of her relatives, who was a police commissioner, to an
inferior and dangerous post. He then began to invent a hundred miseries
for me. One day I received an order to go at once to the Prefecture of
Police on urgent business. I took no notice. The following day a mounted
courier brought me a note from Sire Raoul Rigault, threatening to send a
prison van for me. I took no notice whatever of the threats of this
wretch, who was shot shortly after and died without showing any courage.

Life, however, was no longer possible in Paris, and I decided to go to
St. Germain-en-Laye. I asked my mother to go with me, but she went to
Switzerland with my youngest sister.

The departure from Paris was not as easy as I had hoped. Communists with
gun on shoulder stopped the trains and searched in all our bags and
pockets, and even under the cushions of the railway carriages. They were
afraid that the passengers were taking newspapers to Versailles. This
was monstrously stupid.

The installation at St. Germain was not an easy thing either. Nearly all
Paris had taken refuge in this little place, which is as pretty as it is
dull. From the height of the terrace, where the crowd remained morning
and night, we could see the alarming progress of the Commune.

On all sides of Paris the flames rose, proud and destructive. The wind
often brought us burnt papers, which we took to the Council House. The
Seine brought quantities along with it, and the boatmen collected these
in sacks. Some days--and these were the most distressing of all--an
opaque veil of smoke enveloped Paris. There was no breeze to allow the
flames to pierce through.

The city then burnt stealthily, without our anxious eyes being able to
discover the fresh buildings that these furious madmen had set alight.

I went for a ride every day in the forest. Sometimes I would go as far
as Versailles, but this was not without danger. We often came across
poor starving wretches in the forest, whom we joyfully helped, but
often, too, there were prisoners who had escaped from Poissy, or
Communist sharpshooters trying to shoot a Versailles soldier.

One day, on the way back from Triel, where Captain O'Connor and I had
been for a gallop over the hills, we entered the forest rather late in
the evening, as it was a shorter way. A shot was fired from a
neighbouring thicket, which made my horse bound so suddenly towards the
left that I was thrown. Fortunately my horse was quiet. O'Connor hurried
to me, but I was already up and ready to mount again. "Just a second,"
he said; "I want to search that thicket." A short gallop soon brought
him to the spot, and I then heard a shot, some branches breaking under
flying feet, then another shot not at all like the two former ones, and
my friend appeared again with a pistol in his hand.

"You have not been hit?" I asked.

"Yes, the first shot just touched my leg, but the fellow aimed too low.
The second he fired haphazard. I fancy, though, that he has a bullet
from my revolver in his body."

"But I heard some one running away," I said.

"Oh," replied the elegant captain, chuckling, "he will not go far."

"Poor wretch!" I murmured.

"Oh no," exclaimed O'Connor, "do not pity them, I beg. They kill numbers
of our men every day; only yesterday five soldiers from my regiment were
found on the Versailles road, not only killed, but mutilated," and
gnashing his teeth, he finished his sentence with an oath.

I turned towards him rather surprised, but he took no notice. We
continued our way, riding as quickly as the obstacles in the forest
would allow us. Suddenly, our horses stopped short, snorting and
sniffing. O'Connor took his revolver in his hand, got off, and led his
horse. A few yards from us there was a man lying on the ground.

"That must be the wretch who shot at me," said my companion, and bending
down over the man he spoke to him. A moan was the only reply. O'Connor
had not seen his man, so that he could not have recognised him. He
lighted a match, and we saw that this one had no gun. I had dismounted,
and was trying to raise the unfortunate man's head, but I withdrew my
hand, covered with blood. He had opened his eyes, and fixed them on
O'Connor.

"Ah, it's you, Versailles dog!" he said. "It was you who shot me! I
missed you, but--" He tried to pull out the revolver from his belt, but
the effort was too great, and his hand fell down inert. O'Connor on his
side had cocked his revolver, but I placed myself in front of the man,
and besought him to leave the poor fellow in peace. I could scarcely
recognise my friend, for this handsome, fair-haired man, so polite,
rather a snob, but very charming, seemed to have turned into a brute.
Leaning towards the unfortunate man, his under-jaw protruded, he was
muttering under his teeth some inarticulate words; his clenched hand
seemed to be grasping his anger, just as one does an anonymous letter
before flinging it away in disgust.

"O'Connor, let this man alone, please!" I said.

He was as gallant a man as he was a good soldier. He gave way and
seemed to become aware of the situation again. "Good!" he said, helping
me to mount once more. "When I have taken you back to your hotel, I will
come back with some men to pick up this wretch."

Half an hour later we were back home, without having exchanged another
word during our ride.

I kept up my friendship with O'Connor, but I could never see him again
without thinking of that scene. Suddenly, when he was talking to me, the
brute-like mask under which I had seen him for a second would fix itself
again over his laughing face. Quite recently, in March 1905, General
O'Connor, who was commanding in Algeria, came to see me one evening in
my dressing-room at the theatre. He told me about his difficulties with
some of the great Arab chiefs.

"I fancy," he said, laughing, "that we shall have a brush together."

Again I saw the captain's mask on the general's face.

I never saw him again, for he died six months afterwards.

We were at last able to go back to Paris. The abominable and shameful
peace had been signed, the wretched Commune crushed. Everything was
supposed to be in order again. But what blood and ashes! What women in
mourning! What ruins!

In Paris, we inhaled the bitter odour of smoke. All that I touched at
home left on my fingers a somewhat greasy and almost imperceptible
colour. A general uneasiness beset France, and more especially Paris.
The theatres, however, opened their doors once more, and that was a
general relief.

One morning I received from the Odéon a notice of rehearsal. I shook out
my hair, stamped my feet, and sniffed the air like a young horse
snorting.

The race-ground was to be opened for us again. We should be able to
gallop afresh through our dreams. The lists were ready. The contest was
beginning. Life was commencing again. It is truly strange that man's
mind should have made of life a perpetual strife. When there is no
longer war there is battle, for there are a hundred thousand of us
aiming for the same object. God has created the earth and man for each
other. The earth is vast. What ground there is uncultivated! Miles upon
miles, acres upon acres of new land waiting for arms that will take from
its bosom the treasures of inexhaustible Nature. And we remain grouped
round each other, crowds of famishing people watching other groups,
which are also lying in wait.

The Odéon opened its doors to the public with a repertory programme.
Some new pieces were given us to study. One of these met with tremendous
success. It was André Theuriet's _Jean-Marie_, and was produced in
October 1871. This one-act play is a veritable masterpiece, and it took
its author straight to the Academy. Porel, who played the part of
Jean-Marie, met with an enormous success. He was at that time slender,
nimble, and full of youthful ardour. He needed a little more poetry, but
the joyous laughter of his thirty-two teeth made up in ardour for what
was wanting in poetic desire. It was very good, anyhow.

My _rôle_ of the young Breton girl, submissive to the elderly husband
forced upon her, and living eternally with the memory of the _fiancé_
who was absent, and perhaps dead, was pretty, poetical, and touching by
reason of the final sacrifice. There was even a certain grandeur in the
concluding part of the piece. It had, I must repeat, an immense success,
and increased my growing reputation.

I was, however, awaiting the event which was to consecrate me a star. I
did not quite know what I was expecting, but I knew that my Messiah had
to come. And it was the greatest poet of the last century who was to
place on my head the crown of the elect.




XX


VICTOR HUGO


At the end of that year 1871, we were told, in rather a mysterious and
solemn way, that we were going to play a piece of Victor Hugo's. My mind
at that time of my life was still closed to great ideas. I was living in
rather a _bourgeois_ atmosphere, what with my somewhat cosmopolitan
family, their rather snobbish acquaintances and friends, and the
acquaintances and friends I had chosen in my independent life as an
artiste.

I had heard Victor Hugo spoken of ever since my childhood as a rebel and
a renegade, and his works, which I had read with passion, did not
prevent my judging him with very great severity. And I blush to-day with
anger and shame when I think of all my absurd prejudices, fomented by
the imbecile or insincere little court which flattered me. I had a great
desire, nevertheless, to play in _Ruy Blas_. The _rôle_ of the Queen
seemed so charming to me.

I mentioned my wish to Duquesnel, who said he had already thought of it.
Jane Essler, an artiste then in vogue, but a trifle vulgar, had great
chances, though, against me. She was on very amicable terms with Paul
Meurice, Victor Hugo's intimate friend and adviser. One of my friends
brought Auguste Vacquerie to my house. He was another friend, and even a
relative, of the "illustrious master."

Auguste Vacquerie promised to speak to Victor Hugo, and two days later
he came again, assuring me that I had every chance in my favour. Paul
Meurice himself, a very straightforward man, a delightful soul, had
proposed me to the author. And Geffroy, the admirable artiste who had
retired from the Comédie Française, and was now asked to play _Don
Salluste_, had said, it appears, that he could only see one little Queen
of Spain worthy to wear the crown, and I was that one. I did not know
Geffroy; I did not know Paid Meurice; and was rather astonished that
they should know me.

The play was to be read to the artistes at Victor Hugo's, December
6,1871, at two o'clock. I was very much spoilt, and very much praised
and flattered, so that I felt hurt at the unceremoniousness of a man who
did not condescend to disturb himself, but asked women to go to his
house when there was neutral ground, the theatre, for the reading of
plays. I mentioned this unheard-of incident at five o'clock to my little
court, and men and women alike exclaimed: "What! That man who was only
the other day an outlaw! That man who has only just been pardoned! That
nobody!--dares to ask the little Idol, the Queen of _Hearts_, the Fairy
of Fairies, to put herself to inconvenience!"

All my little sanctuary was in a tumult; men and women alike could not
keep still.

"She must not go," they said. "Write him this"--"Write him that." And
they were composing impertinent, disdainful letters when Marshal
Canrobert was announced. He belonged at that time to my little five
o'clock court, and he was soon posted on what had taken place by my
turbulent visitors. He was furiously angry at the imbecilities uttered
against the great poet.

"You must not go to Victor Hugo's," he said to me, "for it seems to me
that he has no reason to deviate from the regular custom. But say that
you are suddenly unwell; follow my advice and show the respect for him
that we owe to genius."

I followed my great friend's counsel, and sent the following letter to
the poet:

"MONSIEUR,--The Queen has taken a chill, and her Camerara Mayor forbids
her to go out. You know better than any one else the etiquette of the
Spanish Court. Pity your Queen, Monsieur."

I sent the letter, and the following was the poet's reply:

"I am your valet, Madame.

"VICTOR HUGO."

The next day the play was read on the stage to the artistes. I believe
that the reading did not take place, or at least not entirely, at the
Master's house.

I then made the acquaintance of the monster. Ah, what a grudge I had for
a long time against all those silly people who had prejudiced me!

The monster was charming--so witty and refined, and so gallant, with a
gallantry that was a homage and not an insult. He was so good, too, to
the humble, and always so gay. He was not, certainly, the ideal of
elegance, but there was a moderation in his gestures, a gentleness in
his way of speaking, which savoured of the old French peer. He was quick
at repartee, and his observations were gentle but pertinent. He recited
poetry badly, but adored hearing it well recited. He often made sketches
during the rehearsals.

He frequently spoke in verse when he wished to reprimand an artiste. One
day during a rehearsal he was trying to convince poor Talien about his
bad elocution. I was bored by the length of the colloquy, and sat down
on the table swinging my legs. He understood my impatience, and getting
up from the middle of the orchestra stalls, he exclaimed,

  "_Une Reine d'Espagne honnête et respectable
  Ne devrait point ainsi s'asseoir sur une table?_"

I sprang up from the table slightly embarrassed, and wanted to answer
him in rather a piquant or witty way--but I could not find anything to
say, and remained there confused and in a bad temper.

One day, when the rehearsal was over an hour earlier than usual, I was
waiting, my forehead pressed against the window-pane, for the arrival of
Madame Guérard, who was coming to fetch me. I was gazing idly at the
footpath opposite, which is bounded by the Luxembourg railings. Victor
Hugo had just crossed the road, and was about to walk on. An old woman
attracted his attention. She had just put a heavy bundle of linen down
on the ground, and was wiping her forehead, on which were great beads of
perspiration. In spite of the cold, her toothless mouth was half open,
as she was panting, and her eyes had an expression of distressing
anxiety as she looked at the wide road she had to cross, with carriages
and omnibuses passing each other. Victor Hugo approached her, and after
a short conversation he drew a piece of money from his pocket, handed it
to the old woman; then, taking off his hat, he confided it to her, and
with a quick movement and a laughing face lifted the bundle onto his
shoulder and crossed the road, followed by the bewildered woman. I
rushed downstairs to embrace him for it, but by the time I had reached
the passage I jostled against de Chilly, who wanted to stop me, and when
I descended the staircase Victor Hugo had disappeared. I could only see
the old woman's back, but it seemed to me that she hobbled along now
more briskly.

The next day I told the poet that I had witnessed his delicate good
deed.

"Oh," said Paul Meurice, his eyes wet with emotion, "every day that
dawns is a day of kindness for him."

I embraced Victor Hugo, and we went to the rehearsal.

Oh, those rehearsals of _Ruy Bias!_ I shall never forget them, for there
was such good grace and charm about everything. When Victor Hugo
arrived, everything brightened up. His two satellites, Auguste Vacquerie
and Paul Meurice, scarcely ever left him, and when the Master was absent
they kept up the divine fire.

Geffroy, severe, sad, and distinguished, often gave me advice. During
the intervals for rest I posed for him in various attitudes, for he was
a painter. In the _foyer_ of the Comédie Française there are two
pictures by him, representing two generations of Sociétaires of both
sexes. The pictures are not of very original composition, neither are
they of beautiful colouring, but they are faithful likenesses, it
appears, and rather happily grouped.

Lafontaine, who was playing Ruy Bias, often had long discussions with
the Master, in which Victor Hugo never yielded. And I must confess that
he was always right.

Lafontaine had conviction and self-assurance, but his elocution was very
bad for poetry. He had lost his teeth, and they were replaced by a set
of false ones. This gave a certain slowness to his delivery, and there
was a little odd clacking sound between his real palate and his
artificial rubber palate, which often distracted the ear listening
attentively to catch the beauty of the poetry.

As for poor Talien, who was playing Don Guritan, he made a hash of it
every minute. His comprehension of the _rôle_ was quite erroneous.
Victor Hugo explained it to him clearly and intelligently. Talien was a
well-intentioned comedian, a hard worker, always conscientious, but as
stupid as a goose. What he did not understand at first he never
understood. As long as he lived he would never understand. But, as he
was straightforward and loyal, he put himself into the hands of the
author, and gave himself up then in complete abnegation. "That is not as
I understood it," he would say, "but I will do as you tell me."

He would then rehearse, word by word and gesture by gesture, with the
inflexions and movements required. This got on my nerves in the most
painful way, and was a cruel blow dealt at the solidarity of my artistic
pride. I often took this poor Talien aside and tried to urge him on to
rebellion, but it was all in vain.

He was tall, and his arms were too long, and his eyes tired; his nose
was weary with having grown too long, and it sank over his lips in
heartrending dejection. His forehead was covered with thick hair, and
his chin seemed to be running away in a hurry from his ill-built face. A
great kindliness was diffused all over his being, and this kindliness
was his very self. Every one was therefore infinitely fond of him.




XXI


A MEMORABLE SUPPER


January 26, 1872, was an artistic _fête_ for the Odéon. The _Tout-Paris_
of first nights and the vibrating younger elements were to meet in the
large, solemn, dusty theatre. Ah, what a splendid, stirring performance
it was! What a triumph for Geffroy, pale, sinister, and severe-looking
in his black costume as Don Salluste. Mélingue rather disappointed the
public as Don César de Bazan, and the public was in the wrong. The
_rôle_ of Don César de Bazan is a treacherously good _rôle_, which
always tempts artists by the brilliancy of the first act; but the fourth
act, which belongs entirely to him, is distressingly heavy and useless.
It might be taken out of the piece just like a periwinkle out of its
shell, and the piece would be none the less clear and complete.

This 26th of January rent asunder, though, for me the thin veil which
still made my future hazy, and I felt that I was destined for celebrity.
Until that day I had remained the students' little fairy. I became then
the Elect of the public.

Breathless, dazed, and yet delighted by my success, I did not know to
whom to reply in the ever-changing stream of male and female admirers.
Then, suddenly, I saw the crowd separating and forming two lines, and I
caught a glimpse of Victor Hugo and Girardin coming towards me. In a
second all the stupid ideas I had had about this immense genius flashed
across me. I remembered my first interview, when I had been stiff and
barely polite to this kind, indulgent man. At that moment, when all my
life was opening its wings, I should have liked to cry out to him my
repentance and to tell him of my devout gratitude.

Before I could speak, though, he was down on his knee, and raising my
two hands to his lips, he murmured, "Thank you! Thank you!"

And so it was he who said "Thank you." He, the great Victor Hugo, whose
soul was so beautiful, whose universal genius filled the world! He,
whose generous hands flung pardons like gems to all his insulters. Ah,
how small I felt, how ashamed, and yet how happy! He then rose, shook
the hands that were held out to him, finding for every one the right
word.

He was so handsome that night, with his broad forehead, which seemed to
retain the light, his thick, silvery fleece of hair, and his laughing
luminous eyes.

Not daring to fling myself in Victor Hugo's arms, I fell into
Girardin's, the sure friend of my first steps, and I burst into tears.
He took me aside in my dressing-room. "You must not let yourself be
intoxicated with this great success now," he said. "There must be no
more risky jumps, now that you are crowned with laurels. You will have
to be more yielding, more docile, more sociable."

"I feel that I shall never be yielding nor docile, my friend," I
answered looking at him, "I will try to be more sociable, but that is
all I can promise. As to my crown, I assure you that in spite of my
risky jumps, and I feel that I shall always be making some, the crown
will not shake off."

Paul Meurice, who had come up to us, overheard this conversation, and
reminded me of it on the evening of the first performance of _Angelo_ at
the Sarah Bernhardt Theatre, on February 7, 1905.

On returning home, I sat up a long time talking to Madame Guérard, and
when she wanted to go I begged her to stay longer. I had become so rich
in hopes for the future that I was afraid of thieves. _Mon petit Dame_
stayed on with me, and we talked till daybreak. At seven o'clock we took
a cab and I drove my dear friend home, and then continued driving for
another hour. I had already achieved a fair number of successes: _Le
Passant, Le Drame de la Rue de la Paix_, Anna Danby in _Kean_, and
_Jean-Marie_, but I felt that the _Ruy Blas_ success was greater than
any of the others, and that this time I had become some one to be
criticised, but not to be overlooked.

I often went in the morning to Victor Hugo's, and he was always very
charming and kind.

When I was quite at my ease with him, I spoke to him about my first
impressions, about all my stupid, nervous rebellion with regard to him,
about all that I had been told and all that I had believed in my naïve
ignorance about political matters.

One morning the Master took great delight in my conversation. He sent
for Madame Drouet, the sweet soul, the companion of his glorious and
rebellious mind. He told her, in a laughing but melancholy way, that the
evil work of bad people is to sow error in every soil, whether
favourable or not. That morning is engraved for ever in my mind, for the
great man talked a long time. Oh, it was not for me, but for what I
represented in his eyes. Was I not, as a matter of fact, the young
generation, in which a _bourgeois_ and clerical education had warped the
intelligence by closing the mind to every generous idea, to every flight
towards the new?

When I left Victor Hugo that morning I felt myself more worthy of his
friendship.

I then went to Girardin's, as I wanted to talk to some one who loved the
poet, but he was out.

I went next to Marshal Canrobert's, and there I had a great surprise.
Just as I was getting out of the carriage, I nearly fell into the arms
of the Marshal, who was coming out of his house.

"What is it? What's the matter? Is it postponed?" he asked, laughing.

I did not understand, and gazed at him rather bewildered.

"Well, have you forgotten that you invited me to luncheon?" he asked.

I was quite confused, for I had entirely forgotten it.

"Well, all the better!" I said; "I very much wanted to talk to you.
Come; I am going to take you with me now."

I then related my visit to Victor Hugo, and repeated all the fine
thoughts he had uttered, forgetting that I was constantly saying things
that were contrary to the Marshal's ideas. This admirable man could
admire, though, and if he could not change his opinions, he approved the
great ideas which were to bring about great changes.

One day, when he and Busnach were both at my house, there was a
political discussion which became rather violent. I was afraid for a
moment that things might take a bad turn, as Busnach was the most witty
and at the same time the rudest man in France. It is only fair to say,
though, that if Marshal Canrobert was a polite man and very well bred,
he was not at all behind William Busnach in wit. The latter was worked
up by the chafing speeches of the Marshal.

"I challenge you, Monsieur," he exclaimed, "to write about the odious
Utopias that you have just been supporting!"

"Oh, Monsieur Busnach," replied Canrobert coldly, "we do not use the
same steel for writing history! You use a pen, and I a sword."

The luncheon that I had so completely forgotten was nevertheless a
luncheon arranged several days previously. On reaching home we found
there Paul de Rémusat, charming Mlle. Hocquigny, and M. de Monbel, a
young _attaché d'ambassade_. I explained my lateness as well as I could,
and that morning finished in the most delicious harmony of ideas.

I have never felt more than I did that day the infinite joy of
listening.

During a silence Mlle. Hocquigny turned to the Marshal and said:

"Are you not of the opinion that our young friend should enter the
Comédie Française?"

"Ah, no, no!" I exclaimed; "I am so happy at the Odéon. I began at the
Comédie, and the short time I remained there I was very unhappy."

"You will be obliged to go back there, my dear friend--obliged. Believe
me, it will be better early than late."

"Well, do not spoil today's pleasure for me, for I have never been
happier!"

One morning shortly after this my maid brought me a letter. The large
round stamp, on which are the words "Comédie Française" was on the
corner of the envelope.

I remembered that ten years previously, almost day for day, our old
servant Marguerite had, with my mother's permission, handed me a letter
in the same kind of envelope.

My face then had flushed with joy, but this time I felt a faint tinge of
pallor touch my cheeks.

When events occur which disturb my life, I always have a movement of
recoil. I cling for a second to what is, and then I fling myself
headlong into what is to be. It is like a gymnast who clings first to
his trapeze bar in order to fling himself afterwards with full force
into space. In one second what now is becomes for me what was, and I
love it with tender emotion as something dead. But I adore what is to be
without seeking even to know about it, for what is to be is the unknown,
the mysterious attraction. I always fancy that it will be something
unheard of, and I shudder from head to foot in delicious uneasiness. I
receive quantities of letters, and it seems to me that I never receive
enough. I watch them accumulating just as I watch the waves of the sea.
What are they going to bring me, these mysterious envelopes, large,
small, pink, blue, yellow, white? What are they going to fling upon the
rock, these great wild waves, dark with seaweed? What sailor-boy's
corpse? What remains of a wreck? What are these little brisk waves going
to leave on the beach, these reflections of a blue sky, little laughing
waves? What pink "sea-star"? What mauve anemone? What pearly shell?

So I never open my letters immediately. I look at the envelopes, try to
recognise the handwriting and the seal; and it is only when I am quite
certain from whom the letter comes that I open it. The others I leave my
secretary to open or a kind friend, Suzanne Seylor. My friends know this
so well that they always put their initials in the corner of their
envelopes.

At that time I had no secretary, but _mon petit Dame_ served me as such.

I looked at the envelope a long time, and gave it at last to Madame
Guérard.

"It is a letter from M. Perrin, director of the Comédie Française," she
said. "He asks if you can fix a time to see him on Tuesday or Wednesday
afternoon at the Comédie Française or at your own house."

"Thanks. What day is it to-day?" I asked.

"Monday," she replied.

I then installed Madame Guérard at my desk, and asked her to reply that
I would go there the following day at three o'clock.

I was earning very little at that time at the Odéon. I was living on
what my father had left me--that is, on the transaction made by the
Havre notary--and not much remained. I therefore went to see Duquesnel
and showed him the letter.

"Well, what are you going to do?" he asked.

"Nothing. I have come to ask your advice."

"Oh well, I advise you to remain at the Odéon. Besides, your engagement
does not terminate for another year, and I shall not allow you leave!"

"Well, raise my salary, then," I said. "I am offered twelve thousand
francs a year at the Comédie. Give me fifteen thousand here and I will
stay, for I do not want to leave."

"Listen to me," said the charming manager in a friendly way. "You know
that I am not free to act alone. I will do my best, I promise you." And
Duquesnel certainly kept his word. "Come here to-morrow before going to
the Comédie, and I will give you Chilly's reply. But take my advice, and
if he obstinately refuses to increase your salary, do not leave; we
shall find some way.... And besides--Anyhow, I cannot say any more."

I returned the following day according to arrangement.

I found Duquesnel and Chilly in the managerial office. Chilly began at
once somewhat roughly:

"And so you want to leave, Duquesnel tells me. Where are you going? It
is most stupid, for your place is here. Just consider, and think it over
for yourself. At the Gymnase they only give modern pieces, dressy plays.
That is not your style. At the Vaudeville it is the same. At the Gaîté
you would spoil your voice. You are too distinguished for the Ambigu."

I looked at him without replying. I saw that his partner had not spoken
to him about the Comédie Française. He felt awkward, and mumbled:

"Well then, you are of my opinion?"

"No," I answered; "you have forgotten the Comédie."

He was sitting in his big arm-chair, and he burst out laughing.

"Ah no, my dear girl," he said, "you must not tell me that. They've had
enough of your queer character at the Comédie. I dined the other night
with Maubant, and when some one said that you ought to be engaged at the
Comédie Française he nearly choked with rage. I can assure you the great
tragedian did not show much affection for you."

"Oh well, you ought to have taken my part," I exclaimed, irritated. "You
know very well that I am a most serious member of your company."

"But I did take your part," he said, "and I added even that it would be
a very fortunate thing for the Comédie if it could have an artiste with
your will power, which perhaps might relieve the monotonous tone of the
house; and I only spoke as I thought, but the poor tragedian was beside
himself. He does not consider that you have any talent. In the first
place, he maintains that you do not know how to recite verse. He
declares that you make all your _a_'s too broad. Finally, when he had no
arguments left he declared that as long as he lives you will never enter
the Comédie Française."

I was silent for a moment, weighing the pros and cons of the probable
result of my experiment. Finally coming to a decision, I murmured
somewhat waveringly:

"Well then, you will not give me a higher salary?"

"No, a thousand times no!" yelled Chilly. "You will try to make me pay
up when your engagement comes to an end, and then we shall see. But I
have your signature until then. You have mine, too, and I hold to our
engagement. The Théâtre Français is the only one that would suit you
beside ours, and I am quite easy in my mind with regard to that
theatre."

"You make a mistake perhaps," I answered. He got up brusquely and came
and stood opposite me, his two hands in his pockets. He then said in an
odious and familiar tone:

"Ah, that's it, is it? You think I am an idiot, then?"

I got up too, and said coldly, pushing him gently back, "I think you are
a triple idiot." I then hurried away towards the staircase, and all
Duquesnel's shouting was in vain. I ran down the stairs two at a time.

On arriving under the Odéon arcade I was stopped by Paul Meurice, who
was just going to invite Duquesnel and Chilly, on behalf of Victor Hugo,
to a supper to celebrate the one hundredth performance of _Ruy Blas_.

"I have just come from your house," he said. "I have left you a few
lines from Victor Hugo."

"Good, good; that's all right," I replied, getting into my carriage. "I
shall see you to-morrow then, my friend."

"Good Heavens, what a hurry you are in!" he said.

"Yes!" I replied, and then, leaning out of the window, I said to my
coachman, "Drive to the Comédie Française."

I looked at Paul Meurice to wish him farewell. He was standing stupefied
on the arcade steps.

On arriving at the Comédie I sent my card to Perrin, and five minutes
later was ushered in to that icy mannikin. There were two very distinct
personages in this man. The one was the man he was himself, and the
other the one he had created for the requirements of his profession.
Perrin himself was gallant, pleasant, witty, and slightly timid; the
mannikin was cold, and somewhat given to posing.

I was first received by Perrin the mannikin. He was standing up, his
head bent, bowing to a woman, his arm outstretched to indicate the
hospitable armchair. He waited with a certain affectation until I was
seated before sitting down himself. He then picked up a paper-knife, in
order to have something to do with his hands, and in a rather weak
voice, the voice of the mannikin, he remarked:

"Have you thought it over, Mademoiselle?"

"Yes, Monsieur, and here I am to give my signature."

Before he had time to give me any encouragement to dabble with the
things on his desk, I drew up my chair, picked up a pen, and prepared to
sign the paper. I did not take enough ink at first, and I stretched my
arm out across the whole width of the writing table, and dipped my pen
this time resolutely to the bottom of the ink-pot. I took too much ink,
however, this time, and on the return journey a huge spot of it fell on
the large sheet of white paper in front of the mannikin.

He bent his head, for he was slightly short-sighted, and looked for a
moment like a bird when it discovers a hemp-seed in its grain. He then
proceeded to put aside the blotted sheet.

"Wait a minute, oh, wait a minute!" I exclaimed, seizing the inky paper.
"I want to see whether I am doing right or not to sign. If that is a
butterfly I am right, and if anything else, no matter what, I am wrong."
I took the sheet, doubled it in the middle of the enormous blot, and
pressed it firmly together. Emile Perrin thereupon began to laugh,
giving up his mannikin attitude entirely. He leaned over to examine the
paper with me, and we opened it very gently just as one opens one's hand
after imprisoning a fly. When the paper was spread open, in the midst of
its whiteness a magnificent black butterfly with outspread wings was to
be seen.

"Well then," said Perrin, with nothing of the mannikin left, "we were
quite right in signing."

After this we talked for some time, like two friends who meet again, for
this man was charming and very fascinating, in spite of his ugliness.
When I left him we were friends and delighted with each other.

I was playing in _Ruy Blas_ that night at the Odéon. Towards ten o'clock
Duquesnel came to my dressing-room.

"You were rather rough on that poor Chilly," he said. "And you really
were not nice. You ought to have come back when I called you. Is it
true, as Paul Meurice tells us, that you went straight to the Théâtre
Français?"

"Here, read for yourself," I said, handing him my engagement with the
Comédie.

Duquesnel took the paper and read it.

"Will you let me show it to Chilly?" he asked.

"Show it him, certainly," I replied.

He came nearer, and said in a grave, hurt tone:

"You ought never to have done that without telling me first. It shows a
lack of confidence I do not deserve."

He was right, but the thing was done. A moment later Chilly arrived,
furious, gesticulating, shouting, stammering in his anger.

"It is abominable!" he said. "It is treason, and you had not even the
right to do it. I shall make you pay damages."

As I felt in a bad humour, I turned my back on him, and apologised as
feebly as possible to Duquesnel. He was hurt, and I was a little
ashamed, for this man had given me nothing but proofs of kindliness, and
it was he who, in spite of Chilly and many other unwilling people, had
held the door open for my future.

Chilly kept his word, and brought an action against me and the Comédie.
I lost, and had to pay six thousand francs damages to the managers of
the Odéon.

A few weeks later Victor Hugo invited the artistes who performed in _Ruy
Bias_ to a big supper in honour of the one hundredth performance. This
was a great delight to me, as I had never been present at a supper of
this kind.

I had scarcely spoken to Chilly since our last scene. On the night in
question he was placed at my right, and we had to get reconciled. I was
seated to the right of Victor Hugo, and to his left was Madame Lambquin,
who was playing the Camerara Mayor, and Duquesnel was next to Madame
Lambquin. Opposite the illustrious poet was another poet, Théophile
Gautier, with his lion's head on an elephant's body. He had a brilliant
mind, and said the choicest things with a horse laugh. The flesh of his
fat, flabby, wan face was pierced by two eyes veiled by heavy lids. The
expression of them was charming, but far away. There was in this man an
Oriental nobility choked by Western fashion and customs. I knew nearly
all his poetry, and I gazed at him with affection--the fond lover of the
beautiful.

It amused me to imagine him dressed in superb Oriental costumes. I could
see him lying down on huge cushions, his beautiful hands playing with
gems of all colours; and some of his verses came in murmurs to my lips.
I was just setting off with him in a dream that was infinite, when a
word from my neighbour, Victor Hugo, made me turn towards him.

What a difference! He was just himself, the great poet--the most
ordinary of beings except for his luminous forehead. He was
heavy-looking, although very active. His nose was common, his eyes lewd,
and his mouth without any beauty; his voice alone had nobility and
charm. I liked to listen to him whilst looking at Théophile Gautier.

I was a little embarrassed, though, when I looked across the table, for
at the side of the poet was an odious individual, Paul de St. Victor.
His cheeks looked like two bladders from which the oil they contained
was oozing out. His nose was sharp and like a crow's beak, his eyes
evil-looking and hard; his arms were too short, and he was too stout. He
looked like a jaundice.

He had plenty of wit and talent, but he employed both in saying and
writing more harm than good. I knew that this man hated me, and I
promptly returned him hatred for hatred.

In answer to the toast proposed by Victor Hugo thanking every one for
such zealous help on the revival of his work, each person raised his
glass and looked towards the poet, but the illustrious master turned
towards me and continued, "As to you, Madame----"

Just at this moment Paul de St. Victor put his glass down so violently
on the table that it broke. There was an instant of stupor, and then I
leaned across the table and held my glass out towards Paul de St.
Victor.

"Take mine, Monsieur," I said, "and then when you drink you will know
what my thoughts are in reply to yours, which you have just expressed so
clearly!"

The horrid man took my glass, but with what a look!

Victor Hugo finished his speech in the midst of applause and cheers.
Duquesnel then leaned back and spoke to me quietly. He asked me to tell
Chilly to reply to Victor Hugo. I did as requested. But he gazed at me
with a glassy look, and in a faraway voice replied:

"Some one is holding my legs." I looked at him more attentively, whilst
Duquesnel asked for silence for M. de Chilly's speech. I saw that his
fingers were grasping a fork desperately; the tips of his fingers were
white, the rest of the hand was violet. I took his hand, and it was icy
cold; the other was hanging down inert under the table. There was
silence, and all eyes turned towards Chilly.

"Get up," I said, seized with terror. He made a movement, and his head
suddenly fell forward with his face on his plate. There was a muffled
uproar, and the few women present surrounded the poor man. Stupid,
commonplace, indifferent things were uttered in the same way that one
mutters familiar prayers. His son was sent for, and then two of the
waiters came and carried the body away, living but inert, and placed it
in a small drawing-room.

Duquesnel stayed with him, begging me, however, to go back to the poet's
guests. I returned to the room where the supper had taken place. Groups
had been formed, and when I was seen entering I was asked if he was
still as ill.

"The doctor has just arrived, and he cannot yet say," I replied.

"It is indigestion," said Lafontaine (Ruy Blas), tossing off a glass of
liqueur brandy.

"It is cerebral anaemia," pronounced Talien (Don Guritan), clumsily, for
he was always losing his memory.

Victor Hugo approached and said very simply:

"It is a beautiful kind of death."

He then took my arm and led me away to the other end of the room, trying
to chase my thoughts away by gallant and poetical whispers. Some little
time passed with this gloom weighing on us, and then Duquesnel appeared.
He was pale, but appeared as if nothing serious was the matter. He was
ready to answer all questions.

Oh yes; he had just been taken home. It would be nothing, it appeared.
He only needed rest for a couple of days. Probably his feet had been
cold during the meal.

"Yes," put in one of the _Ruy Blas_ guests, "there certainly was a fine
draught under the table."

"Yes," Duquesnel was just replying to some one who was worrying him,
"yes; no doubt there was too much heat for his head."

"Yes," added another of the guests, "our heads were nearly on fire with
that wretched gas."

I could see the moment arriving when Victor Hugo would be reproached by
all of his guests for the cold, the heat, the food, and the wine of his
banquet. All these imbecile remarks got on Duquesnel's nerves. He
shrugged his shoulders, and drawing me away from the crowd, said:

"It's all over with him."

I had had the presentiment of this, but the certitude of it now caused
me intense grief.

"I want to go," I said to Duquesnel. "Kindly tell some one to ask for my
carriage."

I moved towards the small drawing-room which served as a cloak-room for
our wraps, and there old Madame Lambquin knocked up against me. Slightly
intoxicated by the heat and the wine, she was waltzing with Talien.

"Ah, I beg your pardon, little Madonna," she said; "I nearly knocked you
over."

I pulled her towards me, and without reflecting whispered to her, "Don't
dance any more, Mamma Lambquin; Chilly is dying." She was purple, but
her face turned as white as chalk. Her teeth began to chatter, but she
did not utter a word.

"Oh, my dear Lambquin," I murmured; "I did not know I should make you so
wretched."

She was not listening to me, though, any longer; she was putting on her
cloak.

"Are you leaving?" she asked me.

"Yes," I replied.

"Will you drive me home? I will then tell you----"

She wrapped a black fichu round her head, and we both went downstairs,
accompanied by Duquesnel and Paul Meurice, who saw us into the carriage.

She lived in the St. Germain quarter and I in the Rue de Rome. On the
way the poor woman told me the following story.

"You know, my dear," she began, "I have a mania for somnambulists and
fortune-tellers of all kinds. Well, last Friday (you see, I only consult
them on a Friday) a woman who tells fortunes by cards said to me, 'You
will die a week after a man who is dark and not young, and whose life is
connected with yours.' Well, my dear, I thought she was just making game
of me, for there is no man whose life is connected with mine, as I am a
widow and have never had any _liaison_. I therefore abused her for this,
as I pay her seven francs. She charges ten francs to other people, but
seven francs to artistes. She was furious at my not believing her, and
she seized my hands and said, 'It's no good yelling at me, for it is as
I say. And if you want me to tell you the exact truth, it is a man who
supports you; and, even to be more exact still, there are two men who
support you, the one dark and the other fair; it's a nice thing that!'
She had not finished her speech before I had given her such a slap as
she had never had in her life, I can assure you. Afterwards, though, I
puzzled my head to find out what the wretched woman could have meant.
And all I could find was that the two men who support me, the one dark
and the other fair, are our two managers, Chilly and Duquesnel. And now
you tell me that Chilly----"

She stopped short, breathless with her story, and again seized with
terror. "I feel stifled," she murmured, and in spite of the freezing
cold we lowered both the windows. On arriving I helped her up her four
flights of stairs, and after telling the _concierge_ to look after her,
and giving the woman a twenty-franc piece to make sure that she would do
so, I went home myself, very much upset by all these incidents, as
dramatic as they were unexpected, in the middle of a _fête_.

Three days later Chilly died, without ever recovering consciousness.

Twelve days later poor Lambquin died. To the priest who gave her
absolution she said, "I am dying because I listened to and believed the
demon."




XXII


AT THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE AGAIN--SCULPTURE


I left the Odéon with very great regret, for I adored and still adore
that theatre. It always seems as though in itself it were a little
provincial town. Its hospitable arcades, under which so many poor old
_savants_ take fresh air and shelter themselves from the sun; the large
flagstones all round, between the crevices of which microscopic yellow
grass grows; its tall pillars, blackened by time, by hands, and by the
dirt from the road; the uninterrupted noise going on all around, the
departure of the omnibuses, like the departure of the old coaches, the
fraternity of the people who meet there; everything, even to the very
railings of the Luxembourg, gives it a quite special aspect in the midst
of Paris. Then too there is a kind of odour of the colleges there--the
very walls are impregnated with youthful hopes. People are not always
talking there of yesterday, as they do in the other theatres. The young
artistes who come there talk of to-morrow.

In short, my mind never goes back to those few years of my life without
a childish emotion, without thinking of laughter and without a dilation
of the nostrils, inhaling again the odour of little ordinary bouquets,
clumsily tied up, bouquets which had all the freshness of flowers that
grow in the open air, flowers that were the offerings of the hearts of
twenty summers, little bouquets paid for out of the purses of students.

I would not take anything away with me from the Odéon. I left the
furniture of my dressing-room to a young artiste. I left my costumes,
all the little toilette knickknacks--I divided them and gave them away.
I felt that my life of hopes and dreams was to cease there. I felt that
the ground was now ready for the fruition of all the dreams, but that
the struggle with life was about to commence, and I divined rightly.

My first experience at the Comédie Française had not been a success. I
knew that I was going into the lions' den. I counted few friends in this
house, except Laroche, Coquelin, and Mounet-Sully--the first two my
friends of the Conservatoire and the latter of the Odéon. Among the
women, Marie Lloyd and Sophie Croizette, both friends of my childhood;
the disagreeable Jouassain, who was nice only to me; and the adorable
Marie Brohan, whose ki